Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  It would be better to die. Better to think Gart’s boot had torn something vital inside him and surrender to excruciation in advance. Better to let wine and loss carry him away. The alternatives—

  The alternatives were distinctly unpleasant.

  Unfortunately, the expression on Lebbick’s face wouldn’t let him go. Lebbick’s blood wouldn’t let him go. The first twinge of pain rumbled through his guts, and he nearly groaned aloud, Oh, Castellan. Mordant and Orison and you, he betrayed us all, abandoned us all – and you fought for him to the end. What did he ever do to deserve such service?

  As soon as the Tor asked the question, however, he found that he knew the answer. Despite his tears, he could see it in Lebbick’s twisted face, his wounds and blood. What King Joyse had done was to create something larger than any one man, something which deserved loyalty and service no matter how fallible and even treacherous the King himself proved to be.

  Mordant. A buffer between the constant, bloody warring of Cadwal and Alend.

  The Congery. An end to the ravages of Imagery when mirrors were used for nothing but power.

  Pain pushed against the back of the Tor’s throat, and his stomach knotted; but he clung to the cold stone with his hands and knees, kept his balance. When that captain, what was his name? Norge, when Norge came to him and tried to help him erect, he managed somehow to knot his fat fist in the captain’s mail and pull him down, so that Norge had to meet him face-to-face.

  ‘The King—’ he gasped. His voice was a sick whisper, lost in the hurt clench of his abdomen.

  ‘Gone, my lord Tor. I’ve sent men to look for him, but I don’t expect any results.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Norge shrugged. ‘Men who vanish like that usually don’t want to be found.’

  His immunity to distress was remarkable. Peering into the captain’s face, the Tor began to remember him better. It was possible that Castellan Lebbick had promoted Norge simply because Norge was the only man under him who never flinched.

  A man like that was hard to talk to. What did he care about? What were his convictions, his commitments?

  ‘Help me up.’ The Tor made no effort to move. The pain squeezed his voice to a husk. ‘I will take his place.’

  The Tor wasn’t trying to stand, and Norge didn’t try to lift him. Instead, the captain asked calmly, ‘You, my lord?’

  ‘Me.’ For all the strength the Tor could muster, he might as well have been whispering deliberately. Maybe Gart really had ruptured something vital. ‘Who else? I am the King’s oldest friend. Apart from Adept Havelock – and you will not offer him the rule of Orison and Mordant.’

  No question about it: the hurt in his bowels was going to be stupendous. Already it seemed to cut off his supply of air. Sweat or tears ran from him as if he were a sodden towel being twisted. There were too many candles glaring in his eyes. Yet he kept his grip on the captain.

  ‘And I am the only lord here. King Joyse suffered me to remain when the others rode away. I have acted as his chancellor and advisor. Something must be done about the panic. Power must be assumed by someone who will be believed. Who else would you have?

  ‘Who else is there?’

  Norge blinked at this question as if he didn’t think it was worth answering.

  ‘I have no hereditary claim, no official standing.’ The Tor wanted to wail or weep, but he couldn’t get that much voice past the pain. ‘But if you support me in this, Castellan Lebbick’s second, a man with the King’s guard behind him—’ A gasp came up from his kneecaps, nearly blinding him. ‘If you support me, I will be accepted.’

  ‘My lord Tor,’ the captain remarked dispassionately, ‘even if I support you, you’ll scarcely be able to stand.’ After a moment, he added, ‘If I can say so without offense, my lord, you aren’t the king I would have chosen.’

  ‘A fat old man sodden with wine and unable to stand.’ It was embarrassing to be in tears at a time like this, but the Tor’s hurt had to have some outlet. ‘I understand. Do you?’

  ‘My lord’ – Norge’s calm was maddening, really – ‘you need a physician. Let people in better condition worry about Orison.’

  ‘Fool,’ the lord moaned. ‘You do not understand.’ Pulling on Norge’s mail, heaving against the pain, he got one leg under him; that enabled him to shift his other hand from the floor to Norge’s shoulder. He felt like he had Eremis’ fruitbat gnawing on his guts. Nevertheless he panted through his tears and sweat, ‘Someone must take command. Orison must be led. And I am here. Prince Kragen is here. For the first time, we know our enemies. We must not miss this opportunity.’

  ‘Opportunity?’ Norge asked noncommittally.

  Oh, for the strength to scream! The Tor’s stomach and throat seemed to be filling up with blood. ‘An alliance with Alend,’ he croaked out. ‘Against Cadwal. A chance to end this siege and fight.’

  The captain said nothing; his reaction was unreadable.

  ‘Norge.’ Peering through a blur of pain, the lord leaned closer to whisper straight into the captain’s face. ‘If I can make an alliance with Prince Kragen, will you support me?’

  Norge spent an astonishing amount of time lost in thought. He took forever to arrive at a decision. Or maybe he just seemed to take forever.

  Then he said, ‘All right, my lord Tor,’ as if he had never hesitated in his life.

  The Tor groaned thickly – relief and anguish. A desire to lie down and hug his belly nearly overwhelmed him. Somehow, however, he forced himself to ask, ‘How is the Prince?’

  Norge glanced away, then answered, ‘Rousing.’

  Hoarse with stress, the Tor breathed, ‘Reports. I need reports. I must know what is happening.’

  Ponderously, as if Norge weren’t carrying most of his weight, the old lord struggled to his feet.

  For a moment, pain rose like vomit into his mouth. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe; if Norge hadn’t held him, he would have fallen. But that was intolerable. So much weakness was intolerable. If he let himself fail now, Castellan Lebbick would probably get up from the dead and go do his job for him.

  With a gasp that went through him like a blade, he pulled air into his chest.

  Almost at once, his vision cleared.

  Prince Kragen was rousing, no question about it. Artagel still sprawled on the floor as if Master Gilbur had broken his neck; but the Prince was crawling stupidly toward his sword.

  A guard who didn’t know any better and probably hated Alends stepped forward to kick the sword out of Kragen’s reach.

  ‘Stop,’ coughed the Tor.

  Norge ordered the guard to stop.

  Still barely conscious, Prince Kragen got a hand on his sword and at once began climbing to his feet.

  Each movement helped bring him back to himself; the weight of his weapon seemed to make him stronger. By degrees, he came upright, planted his legs, clenched both fists on the hilt of his longsword. His eyes lost their glazed dullness and began to smolder with a murderous rage.

  Instinctively, he sank into a fighter’s crouch. The tip of his blade searched for the nearest enemy. He was going to swing— The Tor nearly wept at the thought that Prince Kragen might do something which would force the guards to kill him.

  But the Prince didn’t swing. Slowly, he turned toward the doors; he saw that men blocked his way. ‘Dastards!’ he spat as he wheeled back.

  ‘Who struck me?’ he demanded softly. ‘Where is King Joyse?’

  ‘My lord Prince.’ Trembling, the Tor released one of his hands from Norge, then the other. Alone, he took two tottering steps toward Prince Kragen, as if he were presenting his belly to the Prince’s blade. Fire seemed to run like water out of his guts and down the nerves of his legs; nevertheless he kept his head up. ‘Forgive my weakness. I am unwell.

  ‘You were struck by Artagel.’ He nodded toward Artagel’s supine form. ‘You see the outcome.

  ‘King Joyse is gone. He disappeared shortly after you fell – when Gart attacked.�
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  ‘Gart?’ Prince Kragen’s eyes widened; his rage receded slightly. His mind was beginning to function. He shifted his grip on his sword. ‘The High King’s Monomach was here?’

  The Tor nodded, conserving his strength.

  At once, Prince Kragen scanned the hall, plainly searching for confirmation. He noticed the archers and pikemen dead on the balcony, the slain Apts; he absorbed the absence of the King’s counselors, the absence of the Masters. He saw Castellan Lebbick stretched out behind the Tor, and his mouth twisted under his moustache as if he were suddenly sick.

  ‘My lord Tor,’ he said in a bitter snarl, ‘where are my companions, Geraden and the lady Terisa? They also were protected under a flag of truce.’

  Still whispering because he didn’t have any choice, the old lord replied, ‘Gart had allies. Master Eremis. Master Gilbur.’ He saw from Prince Kragen’s face that the Prince wasn’t particularly surprised by the names he mentioned.

  ‘They took the lady Terisa, my lord Prince,’ Norge put in casually. ‘As for Geraden, he went with Master Barsonage. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say the mediator carried him off.’

  Took the lady Terisa. The Tor blinked stupidly. He hadn’t seen her go, hadn’t known – But he couldn’t afford to think about that now. He had to deal with Kragen.

  ‘So you see,’ he said as well as he could, ‘we have nowhere else to turn for answers. My lord Prince, I think you should tell us the things you came to tell King Joyse.’

  ‘Why?’ Prince Kragen’s question cut the air. ‘Your King accused me of an atrocity. Although I was protected under a flag of truce, I was struck down before I could defend myself.’ He bit into the words to control his passion. ‘Apparently, it is amazing that I am still alive. Even your King’s audiences are not safe. And now he has “disappeared.”

  ‘Why should I say one word to you, my lord Tor?’

  The Tor had to suppress a yearning for sleep. ‘Because King Joyse has disappeared, my lord Prince.’ The damage to his stomach dragged at him. If he were horizontal, it might hurt less. And if he were asleep, it might stop hurting entirely.

  On the other hand, Orison had been kicked in the gut as well. He was needed. He had to do whatever he was capable of doing.

  ‘He is gone. And the Castellan is dead. He died saving my life when Gart was ready to kill me. There is no power left in Orison.

  ‘None except Captain Norge, Lebbick’s second. And Master Barsonage, the mediator of the Congery. And me.

  ‘Master Barsonage is not present, but I will speak for him. If you deal openly with us, we are prepared to offer you an alliance. Orison’s strength, and the Congery’s, against Cadwal.’

  That brought Prince Kragen’s fury up short. He stared for a moment; his mouth hung open. Then, in a tone of fierce care, he asked, ‘Do I understand you, my lord Tor? Have you just proclaimed yourself King of Mordant? Have you murdered Joyse? Have you and Norge been plotting revolt?’

  ‘Of course not,’ the Tor groaned. ‘I claim only the position of a chancellor.’ Really, this was too much. How could he possibly be expected to stand here and argue when he was probably bleeding to death inside? ‘If I were a younger man, I would teach you to regret that accusation.’ If Lebbick hadn’t saved his life, he would have given up the whole business and let himself collapse. ‘The King is only gone, not deposed. Not murdered. In his absence – and in his name – and with Captain Norge’s support,’ he added, hoping that Norge wouldn’t contradict him, ‘I will make decisions.

  ‘We are prepared to offer you an alliance,’ he repeated. ‘If you will deal openly with us.’

  Prince Kragen continued to hesitate, caught – the Tor supposed – between suspicion, curiosity, need. And he probably didn’t trust the wine-soaked old lord in front of him. Who would? A guard came into the hall and crossed toward Norge, but the Tor ignored him. In addition, Artagel began to fumble toward consciousness. The Tor ignored that as well. He concentrated on Prince Kragen’s silence.

  ‘Come, my lord Prince,’ he wheezed. ‘I am not well. I will not be on my feet long. You have said that you desire an alliance. And your desire is demonstrably sincere. With the rupture’ – poor choice of words – ‘of Orison’s gates nearly accomplished, you desisted when Terisa and Geraden came into your hands. But you did not keep them and their knowledge for yourself. You brought them here, risking them and your own person for the sake of what you hoped to gain.

  ‘The blow which struck you down under a flag of truce was a mistake. Artagel will admit as much.’ The Tor saw no reason to refrain from extravagant promises. ‘Will you sacrifice your own needs and desires merely to punish us for a mistake?

  ‘My lord Prince, tell us the things you came to say to King Joyse.’ Artagel levered himself off the floor, lurched to his feet; one hand clasped the back of his neck, trying too late to protect it from Gilbur’s attack. When he saw Prince Kragen facing him, sword poised, he took a step backward and looked around urgently, searching to comprehend what had happened.

  ‘A report, my lord Tor,’ Norge announced tranquilly. ‘You asked for reports.

  ‘There’s panic in Orison, and it’s spreading, but we’ve been able to keep it out of the courtyard – away from the gates. The Prince’s honor guard is waiting as patiently as possible. No sign of King Joyse. Geraden is definitely with Master Barsonage. The mediator’s quarters.

  ‘Two of the duty guards say they saw Adept Havelock’s brown cloud lift off the King’s tower.’ Nonchalantly, Norge avoided Prince Kragen’s sharp gaze. ‘If they’re right, it didn’t attack the encampment. It just floated out of sight.’

  The Tor suffered this interruption as well as he could, but he hardly heard what Norge was saying. At the moment, all he really wanted in life was the ability to cry out; scream his pain at the ceiling. And not just the pain of his brutalized abdomen. He had other hurts as well. Lebbick’s death. King Joyse’s abandonment, when he, the Tor, had staked his heart on the belief that Joyse still deserved trust. And the humiliation of being distrusted because he had drunk too much wine.

  His eyes ran again. Stupid, stupid. Through the blur, he croaked, ‘Artagel.’

  ‘Is this certain?’ Prince Kragen snapped at Norge. ‘The report is to be trusted? The King’s Dastard has not attacked us?’

  ‘Lebbick?’ Artagel demanded like a man who still wasn’t entirely conscious. ‘Lebbick?’

  ‘You struck Prince Kragen under a flag of truce. That was a mistake. Tell him you know it was a mistake.’

  Both Prince Kragen and Norge stared at the Tor as if the old lord had lost his mind.

  ‘Lebbick!’ Artagel cried through a clenched throat. ‘What have they done to you?’

  The Tor tried again. ‘Artagel.’

  ‘Terisa? Geraden?’ Artagel jerked his head from side to side, scanning the hall, the guards, the bodies. ‘Where are they?’ A flush of blood and pain filled his face. ‘Did Gart get them? Somebody give me a sword! Where are they?’

  ‘Artagel!’ Norge put an inflection of command into his easy tone. ‘Eremis and Gart took the lady. Geraden is all right. Pay attention. The Tor gave you an order.’

  ‘Gave me a what?’ Artagel rasped as if he were about to begin howling. But then, abruptly, he froze; his eyes widened. Almost matching Norge’s casualness, he asked, ‘Where is King Joyse?’

  ‘That,’ said Prince Kragen in heavy sarcasm, ‘is a question we would all like answered.’

  Slowly, Artagel’s jaw dropped.

  The Tor made one more effort. ‘Artagel, you struck Prince Kragen under a flag of truce. I want you to apologize.’

  Then, deliberately, the old lord closed his eyes and held his breath.

  He didn’t look or breathe again until he heard Artagel say, ‘My lord Prince, I was wrong.’

  Artagel was smiling like a whetted axe. His voice held an edge he might have used against Gart. And yet—

  And yet he did what the Tor needed.

  ‘It’s i
nexcusable to violate a flag of truce. And you saved my life once – you and the Perdon. I just didn’t have time to think. I was afraid of what King Joyse might do. Everybody in Orison knows he’s been practicing his swordsmanship. The Castellan said he was probably going to challenge you to a duel. I thought he was crazy enough to try it.’

  Prince Kragen couldn’t hide his surprise at this information, but the Tor clung to his pain and let everything else pass over his head. Unexpectedly, his spirits lifted a bit. There was good reason why everybody in Orison liked Artagel.

  ‘I’ve seen you fight,’ Artagel concluded. ‘King Joyse didn’t stand a chance. I was just trying to save him.’

  Artagel had the Prince’s attention now. Kragen thought intently for a moment, then said, ‘Artagel, you have the reputation of a fighter. You understand warfare. What is your opinion? Who has the most to gain from an alliance, Orison or Alend?’

  Without hesitation, Artagel answered, ‘You do, my lord Prince. We’ve got the Congery.’

  The Tor couldn’t be sure of what he saw any longer. His eyes kept running, and the damage to his stomach seemed to throb up into his head; his brain felt like a balloon about to burst. Nevertheless he had the impression that the Prince was sagging, letting go of his fury.

  ‘My lord Tor’ – Prince Kragen’s voice came from somewhere on the other side of a veil of pressure – ‘Geraden and the lady Terisa approached me from the Care of Fayle, where they had witnessed Queen Madin’s abduction. But that was by no means their only news. Among a number of other things, they informed me of Master Eremis’ treachery.

  ‘Simply for that – to warn King Joyse of his enemies – I might have been willing to risk myself here. But I have other information as well, knowledge which both confirms and worsens the things Geraden and the lady Terisa revealed.

  ‘I know where High King Festten’s army is.’