Angus Wells - Novel 04

by Yesterday's Kings (v1. 1)

  “And he’s honorable?”

  Laurens nodded. “A most honorable man."

  “And his argument now is that—as best he knows— Abra was kidnapped by Lofantyl.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Laurens agreed. “To bring her back, and so escape the damned priest s attentions.” Cullyn felt his head swirl, a whirlwind of tumbling thoughts, Lyandra’s hand warm on his thigh, her eyes fixed on him as were all the others. He was a simple man, only a forester, not used to such political games. He felt embarrassed as he studied their faces, all intent on his; but something he could not understand compelled him to speak.

  “Suppose,” he said, “that we offer both Abra and her father a choice. Let Abra decide whether or not she wishes to return to Kandar. Let Lord Bartram hear her decision, and make his choice. That might”—he eyed his audience, amazed at his boldness—“forge such a peace as could bring Kandar and Coim’na Drhu together.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,” Eben muttered. Then louder, “Did I not tell you he’s syn’qui?”

  “But how,” Pyris chuckled, “do you propose to do that?”

  “There’s a way,” Eben said.

  “Which is?” Pyris toyed with his goblet, studying Eben with a smile that looked for an answer he might not accept, save it serve him well.

  “Do the old rules still apply?”

  Pyris ducked his head in agreement.

  “Then a challenge.”

  “A tourney?”

  Eben nodded. “Why not? How else, save open warfare?”

  “We might siege Kash’ma Hall,” Pyris suggested. “That would be amusing.”

  “And useless,” Eben said. “You’d waste men against Isydrian’s walls, with no guarantee of getting Abra back. Do I know my father, he’d order her throat slit before he’d return her.”

  “That’s true,” Pyris allowed, “Isydrian’s a mean temper on him.”

  “Unlike you.”

  Pyris laughed. “I am moderate.”

  “Of course,” Eben said. “You are virtue personified.” “Which is why I listen to your ramblmgs.”

  “Save are they ramblings?” He stabbed a thumb in Cullyn’s direction. “Or his?”

  Pyris ducked his head in acknowledgment and studied Cullyn a while. “If I were to slay him, he’d not be such a signal to rhe Garm priest. Might that not be the wisest course? Let Lofantyl have Ins Garm woman, and we fight this Lord Bartram.”

  Eben said, “You’d slay a syn’qui?”

  Laurens rose from his seat. “Do you threaten Cullyn, I challenge you.”

  Lyandra said, “Father!”

  And Pyris chuckled. “So much talk of challenges.” He stared at Laurens. “Do you think you could defeat me?”

  Laurens shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’d do my best were you to harm Cullyn."

  “And you, daughter?”

  Lyandra said, “Let him live. He speaks sense.”

  Cullyn felt insignificant. Even were he syn’qui he heard his fate discussed as if he were not present. He said, defiantly, “I’ll fight my own battles.”

  And Pyris roared laughter and said, “So be it! It shall be as Eben suggests—a challenge.” He beamed at Mallandra. “Does a tourney excite you, my love?”

  His wife studied Cullyn and her daughter. “Have you fought a tourney before?”

  Cullyn shook his head. “What is a tourney?"

  Pyris laughed again. Mallandra said, “Lance to lance; sword to sword.”

  “I’ve never fought with either a lance or a sword,” Cullyn said as Lyandra’s hand closed tighter on his thigh. “Indeed, I’ve never fought with anyone.”

  “But save you’d see the Dur’em Zheit hesiege Kash’ma Hall,” Pyris said, “that’s what you must do—are you earnest in your desire to resolve this problem?”

  Cullyn looked to Eben. “Is it the only way?”

  “I believe so,” the wizard answered.

  Cullyn looked to Pyris, who chuckled as if relishing the prospect of combat. “We vie together,” the Durrym explained cheerfully. “Isydrian would seize my hold, if he could. He’d defeat me and make Lofantyl master of Ky’atha Hall—and should he succeed in that ambition, then his clan would own such power as might challenge Santylla—he’d set himself or Afranydyr on the throne in Dobre Henes and rule all Coim’na Drhu.”

  “And this hinges on me?”

  “Eben and my daughter say that you’re syn’qui.” Pyris sipped wine, staring at Cullyn across the ornate cup. “So, yes.”

  Cullyn met the Durrym’s gaze. “I came after Abra, and then became a fugitive. Now I become your champion?”

  “Perhaps.” The smile faded a moment from Pyris’s face. “But if you want—”

  “To speak with Abra,” Cullyn interrupted, wondering the while how he dared. “To find out what she wants; and Lofantyl. And perhaps ...” He broke off, shrugging; uncertain of himself in such exalted company.

  Eben murmured, “Speak on,” and Laurens smiled encouragement.

  “Perhaps,” Cullyn continued, embarrassed, “that might broker peace between our lands. Were they wed ... ?”

  “What good to Ky’atha Hall?” Pvris demanded. “Some treaty between Lyth and Kash’ma serves me not at all.”

  “Save Lord Bartram swears peace with both.” Cullyn supped wine, wondering what he said, amazed at his audacity. “That he accepts Abra’s marriage to Lofantyl, and swears peace with both Kash’ma Hall and Ky’atha— which shall both agree to a treaty beforehand."

  “Under whose aegis?” Pyris asked.

  Cullyn swallowed deep, summoning up all his courage before he said, “Mine.”

  “To which end,” Pyris replied, “you’ll have to tight for Abra. Isydrian will agree to nothing else.”

  “Then I’ll do it," Cullyn said.

  “Excellent!” Pyris clapped his hands. “I shall send messengers out tomorrow.”

  Fifteen

  CULLYN STOOD WITH LYANDRA on the balcony outside his chambers. The night was warm, the lake glinting a silvery blue below, a soft breeze wafting forest scents from the woodlands. Overhead the sky hung star-pocked, glittering with the reflection of far-off worlds, the moon gone down to a slender crescent that tomorrow would fade to nothing—at least in Kandar. In Coim’na Drhu who knew' w'hat it might do. Perhaps the Durrym controlled even that.

  “So I must challenge Lofantyl, who’s my friend?” he muttered.

  “If you wish to speak with Abra.” Lyandra stared at him, almost coldly. “Are you in love with her?”

  He looked into her eyes and shook his head. “Once I thought I was, but now …”

  “Now?”

  “She’s too high above me. Like you.”

  Lyandra chuckled, a throaty sound, and her smile grew wide, like the sun emerging from behind storm clouds. Cullyn looked at her mouth and remembered that kiss she’d bestowed.

  “You’re syn’qui,” she said. “I’m not above you.”

  “I came to escape Per Fendur’s torture,” he returned. “Had Laurens not broken us free—and found Eben to help us—we'd be dungeoned”—he shuddered at the thought—“and set on the rack.”

  “But you weren’t,” she said. “You escaped. Because you’re syn’qui.”

  She leaned against him, and he felt the hard softness of her body through the thin gown. Her scent was enticing, her breath an invitation. He drew back.

  “So everyone tells me.” He set his elbows on the balcony’s wall. “But no one tells me just what that means. That I’m marked by the gods? And therefore must fight a friend? Is that destiny? Have I no choice in it?”

  “No,” she said. “No more than I for ...” She stilled her next words and took his hands and looked into his troubled eyes. “Abra is taken to Kash'ma Hall, where Isydrian will hold her like a trophy—a victory over the Garm. Lofantyl, it would seem, wants her, and Afranydyr will support his father. Are you to even discuss her fate with her father, then you must fight for her. That
’s the way of our work!—and now you're caught up in it. like it or not.”

  “What if I went under a flag of truce?”

  Lyandra chuckled. “Likely Isydrian would put an arrow in you himself.”

  Cullyn sighed, staring out at the pleasant landscape. It seemed, somehow, more benign than Kandar. Gentler, softer—yet just as bloody. “I’m caught up in events I do not understand,” he murmured.

  She touched his face, smiling at him. “You’ll do what’s right,” she said. “Because worlds hinge on you, and I believe that you will make the right decision. If not...” She shrugged.

  “I am a simple forester,” he protested. “I know nothing of battle, of duels. I’ve fought no one—nor wanted to. I wanted only to he left alone.”

  Save as he looked at her he was no longer sure of that. Elvira faded away; Abra’s beauty became a distant memory. He stared at this fey virgin and felt his heart swallowed up. He remembered her facing rhe unicorn, and before he knew it his arms were around her and their mouths together.

  When they parted she whispered, “My champion.”

  He studied her face and wondered. She was beautiful and he desired her; but he had desired Elvira and Abra, and he was not sure what love meant. What it was. He felt a great confusion—and more than a little fear at the step he took. She was fey and he Garm’kes Lyn. He pushed her away.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “You’re . . .’’ He shook hts head: he did not understand women. “The unicorn . ..”

  “I’ve ensnared unicorns because I was virgin.” She clutched his shoulders. “Now, however, I’d have you for my husband; my lover.” She pulled him closer. “Likely I feel about you as does Lofantyl about Abra. I love you, Cullyn.”

  She closed her arms about him. She was strong, and he felt her body through the thin material of her dress, and responded helplessly.

  Then pushed her away again, heat on his brow and heat in his loins. He did not understand why he said it, only that he must. “Before we ...” He blushed; she laughed. “Before we ... I must settle this business with

  Abra and Lofantyl. And then ask your father’s permission.”

  “He’ll grant it,” she said, “do I ask. And I shall.”

  He nodded. “Then after this thing is settled ..

  She smiled and stroked his cheek. “1 shall hold you to that.”

  “IT’S TO BE LANCES,” Laurens said. “Shields and lances. Are you dismounted, you’ll have what hand weapons you prefer.”

  Cullyn stared at the old soldier. “I don’t know how to use a lance,” he said. “What of hand weapons?”

  Laurens grinned. “You could use a sword."

  “I don’t know how to use a sword.”

  “A war axe?”

  Cullyn shook his head.

  “A hammer?”

  “No.”

  “What can you use?”

  “I’m handy with a bow ...”

  “We might,” Laurens said, “suggest that. But I doubt your opponent would accept. And you are the one making the challenge—you have to accept his choice of weapons.”

  Cullyn swallowed, his throat dry.

  “Then I must do what I must.”

  “He’ll choose lances,” Eben said. “They enjoy their tourneys, the Durrym. It’ll be a formal affair—your opponent will be armored, and—’’

  “Armored?” Cullyn gaped at rhe wizard. “I've never worn armor in my life.”

  “What kind?" Laurens asked.

  “Formal,” Eben replied. “Full-bodied plate.”

  “That’s heavy.” Laurens studied Cullyn as if he were some specimen. “Still, he’s big enough.”

  “Durrym armor’s light," Eben said. “Remember, they don't use metal. The armor will be tended wood, leather—natural materials.”

  Laurens nodded thoughtfully. “How long do we have before this joust?”

  “Who knows?" Eben shrugged. “Pyris must send a messenger to Kash’ma Hall, Isydrian must respond, the ground must be chosen It could be weeks.”

  “That’s in our favor. It’ll give me time to train him somewhat.” Laurens scratched his scarred cheek. “At least he has a tine, big mount. Was ever a horse built for battle, it’s Fey.”

  Cullyn listened to them discussing his precarious future as if he were not there, and internipted.

  “I don’t want to fight Lofantyl,” he said. “I don’t want to fight anyone. I just want to ...” What he wanted to say was, “Go home,” but instead he shrugged, thinking of Lyandra.

  “Well, it’s a fact of life that we don’t always get what we want,” Eben said.

  “Why can’t we just ask Abra?” Cullyn wondered. “Hear what she’s got to say.”

  “Durrym rules,” Eben replied. “One is that Lofantyl took her, and might not agree to returning her. Another is that she might not wish to return. Perhaps she’s in love with him—who knows? And then there’s my father to consider—Isydrian would do much to spite me, or Ky’atha Hall."

  “Why?” Cullyn asked.

  “Reasons,” Eben said. “I’ll tell you someday. But what I’ll tell you now is that you have no choice—you’re caught up in destiny’s web, and can only dance on the puppet strings.”

  “No choice at all?” Cullyn stared at the wizard. “What if I refuse to fight?”

  “It’s gone too far for that.” Eben fixed him with a bright blue gaze. “Pyris is committed—likely his messenger has already ridden off—and in a day or so we’ll agree to the terms. Then you’ll fight or become a prisoner here. To refuse a challenge is disgrace to the Durrym. It would leave you without honor, and you’d be outlawed—if not slain on the spot.” He beamed wickedly at Cullyn and added, “As would we. So, you see? All our lives depend on you.”

  Cullyn frowned, and Eben’s smile grew softer. “This is a different world, lad, with different rules. Pyris has set his heart on a tourney in hope of disgracing Isydrian—he knows that Isydrian cannot refuse the challenge. So you become Ky’atha Hall’s champion—Pyris looks to you to upset his rival.”

  “And I’ve no say at all?”

  “None,” Eben replied cheerfully. “Save you’d risk Pyris’s wrath. And lose Lyandra into the bargain.”

  Cullyn blushed.

  “Win and you’ll become a great man here,” Eben said. “Tire clans will hail you, and you’ll earn the right to wed Lyandra. Lose and . . .” He shrugged, his meaning clear.

  Cullyn sighed. “Then let’s do it.”

  The SUN STOOD HIGH and Cullyn found his annor uncomfortable. He wore a padded runic that was over-layed with a breastplate of polished wood, pauldrons on his shoulders and vambraces on his arms. A tasset protected his lower body, and cuisses and greaves his legs. The helmet sat hot on his head, and the visor obscured his vision so that he saw only a narrow slit of the world ahead. He carried a curved shield on his left arm and a heavy lance in his right hand.

  Three times now Laurens had knocked him from Fey’s saddle, leaving him sprawled on rhe grass. This time he rose angry, loosening the straps of his helm so that he might breathe clean air.

  “I can’t fight like this!”

  “He’ll be armored,” Laurens said.

  "And I’ll he dead. 1 can’t ride with this gear on me." He flung the helmet away and began to unbuckle straps. “If I must fight him at all, then I’ll do it loose. As best 1 can."

  “You’ll still need shield and lance," Laurens said. “So get hack up and we’ll try it that way."

  Cullyn stripped off his armor and mounted Fey again.

  “The challenge is accepted," Lyandra told him. “A week from now.”

  He sighed, stretching hack on the wide bed as a Durrym healer rubbed unguents into his bruises. “Are you so eager for it?"

  “To see you vanquish Kash’ma Hall? Yes.”

  “So you think I can?”

  She stroked his hair. “You are my champion, and you are syn’qui. Of course you’ll win.”

  Cullyn wonde
red. Lyandra, appeared to envisage him as some great knight—and the folk of Ky’atha Hall saw him as a champion, riding out for their honor. But he was not so sure. It was, in some ways, pleasurable. He was feted about the keep—admired and respected. The fey folk gifted him: he had a collection of swords that

  Laurens examined daily, and his choice of armor. He had been offered horses, most of them decked in tourney armor. He dined with Pyris and Mallandra on such fine food as he’d never tasted, supping wine that set his taste buds to spinning, Lyandra close beside him. He wished he were a champion, and at the same time that he had never come to Coim’na Drhu. Save now he had no choice left and could only go where fate took him. He thought that to be syn’qui was a curse.

  Then word came back, formally, that the challenge was accepted and the ground agreed. The tourney would take place midway between the two holds, where fine grass grew wide between a river and the forest. Both parties would arrive two days before the joust—time enough to set up their tents and feast in celebration of the combat. It would take them both two days to reach the ground.

  “You’re LEARNING,” Laurens said. “But when you swing the sword, use your wrists. Swing it, and then cut down.”

  Cullyn clambered to his feet. He ached horribly. He hated this training; he did not want to fight Lofantyl—or anyone. He wanted to go home—save that would take him away from Lyandra.

  “And if he uses a war axe, or a hammer?”

  “Then most likely you’re dead.”

  “Cheerful news.”

  “I’ll show you how to counter them.”

  “In a day?” Cullyn raised the unfamiliar sword.

  “You learn fast,” Laurens said. “The gods know, but you’ve learned to use a lance quick enough. How many rimes have you unseated me now?”

  “Seven.” Cullyn answered, nor without pride.

  From the edge of the practice ground Eben shouted, “You can achieve more than you believe yourself capable of.” Lyandra applauded, and called for Cullyn to attack Laurens again. Cullyn looked at her and wondered at her appetite for bloodshed, bur held up his shield and sword and went at Laurens again.