Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

Three of the archers were down.

  The rest were so engrossed in the scene below them that they hadn’t realized what was happening.

  King Joyse and Prince Kragen confronted each other. The Prince had drawn his own blade: the tips of their swords danced at each other in the glow of the lamps and candles.

  ‘Where is she?’ demanded the King.

  Wildly, Geraden pushed himself between the blades. ‘They were dressed like Alends!’ he panted. ‘We think it’s a trick! Prince Kragen came here to prove his good faith!’ Before his King could cut him down, he added, ‘Torrent went after her. She’s going to leave a trail for help to follow.’

  ‘The balcony,’ Terisa said. She was hardly able to hear herself.

  Shielded by Geraden, Prince Kragen lowered his sword. Facing King Joyse regally over Geraden’s shoulder, he avowed, ‘My lord King, I spit on the men who did this to you. And I spit on the cheap ploy which made them appear Alend. I would rather die than become a man who can only gain his ends by violence against women.’

  He was too late: the blow which felled him was already in motion. Too quickly for any reaction – even from King Joyse – Artagel reared up behind the Prince and chopped him so hard across the back of the neck that he went down as if he had been hit with an axe.

  At the same time, Castellan Lebbick cried like a howl of glee, ‘Gart!’

  Terisa could see the High King’s Monomach now. As the fourth archer went down, Gart rounded the balcony to attack those on the other side. He was black and swift, a slash of midnight, and his sword seemed to splash blood in all directions.

  The remaining archers had their bows ready to protect King Joyse from Prince Kragen. Instantly, they shifted their aim toward Gart and let fly.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone. He had a number of his Apts with him. Swooping like shadows, they caught the archers from behind, hacking the guards down, spoiling their aim. Only one of the arrows went true.

  Gart knocked the shaft aside with the flat of his blade.

  His return stroke beheaded the nearest archer. The head flopped lopsidedly over the balcony railing and fell among the benches with a thud.

  Men yelled everywhere. Castellan Lebbick roared, ‘I’m coming, you bastard! I’m coming!’ and sprinted toward a door hidden behind one of the screens. Most of the Imagers started to flee. Master Barsonage lashed them back to his side with curses.

  Geraden cried at Artagel uselessly, ‘You idiot!’

  ‘I didn’t know!’ retorted Artagel. Looking frantic and self-disgusted, he flung a glance up at the balcony, at Gart, then scanned the hall; he couldn’t decide what to do. In spite of his uncertainty, however, he didn’t hesitate to help himself to Prince Kragen’s sword.

  Laconic in the tumult, Norge demanded reinforcements. Two of the captains headed out of the hall to rally Orison; the rest of Lebbick’s men followed him toward the stairwell to the balcony.

  The noise awakened the Tor. He opened his eyes with a snuffle and gazed around blearily.

  Terisa felt that she was still watching the severed head flop off the balcony and fall. The sound when it hit the bench was unmistakable: she would remember it for the rest of her life. She had to get out of the way, but for some reason she couldn’t move. Geraden turned toward the Masters: she thought she heard him ask, ‘Can you fight? Have you got mirrors with you?’ The strain around Artagel’s eyes was clear as he hefted the Prince’s blade; he moved stiffly. She knew as if he had explained his dilemma at length that he yearned to go after Gart – that he feared to go because he was no match for the High King’s Monomach. Distinctly, she heard a Master snap, ‘We brought none. How could we know that mirrors would be needed in the audience hall?’ She really ought to get moving. Before Gart or his Apts had a chance to come after her.

  Instead of moving, she waited until she felt a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slide straight through the center of her abdomen.

  Then she flipped forward, dove to the floor, rolled away. When she got her feet under her again, she ran toward Geraden and the Masters.

  Out of the air where she had been standing stepped Master Gilbur and Master Eremis.

  Master Gilbur gripped his dagger in one fist. The hunch of his back and the thickness of his arms made his hands look as powerful as battering rams.

  Master Eremis carried a sword in a scabbard belted around his jet cloak. His chief weapon was already in his hands, however.

  A mirror the size and shape of a roofing tile.

  With a precision that seemed like lunacy, she noticed that both men still wore their chasubles.

  Immediately, Master Gilbur leaped to attack Prince Kragen.

  Grinning happily, Master Eremis came toward Terisa and Geraden. There were no guards to oppose them. Norge’s reinforcements hadn’t arrived. And the rest of the men had followed Castellan Lebbick.

  Lebbick burst out onto the balcony with his sword in both hands, snarling for blood. And he almost caught Gart. Unfamiliar with the stairwell, Gart couldn’t know where it opened; out of ignorance, he had placed himself in an awkward position. Nevertheless he countered Lebbick’s first cut, blocked it against the railing so hard that chips flew. Retreating nimbly, he countered the backstroke.

  That gave him all the time he needed to recover his balance.

  Behind the Castellan, six guards and as many captains led by Norge rushed from the stairwell one at a time to engage the Monomach’s Apts.

  Gart had only four men with him: they were badly outnumbered. But the balcony was too narrow for any two men to stand and fight abreast. Gart blocked Lebbick on one side; on the other, an Apt battled the first pikeman to come at him. The rest of the defenders were caught in the middle, helpless.

  Gart struck furiously, trying to jam his opponents against each other; he almost succeeded at driving the Castellan backward. Lebbick slipped one blow, blocked a second which hit hard enough to jar his joints and leave a notch on his blade. But he was happy at last, nearly ecstatic at the chance to fight without restraint. Savage joy lit his face as he held Gart’s attack.

  ‘Bastard!’ he panted. ‘I’ll teach you to think you can do what you want in my castle!’

  Behind him, unfortunately, the first pikeman didn’t fare as well. The guard probably hadn’t had a fraction of the training given to Gart’s Apts. He stumbled; and his black-armored opponent gutted him almost without effort, then used the moment of surprise while he fell to cut halfway through the nearest captain’s chest.

  Norge stooped, snatched up one of the bows. So placidly that he didn’t seem to be hurrying, he flipped a shaft into the Apt’s throat.

  Across the hall, one of Gart’s men recklessly flung a dagger. It should have missed from that distance: its target should have seen it coming. Unluckily, he didn’t. The guard went down with the blade buried in his left eye.

  Norge shot the Apt cleanly in the chest.

  Gart’s gaze swept the balcony. He took in the positions of the people below him. Instead of ripping Castellan Lebbick’s parries aside, the High King’s Monomach began to give ground.

  Artagel watched what was happening above him for one more moment, then turned his attention to Master Gilbur.

  Plainly, Gilbur intended to kill the Alend Contender.

  It was also plain that he wasn’t going to succeed. Artagel’s side was sore and tight; in some sense, he was a cripple. Nevertheless he could have handled a lone Imager armed with only a dagger in his sleep.

  ‘Guard the Prince!’ shouted the Tor for no discernible reason. He was on his feet, his legs splayed, swaying under the influence of too much wine.

  Smiling pleasantly, Artagel aimed Prince Kragen’s sword – and barely saved himself when Master Gilbur turned suddenly, picked up one of the benches, and hurled it at his head.

  A corner of the bench punched his shoulder, and he went down; he hit the floor heavily, lost his direction. The Master’s strength was prodigious. How was it possible to fight somebody w
ho could throw benches around with one hand? Shock numbed Artagel’s shoulder, but he ignored it. He ignored his side. Suppressing any kind of pain, he surged upright again as smoothly as he could—

  Facing in the wrong direction.

  He wheeled back to the Prince’s sprawling body just in time to block Master Gilbur’s dagger.

  Roaring, Gilbur hit Artagel’s blade so hard that Artagel nearly dropped it.

  Nearly: not quite.

  Mustering his balance, his poise, his old skill, Artagel pointed his sword at the base of Master Gilbur’s throat and dared the Imager to move again.

  The struggle over Prince Kragen apparently held no interest for Master Eremis. He approached Geraden and Terisa and the knot of Masters as if he were on the verge of an epiphany. His smile was so keen it seemed to cut the air. When Geraden cried in frustration, ‘Doesn’t anyone have a mirror?’ Eremis began to laugh.

  He tightened his fingers, murmured something Terisa couldn’t hear.

  Instantly, a creature the size and shape of a fruitbat swept out of the glass, flapped forward, and fastened itself to the nearest Imager’s cheek.

  The man toppled backward, screaming.

  ‘Eremis!’ Geraden yelled as if that were the worst obscenity he knew. From under his jerkin, he produced a knife – an eating utensil he must have appropriated at breakfast – and threw it with all his strength.

  For once in his life, he did something right. He had never trained with a knife; but by chance his blade shattered the glass in Eremis’ hand as neatly as if that was what he had intended all along. Splinters sprayed out of Eremis’ grasp, glittering like jewels in the light.

  The Master’s laugh turned to a snarl.

  While he ripped out his sword, the doors of the hall slammed open and twenty guards charged inward.

  Norge’s reinforcements.

  The guards were too late to save Geraden or Terisa. Their backs were to the wallscreens: they had no escape from the easy action of Eremis’ blade. He plainly knew what to do with a sword. It seemed to flex like a live thing in his hands.

  In contrast, Artagel didn’t need any help. This was the work he had been born to do. First he slapped the dagger out of Master Gilbur’s fist. Then he began to make small, delicate cuts in the Imager’s thick neck, as if he were marking the spot at which Gilbur’s head would be hacked away. All his movements were taut and precise.

  Up on the balcony, Gart lost another Apt. Gart himself hadn’t killed anyone: Lebbick kept him back. Lebbick’s fury appeared almost equal to Gart’s skill. The Apts had accounted for five of the defenders. Surveying the situation, Gart judged that one more pikeman would die before his last student fell. He prepared himself to dispatch Lebbick, perhaps eviscerate him; then he glanced downward, saw the arrival of the reinforcements, and changed his mind.

  Before anyone could grasp his intent, he sprang away from Castellan Lebbick and vaulted over the railing.

  A drop like that could have killed him; it should have snapped his legs. But he had been jumping from high places ever since he began his training under the previous Monomach: he knew how to do it.

  When he hit the rug, he collapsed into himself and rolled to absorb the impact. Then, despite the fact that his feet and legs had gone numb as if his spine were broken, he launched himself at Artagel’s back.

  The only warning Artagel got was the thump when Gart landed. He turned just in time to keep the Monomach’s sword out of his ribs.

  Swiftly, he launched a second parry, a counterstroke. He knew he couldn’t beat Gart, but in the rush of action, the heady flow of battle, he didn’t care.

  Unfortunately, he never finished his riposte. Gilbur’s quickness was like his strength: prodigious. In an instant, he sprang after Artagel and clubbed him to the floor with both fists.

  Prince Kragen was still unconscious. He could have been killed almost without effort.

  Now, however, Master Gilbur and the High King’s Monomach had other priorities. The charging guards had already covered half the distance from the doors: Master Eremis’ allies only had a few seconds left.

  Behind them, Castellan Lebbick came down on the rug with a smashing impact. He had tried Gart’s jump, had landed badly. Pain ripped a gasp out of him; it muffled the sound of breaking bones.

  Together, Gilbur and Gart raced to help Eremis.

  He was fighting for his life.

  No one had opposed his advance on the Masters, on Terisa and Geraden. The Masters were as useless and cowardly as he had always believed them to be; they wouldn’t be worth the trouble of killing. Even Master Barsonage wasn’t worth killing.

  Geraden, on the other hand—

  But at the last moment, Master Eremis had paused. He saw something in Geraden’s eyes – an unexpected threat; some kind of fatal promise.

  It caused the Master to check his swing.

  Terisa didn’t look dangerous. She didn’t even look desirable. She had turned inward with her back against the wall as if she were trying to faint.

  Eremis raised his sword to fend Geraden away while he grabbed at her.

  Suddenly, a mountain of flesh slapped against him with such force that he nearly went sprawling.

  The Tor—! Eremis got his blade up just in time to keep the fat, old lord from splitting his head open.

  Considering the Tor’s skill and age and drunkenness, his sword might as well have been a cudgel. Nevertheless it had weight behind it, and a mad, blubbering fury. Master Eremis parried as hard as he could, and again, and again; yet he was driven backward. He would have to disembowel that old slob to stop him.

  ‘My lord!’ Geraden yelled. ‘Look out!’

  The Tor didn’t seem to hear the warning. He was still swinging his sword like a club when Gart kicked him in the stomach hard enough to rupture his guts.

  Retching, he collapsed to his knees and presented his exposed neck to Gart’s blade.

  Geraden jumped at Eremis.

  Gilbur intercepted him, however, and flung him aside like a handful of rags. Like Prince Kragen, Geraden wasn’t important enough to risk death over. Terisa was the one who mattered. Eremis closed a hand around her arm. Gart braced himself for the quick satisfaction of beheading the Tor.

  Fuming curses and agony, one knee crushed, an ankle cracked, Castellan Lebbick came up behind the High King’s Monomach. He was barely able to stand; every movement ground splinters of bone against each other. His sword hung in his hands, too heavy to lift through the pain.

  Yet he kept Gart from killing the Tor.

  To save himself, Gart whirled and drove his sword straight through the Castellan’s heart.

  Lebbick’s eyes flew wide, as if he had just seen an astonishing sight. Blood burst from his mouth, gushed down the front of his mail. He dropped his weapon. For a moment, his hands clutched at Gart’s blade as if he wanted to wrench it out of his chest. Then, like a man who had decided to let go, he released the iron.

  ‘Bastard,’ he breathed between gouts of blood as if he were talking to someone else, not Gart at all. ‘Now I’m free. You can’t hurt me anymore.’

  Slowly, as if performing at last the only graceful action of his life, he slid backward off Gart’s sword.

  In that way, Lebbick finished mourning for his wife.

  Full of horror, Terisa tried to break Master Eremis’ grip; but she couldn’t do it. She had never been strong enough with him. Geraden lay on the floor without moving. Helplessly, she watched as Eremis made a strange, familiar gesture, a signal she had seen once before.

  Only a heartbeat ahead of the charging guards, she and Eremis, Gilbur and Gart were translated out of the hall.

  In the resulting confusion, a long time passed before anyone noticed that King Joyse had also disappeared.

  Book Four

  FORTY

  THE LORD OF LAST RESORT

  Norge ordered everyone to stay in the hall; but he was already too late. Most of King Joyse’s counselors had scattered, fled like their lord. A
nd the Imagers were no better. Even Master Barsonage, who might in a reasonable world have been expected to set a good example – even the mediator of the Congery was gone. Apparently, he had taken Geraden with him. The only Master left was the man Eremis had killed; the creature which had actually slain him was still chewing on his head, oblivious to everything except food.

  ‘Perfect,’ Norge muttered generally. This was as close as he ever came to despair. All those Imagers and old men who could hardly hold their water for fear, already loose in Orison; already spreading panic. They would tell their friends, their wives, their children, their servants; some of them would tell total strangers. And when the story got out – when people heard that King Joyse was gone, and Lebbick was dead, and the ‘hero of Orison,’ Eremis, was in league with Cadwal – Norge sighed to think about it. Orison was going to come apart at the joints.

  The siege was going to succeed after all.

  Doing what he could, he sent one of the captains to take command of the gates, control the courtyard; make sure nobody did anything wild. That was the crucial place, the point at which panic could spill outward – the point at which Alend could be made aware that Orison was in chaos.

  He ordered two more men to dispatch Eremis’ vicious fruitbat. He detailed guards to locate the counselors and the Masters, so that decisions could be made. For no particular reason except thoroughness, he organized a search for the King. He made sure that Prince Kragen and Artagel were still alive.

  Then he went to help the Tor get up.

  The old lord was on his hands and knees, staring at Castellan Lebbick’s face.

  The Tor was in terrible pain. No, that wasn’t true: he was going to be in terrible pain; he knew he was going to be in terrible pain as soon as the shock of Gart’s kick faded a bit. At the moment, however, he was still stunned, protected from agony by surprise and wine.

  He wanted to raise his head, but the effort was too much for him. He couldn’t do anything except stare at Lebbick’s ruined and happy face.

  People looked like that, he thought, when their kings betrayed them. When they let something as simple and fallible as an ordinary human monarch cut the strings which held their lives together, the cords of purpose. When they drank too much – And then were lucky enough to die without having to watch everything else come apart around them.