Emissary

by Thomas Locke

  When Bryna returned, she was accompanied by two others. Hyam thought he recognized one as the sentry whose attention he had tracked into the Assembly. But the pair simply set down their bundles on the offering stone and stood waiting. Bryna stood between them, her arms empty, and said, “The time has come for the emissary to speak for us.”

  The gesture carried a certain formality, and Hyam sensed that her clan was joined with her. “I am ready.”

  She untied the two bundles. One contained clothes, the other a sword. “We ask that you don the uniform of our representative.”

  Hyam found himself reluctant to even touch such finery. Pressed by Bryna’s gaze, he hefted a quilted leather shirt and instantly his nostrils were filled with the fragrances of childhood. Though the clothes had been aired and tailored to fit him, they still bore the scent of the herbs in which they had been packed. Clove and eucalyptus and rosemary, those his mother had cherished. The leather was supple as cotton and light as air. Its color was the same as the Ashanta eyes, a dark violet, rich and neutral at the same time. The sides were split so as to permit him to mount and ride easily. On the chest was stamped the treaty symbol.

  His trousers were a canvas dyed the same shade as his shirt, with leather strips running down both legs. His boots and belt and scabbard were all the same color. The boots were deerskin and so soft they could be rolled up and tucked away like socks. They fit perfectly.

  When he was dressed, Bryna motioned to the other pack. “Arm yourself.”

  The sword itself was unlike anything he had ever known, a pale white blade longer than his arm, slightly curved, the edge holding sharp and true along both lengths, and so light he scarcely felt it, even when holding it straight out.

  “Milantian steel,” Bryna said.

  In his readings he had come across mention of this strange metal, the color of milk and ever sharp. The blade made a musical ring as he slipped it back into the scabbard. The melody of death.

  Bryna handed him a triangular flag. The patch of stitched silk showed a rampant beast standing on its hind legs, baring fangs and long claws, breathing flames. “You carry the king’s royal standard of peace.” She handed him a pair of scrolls. “These are copies of the royal charter, one for the leader of this invading force, the other for you to keep. This decree was set in place by the first Oberon king. It grants our appointed emissary the right to ride beneath the royal banner and claim a place in the king’s hall.”

  He lashed the flag to one end of his bow, then slipped the other end into the pocket behind his right stirrup. The flag flapped crisply in the wind. As Hyam swung into the saddle, he was caught by the similarity to his mother’s final tapestry. Only the orb was missing. He wondered at the possible meaning and decided such ruminations would have to wait.

  Hyam did not speak. The Ashanta had no interest in empty words. He understood that better than ever before. Hyam pulled the bridle and swung the horse around and kneed it to a trot. The dog loped along to his left. Ahead of him was the army, and beyond that a destiny he could neither fathom nor claim.

  9

  On an impulse Hyam turned his steed and rode out beyond the boundary stones. His route would be doubled in length, but that did not matter. He wanted to establish a perimeter for his message, for his warning, and for the possible battle to come. He would do all he could to remove this stain from the Ashanta land.

  Before it was too late.

  Hyam circled around the boundaries, wading carefully through both streams. When he was a hundred paces from the enemy’s camp, he halted. And waited.

  A shout rose from the camp up ahead. There were several hundred tents of all sizes and shapes, but when the man emerged from the largest and brightest, Hyam knew he faced their leader. The knight confirmed this by calling and then standing with his hands upon his hips as soldiers and stewards raced to do his bidding. A convoy of a dozen horses was formed up, while the man himself was girded in armor that sparkled in the sunlight. A steward cupped his hands, and the man used the servant as a stepladder, climbing atop the largest steed of all. Together the dozen men rode out to meet him.

  Beside him, the wolfhound growled.

  Hyam glanced down. It was the first sound he had ever heard the animal make. Her lips were drawn back, revealing fangs as long as his little finger. “Go back!”

  The hound cast her yellow eyes at him. Uncertain.

  Hyam pointed behind them. “Go there! Now!”

  Reluctantly the animal loped back, then turned and waited.

  “Sit! Don’t move!”

  The lead knight kept to just inside the boundary stones. He halted when the final pyramid stood between him and Hyam. He looked the lone rider up and down. Then he laughed out loud. “What manner of idiot do they send out to meet us?”

  The lead knight wore a padded habergeon sewn with metal plates, bright as silver, that fell like a protective robe over the ribs of his mount. On his head he wore an aventail, a hood of mail fashioned from silver links and laced with the intricate design of a gold crown. He pointed a gloved and beringed hand at the flag fluttering from Hyam’s bow. “Do you intentionally seek to insult your liege lord?”

  “I represent the Ashanta. I carry the banner they gave me.”

  “Listen to this man’s accent, will you.” The knight had a close-cropped black beard and eyes that sparked like savage coals. “What are you in real life, a cowherd to this defiled breed?”

  “The Ashanta have instructed me to deliver a message.”

  “Pay attention, cowherd, and receive the only message to be delivered on this field of battle.” He pointed to the triangular flags snapping atop tall lances carried by the next men in line. “Observe my own standard. See the difference? Your ensign represents the Oberons. Their reign is finished. Consigned to history by my father’s father. Do you hear what I am saying, cowherd? The Oberons are reduced to ruling over a single fief at the empire’s western fringe. They exist at all by the mercy of my brother, Ravi, the newly crowned king.”

  Hyam’s attention was caught by a figure at the far end of the line. He could not even say whether it was a small man or a largish woman. The person wore a crimson cloak whose cowl fell far over the face. The hands were masked by gloves the color of living blood. One hand held reins of red leather, the other held a red staff topped by an orb the size of two fists, perfectly round. It glowed rich and crimson, like a single furious eye. The horse was russet in color and was both hooded and blanketed by more of the fiery fabric. Horse and rider stood so still they might have been a statue. Then the hand holding the staff moved slightly in his direction, and Hyam sensed an unwanted presence glide over him, probing gently, taking his measure. Abruptly the crimson rider turned the horse and headed back to camp.

  Hyam raised his voice and called, “Here is the Ashanta’s message. Remove your camp beyond the boundary. And you will be spared.”

  The crimson rider slowed, then turned back. Observing him again from beneath the masking hood.

  “Your manner of dress is like the drawings from my history books. I detested history.” The prince kneed his horse closer to Hyam. He sniffed delicately. “What is that I smell, herbs? Oils? Are you arthritic, cowherd?” He flicked his fingers. “Go back to the forbidden ones. Deliver my terms. They have until dawn to leave their village. They may take nothing. They must follow the east route. They may not stop until they pass the realm’s frontiers. Their kind are no longer welcome here. They have no place. Not now, not ever again. They are banished. Upon pain of death.”

  Hyam pitched his voice so the crimson rider could hear. “Heed my words. The Ashanta were granted this land by royal charter—”

  “The treaty holds no force! The lineage who signed it has been banished!”

  “—for coming to the aid of humans in their hour of direst need.”

  “Legends,” the prince spat. “Tales not worthy of children.”

  “Our records claim we humans vanquished the Milantian hordes. But this his
tory is false. The human armies were almost overwhelmed, and the Ashanta rescued—”

  “Lies!”

  “They rescued us. Why? Because the Milantians intended to enslave us. The Ashanta had witnessed what the Milantians had done to the Elves when this race proved unwilling or unable to accept slavery. The Ashanta knew we would prove more malleable. And the Ashanta despise the binding of any sentient being.”

  “You dare utter such heresies in my presence?” The prince drew his sword. “I will split you and your stinking shirt, cowherd.”

  The knight holding his banner protested, “Sire, we speak beneath the standard of peace.”

  “This one deserves no peace! He is worse than the Ashanta. He is a turncoat, a cowherd to the banished few.” The prince reared back, intending to plunge his sword straight through Hyam’s breast.

  Hyam gripped his own sword and unsheathed it in one fluid motion. It was the instinctive response of a hunter to the sudden assault. But what happened next astonished Hyam as much as the others. His sword flashed in a swift parry, but instead of merely checking the prince’s blade, it sliced through like cutting cloth. The dismembered blade clattered upon the boundary pyramid and fell to the ground.

  The prince gaped at the empty pommel in his grip. “What magery is this?”

  “That is not magic, sire.” The knight to his left was a greybeard with a battle scar that sliced across his cheek and brow. “Their representative carries a blade of Milantian steel,” he breathed.

  “Another myth,” the prince spat. He thrust the empty pommel at Hyam, his entire arm trembling. “This one is a mage!”

  “It is no myth, sire. I have myself touched such a blade. Once.”

  The prince glanced back, uncertain now.

  The knight went on, “Sire, the entire camp is observing you. I implore you to respect the banner of peace.”

  Hyam held to his overloud voice. “I beseech you to heed my words! The Ashanta defeated the Milantians with powers beyond your ability to understand. If you do not retreat beyond the boundary stones, every one of you will perish!”

  The prince leaned across the pyramid and snarled, “I will see you flayed and quartered before this day is over.”

  Hyam knew a crushing sense of defeat but forced himself to finish the message. “You have one hour.”

  “Silence, you filth! I command this field!” Spittle flew with his enraged words. “We attack!”

  “Sire,” the knight protested. “You promised them until—”

  “The offer is retracted!” He spurred his horse about, still gripping the empty pommel in one hand. “We attack now, do you hear me? This very instant! Sound the battle horns. We go to war! And a thousand gold florins to the warrior who brings me the cowherd in chains!”

  The battle lines formed with remarkable swiftness, galvanized by the prince’s ire. He stomped and shouted before the ranks, spurring his men to ever greater speed. Trumpets sounded and officers barked. Then there was a final burst of noise, trumpets and officers together, and the assembled ranks went silent. In the abrupt stillness, Hyam realized his dog was growling, probably had been for some time. He glanced back and saw the animal was still planted on her haunches, right where Hyam had directed her to sit. He whistled softly and said, “Come, girl.”

  The dog padded over, still growling, a soft rumbling deep in her chest. Hyam reached down and ruffled the pelt between her ears. “We are going to name you soon. Would you like that?”

  But the dog did not pay him any attention. Instead, she remained focused on something beyond the encampment.

  “What is it, girl?” He straightened in his saddle just in time to observe the crimson rider break from the camp. The hooded stranger did not move toward the battle line. Instead, the rider sped to the forest boundary.

  Where the pasture ended, the rider wheeled about and faced Hyam. The cowl still held the shadows like a fist, but even so Hyam again sensed the unwanted touch. The crimson glove raised the staff in Hyam’s direction, and the strengthening wind carried a moaning whisper of words he could not make out. It seemed to Hyam as though an unseen cloak was abruptly stripped from his shoulders. Then a giant’s fist clenched his lungs, and the breath left his body in a quick huff.

  The dog roared then, more a wolf’s howl than a bark, loud enough to silence the prince in the middle of his harangue. The knight glared furiously in Hyam’s direction, pointed with a new sword, and said something that was rewarded with a hungry cheer. A trio of riders broke free and started toward him.

  Hyam was still trying to find his breath as he pulled the reins about. “Time to ride,” he managed.

  Then it happened.

  The Ashanta assault began in an almost gentle mode. The wind strengthened and seemed to collect footfalls from just beyond the range of human hearing. The brassy trumpets of the prince’s army were echoed by a plaintive note that rose and fell and rose again. Hyam turned in time to see his three assailants slow and gaze about them, hunting for those who hunted them.

  The Ashanta army arrived then, carried upon the wind. The sky grew yellow and shrouded. The wind called a different note, a moan so vast and horrible it could only mean the arrival of doom.

  Hyam tried to tell himself that all was well. That he could turn and watch in the safety promised by the Seer. And yet he was filled with a dread for the fate that awaited the prince and his army. And a genuine terror of being forced to relive how the Ashanta made war. He leaned over the horse’s neck and gripped the mane with such fierceness his knuckles were turned bone white. “Ride!”

  The destrier bolted, as though the warhorse had spent days waiting for this precise command.

  Behind Hyam rose the first shrieks of terror and pain. He clenched his eyes shut, only to have them drawn open by the sudden awareness that he was being chased. Hyam glanced back and saw anew what he had hoped would never be visible again.

  The Ashanta army rose like coagulated mist, a dread pestilence that took on the form of spectral warriors. They swept into the line and joined with the warriors into a parody of battle. Every soldier became an enemy. Every sword was aimed at their former mates. Every knight became just another target. Arrows swooped and flames rose and swords fell. Over and over and over. Even when mutilated and dead, the bodies continued their parody of battle.

  Even when he shut his eyes again, Hyam still saw it all. For he was among them. Riding away did not remove him from the fray. Nothing would save him. He was doomed.

  Then he felt spectral hands reach over his face and claw back his clenched eyelids. And he saw that he did not ride alone.

  Ghoulish warriors rode before and behind him. Two more rode the dog. They reached and they clenched and they tore at his clothes and his skin and his bones. Determined to make room in his being for their dark force. Gripping his arms with a fierce passion that defied even the grave, struggling to turn the reins.

  Then from behind him there came a light of blinding ferocity. It was violet and it was without color. And a voice cried across the distance. Commanding the forces that it had unleashed. Demanding they relinquish their hold and return to the shrouded earth.

  The spectral warriors lashed and groaned and wailed. The knifelike hand that worked inside his skull was the last to relinquish its death grip. One by one the ghouls dropped off his steed and fell smokelike into the earth. Hyam was left blinded by pain and a final wailing note, a promise that the ghouls would return and claim him on another day, when the light of Ashanta was not there to save him. This sinister oath and the pounding of great hooves were the last things he knew before darkness swept over him and carried him away.

  10

  Joelle swept the flagstone corridor and counted as she moved. The actions were ingrained now, so well known not even a passing mage gave her any notice. There used to be problems with some of the wizards, especially those newly graduated from the ranks of acolytes. The young women saw her as a threat, the young men as an opportunity. They were, after all, inducte
d into the Long Hall’s source of power. They could do anything. Even conquer the silent servant, the imprisoned one. Or so they thought.

  She had learned to defend herself, then Trace had noticed and made sure no one ever touched her again. What happened to the ones who ganged up and sought to ensnare her, she had no idea. Trace was a gentle soul by nature. But when angry he could grow in power until his menace filled the halls and made him appear a giant in human skin. And Trace had been very angry indeed. Seven young mages had vanished, and Joelle no longer worried about her safety when passing shadowed alcoves or when working alone. Now her lessons of defense had been turned into strategy for the coming battle.

  Soon after the young men vanished, Trace began feeding her scrolls. Not directly, there was too much risk in that. But in their quiet moments by the fountain or seated together in the scullery after the final bell, he would ask what she studied, which of course was forbidden, but he paid such orders no mind. Which was decidedly odd for a Master Mage. Yet Trace remained utterly opposed to her situation and still sought on occasion to have her included among the acolytes. But Joelle now knew that her mother’s kind were forbidden from joining the Long Hall mages. And the wizards who wished she had been left to the forest wolves had grown in power, bitter men and women with pinched features and hands that wove gossip and pain far better than any spell. They were led by the Librarian and the Doorkeeper, holders of the two portals she most wanted to open. Trace could neither vanquish their clique nor win them over. But he could and did work around them.

  As Joelle worked her way down the hall, she counted off the steps to the most complicated spell she had ever fashioned. She had discovered the scroll stretched out on a library table, where the senior acolytes had been perusing it before their exams. Trace had mentioned this in passing, a casual gesture between friends. How he despaired of teaching this crop of young ones anything at all. How their heads—