by Tad Williams
As he foraged in the comer of the tent for his gloves he came upon the strangely-shaped bundle that Aditu had given him. He had forgotten it since the night he had stolen out to the Observatory. What was it? He had a sudden and sickening recollection that Amerasu had wanted it given to Josua.
Merciful Aedon, what have I done?
Was it something that might have saved them? Had he, in his foolishness, in his mooncalf forgetfulness, neglected a weapon that might help keep his friends alive? Or was it something with which to summon the aid of the Sithi? Would it now be too late?
Heart thudding at the magnitude of his mistake, he snatched up the bag—noticing even in his fearful haste the odd, slithering softness of its weave—then dashed out into the icy dawn light.
A huge crowd was gathering in the Leavetaking House, caught up in a frenzy of activity that seemed ready at any moment to spill over into panicked flailing. At the center of it all Simon found Josua and a small group that included Deornoth, Geloë, Binabik, and Freosel. The prince, any trace of indecision vanished, was calling out orders; reviewing plans and arrangements, and exhorting some of the more anxious of New Gadrinsett’s defenders. The brightness of Josua’s eye made Simon feel like a traitor.
“Your Highness.” He took a step forward, then dropped to a knee before the prince, who looked down in mild surprise.
“Up, Simon,” Deornoth said impatiently. “There is work to do.”
“I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mistake, Prince Josua.”
The prince paused, visibly willing himself to calm attention. “What do you mean, son?”
Son. The word struck Simon very hard. He wished that Josua could truly have been his father—there was certainly something in the man that he loved. “I think I have done a foolish thing,” he said. “Very foolish.”
“Speak with care,” said Binabik. “Tell just the facts that have importance.”
Prince Josua’s alarmed expression eased as he listened to Simon’s worried explanation. “Give it to me, then,” he said when Simon had finished. “There is no point in tormenting yourself until we know what it is. I feared from the look on your face that you had done something to leave us open to attack. As it is, your bundle is most likely only some token.”
“A fairy gift?” Freosel asked doubtfully. “Be those not perilous?”
Josua squatted and took the bag from Simon. It was difficult for him to untie the knotted drawstring with only one hand, but no one dared offer him aid. When the prince had at last worked it open, he upended the bag. Something wrapped in an embroidered black cloth rolled out into his lap.
“It is a horn,” he said as he pulled away the covering and held it up. It was made of a single piece of ivory or unyellowed bone, chased all over with fine carvings. The lip and mouthpiece were sheathed in a silvery metal, and the horn itself hung on a black baldric as sumptuously worked as the wrapping. There was something unusual in the shape of it, some compelling but not quite recognizable essence. Although age and much use were suggested by its every line, still at the same time it shone as though newly made. It was potent, Simon saw: though it was not like Thorn, which sometimes almost seemed to breathe, the horn had something in it which drew the eye.
“It is a beautiful thing,” Josua murmured. He tilted it from side to side, squinting at the carvings. “I can read none of these, although some look like writing-runes.”
“Prince Josua?” Binabik held out his hands. Josua passed the horn to him. “They are all Sithi runes—not a surprising thing on a present from Amerasu.”
“But the winding-cloth and the baldric are of mortal weave,” Geloë said abruptly. “That is a strange thing.”
“Can you read any of the writing?” Josua asked.
Binabik shook his head. “Not now. It might be so with some studying.”
“Perhaps you can read this.” Deornoth leaned forward and plucked a scrap of shimmery parchment out of the bell of the horn. He opened it, whistled in surprise, then handed it to Josua.
“It is written in our Westerling letters!” said the prince. “‘May this be given to its rightful owner when all seems, lost.’ Then there is a strange sign—like an ‘A.’ ”
“Amerasu’s mark.” Geloë’s deep voice was sorrowful. “Her mark.”
“But what can it mean?” Josua asked. “What is it, and who could be its rightful owner? It is clearly something of worth.”
“Beggin’ pardon, Prince Josua,” Freosel said nervously, “but p‘raps would be best not to meddle with such things—p’raps there be curse on it or somewhat like that. The gifts of the Peaceful Ones, they say, can cut both ways.”
“But if it is meant to summon aid,” said Josua, “then it seems a shame not to use it. If we are vanquished today, all will not just seem lost, it will be lost.”
He hesitated for a moment, then lifted the horn to his lips and blew. Astonishingly, there was no sound at all. Josua stared into the bell of the horn in search of some obstruction, then puffed his cheeks again and blew until he was bent almost double, but still the horn was silent. He straightened with a shaky laugh. “Well, I do not seem to be the thing’s rightful owner. Someone else try—anyone, it matters not.”
Deornoth at last accepted it from him and lifted it, but had no more luck than Josua. Freosel waved it away. Simon took it, and although he puffed until black flecks whirled before his eyes, the horn remained mute.
“What is it for?” Simon panted.
Josua shrugged. “Who can say? But I do not think you have done any harm, Simon. If it is meant to serve some purpose, that purpose has not yet been revealed to us.” He wrapped the horn again, then placed it back into the sack and put it down beside his feet. “We have other things to occupy us now. If we survive this day, then we will look at it again—perhaps Binabik or Geloe will be able to puzzle out its carvings. Now, bring me the tally of men, Deornoth, and let us make final dispositions.”
Binabik pulled away from the group and came and took Simon’s arm. “There are still a few things you should have,” he said, “then you should go to be with your Qanuc troop.”
Simon followed his small friend across the milling confusion of the Leavetaking House. “I hope your schemes work, Binabik.”
The troll made a hand sign. “As I am hoping, too. But we will do what is our best to do. That is all the gods, or your God, or our ancestors can be expecting.”
Against the far comer of the western walt a line of men stood before a dwindling pile of wooden shields, some of which still bore river-moss stains from their previous existence as boat timbers. Sangfugol, wearing a sort of battle-dress of ragged gray, was overseeing the distribution.
The harper looked up. “There you are. It’s in the corner. Ho, stop that, you!” he snarled at a bearded older man who was pawing through the pile. “Take the one that’s on top.”
Binabik went to the place Sangfugol had indicated and drew something out from beneath a pile of sacking. It was another wooden shield, but this one had been painted with the arms Vorzheva and Gutrun had created for Simon’s banner, the black sword and white dragon intertwined over Josua’s gray and red.
“It is not done with the hand of art,” the troll said. “But it was done with the hand of friendship.”
Simon bent and embraced him, then took the shield and thumped it with the heel of his hand. “It’s perfect.”
Binabik frowned. “I am only wishing that you were having more time for practicing with its use, Simon. It is not easy to be riding and using a shield and fighting, too.” His look grew more worried as he gripped Simon’s fingers in his own small fist. “Do not be foolish, Simon. You are yourself of great importance, and my people are being very important as well... but the finest of all things that I am knowing will be with you, also.” He turned his round face away. “She is a huntress of our folk and brave as a thunderstorm, but—Qinkipa!—how I wish Sisqi were not in this fighting today.”
“Aren’t you going to be with us?” Simo
n asked, surprised.
“I will be with the prince, acting as messenger since Qantaqa and I can be moving with swiftness and quiet where a bigger man on a horse might be observed.” The troll laughed softly. “Still, I will be carrying a spear for the first time since my manhood-walk. It will be a strangeness to have that in my hand.” His smile vanished. “‘No’ is the answer to your questioning, Simon—I will not be with you, at least not closely by. So please, my good friend, keep an eye out for Sisqinanamook. If you are keeping her from harm, you keep away a blow to my own heart that might be the killing of me.” He squeezed Simon’s hand again. “Come. There are things we must still be doing. It is not enough to have clever schemes,” he tapped his forehead and smiled mockingly, “if they are not completed with properness.”
They met at last in the Fire Garden, all of Sesuad’ra’s defenders, those who would fight and those who would stay behind, gathered together on the great commons-yard of tiles. Although the sun was well into the sky, the day was dark and very cold; many had brought torches. Simon felt a pang at seeing the flames fluttering in this open place, as they had in his vision of the past. A thousand Sithi had once waited here, just as his friends and allies now waited, for something that would change their lives forever.
Josua stood on a section of broken wall so that he could look out over the hushed crowd. Simon, standing close beside him, saw the prince’s look of disappointment. The defenders were so few, his face said clearly, and so poorly prepared.
“People of New Gadrinsett and our kind allies of Yiqanuc,” Josua called, “there is little need to speak about what we are doing. Duke Fengbald, who slaughtered the women and children of his own fiefdom in Falshire, is coming. We must fight him. There is little more to it than that. He is the tool of a great evil, and that evil must be stopped here or there will be none left to resist it, A victory here will not by any means overthrow our enemies, but if we lose it will mean that those enemies have won a great and total victory. Go and do your best, both those who will fight and those who will remain behind with their own tasks to do. Surely God is watching and will see your bravery.”
The murmurs that had risen when Josua spoke of evil turned into cheers as he finished. The prince then reached down to help Father Strangyeard climb into place to say the benediction.
The archivist fretfully smoothed his few strands of hair. “I am certain I will muddle it,” he whispered.
“You know it perfectly,” said Deornoth. Simon thought he meant it kindly, but the knight could not keep impatience from his voice.
“I fear I am not meant to be a war-priest.”
“Nor should you be,” Josua said harshly. “Nor should any priest, if God were doing all that he ought to.”
“Prince Josua!” Startled, Father Strangyeard sucked in air and coughed. “Beware of blasphemy!”
The prince was grim. “After these last two years of torment across the land, God must have learned to be a little ... flexible. I am sure He will understand my words.”
Strangyeard could only shake his head.
When the priest had finished his blessing, much of which was inaudible to the large crowd, Freosel mounted the wall with the ease of one used to climbing. The heavyset man had taken on an increasing burden of the defense, and seemed to be thriving under the responsibility.
“Come on, then,” he said loudly, his rough voice reaching out to every one of the several hundred gathered in that cold, windy place. “You heard what Prince Josua said. What more need you know? Defending our home’s what we be doing. Even a badger’ll do that without thinking a moment. Will you let Fengbald and them come and take your home, kill your families? Will you?”
The assembled folk called back a ragged but heartfelt denial.
“Right. So, let’s go to it.”
Simon was caught up for a moment by Freosel’s words. Sesuad’ra was his home, at least for now. If he had any hope of finding something more permanent, he would have to survive this day—and they would also have to beat back Fengbald’s army. He turned to Snenneq and the other trolls who were waiting quietly a little apart from the rest of the defenders.
“Nenit, henimaatuya, ” Simon said, waving them toward the stables where the rams—and Simon’s horse—were waiting patiently. “Come on, friends.”
Despite the chill of the day, Simon found himself sweating heavily beneath his helmet and chain mail. As he and the trolls turned off from the main road and started downslope through the clinging brush, he realized that he was, in a way, all alone—that no one would be near who could truly understand him. What if he showed himself a coward in front of the trolls, or something happened to Sisqi? What if he let Binabik down?
He pushed the thoughts away. There were things to do that would require his concentration. There could be no mooncalf foolishness, as with the forgotten gift from Amerasu.
As they neared the base of the hill and the hidden places near the foot of the road, Simon’s company dismounted and led their beasts into place. The hill slope was covered here with ice-blasted bracken that snatched at feet and tore cloaks, so it took them a good part of an hour before they had finally selected their spots and the crackling and rustling had ceased. When all the troop was settled in, Simon climbed up out of the shallow gulley so that he could see the barricade of felled trees that Sludig and others had built at the skirt of the hill, blocking entrance to the wide, stone-paved road. It was to be his responsibility to relay the prince’s commands.
Out beyond the expanse of ice that had once been Sesuad’ra’s floodwater moat, the near shore was covered with a dark, seething mass. It took Simon a few startled moments to realize that this was Fengbald’s army, settled in along the edge of the frozen water. It was more than an army, for the duke appeared to have brought a large section of the squatter town of Gadrinsett with him: tents and cookfires and makeshift forges spread lumpily into the distance, filling the small valley with smokes and steams. Simon knew it was an army of only a thousand or so, but to one who had not seen the army ten times larger that had besieged Naglimund, it seemed as vast as the legendary Muster of Anitulles that had covered the hills of Nabban like a blanket of spears. Chill sweat began to bead on his forehead once more. They were so near! Two hundred ells or more separated Fengbald’s forces from Simon’s hidden perch, yet he could clearly see individual faces among the armored men. They were people, living people, and they were coming to kill him. Simon’s companions would in turn try to kill as many of these soldiers as possible. There would be many new widows and orphans at the end of this day.
An unexpected trill of melody behind him made Simon jump. He whirled to see one of the trolls rocking slowly from side to side, his head lifted in quiet song. The troll, alerted by Simon’s sudden movement, looked up at him questioningly. Simon tried to smile and waved for the little man to continue. After a moment the troll’s plaintive voice rose once more into the freezing air, lonely as a bird in a leafless tree.
I don’t want to die, thought Simon. And God, please, I want to see Miriamele again—I truly, truly do.
A vision of her came to him suddenly, a memory of their last desperate moment near the Stile, when the giant had come crashing down on them just as Simon had finally sparked his torch alight. Her eyes, Miriamele’s eyes ... they had been frightened but resolute. She was brave, he remembered helplessly, brave and lovely. Why had he never told her how much he admired her—even if she was a princess?
There was a movement downslope near the barricade of tumbled trunks. Josua, his crippled right arm marking him even at a distance, was climbing onto the makeshift wall. A cloaked and hooded trio mounted to stand beside him.
Josua cupped his hand before his mouth. “Where is Fengbald?” he shouted. His voice echoed out across the frozen lake and reverberated in the hollows of the close-looming hills. “Fengbald!”
After some moments a small group of figures detached themselves from the horde along the shore and came a short way out onto the ice. In th
eir midst, mounted on a tall charger, rode one who was armored in silver and cloaked in bright scarlet. A silver bird flared its wings upon his helmet, which he removed and tucked beneath his arm. His long hair was black, and fluttered in the stiff wind.
“So you are there after all, Josua,” the rider shouted. “I was wondering.”
“You are trespassing on free lands, Fengbald. We do not acknowledge my brother Elias here, for his crimes have stolen away his right to rule my father’s kingdom. If you leave now, you may go away freely and tell him so.”
Laughing, Fengbald threw back his head in what seemed quite genuine amusement. “Very good, Josua, very good!” he bellowed. “No, it is you who must consider my offer. If you will surrender yourself to the king’s justice, I promise that all but the guiltiest few of your traitorous mob will be allowed back to take their place as honorable subjects. Surrender, Josua, and they will be spared.”
Simon wondered what effect this promise would have on the frightened and unhopeful army of New Gadrinsett. Fengbald was doubtless wondering the same.
“You lie, murderer!” someone shouted from near Josua, but the prince lifted his hand in a calming gesture.
“Did you not make that same promise to the wool merchants of Falshire,” Josua called, “before you burned their wives and children in their beds?”
Fengbald was too distant for his expression to be discernible, but from the way he straightened in the saddle, pushing against his stirrups until he was almost standing, Simon could guess at the anger surging through him. “You are in no position to speak so insolently, Josua,” the duke shouted. “You are a prince of nothing but trees and a few tattered, hungry sheepherders. Will you surrender and save much bloodshed?”
Now one of the other figures standing beside Josua stepped forward. “Hear me!” It was Geloë; she pulled back her hood as she spoke. “Know that I am Valada Geloë, protectress of the forest.” She waved her cloaked arm toward the shadowy face of the Aldheorte, which loomed on the hillcrest like a vast and silent witness. “You may not know me, lord from the cities, but your Thrithings allies have heard of me. Ask your mercenary friend Lezhdraka if he recognizes my name.”