by David Keck
He felt the heat of Radomor's stare, and knew that the hot silence back in that Ferangore hall had had nothing to do with uncertainty; it was the sneer of a man who had bartered his soul and been offered a crown.
Abrupdy, a figure stumbled from the tents only a few paces from Durand: Heremund Skald. If he had appeared but a foot closer, he would have caught three feet of Durand's blade.
"Something's come." The little man's tongue worked against the roof of his mouth. He stared into the air, his eyes rolling like a sleepwalker's as he squelched among the glistening worms. "Something moves."
Durand grabbed the startled skald in both fists, and spun him toward the figures at the bridgehead. The little man's mysteries were finished.
DURAND GOT A short keg to sit on and took to working his sword as he kept his eye on Radomor. Heremund hovered anxiously, speechless.
As Durand watched the night through, the writhing carpet finally sank below the turf. The sky paled to a cool blue. Agryn appeared among the tents already clad in his war gear and yellow surcoat, and with no more than a glance at Radomor and his companions took himself off to the eastern cliff. The man knelt to wait the Eye of Heaven.
For all the others on the hilltop, the arrival of Radomor's crew was a bigger surprise. As each bleary soul stumbled out of bed, they saw the strange company and stopped to stare. Many drifted into line around Durand's barrel. Some seized weapons. Others simply stood, half-dressed and staring, as Durand honed the notches from his blade.
Dawn changed the strangers. Drop by drop, dawn poured crimson into the hooks and finials of mane and talon on their chests. It was Yrlac's rampant leopard, red on green. Soon the fanciful creatures seemed almost to glow.
Heremund scratched his head with his hat mashed over his skullcap. "Everything you ever do will come to nothing," he whispered. "Gods. Gods."
After hours of silence, this is what came from the man's mouth. Durand felt the hair on his neck rise, but answered flatly, "Let us hope you were right."
"Gods," Heremund muttered. "What's the man done?" He shook his head. "I can't breathe. The reek of it's boiling in my throat."
Durand left off polishing his sword. There was nothing in the air but the sea wind.
"What do you mean? What is it you smell?" he asked.
Again, the little man's tongue was working in his mouth. "I met a wise woman once. She said she felt the spirits on her like cold fingers. Said a room full of people was like a fist rolling knuckles over her. Me? It's a thing I taste. Or smell maybe. Same thing." Again, he licked compulsively at the roof of his mouth. "All I taste now is lead. Hot lead crackling in the air."
"You're telling me you've got second scent?" Durand asked.
The skald suddenly began slapping at himself, purse and belt. He stopped, and reached for his throat.
"Here," he said, drawing a dark-stained rag from his collar. "You'd better have this back."
Durand took the offered rag. Only as it touched his hand did he realize. It was the Green Lady's veil.
Before he could wonder, Ouen appeared at his side, rapping his arm with big knuckles. Soon, Berchard joined them, setting his hand on Durand's shoulder, while Badan grumbled something about Durand and luck. Finally, Lamoric and his captain joined the line.
Men from the castle—Durand recognized Biedin's steward—crossed from the gatehouse to speak with Radomor and his preening Rooks. He couldn't hear what passed between them.
"Those are Yrlac's colors Radomor's wearing," Berchard said. .
"If Radomor lives, he is the Duke of Yrlac," Lamoric said. "I cannot believe ... He has slain his father. He has come to take the throne."
"And he ranks Baron Brudei Hearkenwald," Coensar added. "He'll be Marshal of the South."
AND, IN THE south, Radomor waited with his armored champion still kneeling obeisance. He had spent hours on his knee.
With his eye always on the Lord of Yrlac, Durand took lances, his roll of armor, and the rest of his gear to the north end of the courtyard. He curried his stolen bay. He checked the nails on his shield straps, the wrap of his sword hilt, and the leather of girths and reins, all the while watching down the canyon of stone walls.
This was a day that mattered.
Under wheeling gulls, the castle yard filled with knights and serving men of all descriptions. Durand watched the knights, guessing at who might cause them trouble when the fight started. From time to time, a Mornaway knight would stop for a moment and stare, but Durand said nothing. There was nothing to say. When he had nearly finished, a trio of heralds passed him carrying stakes and hammers. Berchard and some of the older men made a point of finding out what wood they used. Apparently, there was some augury in the choice. Berchard and Agryn consulted with a wary eye on the heralds.
"It's hazel in the north," said Berchard. The throne of Errest was hazel from the chest of the Young Princes.
"The king is here," ventured Agryn, carefully.
"I suppose we're north of Eldinor," Berchard allowed.
Across the narrow yard, the heralds swung a hammer to drive the northeast corner stake into the turf. It sank in three blows.
"Did he crack it?" Berchard asked.
"I heard no crack. We fight in the North Company. Hazel is well favored," Agryn concluded. He sounded like a man reading words he'd written long ago.
Durand checked his armor, knotting knots and cinching straps. Meanwhile, the squad of heralds stalked down the narrow yard, choosing another stake.
"East?" asked Agryn. Something about the man's tone caught Durand's attention: He chose the word as a moneylender might choose a key.
"Hawthorn against the Banished," said Berchard. "Wind-fallen, the lad said."
"Good."
Durand buckled the garter under his right knee, but watched as the lips of both old campaigners silently counted the hammer blows. This time five. Their eyes twitched narrow.
"South?" murmured Agryn.
"Elder" was his answer.
Agryn nodded, and now Durand joined them in watching the heralds cross the yard, passing under the watchtower. Duke Radomor turned as they stepped close. His Rooks looked up, bent as hounds.
"Evil in the elder," whispered Berchard. The herald's lad took the stake. One rook cocked his head. The other grinned like a fox yawning. The boy steadied the stake, while the older man hauled back. Crack, crack, crack and the thing was firm.
"Now, what is west, Sir Berchard?" spoke Agryn.
"Blackthorn," Berchard murmured. "For fate."
Durand rubbed his neck: memories of withered blackthorn men stirring. Fate.
Agryn nodded, and the heralds were coming. They had turned their backs on Radomor and his Rooks to head straight for Durand and Agryn and Berchard and the whole gaggle of Lamoric's men drawn to the campaigners' whispers. Lamoric himself watched as, right at Agryn's feet, the herald's lad ducked low, one knee in the turf. The senior herald wiped his forehead and raised the big hammer.
With one swing, he struck the blackthorn stake deep.
Disbelieving, his boy gave the thing a firm tug with both hands, but the stake held fast—one blow.
Agryn's eyes were leagues away. Across the yard, the Rooks were still looking on.
"Sir Lamoric," said a voice, half-choked. Lord Moryn stalked up to the one-time Knight in Red.
Lamoric almost stammered. "Moryn?"
"I am ... surprised... to see you here." The man had only his padded coat on. A gang of shield-bearers had chased him, lugging the rest of his gear. A good dozen Mornaway knights stalked up behind.
"You will find my name on the roll," Lamoric said.
"Waer was my father's man twenty winters."
Durand held his ground.
"And yet," said Lamoric, "you've said nothing."
Durand watched the sinews in Moryn's frame cinch tighter. His men set hands on blades. The whole reason Lamoric's company had turned round and marched back to Tern Gyre hung in the scales. Moryn could turn them out.
"I expected
to find you in the Southern Company. I thought you meant to face me. Now, I find you here in the midst of my own company."
Balanced between two gangs of fighting men, the young lord closed his eyes tight, then spoke quietly.
"Lord Moryn, you are my wife's brother, a man of honor, and scion of an ancient house."
No one spoke.
"I have wronged you and taken your name lightly, but I now confess that I know you for what you are: a masterful swordsman and true knight. I swear that I mean no slight to you in offering my service."
Lamoric had his battle helm tucked under one arm. He seemed to discover it. "You said you would make a trophy of my helm. I give it to you freely. On my honor, your family is my family, and your life is my own."
The lean Lord of Mornaway stood, wary. Every man could see him taking stock, and, in the long silence, no man breathed. If Moryn cast them out, Durand could not see how they would continue. He tried to picture them fighting with Radomor, standing up with those green knights—the preening Rooks. If Durand was to defend Moryn, he must be in the fight.
Finally, Lord Moryn lifted his chin.
"Keep your helm. You will need it if you are to fight for me."
Men on both sides spat or hissed or swore then.
"As you are now my comrade in arms," Moryn continued, "1 must tell you what I have told the others of our company. Though I am prepared to fight, I do so without a full conroi behind me. I came to bring my father's vote to the Great Council, but Prince Biedin has invited me to take up the reins of the North Company."
"Radomor will try to take you," Lamoric said.
"He may try. I do not fear it."
"No," answered Lamoric. As he bowed, Lamoric's glance met Durand's, then a fanfare brayed from the keep. Gulls leapt from the parapets. Moryn grinned.
"We have made our peace just in time. Take your place in the lines and soon we will see how great a warlord this Radomor is when true Sons of Atthi face him."
With a curt flourish, Moryn departed, chased by his flock of shield-bearers and serving men.
"You heard him!" said Coensar. "Send your shield-bearers to the rear. Get your horses to the line. Those trumpets were the king."
They were in.
In a few darting strides, Durand had his bay warhorse to the line between the hazel and blackthorn stakes. Among the others, he saw eyes and teeth flashing—grim mirrors of his mood. Some others took their chance to mutter prayers or make the Eye of Heaven. But Durand felt the Silent King's hand in setting the table and clearing his way. Now, he was sure, that king would lean back and let them hash it out.
As the ranks formed, Durand searched to find the king they fought for. The stands were hard to see from the mill of men and horses, but, between rumps and noses, Durand caught a flash of antique gold. Under a stiff weight of embroidery, Ragnal prowled the stands, arm in arm with his black-clad brother. King Ragnal had shed his chain of priests, leaving only his flock of black-clad functionaries to follow him, pale as mushrooms as they peered about. A knight who saw a priest on the way to a tilt knew to make his peace with the King of Heaven. It seemed the King of Errest knew the hearts of fighting men.
"Come on. In line, Lordships," Coensar was saying.
Over the bay's back, Durand noted big Ouen clopping his bone-white carthorse into line at his side. The thing was seventeen hands if it was an inch, and would be good to have close by.
High above now, Ouen squinted across the lists. "I do not like the look of that man."
The sellswords in Yrlac green were slipping their horses into line as well. The hunchbacked duke climbed into the saddle of a monstrous black stallion. His new bodyguard or champion climbed onto the warhorse beside him. Durand saw that they must be separated. Of the Rooks, Durand saw no sign.
Beyond Ouen, Berchard popped up, now high astride the brown stallion from the joust at Bower Mead. ,He winced. "Rado don't look so good now, does he? I suppose that's this wound he's meant to have got at the Downs."
"Aye," said Ouen. "Looks like a busted collarbone. Maybe some ribs. You say he took it when?"
"When was Hallow Down? Summertide, anyway. When Ragnal rode into the Heithan Marches. And I'd say a man would need to mash his backbone to end up that pinched over."
"But he's here now," Ouen said. "And I don't like the look of him. Maybe we can arrange for someone else to face him." Berchard grinned. "Maybe."
Battle could be like the Solan on the waves. Decide what you liked, but battle had its tides. He would have to watch and read the thing. In the end, Moryn must win and Yrlac must not, but nothing else mattered. For all the blackthorn stakes and wise women, no one knew his doom. Durand jabbed his boot in the stirrup iron, and made to swing up.
But fingers caught his elbow.
Agryn faced him, alone in the shadows between two great animals. "Durand."
"We are about to ride."
Agryn jerked Durand's arm. "Listen to me. When I began, I set out to serve the king, and I told you that I turned away at the last, and long years have passed since," he said. "Longer than most would believe."
Durand felt the lines around them forming up. Everyone was in the saddle. The knight's grip tightened on his arm.
"We know what happened. Berchard, Ouen, and I."
Durand wavered.
"1 know what it took to ride back. To see what must be done and turn us all back to this place. We know...." Agryn hesitated. "We know he has not treated the girl as well as he might. And he will not know. He will hear nothing from any of us. We give your secret back to you."
Staggered, Durand made to ask—something, anything. But a practiced twist propelled Agryn high in his saddle. Durand saw him for an instant, gold against the sky.
"Come on," Coensar was saying. "The stands are full."
Now, Durand climbed up. Ouen, Berchard, and Agryn waited at his sides. Not looking his way particularly.
"Here we go," Ouen said.
The white figure of Kandemar, the ageless Herald of Errest, stalked onto the turf below the king's box. Nodding horses half-obscured the man for an instant, and then he opened his statue's gash of a mouth.
"Hear me, you who have gathered on this rock." His voice, unheard except when the king commanded, croaked deep and dry in their ears. "For His Majesty, Ragnal, and His Highness Biedin, I bid you welcome." The Herald bowed slow to the onlookers and each rank of combatants, a man who had walked the Halls of Heaven.
Durand knotted his stuffed cap tight under his chin, and hauled the iron hood over. His hands shook as he lifted Cerlac's helmet from the saddlebow.
The Herald moved like a slow dancer.
"We come to this ground to honor the dead and pay homage to the living blood. Here, long years past, calamity fell. In the seventeenth year of Einred's reign, while the Crusade raged beyond the Sea of Darkness, two royal princes fell, valorous but beset by many foes. Since tidings of that day first touched these shores, the Sons of Atthi have shed their blood and proven their valor. On this very height of land they have done this."
The pale Herald lifted his chin a fraction; his water blue eyes flashed.
'Those who fight affirm that valor still lives in the hearts of Errest the Old. Here, where a third son became heir and grief first set foot on the soil of Errest, you men rebuke the vile Host Below and confirm that the blood of kings endures."
Now he raised the chased horn, holding it like a rod over the companies.
"Each man who fights here this day, I charge you: Remember the valor of your house and the honor of your name. Cast defiance in the face of cowardice, despair, and treachery."
The Herald stared over them all as the wind tugged at his garments.
He lowered the horn.
As he turned, the nodding heads of the horses entirely obscured him from view. Durand crunched his helm down and yanked the last flap of mail tight under his jaw. A hundred horses in the long trappers of a hundred families hunkered down across the yard, muzzle after muzzle snorti
ng and nodding in anticipation. A hundred knights stared through masks—a long gleaming row of slot-eyed iron. In the heart of the Southern line, Radomor pitched his helm down. Durand's eye flicked to Prince Biedin. His Highness stood, alone now of all those in the reviewing stands. His arm was raised. The man wore black. Every man and beast quivered like a bolt on the bow-cord. Biedin's hand twitched an inch higher, then, with a slashing down stroke—
They were thunder.
Two hundred heavy horses launched themselves under the walls of Tern Gyre. Durand rode at the crest of the thundering wave, hunting the juddering line of the South for a target Radomor was out of reach, but one slot-eyed iron face twitched his way: a man in black checkers. Durand saw eyes glint. Rivets. Stubble. And there was hardly time to wrench the point down.
His lance struck first of the two hundred on the field. He was three lengths ahead.
The lance-head bit hard, shoving Durand in a fierce twist even as the enemy's lance caromed off shield and shoulder and mailed jaw. Durand felt the dry detonation of a hundred lances behind him, while the checkered knight tumbled from his saddle. Men cartwheeled. Durand could hear whoops and roars among the knights over screaming horses. The others caught him. Already, Coensar and the other captains were howling: "Hold ranks! Hold ranks!"
Durand felt blood slick in his ear. Under his boots, the shield-bearers and serving men of the Southern camp looked up. As a courtesy, the shield-bearers rushed lances to the extended hands of men whose weapons were shattered. It seemed strange.
"Durand!" Coensar barked. "Watch yourself. It's no horserace. Now, boys, take what these lads will give you. If you want your own, you'll have to get past Radomor and his company."
Twice more, the two companies cantered across the yard to exchange passing blows at midfield. Durand rode the third one nearly twisted backward, incredulous at his own line. Men shouted laughing jeers at each other. Finally, the two lines linked together and began a taunting kind of melee.
For an hour, Durand ducked through the rush and shudder of this mock battle. When he could snatch his eyes away from the laughing swings of the knights around him, he hunted for a chance at Radomor or one of his men, but the green knot around the duke bristled with dark lances. Yrlac made no move.