To Green Angel Tower, Volume 1

by Tad Williams

  “Binabik’s ice-shoes have worked—or at least they have helped us catch Fengbald off-guard,” Josua called.

  “We have been watching, Highness.” Deornoth gave the inside of his helmet another thump with his sword-hilt, but the dent was too deep for such simple repairs. He cursed and pulled it on anyway. There was nowhere near enough armor to go around; New Gadrinsett had strained to supply even what small weaponry and gear they had, and if Hotvig’s Thrithings-men had not brought their own leather chestplates and headware, less than a quarter of the defenders would have been armored. There were certainly no replacements available, Deornoth knew, except those which could be gleaned from the newly dead. He decided he would stick with his original helm, dented or not.

  “I am glad to see you ready,” said Josua. “We must press whatever advantage we have, before Fengbald’s numbers overwhelm us.”

  “I only wish we had more of the troll’s boot-irons to pass around.” As he spoke, Deornoth strapped on his own set, numbed hands fumbling awkwardly. He fingered the metal spikes that now jutted from his soles. “But we have used every piece of metal we could spare.”

  “Small price if it saves us, meaningless if it does not,” Josua said. “I hope you gave preference to the men who must fight on foot.”

  “I did,” Deornoth replied, “although we had enough for nearly all the horses, anyway, even after outfitting Hotvig’s grasslanders.”

  “Good,” Josua said. “If you have a moment, help me fit these on Vinyafod.” The prince smiled an uncharacteristically straightforward smile. “I had the good sense to put them aside yesterday.”

  “But my lord!” Deornoth looked up, startled. “What do you want them for?”

  “You do not think that I will watch the whole battle from this hillside, do you?” Josua’s smile vanished. He seemed honestly surprised. “It is for my sake that these brave men are fighting and dying down on the lake. How could I not stand with them?”

  “But that is precisely the reason.” Deornoth turned to Sangfugol and Strangyeard, but those two merely looked away shamefacedly. Deornoth guessed that they had already argued this point with the prince and lost. “If something happens to you, Josua, any victory will be a hollow one.”

  Josua fixed Deornoth with his clear gray eyes. “Ah, but that is not true, old friend. You forget: Vorzheva now bears our child. You will protect her and our baby, just as you promised you would. If we win today and I am not here to enjoy it, I know that you will carefully and skillfully lead the people on from here. People will flock to our banner—people who will not even know or care if I am alive, but will come to us because we are fighting my brother, the king. And Isorn will soon return, I am sure, with men of Hernystir and Rimmersgard. And if his father Isgrimnur finds Miriamele—well, what more legitimate name could you have to fight behind than King John’s granddaughter?” He watched Deornoth’s face for a moment. “But, here, Deornoth, do not put on such a serious face. If God means me to overthrow my brother, not all the knights and bowmen of Aedon’s earth can slay me. If He does not—well. there is no place to hide from one’s fate.” He bent and lifted one of Vinyafod’s feet. The horse shifted anxiously but held its position. “Besides, man, this is a moment when the world is delicately balanced. Men who see their prince beside them know that they are not being asked to sacrifice themselves for someone who does not value that sacrifice.” He fitted the leather sack with the stiffened bottom and protruding spikes over Vinyafod’s hoof, then wrapped the long ties back and forth around the horse’s ankle. “It is no use arguing,” he said without looking up.

  Deornoth sighed. He was desperately unhappy, but a part of him had known his prince might do this—indeed, would have been surprised if he had not. “As you wish, Highness.”

  “No, Deornoth.” Josua tested the knot. “As I must.”

  Simon cheered as Hotvig’s riders smashed into Fengbald’s line. Binabik’s clever stratagem appeared to be working: the Thrithings-men, although still riding more slowly than normal, were far swifter than their opponents, and the difference in maneuverability was startling. Fengbald’s leading troops were falling back, forced to regroup several hundred cubits back from the barricade.

  “Hit them!” Simon shouted. “Brave Hotvig!” The trolls cheered, too, strange bellowing whoops. Their time was fast approaching. Simon was counting silently, although he had already lost track once or twice and had to guess. So far, the battle was unfolding just the way Josua and the others had said.

  He looked at his strange companions, at their round faces and small bodies, and felt an overwhelming affection and loyalty sweep through him. They were his responsibility, in a way. They had come far to fight in someone else’s cause—even if it might ultimately prove to be everyone’s cause—and he wanted them all to reach their homes safely once more. They would be fighting bigger, stronger men, but trolls were accustomed to fighting in these wintry conditions. They, too, wore boot-irons, but of a far more elaborate type than those Binabik had taught the forge men to make. Binabik had told Simon that among his people these boot-spikes were precious now, since the trolls had lost the trade routes and the trading partners which had once made it possible to bring iron into Yiqanuc; in this present era, each pair of boot-spikes was handed down from parent to child, and they were carefully oiled and regularly repaired. To lose a pair was a terrible thing, for there was now almost no way to replace them.

  Their saddled rams, of course, had no need for such trifles as iron shoes: their soft, leathery hooves would cling to the ice like the feet of wall-walking flies. A flat lake was little challenge when compared to the treacherous frozen trackways of high Mintahoq.

  “I come,” someone said behind him. Simon turned to find Sisqi looking up at him expectantly. The troll woman’s face was flushed and pearled with sweat, and the fur jacket she wore beneath her leather jerkin was tattered and muddy, as if she had crawled through the undergrowth.

  “Where were you?” he said. He could see no trace of a wound on her, and was grateful for that.

  “With Binabik. Help Binabik fight.” She lifted her hands to mime some complicated activity, then shrugged and gave up.

  “Is Binabik well?” Simon asked.

  She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Not hurt.”

  Simon took a deep breath, relieved. “Good.” Before he could say more, there was a flurry of movement down below. Another group of shapes suddenly scrambled forth from near the log barricade, hurrying to join the battle. A moment later Simon heard the faint, mournful cry of a horn. It blew a long note, then four short, then two long blasts that echoed thinly along the hillside. His heart leaped and he felt suddenly cold and yet tingling, as though he had fallen into icy water. He had forgotten his count, but it did not matter. That was the call—it was time!

  Despite his nervous excitement, he was careful not to scrape Homefinder’s side with his irons as he scrambled into the saddle. Most of the Qanuc words Binabik had so carefully taught him were blasted from his head.

  “Now!” he shouted. “Now, Sisqi! Josua wants us!” He drew his sword and waved it in the air, catching it for a moment in a low-hanging tree branch. What was the word for “attack”? Ni-something. He turned and caught Sisqi’s eye. She stared back, her small face solemn. She knew. The troll woman waved her arm and called out to her troops.

  Everybody knows what happens now, he realized. They don’t need me to tell them anything.

  Sisqi nodded, giving him permission.

  “Nihut!” Simon shouted, then spurred down the muddy trail.

  Homefinder’s hooves skidded as they struck the frozen lake, but Simon—who had ridden her unshod on the same surface a few days before—was relieved when she quickly caught her balance. The noise of conflict was loud before them, and now his trollish comrades were shouting too, bellowing strange war-cries in which he could discern the names of one or two of the mountains of Yiqanuc. The din of battle swiftly rose until it crowded all other thoughts from his mi
nd. Then, before it seemed that he even had time to think, they were in the thick of it.

  Hotvig’s initial attack had split Fengbald’s line and scattered it away from the safety of the sledge-scraped track. Deornoth’s soldiers—all but a few on foot—had then surged out from behind the barricade and flung themselves on those Erkynguard who had been cut off from their own rearguard by Hotvig’s action. The fighting near the barricade was particularly fierce, and Simon was startled to see Prince Josua in the thick of it, standing tall in red Vinyafod’s saddle, his gray cloak billowing, his shouted words drowned in the confusion. Meanwhile, though, Fengbald had brought up his Thrithings mercenaries, who, instead of helping to stiffen the line behind the retreating Erkynguardsmen, were swarming around the broken column in their haste to engage Hotvig’s horsemen.

  Simon’s troop struck the mercenaries from the blind side; those closest to the oncoming Qanuc had only a moment to look around in amazement before being skewered by the short spears of the trolls. A few of the Thrithings-men seemed to regard the onrushing Qanuc with a shock that seemed closer to superstitious terror than mere surprise. The trolls howled their Qanuc war-cries as they charged, and whirled stones on oiled cords over their head, which made a dreadful buzzing sound like a swarm of maddened bees. The rams moved swiftly between the slower horses, so that several of the mercenaries’ mounts reared and threw their masters; the trolls also used their darting spears to poke at the horses’ undefended bellies. More than one Thrithings-man was killed beneath his own toppled steed.

  The din of battle, which at first had seemed to Simon a great roaring, quickly changed as the conflict drew him in, and became instead a kind of silence, a terrible humming quiet in which snarling faces and the steaming, white-toothed and red-throated mouths of horses loomed up from the mist. Everything seemed to move with a horrible sluggishness, but Simon felt that he was moving even more slowly. He swung his sword around, but although it was mere steel, it seemed at that moment as heavy as black Thorn.

  A hand-ax struck one of the troll-men beside Simon. The small body was flung from the saddled ram and seemed to tumble slowly as a falling leaf until it disappeared beneath Homefinder’s hooves. Through the droning emptiness, Simon thought he heard a faint, high-pitched shriek, like the cry of a distant bird.

  Killed, he thought distractedly as Homefinder stumbled and again found her footing. He was killed. A moment later he had to fling his own blade up before him to ward off a swordstroke from one of the mounted mercenaries. It seemed to take forever for the two swords to “meet; when they did, with a thin clink, he felt the shock down his arm and into his chest. Something brushed by him from the other side. When he looked down, he saw that his makeshift corselet had been torn and blood was rilling up in a wound along his arm; he could feel only a line of icy numbness from wrist to elbow. Gaping, he lifted his sword to strike back, but there was no one within reach. He pulled Homefinder around and squinted through the mist rising off the ice, then spurred her toward a knot of tangled shapes where he could see some of the trolls at bay.

  After that the battle rose around him like a smothering hand and nothing made very much sense. In the midst of the nightmare, he was struck in the chest by someone’s shield and tumbled from his saddle. As he scrambled to find purchase, he quickly realized that even shod with Binabik’s magic spikes, he was still a man struggling for footing on a glassy sheet of ice. By luck, the reins had stayed tangled around his hand so that Homefinder did not bolt, but this same luck almost killed him.

  One of the mounted Thrithings-men came out of the murk and pressed Simon backward, trapping him against Homefinder’s flank. The gaunt swordsman had a face so covered with ritual scars that the skin showing beneath his helm looked like tree bark. Simon was in a terrible position, his shield arm still snagged in the reins so that he could barely get half of his shield between himself and his attacker. The grinning mercenary wounded him twice, a shallow gouge along his sword arm parallel to his first blooding of the day and a stab in the fat part of his thigh below his mail shirt. He would almost certainly have killed Simon in a few more moments, but someone else came up suddenly out of the fog—another Thrithings-man, Simon noted with dazed surprise—and accidentally collided with Simon’s adversary, knocking the man’s horse toward Simon and pushing the mercenary part of the way out of his saddle. Simon’s half-desperate thrust, more in self-defense than anything else, slid up the man’s leg and into his groin; he fell to the ground, blood fountaining from his wound, then screamed and writhed until his convulsions shook his helmet from his head. The man’s thin, staring-eyed face, contorted with pain, brought back to Simon a Hayholt memory of a rat that had fallen into a rain barrel. It had been horrible to see it paddling desperately, teeth bared, eyes bulging. Simon had tried to save it, but in its terror the rodent had snapped at his hand, so he had run away, unable to bear watching it drown. Now an older Simon stared at the shrieking mercenary for a moment, then stepped on his chest to stop him rolling and pushed his sword blade into the man’s throat, holding it there until all movement had stopped.

  He felt curiously light-headed. Several long moments passed during which he tore loose the corpse’s baggy sleeve and cinched it tightly around the wound in his own leg. It was only when he had finished and put his foot into Homefinder’s stirrup that he realized what he had just done. His stomach heaved, but he had not made the mistake of eating that morning. After a brief pause he was able to drag himself up into the saddle.

  Simon had thought he would be a sort of second-in-command of the trolls, Josua’s hand among the prince’s Qanuc allies, but he quickly discovered that it was hard enough work just to stay alive.

  Sisqi and her diminutive troops were scattered all over the misty battlefield. At one point he had managed to find the area where they were most concentrated, and for a while he and the trolls had stood together—he saw Sisqi then, still alive, her slim spear as swift as a wasp sting, her round face set in a mask so fierce she looked like a tiny snow-demon—but at last the ebb and flow of combat had broken them apart again. The trolls did not do their best fighting in an orderly line, and Simon quickly saw that they were more useful when they moved quickly and unobtrusively among Fengbald’s bigger horsemen. The rams seemed sure-footed as cats, and although Simon could see many small shapes of Qanuc dead and wounded scattered here and there among the other bodies, they seemed to be giving as good as they were getting, and perhaps better.

  Simon himself had survived several more combats, and had killed another Thrithings-man. this time in a more or less fair fight.

  It was only as he and this other were hacking at each other that Simon abruptly realized that to these enemies he was no child. He was taller than this particular mercenary, and in his helmet and mail-shirt, he doubtless seemed a large and fearsome fighter. Abruptly heartened, he had renewed his attack, driving the Thrithings-man backward. Then, as the man stopped and his horse came breast to breast with Homefinder, Simon remembered his lessons from Sludig. He feinted a clumsy swing and the mercenary seized the bait, leaning too far forward with his return stroke. Simon let the man’s sword carry him well off-balance, then slammed his shield against the man’s leather helm and followed with a sword thrust that slid between the two halves of the man’s chest armor and into his unprotected side. The mercenary stayed in his saddle as Simon pulled Homefinder back, tugging loose his sword, but before Simon turned away his opponent had already fallen awkwardly to the bloody ice.

  Panting, Simon had looked around him and wondered who was winning.

  Whatever beliefs about the nobility of war that Simon still retained died during that long day on the frozen lake. In the midst of such terrible carnage, with fallen friends and enemies alike scattered about, maimed and bloodied, some even made faceless by terrible wounds; with the crying and pleading of dying men ringing in his ears, their dignity ripped away from them; with the air rank with the stenches of fear-sweat, blood, and excrement, it was impossible to see w
arfare as anything other than what Morgenes had once termed it: a kind of hell on earth that impatient mankind had arranged so it would not have to wait for the afterlife. To Simon, the grotesque unfairness of it was almost the worst of all. For every armored knight dragged down, half a dozen foot-soldiers were slaughtered. Even animals suffered torments that should not have been visited on murderers and traitors. Simon saw screaming horses, hamstrung by a chance blow, left to roll on the ice in agony. Although many of the horses belonged to Fengbald’s troops, no one had asked them if they wanted to go to war; they had been forced to it, just as had Simon and the rest of the folk of New Gadrinsett. Even the king’s Erkynguard might have wished to be elsewhere, rather than here on this killing ground where duty brought them and loyalty prisoned them. Only the mercenaries were here by choice. To Simon, the minds of men who would come to this of their own will were suddenly as incomprehensible as the thoughts of spiders or lizards—less so, even, for the small creatures of the earth almost always fled from danger. These were madmen, Simon realized, and that was the direst problem of the world: that madmen should be strong and unafraid, so that they, could force their will on the weak and peace-loving. If God allowed such madness to be, Simon could not help thinking, then He was an old god who had lost His grip.

  The sun was vanished high above, hiding behind clouds: it was impossible to tell how long the battle had raged when Josua’s horn blew again. This time it was a summons note that sliced through the misty air. Simon, who did not think he had ever been wearier in his life, turned to the few trolls nearby and shouted: “Sosa! Come!”

  A few moments later he nearly ran down Sisqi, who stood over her slaughtered ram, her face still strangely emotionless. Simon leaned toward her and extended his hand. She grasped it in her cold dry fingers and pulled herself up to his stirrup. He helped her into the saddle.