“So, you have come against me, Power. I told you once, I will not let you pass.”
“Who are you to order me? I am a high god!”
“Let me tell you a story, Power,” said the river. “Once, a king appointed his household to watch his lands while he went away. He said, ‘When I return, I will bring many rewards, and you will all be free of your responsibilities – if you have served me faithfully.’ When he left, they kept good care of his land, but after some time, when he did not return, the reward seemed too distant, and many began to search for immediate gratification. Some of the servants did not want to wait for the king’s return.”
“Why do you beguile us with this thinly-veiled tale?” cried Power scornfully, “The analogy is too blatant to be entertaining.”
“Do you not want to know how it ends?”
“Not your version!” And with that, Power threw himself upon the natural god, and they engaged with all the fury of hell and earth. A hurricane rose from the deep waters, a blast of mud met it, and their meeting washed over and over again upon both shores, sinking the banks and widening the river with each assault.
* * *
On the morning of the third day of battle, Lavendier spoke to her men again before the all-out attack. She could see Farsooth across the vast distance of the field preparing to launch his all-out campaign and she praised her men’s resolve, their hope, their prowess. She told them there was no doubt in her mind they would win the field before the day was out, and they all believed it because they saw her conviction and caught hold of her hope. Then she rode to the front of the lines to lead them all to victory.
The Drinians cheered to the skies, and Fate’s palace rang with their hope, where on the balcony, a cheering squad of gods was assembled. As the two mortal lines prepared to ride out and meet, Hope grew vocal and passionate, urging on the princess, and the other gods crowded around, their hearts all in.
“Look how she blazes at the head of her charge!” cried Hope. “My, is she not grand?”
“Her sword is like a blade of a thousand stars,” said Knowledge. “See how it catches the light. Oh, there is a ring about her, the enemy soldiers can barely come near! The men all love her so.”
“Look at that animal!” they cried a little later. Melcant, who would allow no other horse to carry his beloved into the fray, was a weapon unto himself. He kicked, reared, and rode with a vengeance of fury. Although Lavendier held her own in swordplay, she seldom had a chance to demonstrate it, so faithfully was she protected by her steed and men.
“Look to the shores of Rordan!” cried Death suddenly. “Power is attempting to cross the divide.”
“No,” said Knowledge. “Should he lead the battle, mankind will surely fall.”
They watched anxiously, but Power could not gain the upper-hand, no matter how mightily he hurled himself against Rordan. It was a fire throwing itself against a wall of water, angry and impotent.
But beside the shores, Terror was growing impatient and paced, glaring at the two divine combatants, hearing the sounds of the losing Keltians, and at last, he declared, “I have everything to lose, Power! If you will not lead your army, I will!” The young god bounded across the divide to Drian and stood above the army of gorgans, grinning like a dreadful jester upon the mortal beings lined up for his killing delight. He laughed when Destruction and Resolve flew across the river and lined up beside him. With deliberate step, Passion too left Power alone to grapple with the minor god, and joined her siblings.
Seeing this, Knowledge pulled back from the edge of the heavenly palace and stood up with flushed face and shining eyes. “Not if I can help it,” she said, and clad herself in samite pants and a shining white shirt. “If Power and his followers will meddle in mankind’s affairs, then so shall I.”
Joy clutched at her arm. “You cannot! We never have. Not like this. They must rise or fall as it is fated. They are mortal, and it is their fate.”
Knowledge took a deep breath, and glanced to the sky, to the place where she hoped to see her beloved King return. She wanted only to please him. Then she looked to Fate.
“I will abide by your decree,” she said.
Fate looked at her gravely, and the moment hung in a second of eternity. Below, the armies lined up again to meet. Terror and Destruction whetted their maces, Resolve and Passion sharpened their whips. Lavendier and her straggling army, their courage strong, would crumble like cinders beneath a raging fire.
“You were always meant for this,” he said gently. “Go. And may the Golden King go with you.”
As the Drinians rode to meet the gorgans below, the bright blue sky darkened beneath an invisible cloud, and a foul wind rose up with the stench of death upon it. The men shuddered, and Lavendier’s skin crawled. She sensed that something evil was in the air - some new device of the enemy, but nevertheless, she rode at the front of the ranks. Trigent and Cartnol flanked her on either side as she spurred her men on with words of confidence and courage, and so great was her beauty and resolve that they forgot their terror at the change of air and thundered forward bravely. But suddenly, on the left flank of the rushing army, a contingent of Drinian soldiers flew into the air, as if thrown by an invisible club the size of a tree. Then, on the other side, thirty more men flew through to the sky like rag dolls, swiped away by an invisible enemy. Melcant reared in horror, and Lavendier screamed. The army, panic stricken, whirled in confusion, some men racing forward, some stock still, and some turning back, all in disarray.
“My princess, you are losing men!” cried Melcant. “They are retreating.” Trigent had disappeared into the mayhem, and Lavendier could see General Cartnol nowhere. “Do we retrench?” her faithful steed demanded, but her mind was a void, and all she could think was that they could not retrench: if they did, the city was lost and they were dead. As she struggled to think of what to say, the darkened sky suddenly blazed with a shaft of light. It pierced through the grayness like a beam of peace, truth, and hope, and it was piercingly, achingly beautiful. Then another broke through the sky, and a third. Five rays, in the full fury of their golden beams, combated the foulness of the air. A gentle breeze blew hope again into Lavendier’s heart, a wafting breath that smelled of roses.
“To me!” she cried now with a great voice. “To me!” And the Drinian army regrouped about her blade.
104
The Rise of South Drian
Power pulled back, snarling, from Rordan. “Who do you think you are? You cannot kill me! Why try?”
Rordan, as ever, spoke with calm might, though his breast heaved from the strain of the battle. “I am not trying to kill you.”
“Then let me through! Or when I rule I will cast you down!”
“You will not rule.”
“Do you still believe in that fantasy? The Golden King is a broken promise! He will never return.”
“Then I will wait forever. I do not wait for him to reward me – I simply wait for him.”
* * *
Lavendier’s men fought with a fury that would have made Trinian proud. Behind Lavendier’s banner they forged a line of defense, though it was just that – a defense, for no matter how hard they tried, they could not achieve another assault. The enemy, at last, had the upper hand, and their greater numbers told their advantage. Farsooth and his men felt, also, the presence of their evil gods in the air – as the Drinians felt theirs – and it filled them with resolve.
Trigent had returned to her side, and once again organized a circle of soldiers around her. After an hour of assault, Cartnol rode up.
“How do you fare here?” he asked.
“We have lost three.”
“Ah, you are doing well. We lost twenty. My lady, they are losing heart.”
“We must hold strong! Afias would not be able to get here until this afternoon. We must hold until then.”
“And if he does not come?”
The smell of roses still burned bright within her. “He will.” And so confidently
did she say this, that Cartnol believed it, and the whole army seemed to gain strength. “I will rouse them!” she cried suddenly, and Melcant thundered to the edge of the circle of Drinians that enclosed her, and it parted before his hoofs. Lavendier was now in the very thick of the battle, mowing down enemy soldiers and gorgans as she passed from contingent to contingent, thundering with hoof beats and rallying cries, instilling passion and resolve into her men.
* * *
Lavendier did not, for one moment, doubt her brother’s advent; but that did not lessen her relief when, over the crest of the hill behind the enemy, rose Afias’s army bearing down upon the enemy’s rear.
She learned later it was the entire population of South Drian that rode behind him. When they learned that their prince was leaving them to rescue his city and sister, they had marched to his front door, laden with any weapon they could grab hold of, and refused to be left behind.
Now they bore down on the enemy, and in the final hours of the afternoon of that third day, fought their way through the ranks, until the Keltians were routed and retreated to their camp for the night, and Afias and Lavendier were mounted face to face.
“I knew you would come,” she declared, her face and voice shining so resplendently that for a moment, he did not know her. Then he was thrown back ten years, to when he sister was still young and innocent, and he knew her.
“Come!” she cried, turning her mighty charger and leading him back to camp.
When she dismounted at the command tent, Trigent ran up to take Melcant’s bridle, and she embraced her brother warmly, armor and all. In that open gesture, she put behind them all the years of discord and strife, and he held her close. His loyal heart had ached for his family desperately, his soul yearning for the comforts of hearth and home, and Lavendier symbolized that loss for him, so that, though he was still staggered by her transformation, he was over-laden with joy to embrace her.
When they parted, Adrea approached. “Is this all the men you’ve had to fight with?” she asked.
“We had more in the morning, but yes, this is all.”
“Where is my father?”
“At the palace, my lady. He – well, he was not able to lead the charge.”
“Is he ill?”
“No, no, I do not mean to give you alarm. He is well, and waiting for you eagerly, I am sure. But let me kiss you – you who will soon be my sister. There, I feel somewhat whole again, seeing you both here.”
General Cartnol approached them, and Lavendier broke off her greetings to discuss the battle with all three.
105
The Return of the King
Trinian received the message his sister sent him with surprising speed. She had sent a young messenger accompanied by a single soldier, who himself was equipped with nothing but a sword, and thus by being lightly accoutered, hoped to avoid appealing to robbers. Successful in not being waylaid on the road, they traveled freely until they tracked their king to the mountains of Kara, and came upon Trinian the morning that the third battle of Drian began.
Trinian lost no time. He did not doubt the message for a moment – it was precisely what he had feared, though he was surprised at Astren’s haste in sending for him. Yes, he thought it was Astren who led the army, for he still had hope for the old man, and Lavendier had strictly forbidden the messenger to mention her name. The princess, sensing in her heart that Trinian’s belief in her was less than Afias’s, had intuitively sensed that he might not respond to her summons if he knew it were from her. Perhaps she was wrong, perhaps he would have returned, but his speed might have lacked urgency and his heart been filled with doubt, and now was no time for hesitation.
Now he gathered his forces with full urgency while Denin gathered his, and together, they rode forth to Drian. Along the route, Trinian dispatched Garrity’s men to the cities who had promised assistance, ordering them to lead the charge, without delay, to the capital. “Tell them the time has come for the king of Drian to have need of them. Tell them this is the final confrontation. Lead them back as swiftly as you can, and wait for me at the crumbling palace of the Brawgs.”
The route he himself took was direct and quick: down the mountains and across the plains of the wilderlands. He had no fear of wayside robbers now, for they were a formidable force, and besides, most of the robbers had, by now, sworn their allegiance to his cause.
When he had nearly reached the crumbling ruins of the Brawgs, Tarfan and his men appeared suddenly beside their caravan.
“Are you returning to battle, sire?” asked the bandit.
“We are. The gorgans have returned.”
The bandit lifted a battle axe in the air, and all his men did the same. “And we fight with you!” he cried, and his men cheered and clamored and roared.
* * *
Terror’s wings of panic flew him away from the battle and back to Power, like a whipped dog returning to its master. “Death and the Goddesses of the Heavenly Palace have engaged us, Power,” He complained. “We can’t get anywhere near the Drinians.”
Power, locked in a fierce hold with Rordan, both their mighty arms straining and their strong legs groaning, suddenly kicked out with his leg so that they both went down, and then slid aside and crawled from the now-enormous river, with its churned up, messy banks, and stood back, gasping, looking towards the unreachable banks of Drian, the unwinnable battle of his men, the utter inadequacy of his allies, and he roared in frustration. But then he remembered Farsooth. Yes, he had possessed him for a reason. He had given him strength and cunning and long life, but most of all, he had made him a vessel for his own might, and Power, summoning all the spiritual strength he still retained in that half-mortal form, propelled himself spiritually across the expanse and entered into his servant.
All at once, though it took every straining muscle of his mind, Power could see the battle, hazy and dark, but still, he had sight. Farsooth was standing on a make-shift platform in the rear of the fight, sending out his men and gorgans, but holding himself apart. From this vantage point, the entire battle was laid out like a panorama: riders galloped over the fields, striking down beasts that stood as high as the horses’ heads; foot soldiers grappled hand to hand on both sides, and generals reformed their ranks, charging again and again. The red and black colors of the enemy blended with the blue, gold, and white of Drian, and the green and yellow dress of the South Drinians, and Power looked about desperately for Trinian. Where was he? His anger mounted, his desperation tightened, his hold on Farsooth wavered, but he mastered it and glanced around once again, and then he saw the leader of Drinians, and understood his fatal mistake.
Suddenly, Power was blown to the ground, his eyes snapped open, and once again, he was grappling hand to hand with Rordan.
“The princess!” he screamed at Terror, as he was thrown to the ground. “The Drianians are led by the egotistic maid.” He rose up and threw himself at Rordan, throwing him into the water with an earth-shaking splash. “I should have ensured her death in the desert! I should have murdered her in the wilderness.” Rordan slammed his shoulder into Power, and the high god stumbled back, gasping for breath. “Through our hands, through my incompetent, worthless, lazy allies’ hands, she has slipped away again and again, and now she leads the army!” He whirled on Terror. “Go! Set Farsooth beside her and kill her once and for all!”
As Power turned back to engage Rordan, he shook with consuming hatred and anger. Where. Was. Trinian? Then he saw Despair approaching him from the west.
* * *
The sky grew dark above Lavendier and Melcant faltered in his steps.
“The gods are near,” he whispered. “Ones that do not love you, my princess.”
Suddenly, a man appeared out of the air beside her, riding an enormous gorgan like a steed, wielding a mace and looking as shocked to see her as she to see him. Then the sky clattered like thunder, and two beings were suddenly visible above them, a fair shining lady of hope, and a whirling tornado of panic, and they
were locked in unyielding combat.
“Kill the egotistic maid!” cried Terror to Farsooth as he whipped around Hope, fleeing her as she staunchly defended her charge. “So commands Power, and he will reward you with ever-lasting life! Kill her, and we will win the war!”
Farsooth needed no urging, so much did he fear Power’s displeasure if he failed, and he threw himself upon the Maid of Drian and her horse.
* * *
When Trinian mounted the swell of the Korem valley, below him was a terrifying blackness of enemies, a redness of blood, and a whiteness of light breaking through the clouds in splendor. It was a striking sight, and he witnessed it as though it were a painting, having nothing to do with him, for it did not feel real.
He surveyed the battleground carefully, looking for General Cartnol, and at last he saw him: riding like mad, with twenty Drinian soldiers behind him, across the fields to where a man with oily locks and black eyes fought a maid dressed in silver armor, locked in a whirl-wind of clash and blow. These two seemed to be the center of the action, one riding a steed of magnificent size, and the other a gorgan like a horse.
The rest of the field was a thorough blend of Drinian, South Drinian, Keltian, and gorgan warriors, but the sky was the terrifying part. With each passing moment, it lowered and darkened, and Trinian feared what would come about if the darkness met the human warriors. Even as he sat taking in the sight, he heard more and more hoofs galloping up behind him and gathering in ever larger numbers, his allies banding with him now in this final battle.
Trinian, in his element, rode out a few paces and then turned to take sight of the army behind him. Rank upon rank of farmers, bandits, lords, nobles, and peasants from mountains, fields, valleys, and forests stood behind him, rallying to his banner, ready to face and defeat the enemy of mankind, and Trinian’s throat swelled. He rose up in his seat.
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