by Dragon Lance
Before she knew it, she reined the horses to a stop at the moat. There, she waited. The guards atop the wall stared down at her, but as yet their weapons were not raised.
A loud clatter began. Anistas started. The guards laughed. She saw that the drawbridge had begun its descent, heavy chain unspooling from capstans high above. The massive bridge cranked downward slowly, patiently, and finally settled into place.
Taking a deep breath, Anistas urged the horses forward, across the bridge. The wheels moaned, as though in terror of what was to come. She guided the wagon along the narrow drawbridge and to the closed portcullis. Again, she waited.
More clanking was heard as the portcullis rose slowly upward. When it had cleared the height of the wagon rails, nine soldiers emerged. They were haggard and drawn, their faces hard. They did not look at Anistas, only filed past her, going to one side of the wagon and flipping back the tarp to examine the cargo. Anistas held her breath, refusing to look over her shoulder, trying to convince herself it would be better to be dragged into the pit than to be captured by these heartless men.
“Mmmm,” one of them said, his voice raspy, “dates.”
The men had begun shifting over to the other side of the wagon when Anistas caught sight of a sinister figure lurking in the shadowy arch beyond the raised portcullis.
Not lurking, but approaching.
Light fell on the face of the man. He had a haunted look to him. The flesh of his face clung to his skull, showing its sockets and cavities. The man’s eyes were keen, as though he had spent the last two years honing them like a pair of knives.
General Erghas.
He edged toward Anistas. She did not move. He stopped beside her and set one thin hand upon the rein hitch and the other on the buckboard. He spoke in a soft, intense voice.
“Do you have a good memory?” he asked.
Anistas was puzzled as well as startled. She replied, “Yes.”
“Good,” he said. “I hadn’t time to write this down. I want you to take a message to Commander Solamnus.”
She nodded.
“Listen carefully: Commander, you have fed my men and I longer than the emperor has. Were it not for your blasted honor, we would have been starved out two years ago. Thank you, also, for the entertainments, the games, the songs. All have helped us pass the time in this infuriating stalemate. You have proved your honor to be more than dreamy chatter, and proved Emann’s tyranny to be less than omnipotent.
“Even so, I am still his man. I will not turn traitor. Therefore, let us end this stalemate with a battle of knights. I will have a document drawn up for us to sign and seal, that you and I will engage in an honorable duel, sword to sword and dagger to dagger, as you are so fond of putting it. The winner will take over the loser’s troops and provisions, to do with as he will. The loser, of course, will be forfeit his life.”
He blinked and looked down. “Do you have that all?”
“I think so,” said Anistas, nodding. “I know I do.”
“Good,” the man said again.
Suddenly there was in his hand a sword that Anistas had not seen him draw. She flinched away as he brought it whirring down. With one neat stroke, he sliced one of the horses free from the wagon, and brought it around by its severed reins.
“Here,” he said gruffly, though his gesture was graceful, “let this noble beast speed you on your return.”
Anistas sat for a moment, then leapt from the buck-board to the bare back of the mount. She made a clicking sound and eased the horse past the wagon.
As she did so, one of the soldiers asked General Erghas what he planned to do with the other horse. She did not wait for the reply, kicking her mount to a gallop. But some corner of her mind thought she had heard the words, “Eat it.”
Meus Pater
At last, Father, this long, dreary siege is ending. Had I inflicted starvation and madness in order to gain surrender, this siege would have been done long ago. But such ends are not honorable for warriors to suffer, and less so for warriors to inflict.
This siege has been long because I conducted it honorably. I refused to be drawn into a brawl. I refused to pile ten soldiers atop every two of the foe. My patience at last has paid off. An honorable fight has been granted me. Best of all, this clash of armies will be resolved with a single death instead of a multitude of them.
It has been so long since I have killed in cold blood. I wonder if I am still able.
XVI
Two Weeks Hence, 27 Chislmont, 1204 Age of Light
The day of the duel dawned with a carnival atmosphere, Colorful tents luffed on opposite ends of the parade ground. Bright pennons snapped above them, and the standards of Vinas and Erghas marked out the opposing camps.
The field to the east of the castle had been converted into a jousting yard, complete with guide poles and packed-sand lanes. The black earth also held a sand circle for wrestling, should things progress that far, and on the castle side of the field loomed a gallows, where the loser would be hanged on display.
Under a temporary truce, the three thousand soldiers of Ergoth were free to mingle with the twenty-five thousand of Vingaard stationed at the site. Mingle they did. Armies liveried in Vinas’s blue and white or Antonias’s gray and green were mixed with those in Erghas’s red and orange, Ergoth’s black and red, and other divisional combinations. The only obvious difference between the rebels and the imperials was the thinness of the latter. Clearly, Erghas’s troops had not received the wagons until they had absolutely needed them.
Chess partners and tournament players met, clasped arms, and exchanged words. Ergothian chefs sought out the hunters and curers among Vinas’s troops. Ergothian sentries spoke with the bards and actors that had kept them entertained on their long, late watches atop the tower.
The soldiery slowly sifted into spectator ranks – sitting, kneeling or standing along either side of the field. Even then, they mingled. It seemed to all of them that they had little quarrel. The war was not theirs, but their leaders’.
Just now, those two men sat in separate tents on separate ends of the field. They donned the last of their armor, drew whetstones one final time across their swords, and finished the round of charms and prayers their priests had forced upon them.
Titus leaned on a pile of pillows near one wall of the commander’s small tent. Sitting down, he was still as tall as Luccia and Vinas, who were in the center of the tent struggling with a broken shoulder strap.
In the attitude of an Istarian pasha, Titus dictated to Vinas a cycle of prayer. “One last time, recite the warrior’s dedication: Unto Paladine – the Dragon’s Lord, Father of Good, and Master of Law – I dedicate my heart. Unto his first son Kiri-Jolith – Sword of Justice, Heart of Honor, and Bringer of Righteous War – I dedicate the weapons of my hands. And unto his younger brother, Habbakuk – Fisher King —”
“I hope he is lord of shoulder straps,” interrupted Vinas irritably, flinging the loose epaulet away.
Luccia watched him, concerned, “Why don’t you wear your regular armor? This dress stuff is hardly broken in.”
“I must shine today,” Vinas said. “I must look worthy to be the avatar of justice, honor, and rebirth. I must shine.”
“You must survive,” Luccia said reprovingly. “You’d do better at that with familiar and proven armor.”
“You’d do better at that with a few more prayers under your belt,” added Titus.
Vinas lifted his gaze from the scattered mess of armor polish and rags around him. He fixed on his beloved with a look, and then turned to his best friend. “If I’d wanted to survive, I’d have given up Vingaard to the emperor and returned to be his under table dog. I can’t go into this battle with survival as my first goal. If I survive through unfair advantage, dishonorable blow, or aid from friends in the stands, thousands will die today – thousands instead of one.”
Luccia and Titus both stared a long while at Vinas before the giant said, “You’re right. You’ve got
more creed than ten priests – and more honor than a hundred.” He smiled sadly. “Hand me the shoulder strap.”
Luccia did, and the priest began fiddling with it.
Vinas asked, “How’s Courage doing?”
“Fine,” Luccia assured. “The barding is already in place. The stableman’s gotten a girl to do the final tail brushing. Courage will shine just like you.”
*
As she brushed out its tail, the young, doll-eyed woman cooed softly to the great black horse. “You are going to run fast and smooth for the commander, aren’t you? Fast and smooth. You must, or he will not win.” She looked about her, but no one was near the stall. “Fast, like you are running on a field of fire,” she said, lifting one of Courage’s rear hoofs and pouring a thin liquid from a small vial onto the frog of the foot. “And smooth, like you’re running on butter.” She lifted the other rear hoof and let liquid fail onto the flesh.
As she moved to the front of the horse, intent on repeating the process, she said, “It’s not fire or butter, really, but a kind of poison. Once it sinks in, you’ll be ready to run like fire. But just like fire, you’ll burn up fast, and your muscles will melt into butter —”
A boy rounded the comer, a bucket of water in either hand. He smiled a greeting at the young woman with the tail comb, then sloshed the contents of the buckets into a trough at Courage’s head. “One last drink before the joust!” he said excitedly.
“Yes,” the childlike woman replied as she slipped away. “One last drink.”
*
Fully armored, General Erghas sat alone in his small, flapping tent. He looked like an old raven, gray with years, gaunt, patient, and wise. He had heard that Commander Solamnus was doing his best to look the white knight. Such charades did not impress Erghas. He wanted his people and the rebels – particularly the rebels – to see him as he was: fierce, embittered, practical, fearless. Vinas’s white raiments wouldn’t look so splendid when he bled through them.
“Your sword, Sir,” said a middle-aged man at the tent flap. He extended the sword, hilt first, toward the general. “It’s sharpened and ready.”
“Good work,” General Erghas said dispassionately. He gestured for the weaponsmith or blacksmith – or whatever the man was – to lean the scabbarded sword near the tent flap and go.
“The tip is especially sharp,” the man said, rubbing his forehead, which was crossed by a deep, nasty-looking scar. “Strike with it, and the kill is sure. But don’t cut yourself with it.”
The man was gone before Erghas could get a second look at him.
*
Waiting statuelike, General Erghas sat his gray mare. Only the pennon at the tip of his lance moved in the spring breeze.
The crowds had cheered the general when he first appeared. Oblivious, he had mounted up and sat still. The throng had watched him closely for the first long minutes. When he did no more, only sat with lance cradled, their eyes began to wander the parade grounds in search of Commander Solamnus.
He was there, behind a line of tents at the other end of the field. Erghas recognized Solamnus’s pennon, dangling from an upright lance. The crowd watched that slender banner, too, uncertain if it was borne by a squire or by the man himself.
Erghas knew it was he, Vinas Solamnus. The flag moved less with the fickle breeze than with the stamping and prancing of the stallion he rode – what was its name? Stoutheart?
With a sudden violent motion, the lance edged slightly forward and bounded along the tent top. It brought after it the magnificent black stallion, draped in dazzling white. But the silken beast was dull compared to Solamnus. He was resplendent in silver, as though clothed in lightning.
A thunderous ovation followed his appearance.
The black stallion stomped and pranced, but the commander himself was still. He too did not acknowledge the applause. When Vinas stood in his stirrups, it was to touch a fist to his chest in salute of his opponent. General Erghas stood and returned the gesture. The gestures only raised the cries from the soldiers.
The shouts and cheers were still building when the opponents guided their mounts to the heads of the jousting lanes. There, they solemnly lowered their helmet visors. The sound of the crowd collapsed in upon itself, ending in a troubled hush.
Then came the eager thuds of hooves, digging into the hard-packed sand of the lane. Rectangles of bone and sinew leaned into triangles of motion, and from triangles into streaking shafts. The terrific acceleration stretched time, as though such mass could not so quickly achieve such speed.
The horses thundered toward each other. The lances tilted forward and leveled. Caught between the flash of steel and the roar of hoof, the two men rushed toward impact.
General Erghas smiled within his helmet. That triangle, there, between the commander’s shield and his arm – that’s where his heart is.
They came together with the speed of falcons. Erghas’s lance tip held steady. A muscle in his arm pulled. The tip moved a fraction of an inch and dove toward the triangle.
Solamnus’s shield was suddenly there. The lance glanced off it, raking the shield up over the commander’s shoulder.
Erghas felt the tearing of leather, perhaps tendon – and, surely, muscle. Where had Solamnus’s lance tip struck him? He could not feel it.
He felt all the weight of the world crashing into his back and flipping him, bruisingly, end over end. The lance followed him for one of those turns before it slipped from where it had been lodged. Sand and blood traced circles in the air. Erghas tumbled over and over. At last, the world ceased its spinning, and he was still.
There, on the edge of Erghas’s sight, Vinas Solamnus drifted, placid and unhurt, atop that midnight steed of his. On the other side of the knife-thin world, there were thrashing forms rushing up – two eager squires.
Squires, Erghas thought irritably, and he sat up before they could reach him. The first arrived, smocked and shawled in red and black, and tried to ease Erghas back down.
“Give yourself a moment, General,” he said.
With one arm, Erghas flung the young man aside and rose to a knee. “If I lie down,” he hissed, “Ergoth lies down.”
The other squire was smart enough to learn from his companion, and endeavored to help the general stand. Only then, as deafening applause rose from both armies, did Erghas realize that the roar he had heard before was blood in his ears.
Erghas gave an understated wave to his warriors. He took a moment to glance at the inward-splayed belly armor, and the dark blood that oozed from it.
“Let’s plug this up,” he rasped to the squire. He hobbled toward Solamnus’s fallen lance, bent stiffly, ripped the Solamnian pennon from its end, and jammed the rag into his own belly wound.
With a flippant gesture toward the lance, he told the squire, “Give it back to the commander.”
The young man complied.
Erghas whistled for his horse. She came. He patted her fondly and vaulted up into the saddle. The mare bowed her head, tossed her mane, and cantered proudly toward the far end of the jousting grounds. Good. She had not been injured. The straps that would have kept him in the saddle were torn now, loose flaps on his legs and the horse’s gear. No matter.
Erghas reached his starting marker and turned the mare, her hooves stamping in the same marks she had made only moments before. He allowed himself to lift the visor and spit a glob of blood into the sand, then made sure it got trampled well in.
The squire who had been upbraided dragged Erghas’s lance through the sand toward him. Solamnus – damn him – already sat with his own lance, tall and steady. That black stallion of his stomped and fidgeted, as though a carnivore eager for blood.
“Here, General,” the squire said, handing him the end of the lance and helping him set it in the hilt cradle.
Erghas suddenly remembered his own days as a squire, and he said to the shaken lad, “Get ready to help the commander lie down this time.”
The young man flashed a smile, bu
t then seemed to think it inappropriate and wiped it into a solemn expression. “Yes, General.”
Had the boy not known enough to withdraw then, Erghas would have kicked him away. Luckily for him, the squire got clear. Vinas was standing and making his silly salute. Not interested in standing again – not for about three days – Erghas merely lowered his visor and charged.
Vinas Solamnus came on, too. That horse of his had a devil glow in its red eyes. Its hooves tore at the ground as though it was digging a trench as it passed. A trench or a grave.
Erghas leveled his lance and tried to steady the bouncing point of it. His arm wouldn’t do what he wanted it to. He shouted, feeling sinews tear near his elbow as he brought the wicked end to bear on the black comet soaring toward him.
Then suddenly, Vinas’s stallion dove headfirst to ground. Courage – Courage was his name. The ebony head of the beast dropped to the sand, dragging Solamnus down. Courage rolled over. There came a cracking of bone and a shrieking moan of armor plates. Then Solamnus, too, was gone, borne beneath the vast black bulk of the horse.
Erghas flashed past. Just before he turned his mare outward, he glimpsed the broken forelegs of Courage, flopping pitifully against the sand as the stallion rolled off of Vinas Solamnus.
Erghas brought his mount around and cantered toward the strange sight. He let the lance fall from his grip. There would be no more jousting, not on a leg-broken horse.
It was as though Courage had been tripped by a wire. Never had Erghas seen a mount of such breeding and training go down like that. He rode toward the spot, wondering if he would need to dispatch the suffering creature.
Impossibly, though, Vinas rose from the blood-sand that caked him. The man moved as though in great pain, but did not stagger. He walked with sure step to the horse, drew his sword, and brought it down through the beast’s neck. Then he dropped to his knees, yanked off his helmet, and embraced Courage, as though mourning a longtime friend.