Trinian

by Elizabeth Russell

  With a few words he called upon their courage, upon the staunchness of their arms, and upon the glory of their victory. He conveyed the heat of his own pumping blood, and heated theirs, so that it was with a mighty roar that they descended to the battle.

  106

  The Final Crisis of Man Versus Man

  Hope and Terror’s battle was a supernatural echo in the sky above the battle taking place on earth between Lavendier and Farsooth. Every time Terror tried to descend upon Lavendier, to kill her with one swipe of his immortal hand, Hope threw herself in the way, bearing more pain with each blow than in the entirety of her previous existence. But she held her ground.

  All across the field, the gods fought against each other: Resolve thwarted by Solitude, Destruction hindered by Knowledge. Passion raged against the foils of Death, and the mortal armies went untouched. Within the mortal ranks, Charity and Joy strengthened the fighters, banishing their anger and fear and leaving only single-minded love of their country.

  Resolve looked up from her clash with Solitude and suddenly noted Trinian’s arrival, and his army as it stretched across the horizon and bore down upon the enemy’s ranks. There were too many mortals now, and she understood that the battle was nearly ended. It was the in the eleventh hour and ninety-ninth minute, and she was desperate. Trinian must die.

  She saw Terror fighting with Hope above the Princess Lavendier, and with a sudden resolution, she flew to his side, pursued by Solitude.

  Resolve flew high into the sky, gazing down in desperation, aware that should Farsooth be killed, all was lost, aware that should Trinian live, they would lose the city. The Keltians would lose the battle, the gorgans would retreat in disorder, and she would face the infinite consequences as the final hour struck. With fiery fear, she summoned every sinew of her eternal being, outdistanced Solitude, and together with Terror, threw herself down upon the ground.

  Hope, rising to thwart them, was thrown aside by the intensity of their combined attack, all three screamed with pain at the collision, and with a shriek that, to the mortals, sounded like the roar of deadly thunder, Resolve and Terror swiped their fists against Melcant’s rider and against Cartnol and Trigent and his men as they rode to her side. Thus horse and maid and twenty Drinian soldiers were thrown like ragdolls into the air. Solitude locked again with Resolve, but for Lavendier’s men, she was too late.

  * * *

  Trinian watched the bodies flying high, batted into the air like balls kicked by a child, and it left his mouth dry with terror. He whirled his steed toward the slaughter, and in his mind, the words of the prophecy rang, “Only one…Only one… Only one.” He alone must kill the evil god. He alone must stop the siege. He alone must hold Power at bay.

  “Sire!” he heard Kett’s voice break through his monomania and saw the boy galloping toward him across the field, ever steady, ever faithful, ever near. “Sire, there are gods killing men in the field!”

  “There’s only one, Kett!” Trinian cried, his mind bent on one thing, his will determined to face it, his heart steeled against it, speaking now as a mad man who must face his destiny or die in the attempt, and only Kett, who had been with his master across all the miles of prophecies, alliances, and disappointments, could have understood his meaning in that moment. He shook his head as he reined in beside his beloved king.

  “No, sire,” said the boy. “There are two.”

  * * *

  Lavendier had felt the blast like a slap of an angry wave, and for an instant, lost consciousness. When she awakened, there was a roaring in her ears so loud she could hear nothing else. She saw Melcant lying far from her, bloody and red and still. Cartnol’s dead eyes, still open, stared blankly into nothing. Trigent was lying at her feet, and she screamed his name.

  He was not dead. He staggered up, then fell down again – numb across his body and his leg hanging uselessly, hindering his movement. He had been gored through the thigh by an ally’s spear as he struck the ground, but he ignored the wound, and looked around in a daze.

  Farsooth still stood, alive and well, the only one to escape the carnage, and he was smiling upon them in glee. Trigent reached for his sword, but it was missing, blown somewhere else, so he grasped Cartnol’s hilt, drew the blade from the dead man’s hands, and dragged himself across the ground, making his slow, painful way to face the enemy leader, who taunted him with a smile of rage.

  Trinian and Kett were fast making their way across the field, the king with murder in his eyes, slaying gorgans right and left, and the boy with faithful persistence on his boyish, thin face.

  It was not until Trigent reached the gorgan steed that Farsooth finally lifted his weapon. Languidly, almost lazily, he reached out and stabbed Trigent in the stomach, and Lavendier screamed again.

  “Trigent, leave me!” she cried. “You cannot fight!” But her squire paid her no mind, and once more, he lunged toward the enemy, summoning the last of his waning strength to plunge the blade down upon the man, as secretly, he twisted the pole of the banner he held in his hand – for yes, after all this time, still he kept the banner gripped in his fist – and lunged the pointed tip into the soft belly of Farsooth. Farsooth was too secure in his safety and saw only the blade, so that he was pierced before he understood, and he toppled from the gorgan steed.

  Trigent fell to the ground, bloody and wounded and still, and just before unconsciousness flowed over Lavendier, leaving her utterly helpless, she saw the gorgan rise to its feet and help Farsooth to stand.

  The great gorgan, Kellan, bloated in size beyond belief, made large by Power and made deadly by Farsooth’s training, smiled as he stood upon his four lags. He roared as he swung his mighty arm against Trigent’s body, sending it flying through the air, and he stepped forward to kill Lavendier.

  At last, at that moment, Trinian arrived and fell upon the gorgan, stabbing down with his spear toward the monster’s neck. Steel met frozen blood and the beast, as he roared in pain, stabbed the king of Drian’s horse and it fell, throwing Trinian to the ground, then he swiped out his hand and Kett’s horse reared back in terror, so that the boy lost control and galloped away against his will.

  Trinian fought desperately hand to hand, defending himself from the gorgan as it turned on him. Farsooth watched from a distance, grinning once again, despite his bleeding stomach, for he had been promised eternal life, and he was certain of his victory. Engrossed as he was with watching the king battle Kellan, the Keltian leader had lost interest in the large-scale battle, and did not know that Trinian’s forces had nearly finished the day. With a calm, slow grin, he opened his mouth. “I would like to do the final honors, if you do not mind.”

  Kellan gurgled a laugh, his thick blood oozing from the wound in his neck, and effortlessly kicked the king to the ground, planting his foot upon the inside of his elbow and wrenching his blade out of his hand. Trinian felt his death approaching, and he squirmed, but could not get free.

  The gorgan gestured formally to General Farsooth, and the leader, with oily locks and black, dead eyes, stepped forward with a courtly nod of thanks. He withdrew a pure black dagger that glistened dully in the sunlight.

  Farsooth raised the blade to kill the king, and Trinian kept his eyes wide open to face his death.

  It was in this moment that Trinian knew he was not the one who would die so Power would be defeated. Facing the point of the blade, knowing his death was upon him, Trinian understood that his wounds could not redeem the world, for his life was no more important than any other’s. He was a king, appointed by Fate, left to rule and to defend, but he was only a mere mortal, and his life was only worth as much as anyone else’s. In order to kill Power, someone must sacrifice themself who’s life was more valuable than a high god’s. Someone who could pay the price of such a death.

  All of this passed through him in the matter of a moment, as he stared at the tip of the black blade, and he swore in his heart that if he lived, he would allow this sacrifice, whatever it was, and he would no l
onger shoulder the responsibilities of Fate. Farsooth’s knife descended.

  Kett, who had flung himself from his steed and ran back with all the strength of his legs, hurled himself across the king’s body, the young boy had but one last thought: that he loved his king, and how sad his king would be when his loving servant died. The knife finished its descent, pierced the lad through the ribs, and with a cry of pain, he jerked – and was still.

  Trinian stared into his page’s white, lifeless face and empty eyes. Farsooth blinked at the new body draped before him. The gorgan roared in fury.

  Trinian leapt to his feet, took hold of Kett’s blade, and with all the fury of an avenging angel, sliced Farsooth’s neck from his body – so that at last, the possessed man was dead. Then Trinian turned to the gorgan and fought a furious battle of might and main, but across the entire field, the sky lightened, the enemy soldiers threw down their blades, and only the gorgans still fought, for Farsooth’s influence had passed.

  Trinian stabbed the beast’s stomach, sliced his throat, but still he stood. Trinian parried the beast’s claws, whirled, and stabbed again, deeper this time, and seared his own hand in the fiery blood of the beast, then kicked at his already sliced head so that it dislodged and rolled away, and finally swiped across his stomach from his legs; at last, Kellan the first son of Ferran, monster of another world, was slain.

  107

  Demi-God and Dryad in Karaka

  Trinian, overcoming his shock at finding Lavendier not only home, but in the midst of a battle, and not only in the midst of a battle, but lying maimed at his feet, rushed to her side, knelt gently, and felt for a pulse. A horse nuzzled his shoulder, and looking up, he faced a white horse greater than any he had ever seen.

  He lifted her from the field and tenderly, draped her across the horse’s neck. He climbed up behind and took her himself to the gates of Drian, where Adrea met him and with only a brief word of greeting, took Lavendier away into the city. Then the king turned back to the field as Gorj and Denin rode up to him.

  “They are frightened of us,” cried the young king. “The battle is ours!”

  “Indeed,” Gorj said with satisfaction. “the gorgans are fighting to the last breath, but the humans are scattering northward to Kelta.”

  “Chase them then, my faithful friends,” said Trinian, laying his hand upon his generals’ shoulder. “Finish the gorgans, and capture any men who surrender.”

  Gorj and Denin galloped away to lead the squadrons and rid the land of the terrible beasts, and Trinian made his way into the capitol. Afias came in at the head of his squad, and met the king at the gate, and as Trinian embraced his brother, fierce cheering erupted from the citizens who were bordering the main road of the city, hailing the victorious return of their king.

  Trinian waved to the crowd, but as he looked about for Lord Astren, he did not find him. “Where is Lord Astren?” he called to Afias above the noise.

  “I have not seen him.” They pushed their way through the crowd, waving and nodding and relieved when they ducked into the shelter and privacy of the tents surrounding the Healory.

  Gladier and his apprentices were tending many men in the fields about Korem, in makeshift tents, on cots and tables and beds, but though most soldiers were outside, the princess had been brought into the inner sanctuary of the house. So beloved was she by the wounded soldiers that those who were awake limped out of the house to give her privacy. But she was unconscious and knew nothing.

  Thus Trinian found her lying in state and solitude in the center of the room, white and pale and wrapped with bandages, and Adrea and Astren were standing to one side, waiting.

  Trinian went straight to Adrea and took her into his arms. He held her close, her black straight hair falling gently against his cheek, and her head nestling into his shoulder.

  Until he had embraced Afias under the gate, Trinian had not let himself miss them. But seeing their faces made his heart swell, and he was at a loss for words. At last he released her, and Afias came up beside the young lady comfortably, and put his arm around her as if he belonged there. When Trinian saw how close his two friends stood together, his heart swelled again. Yes, this was as it should be. Adrea had always been a sister to him in his heart, and now she would be so in truth.

  “We have your blessing then?” Afias asked quietly, understanding the look in his brother’s eye.

  “Heartily. And I am very glad.”

  He turned away then to see Lord Astren standing apart, and he frowned at the angry light in the old man’s eye. He went to him and bowed respectfully.

  “Lord Astren, thank you for recalling me to the city. Drian owes you her safety.”

  “I did not recall you,” the old man spoke in a strangled voice, thick as if choked with tears and fear. “If I had had control, the city would have fallen. I would not have willed for it to fall, but so it would have been. I am no Lord. I am a coward.”

  Trinian stepped back at the intensity of the old man’s hatred. “Did Trigent lead the army then?”

  “It was Lavendier,” said Afias. “Did you not know?”

  Trinian’s throat tightened. He glanced at her upon the table, and struggled to understand that his selfish, willful sister had recalled him to the city. “What happened?” he asked softly.

  Lord Ferand, whom Trinian had not noticed standing along the wall in the shadows, strode forward and told them, simply and briefly, how Lavendier had arrived with news of the enemy, how she had taken over the army and sent for her brothers, and how she had led the men in battle. Astren sat bowed through it all, his head buried deep in his hands, shivering with shame and self-hatred.

  “Where was Gladier?” was all Trinian could think to ask when the lord finished. The tale was too strange for him to ask about Lavendier. He failed to picture any of it, since he could only envision her in her selfish, willful, and pouting beauty. He had not seen her fight, lead, or sacrifice herself for the city. He saw her in intense color and spiteful energy, or as pale, white, and unconscious. He could not imagine her as a determined leader.

  “I do not know,” Ferand answered. “I have not seen him, before, during, or after the battle.”

  Trinian put the thought aside for a moment, and turned to Afias. “Tell me of South Drian. How stand things there?”

  Afias immediately told him the highlights of the past several months, concentrating most of all on what they had learned about Power, Death, and the Golden King. Adrea stood near her father all the while, struggling to understand what to make of his brokenness, but hearing Afias mention the Golden King brought her to interject. “He’s wonderful, somehow,” she told Trinian fervently. “Really wonderful, but we don’t know who he is.”

  Trinian’s heart was beating fast – full of thoughts he could not understand. “Where is Gladier?” he cried. “Has he abandoned us? I need to speak with him.”

  “I have been plenty occupied.”

  There stood Gladier, framed in the light of the dying day, in the doorway of the Healory.

  Trinian confronted him in anger. “And where have you been?” he demanded. “Drian has sustained and driven away an attack, and I am told you were nowhere to be found.”

  “Drian did quite well without me; I’ve been busy. Very busy. Watching other battles you couldn’t see, and now tending to patients surrounding my Healory.”

  Gladier went to the princess on the bed, and Trinian saw that she was awake, watching them quietly. The wizard cupped her oval, smooth face in his gnarled hands. “Yes, my darling brave warrior, you did not fight alone. The gods were for and against you. Honored are you, who is so hated, and so loved.”

  Gladier had never said anything like that to Trinian, nor used such a reverent tone, and the king’s heart clenched.

  “What battles?” he demanded impatiently. “Who fought for and against her?”

  Gladier knelt before a cabinet, and once again brought out the scrolls of the gods and a map of Minecerva. “Never before had I recei
ved a vision of them, but by their grace, I saw what no mortal ever has. I recognized them each, face by face, and they were majestic, shining, and radiant; deadly, terrifying, and beautiful.

  “As you know, Power cannot bodily cross over the River Rordan and is confined to his realm. He tried hard to cross over, to kill you himself, but Rordan opposed him in a fierce combat and he could not conquer. A great battle they raged, destroying much of the land about the river. Power was maddened by his failure, and when he failed –” His voice stumbled and caught, and Trinian looked at him sharply.

  “What is it?”

  “Trinian, as long as he reigns from Karaka, he will continue his attempts to overthrow you. He sent the other gods, Terror, Resolve, Destruction, Despair, and Passion, across the divide to destroy us all. But the heavenly blessings too descended, and acted as a shield between the deadly spirits and the frail mortals. Joy, Death, Knowledge, Solitude, Charity, and Hope are on your side. Call upon them, and they will answer.”

  “What did Power do when he failed?” he demanded.

  Gladier sighed heavily. “He raced across Mestraff, and with a group of his beasts, intercepted a boat traveling down a river from the border-mountains: a boat that was traveling toward Rordan.” He was pointing to the map as he spoke. “The boat held the royal family, my king. All of those still alive.” Stillness hung in the chamber for an eternal second, and then Trinian trembled.

  “Adlee?”

  “She is alive,” he answered calmly. “I saw Garrity set upon by Power’s gorgans, and they pulled the queen out after him. Garrity sent off the raft as a last act, before falling, senseless, beneath their weapons. Princesses Cila and Viol and Prince Jacian are even now on their way back to us. But they took Garrity and the queen.” A moan, deep and despairing, wrenched from Lavendier, and Gladier turned to her gently. “They took them, child,” he said. “They took them to the Karakan fortress. If they are still alive, what misery awaits them?”