by Dave Duncan
Durendal dropped the tongs and raised his
hands. "No more fighting! We must let them
rescue the King. Put up your swords, I
say!"
"It's Paragon!" a voice cried.
Overhead, part of the roof collapsed, blasting
flames skyward and making the scene bright as
noontime. Coughing, he emerged into the storm. He
wiped his streaming eyes and then stared with stunned
disbelief at the stocky boy clutching the
scimitar. He had lost his hat, and his red hair
shone like gold in the light from the blaze.
"Hereward!"
"Lord Roland!"
He looked around at all the other youthful,
nervily grinning faces, and knew he was seeing the
seniors from Ironhall. Fire and death!
What were they doing here, battling the Royal
Guard?
"We came to rescue you, my lord," Hereward
said. "Looks like we arrived just in time." He
laughed. "Stand clear of the door there."
Durendal obeyed and impudent hands thumped his
shoulder as he went by. Two bodies lay in the
snow--dead or unconscious? More of the roof
collapsed. The horses panicked at the
flames and smoke, taking the coach off with a rush
into the night. A moment later it overturned on the
hill in a rending crash and screams of terror from
the team.
"My lord!" croaked a voice. The
counterfeit Kromman lurched forward, a flutter
of black garments and a white face, one arm in a
sling. By the eight, it was Quarrel! He
fell into his ward's arms and buckled.
Durendal hugged him, taking his weight, although
he seemed to weigh nothing at all. "You're
alive!" Blasted stupid thing to say! And was it
even true? How could any man look like that white
skull and live? "You're hurt!"
"Been hurt a long time," Quarrel
whispered. "You all right?"
"I'm fine. But what happened?"
"Went for help. Got the Queen's men."
He tried to smile.
Durendal lowered him to the ground and knelt there,
supporting his shoulders. "Ironhall? You rode
there and back?" That was not humanly possible, and
yet a dozen boyish faces were grinning proudly
down at him from man height all around. Even with the
benefit of surprise, who else could have given the
Guard a fight? They seemed to be waiting for his
orders.
"Let the Guard out. Disarm them, though."
"We're doing that, my lord," Hereward said.
Choking and blinded men were staggering from the lodge,
being expertly overpowered and stripped of swords and
daggers before they could recover enough to object. The
stone shell was an inferno, white fire showing through
every window, half the roof gone. Harvest was in there
somewhere.
A cheer greeted a band of Blades
struggling out of the lodge with a bulky package that was
presumably the King. That seemed to be the end of
it. Anyone left inside would be dead now, for the
floor beams were collapsing. The shed, too, was
ablaze, but someone had released the horses.
"My lord?" Quarrel whispered. "Did I do
right?" The snow was clinging to his eyebrows and
hair.
"Yes, yes! You're a champion! You saved
the day! You made idiots of the Guard.
Magnificent! You go on the Litany of
Heroes tomorrow."
"Got something for you ..." Quarrel groped at
his soiled robe.
"It can wait," Durendal said, still cradling his
Blade's head.
Evidently it couldn't, so he reached where the
powerless hand fumbled, and in the pocket found a
loose collection of cold ...? Cold links!
He hauled out the lord chancellor's chain of
office, glittering like a fiery snake.
"Your gold chain," Quarrel mumbled.
"Yours."
Not ever again, but that did not matter. "Thank you.
I'll keep it safe." Durendal looked to one
lanky youth and groped mentally for his name.
"Willow, we must get a healer for him. Run
down to the village and ..." But a healer could do very
little without a conjuration, and the octogram was under the
blaze. He shuddered as he realized that his terrible
act had probably killed Quarrel. "No,
we'll have to take him to Stairtown."
The Queen's men exchanged worried glances.
Hereward said, "And the King, my lord? The
companions want their swords back."
"No! No! Don't return them yet." The
emergency was far from over. There might still be time for the
Guard to rush the King to another octogram, although
shouts from the trail meant a hundred witnesses were
on their way. He could not imagine what sort of
confusion was about to result, what sort of charges and
countercharges would fly. More necks than his would be
laid on the block over this night's events, but
the fewer the better.
"Look, Prime, I think you should all
disappear now. Take the Guards' swords with you,
but go. You did what you set out to do--you and your
army. I'm proud of you all. And I'm
especially proud of ... Quarrel? Quarrel!"
Willow knelt in the snow and felt
for a pulse. He did not find one. "I'm not
surprised, my lord. It was only his binding that
kept him going. I think the rest of him died
hours ago."
No, it was not a surprise, but it hurt.
Oh, how it hurt! In cold dismay, Durendal
laid the body flat. He closed the empty
eyes and folded the hands over the chest. There were
too many things to do now to spare time for mourning. Far
too many things. He had already believed Quarrel
dead, so why did it hurt so much more the second
time? If only he could have had a son like ...
An animal scream howled through the night and was
instantly joined by others. He lurched to his
feet as the Blades began to rampage.
The hero of the hour was Candidate Crystal, who
had been left with Bloodhand to guard the
confiscated swords. When he saw the inanimate
baggage that was the King being hustled out, he had the
wit to gather up the weapons and hurl them through a
window into the burning lodge.
Compared to some former massacres, such as the
Blade Riot after the death of Goisbert IV,
the resulting battle was a brief and minor
affair. Less than a dozen of the Royal
Guard were still active, and they were all unarmed.
Even so, the fifteen Ironhall seniors on
hand were boys against madmen, reluctant to use
steel on unarmed opponents. Three of them went
down before Hereward and Durendal rallied the rest
and convinced them that this was a life-and-death matter.
Lord Roland was the obvious target, of course.
The berserkers swarmed at him like starving weasels,
intent on tearing him to pieces, and he could do
nothing except hide behind his youthf
ul defenders.
Eventually he gained a sword from one of the wounded,
but by that time most of the Blades had been disabled and
had collapsed into pathetic, weeping impotence.
The last one to fall was Bowman, stabbed through the
thigh. The brief horror was over. The Queen's
men had prevented catastrophe. For that, at
least, they could claim credit at their trial.
Feeling drained and deathly weary, Durendal
went over to look at the King in the fading
firelight. The courtiers had all fled into the
night, but now they started creeping back like ants
to a picnic, and most of them came to where he
stood, to gaze like him in silent disbelief at the
remains of the man who had ruled
Chivial for so long. He seemed peaceful and very
old, although probably not so impossibly old that
anyone would suspect enchantment. The body bore
no signs of burns or injuries, so either the
smoke had killed him or his heart had given out
as he was being rescued. Perhaps Ambrose, who had
never feared anything, had died of fright. There were
to be no last farewells, no harsh words of
recrimination. The King is dead. I did this,
Durendal thought. I killed my king. Whatever
happened now, life would never be the same.
Snow was drifting around the corpse already. The
storm was rapidly becoming a blizzard. Why was
nobody taking charge? He had no authority.
He just wanted to go away and weep, but someone must
restore order. He recognized the fussy
healer who had treated him in the lodge.
"You! Gather a work party and take His
Majesty's body down to the village."
The little man jumped as if he had been
asleep. "Oh, of course, my lord. Here! You
... and you ..."
Feeling that all his bones had been turned
to lead, Durendal plodded back to the swordsmen.
The Queen's men were busy helping the Blades,
wrapping on makeshift bandages, offering what
comfort they could.
There was someone missing.
"Willow? Where is the Chancellor Kromman
--does anyone know?"
"Oh!" said Willow, looking all around.
"He was in the carriage, my lord. Quarrel
recognized it and we stopped it. His guards got
hurt, but they'll live. We left them at a
farmhouse and brought him--tied up, my lord."
The coach was a heap of wreckage, so
Kromman was very likely dead already. He would have
to wait.
A kingless court was a headless animal. Still
everyone else was waiting for leadership. Durendal
drew a deep breath and bellowed over the hubbub.
"The King is dead! Long live the Queen!"
The Ironhall candidates shouted approval.
"Long live Queen Malinda!" Courtiers
took up the cry.
Dragon was sitting in the snow, recovering from a
blow to the head. His face was sooty and bloodied,
his doublet scorched; he had lost much of his great
beard, but sanity was back in his eyes again.
"Are you ready for duty, Leader?"
He nodded grimly. "But I don't take
orders from you."
"I'm not trying to give orders, only
advice. It may be weeks before the Queen can
get here. There is no Parliament, for it dies
with the sovereign and a new one must be summoned.
There is no chancellor, for even if Kromman
is still alive, he cannot live past dawn. I was
officially dismissed, and your duty now is
probably to see me locked up in the Bastion.
Just at the moment, Leader, you are the government of
Chivial."
The Queen's men reacted with snarls of
disapproval. Hereward raised his scimitar,
looking almost furious enough to use it. A youthful
voice shouted, "Paragon!"
"Put that damned scythe away before you hurt
somebody!" Durendal bellowed. "Thank you!
Commander Dragon is in charge. All I can do
is advise."
Courtiers were crowding in, eager to meddle and
participate in historical events. Soon there
might be far too many leaders. But Dragon
wiped a sleeve over his forehead and clambered
to his feet with some help from Hereward.
"I'd appreciate your advice, my lord.
We must arrange for the body to be conveyed back
to Grandon."
He was still confused. Dragon was not the man for
this. Durendal explained patiently, "No,
Commander. Normally the first priority would be
to escort the King's heir to Greymere so that she
could prevent a massacre when the rest of the
Blades hear the news. As that isn't possible,
I suggest you head for Grandon with as many men as you
can spare and disarm them one at a time. When old
King Everard died they did that. Catch each man
in turn in a net and have a dozen others around him
shouting, "Long live the Queen!" until he
comes out of shock and joins in."
Dragon scowled. "It's my privilege
to take the King's signet to Her Majesty and
inform her of her accession!"
What better way for a courtier to gain
advancement from a new monarch? The messenger who
delivered such tidings could expect an earldom
at the very least. But give Dragon the benefit
of the doubt--his binding must be burning like a rash,
driving him to find his new ward.
"You going to walk to the Fire Lands?"
Bowman limped forward out of the flying snow, leaning
heavily on Spinnaker's shoulder. "No ships
sail in Firstmoon." Here was competence, even
if he was misinformed on that last point.
"Yes, it is your right," Durendal told
Dragon. "And Baels can sail in any weather.
There's one of their ships standing by in Lomouth for just
this purpose. The captain's name is
Ealdabeard. The harbor master will direct you
to him."
"Oh?" Bowman asked with quiet menace.
"And how do you know all this, Lord Roland?"
"Because I arranged it with the Baelish
ambassador months ago, of course. We
knew something like this might happen. Ealdabeard will
get you to Baelmark if anyone can, Leader. In
fact, if you leave right now you may just be able
to catch the tide."
Fortunately Dragon did not ask how
Durendal could possibly know how long the ride
would take him in this weather or when the tides ran
in Lomouth. He merely said, "Take charge
here, Deputy," and disappeared into the snowstorm.
Durendal turned hopefully to Bowman.
"Got advice for me, too, have you?" the
Blade inquired sarcastically.
"If you want it."
"Let's hear it."
"First, seal this valley behind you so nobody
gets out for at least three days. The snow will
help. When you get to Grandon, find the Lord
Chamberlain or the Earl Marshall. The King's
will is in Chancery, in the top drawer of t
he crown
chest." Neither Ambrose nor Kromman should have
seen any reason to meddle with it in the last few
days. "It provides for a council of regency
until the new queen can arrive to take the oath.
Here--" He held out the gilded chain that
Quarrel had died for. "Give them this."
Bowman took it as if he were afraid it
might bite him. It certainly did its wearers
little good in the long run. Apparently he was going
to do as Durendal had suggested.
"Meanwhile," Durendal said, "half your men
are disabled. I suggest you put these admirable
youngsters under your orders for the time being."
The Deputy Commander glowered at the
self-styled Queen's men. They grinned
cockily back at him.
"Even if they have written an epic
chapter in the annals of Ironhall,"
Durendal added, "they are probably in no
hurry to go home and face Grand Master."
Cockiness became apprehension, and grins
worried glances.
"Good idea," Bowman said. "You're all
conscripted. You can start by giving us your swords."
It was over. Now a man could break out in a
sweat and shiver. Durendal wandered off into the
darkness to be alone.
The trouble had barely begun. And there were still
loose ends. What of young Lyon, who had been
only the first man to save his life this night? Where
had he run off to? Where was poor Scofflaw?
Had anyone rescued him? Even if he had
escaped the fire, he would die when the sun came
up. The rippling circles of tragedy would
continue to spread. But none of that was his concern now.
Kromman. What about Kromman?
The carriage was a heap of twisted wreckage
lying on its side. Three horses had escaped
or been rescued, but the fourth had been put out of
its agony by someone who had apparently not thought
to look inside or had not done so carefully. When
Durendal clambered up and peered down through the
shattered door, his lantern at first showed only a
jumble of fallen benches. Then he identified
two bare legs protruding underneath, tied together
at the ankles. Climbing down without putting his
weight on the debris was no easy task in the
uncertain glow of the lantern. Balancing
awkwardly, he began to lift away the remains
and throw them out through the roof.
Soon Kromman's glassy eyes stared
back at him. The face was a skull, plastered
with dried blood and wisps of white hair. It
might have been dead for years. "So you won!" it