The Briar King

by Greg Keyes

  The shadows of two, perhaps three horses appeared against the paler walls of the coven. They rode at full gallop, and there was much metal in the sound, by which he reasoned whoever it was wore armor. They passed nearby but did not stop.

  Rapist vagabonds from the yellow hills wouldn't wear armor. Only the knights of the meddisso were allowed armor.

  Or knights from an invading army, who did not care what the meddisso allowed.

  More intrigued than ever, Cazio changed his direction, setting off at an easy lope after the horsemen, Caspator slapping at his thigh.

  “I've always wanted to try one of these vaunted knights with their great clumsy swords, Caspator,” he confided to the rapier. “Perhaps tonight I'll find my chance.”

  The riders were easy enough to follow, for they soon entered the wilder growth around the hill, where he had first met Anne. There they were forced to slow their mounts, which fact Cazio could tell from the frequent crashing and breaking of limbs. Now and then he caught the sound of some outlandish tongue.

  A new suspicion took root in him, an exciting one. Perhaps Anne's foreign lover had come for her after all. Cazio knew the girl must have some secret way in and out of the coven, near the pool where he had met her—and that was the logical place for a rendezvous. If such was the case, this might indeed prove amusing.

  He checked himself, realizing that the horses had stopped, and that he had almost walked right into them. He could vaguely make them out—two of them—through the trees, the purple light of the moon reflecting from burnished armor.

  “Unnut,” one of the men said, in a clear baritone. He sounded bored. “Sa taujaza ni waiht,” he added.

  “Ney,” the other replied, in the same ugly, incomprehensible jargon. “Wakath! Jainar, inna baymes.” He pointed as he said this, and in the next instant they spurred the horses into motion again, but this time going in different directions. Furthermore, Cazio saw what the man had been pointing at— two slim figures in robes crossing a clearing in the moonlight.

  The knights were trying to circle their quarry. With horses and armor, they had a harder time in the trees than those on foot, but it would be only a matter of time if the knights knew what they were doing.

  Cazio heard one of the running figures gasp, a distinctly feminine sound.

  He drew Caspator and ran, tearing a straighter line through the brush than the horsemen. In a flash of moonlight, he was certain he saw Anne's face.

  One of the mounted men tore from the trees right on top of him. The smell of horse sweat filled the swordsman's lungs, and for the briefest instant the very size of the beast touched a tiny chord of fear in his heart. Incensed that he should be made to feel so—and angry that the knight didn't even seem to have noticed him—Cazio leapt up and struck the man high in the chest with Caspator's hilt, holding it two-fisted. It felt like slamming at a run into a stone wall, but the knight yelped and rolled back off the horse, falling with one foot still in the stirrup. His helm knocked hard against a rock, and the horse slowed to a stop. The man groped feebly.

  Cazio reached down and yanked off the helmet, spilling out long hair the color of milk. The face seemed very young.

  “My apologies, casnar,” Cazio said. “If you wish, we may duel when I've finished with your friend. For the time being, though, I must assure honorable conditions rather than assume them.” With that he struck the man a blow with his hilt, rendering him unconscious.

  Pleased with himself now, Cazio continued after the girls.

  He caught up with them as they hesitated at the edge of the trees, probably trying to decide between cover and a run across the open country.

  “Anne! Austra!” he hissed.

  The two spun, and he saw it was indeed them.

  “Cazio?” Anne asked, sounding hopeful. Then her voice sharpened in pitch. “Stay away from me, you—what have you to do with all of this?”

  That took him flat-footed. “What? Why, you—”

  But in that moment the second knight broke from the trees. Cazio tossed Anne a contemptuous glance as he planted himself in front of the mounted man. He was emerging from between two trunks, so he would have to come through Cazio to reach Anne and Austra, or else back out and try another way.

  “Will you fight me, casnar?” Cazio shouted at the knight. “Do they make men where you come from, or just rapists of helpless women?”

  The knight's visor was up, but Cazio couldn't make out his features.

  “I don't know who you are,” the knight said in an accent that suggested he was trying to swallow something and speak at the same time, “but I advise you to stand aside.”

  “And I advise you to dismount, sir, or I shall impale your fine horse, something I do not wish to do. You may continue to wear your turtle shell, for I would not disadvantage you by asking you to fight fairly.”

  “This is not a game,” the knight growled. “Do not waste my time, and I will let you live.”

  “A lesson in dessrata would not be a waste of your time,” Cazio replied. “At least you will have something to mull over, whiling away the long hours in hell or curled weeping on your mother's couch—depending on how merciful I am.”

  The knight didn't say another word, but dismounted, taking a shield shaped like a curved triangle from the side of his horse and drawing an incredibly clumsy-looking broadsword with his free hand. He closed his visor and advanced toward Cazio at a walk. Cazio grinned and settled into a broad dessrata stance, making passes in the air with his blade, bouncing on his knees a little.

  The knight didn't salute, or strike a stance, or anything of the sort. When he was within two pereci he simply charged with the shield held in front of him and the sword cocked back on his shoulder. That startled Cazio, but at the last instant he did a quick ancio, swinging his body out of the way and leaving his point in line for the knight to run into.

  Caspator slid over the shield and arrested against the upper part of the breastplate, where the steel gorget stopped the point. The knight, unimpressed by this, swung the shield backhand, forcing the rapier up and slamming Cazio's forearm into his chest with such force that he left the ground. He landed on his feet but nearly didn't keep them under him, stumbling back as the knight quickly overtook him, sword still cocked. Cazio found his balance just in time to parry the overhand blow, which came with such force that he nearly lost Caspator, and his already abused arm went half numb with shock. Without thinking, he riposted to the thigh, but again all he got was the sound of steel on steel. It gave him time to recover, however, and he danced back out of range while the knight brought his sword back up.

  Cazio recalled something z'Acatto had told him once, something he hadn't paid too much attention to at the time.

  “Knights in armor don't fence, boy,” the old man had said, after taking a drink of pale yellow Abrinian wine.

  “Don't they?” Cazio had replied diffidently, whetting Cas-pator's long blade.

  “No. Their swords weigh eight coinix or more. They just hit each other with them until they find out who has the better armor.”

  “Ah,” Cazio had replied. “They would be slow and clumsy, I imagine.”

  “They have to hit you only once,” z'Acatto had replied. “You don't duel knights. You run from them or you drop something very heavy on them from a castle wall. You do not fence them.”

  “As you say,” Cazio had replied, but he hadn't been convinced. Any man with a sword could be beaten by a master of dessrata. Z'Acatto had said it himself, in his more sober moments.

  The thing was, this knight wasn't nearly as slow or clumsy as he ought to be, and he did not fear being struck by Caspator in the least. Cazio kept dancing out of range, trying to think. He'd have to hit him in the slit of his mask, he decided, a challenging target indeed.

  He tried that, feinting at the knee to draw the shield down. The armored man dropped the shield incrementally, but brought it back up when Cazio lunged, pushing the rapier high again. Then that huge cleaver of a sword
came whistling around the side of the shield, a blow aimed to cut Cazio in half at the waist. It would have, too, but Cazio coolly parried in prismo, dropping the tip of his weapon perpendicular to the ground with the hilt on the left side of his head, guarding that entire flank.

  Another rapier would have been deflected harmlessly, but not eight or nine coinix of broadsword. It beat Caspator into him, and all of the air out of him. Cazio felt and heard ribs crack, and then he was off his feet again, this time flopping painfully onto his back. He grabbed his side and it came away wet; some edge had gotten through. The cut felt shallow, but the broken ribs hurt so badly it was nearly paralyzing. The knight was coming toward him again, and he didn't think he could get up in time.

  It occurred to Cazio that he might be in trouble.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE RAVEN'S SONG

  AS MURIELE STARED AT THE THING from Black Marys and children's tales, darts of fever seemed to pierce her lungs. For an instant, they all stood like statues in some strange pantheon—Neil MeqVren with her dying daughter in his arms, the beaked monster, herself.

  Wonder is a terrible thing, she thought. Her mind seemed to be drifting away from her.

  Then she saw Neil reach for his sword.

  “No!” she shouted. “Do not!” It felt like shouting in a dream, a sound no one could hear.

  But the young knight hesitated.

  “I am your queen,” she cried. Terror was a tiny voice in her now, nearly silenced by madness. “I command it!”

  That seemed to get through to the young knight. He turned on his heel and, still carrying Fastia, followed Muriele at a staggering run back toward the inner keep they had just abandoned. The gate was shut, however, and barred from the other side. There was no escape for them there.

  Muriele glanced back. The monster was padding softly toward them, in no great hurry. Why should it be?

  In sudden epiphany she understood that the entire world— Crotheny, her children, her husband, she herself—existed on the edge of a vast, invisible pit. They had trod its upper slopes, never recognizing that it was even there. Now they were all sliding into it, and the beast behind her was at the bottom, waiting for them.

  Waiting for her.

  Almost as unhurried as their pursuer, she looked around and saw there was only one place left to go.

  “The horz!” she said, gesturing.

  The horz occupied an area between the keep and the garrison. The doorway was only about ten yards away. Muriele ran toward it, and the greffyn followed, increasing its speed a little. She felt its eyes burning into her back, imagined its breath on her neck, knew by her renewed terror that she wasn't yet entirely mad. She ran toward the arched gate of the sacred garden. Perhaps the saints would protect them.

  As they crossed the threshold into the horz, Sir Neil seemed to get his senses back. He quickly but gently placed Fastia on a bed of moss near the central stone, then drew his sword and turned quickly. The gateway to the horz had no door, but was open to all.

  “Hide, Your Majesty,” he said. “Find the thickest part of the garden and hide there.”

  But Muriele was staring past him. The greffyn, which had been just behind them, was nowhere to be seen.

  Then Muriele doubled over, the muscles of her legs cramping and fever burning in her veins. She collapsed next to her daughter and reached to touch her, to comfort her, but Fastia's skin was cool and her heart beat no more.

  Unable to do anything more, Muriele lay, and wept, and waited for death.

  Neil swayed against the door frame, his vision blurring. Where had the monster gone? It had been only footsteps behind them. Now it had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.

  Not for the first time that night, he began to wonder if he had lost his sanity. His legs were shaking, and a hot, sick feeling twisted in him.

  “I've failed, Father,” he whispered. “I should have heeded the warnings. I never belonged here.”

  In Liery he'd known who he was. In Liery he'd never failed in anything. Here, he'd made one misstep after another, each worse than the last. His feelings for Fastia—feelings no true knight ever would have had—had cauterized his conviction and drained his confidence. He flinched, he hesitated, and now that lack of surety had killed Sir James and Elseny. He had failed the queen, his sworn charge, and even now a part of him knew he would do it again if it would save Fastia. Despite his vow, despite the wrongness of it.

  He didn't deserve the breath in his lungs.

  An arrow chirruped against stone, and he realized he had all but forgotten his mortal antagonists. Yet another failure. Cursing, he took what cover he could behind the gate frame, trying to see who was without. He made out two, perhaps three of the Sefry archers on the causeway. Another had come through the gate from the inner keep and was under cover of the now open door.

  Striding toward him was the armored figure of the man who had once been Vargus Farre. When he saw Sir Neil he bellowed and increased his pace, drawing the greatsword from his back.

  Neil, barely able to stand, grimly summoned all of his strength and stepped out to meet him.

  “You aren't Ashern,” the false knight said, when he drew near.

  “I don't know who Ashern is,” Neil replied. “But know this: I am the hand of death.”

  “You are sickened from the gaze of the greffyn. You are weary from flight and battle. Lay down your arms and accept the inevitable.”

  To Neil's horror, it sounded tempting. Lay down his arms, let the enemy strike off his head. At least he'd make no more mistakes, then. At least he would be at peace.

  But no. He should die like a man, however little that might mean. “When the sea falls into the sky, that will be,” he said.

  “That day may not be as far off as you might think,” Farre replied. He lifted his sword and struck.

  Neil parried the blow but staggered beneath it. He replied with a cut to the shoulder joint, but missed, his weapon clanging harmlessly on steel. Farre swung again, and this time Neil managed to duck. The blade missed, but he went dizzy, and before he could recover, a reversed blow caught him on the back. The chain mail hauberk took the edge with a snapping of rings, but it absorbed none of the force of the attack, which drove him down to his knees. Sir Vargus kicked him under the chin, but Neil manage to wrap one arm around the armored leg and stab upward with Crow.

  It was not a strong jab, and again Crow screeched in frustration as it scored across armor but did not harm the man.

  The hilt came hammering down toward his head, but Neil twisted so it took him in the shoulder instead. Agony ruptured along his clavicle, which he distantly reckoned was probably shattered.

  Farre kicked him again, and he went back like a rag doll into the horz. The knight stepped through after him. The saints, it seemed, did not care what might become of Neil MeqVren.

  Spitting blood, Neil climbed slowly to his feet, watching the changeling come forward through a red fog of pain. He seemed to come very slowly, as if each blink of the eye took days. In a strange rush, Neil heard again the sound of the sea and tasted cold salt on his lips. For an instant, he was there on the strand again with his father, the older man's hand gripping his.

  We goin'to lose, Fah? We goin'to die?

  And then, so plain it might have been spoken in his ear, he heard a voice.

  You're a MeqVren, boy. Damn you, but don't lie down yet.

  Neil straightened and took a breath. It felt like a burning wind.

  Muriele managed to raise her head when she heard the song. It started weakly, barely a whisper, but it was in the language of her childhood.

  “Mi, Etier meuf, eyoiz'etiern rem

  Crach-toi, frennz, mi viveut-toi dein.”

  It was Sir Neil, standing before Vargus Farre.

  “Me, my father, my fathers before

  Croak, ye ravens, I'll feed ye soon.”

  He sang, though it seemed impossible he could even stand. Sir Vargus swung a great two-handed blow at the sma
ller man. Almost laconically, Sir Neil parried the weapon, and his voice grew louder.

  “We keep our honor on sea and shore

  Croak, ye ravens, I'll feed ye soon.”

  Suddenly Sir Neil's sword lashed out, all out of keeping with his demeanor, and there came a din of metal. Vargus staggered back from the stroke, but Sir Neil followed it up with another that seemed to come from nowhere. He was shouting, now.

  “With spear and sword and board of war,

  Croak, ye ravens, I'll feed ye soon.”

  Sir Vargus rallied and cut hard into Neil's side. Chain mail snapped with bright ringing and blood spurted, but the young knight didn't seem to notice. He kept chanting, beating a rhythm of terrible blows that rang against plate mail.

  “To fight and die is why we're born.

  Croak, ye ravens, I'll feed ye soon.”

  Neil was shrieking now, and Muriele understood. He had a rage on him. Vargus Farre never got in another blow. He stumbled and fell beneath the onslaught, and Neil pounded him with his blade as if it were a club, shearing sparks from the armor. He chopped through the joint of Farre's arm at the elbow; he crushed in his helm. Long after there was no motion, he hacked into the steel-clad corpse, screaming the death song of his Skernish fathers. And when he finally stood and his eyes turned to her, she thought she had never seen a more terrifying sight.

  “The gates are open,” Stephen murmured, as they rode over the succession of drawbridges that led to Cal Azroth.

  “I reckon I can see that,” Aspar grunted. “Quiet a moment, and listen.”

  Stephen nodded, closing his eyes. The only sound Aspar could make out was his own breath and the labored panting of the horses. Winna was a welcome weight against his back, and a fear, as well. He had her back. He couldn't lose her again.

  But Fend was here. He could smell him.

  “I hear steel meeting steel,” Stephen said, after a moment. “And someone singing, in Lierish, I think. That aside, it's quiet.”