Pragmatism, Osrik had said. Compromise. He’d known Erik lacked these qualities, looked to Tom to compensate. He may not always welcome your advice, but he will have need of it, whether he realises it or not.
Tom tried again. “If we declare war on the Trionate, it could spell the end of this kingdom. No treaty is worth that.”
“A treaty is not merely a piece of parchment,” Erik said. “It is a solemn vow. Were I to break it, I would not only dishonour myself, but call into question every agreement the crown has entered into or will enter into in future. A king whose word cannot be trusted is a king without allies.”
“There is wisdom in that, Your Majesty,” Highmount acknowledged. “But the vow is not yours. It was your late father’s, made in a time of peace. He did not foresee circumstances such as these.”
“I do not deny this is a test,” Erik said, “but it is only when tested that honour has meaning.”
Tom’s mouth twisted in bitter admiration. Clever, Erik. He was paraphrasing a favourite saying of Arran Green’s, disguising it just enough that the old knight was unlikely to spot the manipulation. Green’s commitment to honour, his utter devotion to that most uncompromising of the Holy Virtues, was the man’s single most defining trait. By invoking it, Erik was sure of winning Green to his cause. Well struck, Brother. And now for the death blow . . .
Erik aimed his next words directly at his target. “What say you, Commander? Can we win this fight?”
Green’s stern features knotted meditatively, his thumb trailing along his closely trimmed beard. “Not easily, sire. Perhaps not at all.” Whatever his views, the old knight would not lie, nor even varnish the truth. Tom could be grateful for that, at least. “Even so, I am inclined to agree that we must try. We have done everything we can to avert war, but the Oridians have forced our hand. Win or lose, we have no choice now. We are honour-bound.”
Erik sat back in his chair, vindicated.
And so your charm carries the day again. If only you possessed in wisdom a fraction of what you possess in the other Holy Virtues, Brother.
Highmount sighed. “If Alden’s greatest military commander speaks thus, I fear there is little I can say to sway you, sire.”
“Nor I, apparently,” Tom said, “though that comes as no surprise.”
Erik ignored that last. “Very well, my lords. I will begin writing our allies immediately.” His so-called advisors took their cue, rising from their seats and preparing to leave. But Erik said, “Stay, Brother. I would have a word.”
Tom could guess what that word would be. He lowered himself back down stiffly.
Erik waited until the door came to a close behind Arran Green. Then: “You could at least pretend to support me in front of others.” There was no anger in his voice, just the same weary exasperation that had come to characterise everything that passed between them. “I daresay you won’t fool anyone, but for the dignity of my office and yours, you might try.”
“The dignity of your office?” Tom laughed humourlessly. “Since when does that concern you?”
Erik sighed. “Both of us have the well-being of this kingdom at heart. Surely we can find common ground there, if nowhere else?”
“Desires are of no account. Actions are what signify, and actions have consequences.”
It sounded far more condescending than he’d intended, and of course his brother took it badly. “Inaction has consequences of its own,” Erik snapped, “and there are more ways to be destroyed than by the sword. If we hold ourselves to no higher standard than our own survival, what separates us from our enemy?”
Pretty words. Tom had heard them all before. “You’re a good man, Erik. Alas, that is not what this kingdom needs right now.”
“You’re wrong.”
Tom growled under his breath. This was pointless. “Is that all?”
“No.” Erik folded his hands on the desk, all traces of anger vanished. He had something even more unpleasant to say, apparently, and for both of their sakes, he was keeping himself in check. Another of his gifts.
“Spit it out,” Tom said. “I have a great many preparations to make for our glorious war.”
Erik didn’t rise to the bait. “I will ride with our armies. You will command the White Wolves. That will leave a dangerous vacuum in the capital.”
“Quite. And how do you intend to fill it?”
“In the short term, a council will be appointed, as we discussed. But I have no doubt I will come under pressure to finalise”—Erik glanced away uncomfortably—“other arrangements.”
A cold fist clamped around Tom’s guts. His throat felt suddenly dry, but somehow, he managed to keep his voice even. “You refer to your marriage.”
“Highmount will insist, and he will not be alone. If I should fall on the battlefield, they will want . . . For the sake of stability, they will demand that I . . .”
For the first time in his adult life, Tom had the perverse pleasure of watching his brother struggle for words.
He put Erik out of his misery. “They will want you to leave behind a queen. With child.”
Silence settled over them like a dusting of ash. Tom could taste it on his tongue, feel it in the pit of his stomach. He was sick with it.
“I won’t,” Erik said, meeting Tom’s eye at last. “I swear to you, nothing has changed. I bring it up only to forewarn you of the talk you’ll hear in the days to come. The pressure will be extreme, not least from the Greys themselves, but I will not bow to it. I will never marry Sirin. She is yours, now as ever. I just need more time. I dare not alienate her family by breaking our betrothal now, but when the war is done—”
Tom couldn’t help it; he started laughing. Softly at first, building until he was nearly doubled over with it, his head cradled in his hands. He laughed until he thought he would weep. Until he thought he would rip apart at the seams.
Desires are of no account. So he’d said moments ago, and many times before. Now came the test. Do I have the strength to live by my own words, or shall I reveal myself a hypocrite? What a fool you are, Tomald White, to let yourself be trapped thus.
When the spasm finally subsided, Tom looked up to find his brother regarding him with such a pitying expression that he nearly came undone all over again. “It’s over, Erik,” he said roughly. “You did your best to find an honourable way out of Father’s arrangement, and for that I thank you, but you have no choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
Tom’s features twitched in barely restrained fury. “Don’t be an ass. The kingdom needs this marriage. If you fall without leaving an heir, Alden could crumble.”
“If I fall,” Erik said, “Alden has you.”
“And if I should fall as well?”
“We mustn’t let that happen.”
“Gods’ blood, Erik . . .”
“Enough.” The king’s eyes grew cold, his temper coming unspooled at last. “I am not a fool, Tom. Do you honestly suppose that I haven’t thought this through?”
“I don’t know what is going through your mind!”
“Evidently, but that doesn’t stop you from presuming you know better. Your whole life, you’ve thought that. Held your philosophies above my own, as though there were but one brand of wisdom in the world and you alone can see it. Where does this intolerable pride come from?”
“Pride?” Tom’s voice skirled upward. “You would hold your own precious honour above the survival of this kingdom and you talk to me of pride?”
“I hold certain things above safety, it’s true. Honour is one of them. Family is another.”
Tom snorted. “Spare me. I am not such an easy mark as Arran Green. Marry your betrothed, Erik. Don’t think of her as Sirin Grey. Don’t think of her as—”
“My brother’s lover?” Erik threw his hands in the air.
“No. She is your future queen, and that’s all that matters. The rest—my feelings, hers—they don’t enter into it.”
“You don’t mean that. You w
ant to mean it, but you don’t, and if I acted on that advice, you would never forgive me.”
“Perhaps not, but it doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? Ordinary men might worry about such frivolities, but we don’t have that luxury, you and I. Our duty demands sacrifices. You are the king and I am the prince!”
“I am more than that, and so are you.”
“No, Brother,” Tom said wearily, rising. “Right now, you are less.”
Spring, 427 PE
Three weeks after the Kingdom of Alden declared war on the Trionate of Oridia, Tom received the letter.
Amid the rationalisations and outright lies, it contained only one paragraph of any real meaning—a proposal so vile, so nakedly cynical, that he could scarcely credit it:
It pains us to suggest such a drastic measure, but we trust you agree there is no longer an alternative if we are to have peace between our nations. In exchange for this service, the Holy Trionate of Oridia will be the first nation to recognise your rightful place as King of Alden. All hostilities will immediately cease. Moreover, we commit to no further expansion beyond the territories we currently occupy. We can, in short, coexist peacefully, and Alden continue to prosper under your reign.
I offer my word as the Holy Incarnate of the God of Life.
Long live the Raven, King Tomald.
Varad, Trion of Oridia
Tom tasted bile at the back of his throat. Did the enemy truly think he could be bought? That he would betray his country, deliver his own brother’s head, for the price of a crown? They had grossly misread him.
Varad, Trion of Oridia, you can rot in all Nine Hells. Tom crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the hearth.
He spoke of the letter to no one. He put it from his mind and vowed never to think of it again.
Winter, 427 PE
The air smelled of snow. Tom flexed his hands inside his gauntlets, wishing he had worn warmer gloves beneath his armour. Strange, the trivial things that worried the mind before battle.
“Remember,” Erik said, “wait for the signal. No heroics, either of you.”
Tom glanced instinctively at Arran Green and saw his own thoughts reflected in the old knight’s eyes. If any man here fancied himself a hero, it was Erik.
“You have nothing to fear on that score, Your Majesty,” Green said, “though I wish you would reconsider and let me remain at your side.”
“My personal guard will suffice,” Erik said. “I need a man of your experience leading that charge.”
Green had said his piece; he would not argue further. He inclined his head gravely. “May Rahl be your sign, Your Majesty. And if we do not meet again, it has been an honour.” So saying, he guided his horse away, signalling to his men to follow him along the spine of the bluff.
Tom yanked on his own reins, but Erik called his name. Checking a sigh, Tom turned.
“I know you think this is a mistake—”
“Please, Erik. We have rehashed this enough for two lifetimes. The thing is done.”
“I only wanted to say that whatever happens here today, we must find a way to forgive each other. We are still brothers, after all.”
The words sparked a conflagration in Tom’s breast, a white-hot flare of conflicting emotions that threatened to consume him. He wanted to scream. To weep. To shake his brother until he saw sense.
He did none of those things. “Yes, Erik,” he said numbly. “We are still brothers.”
It was only then, as he turned away to take his position on the bluff, that he remembered the letter.
Now, as he watches the massacre unfolding below, the letter is all he can think of. The words come back to him as vividly as if he held the parchment before his eyes. They whisper in his ear like the tongue of a venomous snake, urging him to the unthinkable. Except it isn’t unthinkable, not anymore. Here on this bluff, in the bleak light of winter, the unthinkable looks remarkably like wisdom.
Peace between our nations.
Another voice in his ear now, that of an eight-year-old boy: A traitor is the worst thing in the world.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to banish the hateful bargain from his mind, focusing instead on the image of the letter withering in the flames. He tries to summon the feelings he had then, the indignation and the fierce blaze of loyalty. But the hearth has gone cold. In the ashes of his outrage, he sees his duty.
Damn you, Erik. For bringing them to this, and for so much more. For being everything he is, kind and steadfast and just, everyone’s golden son. A good man. A disastrous king.
And what of the man who betrays him? What is he?
A traitor is the worst thing in the world.
Tom glances at the sky. Snow drifts down in thick, swirling flakes. Blessed Eldora, grant me wisdom. Blessed Rahl, lend me strength.
Someone is calling him. He’s not sure who, and it doesn’t matter anyway. He will have no counsel from these men. None of them sees what he sees. They weren’t there at the beginning. They haven’t watched the signs and portents along the way, haven’t been dragged kicking and thrashing to this precipice of blood and snow.
His ears ring with the screams of the dying. Tom opens his eyes, forces himself to look. The enemy flank is closing around Arran Green’s forces like flesh healing over a splinter. Soon the Kingswords will be little more than a nuisance. The Wolves could save them, perhaps. There is still time. Tom could throw good blood after bad and maybe some of them would escape. But the armies of Alden would be weaker still, and the only path to peace closed forever.
A flash of metal in the distance. Tom squints through the veil of snow. A pair of Kingsword scouts race along the edge of the southern ridge, as if to get a better view of the battle. One of them starts down the slope, but the other grabs her arm. Even from this distance, Tom can tell they’re arguing.
Stop her, he wills the reluctant scout. Nothing awaits her down there but death. Make her see reason.
The first scout pulls away. She’s going, with or without her partner. The reluctant scout hesitates a moment longer. Then they plunge down the slope together.
Madness, Tom thinks. But there is a certain beauty in their doomed charge. At least they will die together.
He feels something break inside him then, but he sweeps the fragments aside. There is no point in mourning now. It’s too late for that.
“Goodbye, Brother.” The words leak out in a ribbon of ghostly vapour, as if a scrap of his soul were leaving him.
He turns away from the bluff, walking his horse back through the ranks. Some of his men will follow him off the field, others not. It doesn’t matter. The battle is lost. Erik is lost. All that’s left is for Tom to pick up the pieces, just as he’d always known he would have to someday.
It could only ever have come to this.
Mark Lawrence
* * *
The only “weird western” I’ve read is Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, which I loved. I’ve always liked the concept of fantasy and gunslingers together, but it wasn’t until reading Dark Tower that I thought I would have my own crack at it. I come from a generation that had just three TV channels to watch as kids, and no computer games to play. For every fantasy or knights in armour offering on the TV there were thirty Westerns, and so I grew up watching the hero draw down on the badies rather than take an axe to them.
Just as with the idea of chivalry with medieval knights, there is a wholly false conceit that moral right is somehow bound with the gunfighter’s prowess and victory. In the larger story, of which this short work is part, I nibble at the edges of that concept by having an outside power effectively hold mankind to those ideals.
Mark Lawrence
Bulletproof
Mark Lawrence
“Scram, kid.”
Mikeos danced away from the minotaur’s lazy swing. He ducked beneath a busboy’s arm, nearly taking out a tray of ales, and fetched up amid the tatter-robes of a hunska sex-woman.
“Not for you, boy,” she husked.
<
br /> A quick struggle saw him clear of soft breasts and musk-laced velvet. He pressed on, through the throng, making for the bar.
A hand, huge as a chair, took him about the shoulders, lifting him from the floor.
“You looking to get ate?”
Mikeos dangled six inches from the wet snout of another minotaur, a clansman in bull hides sewn with iron plates.
“Hey Grum!” Mikeos grinned; he liked the big warrior, except when he got to drinking his whiskey by the bucket of course. Taurs make for roaring drunks—it’s the woodkin that get maudlin.
“You’ve come for the gunslinger,” Grum said. He didn’t have to raise his voice above the hubbub. He spoke so deep it just rumbled through a man.
He set the boy on his shoulder. From his perch, across a sea of heads, Mikeos could see the hearth and the tables set around it. The Frostral had yet to blow in earnest and the hearth lay cold, but the people who counted sat around the fireplace. No elbowing for space there.
Grum was half right. Mikeos had been looking for the gunslinger’s arrival every day for a week. Today, however, he’d actually been running from trouble. Even so, now he really was here to catch sight of the gunman.
“Which one is he?” Mikeos felt a twinge of disappointment. He should be able to tell. The fastest hand under gun-law should look like something. Something important.
“The dude in the black hat,” Grum said. He buried his snout in his tankard and seemed to inhale about a gallon of beer.
Mikeos could see him now. He had missed the man at first, a dark figure at the table to the left of the hearth, his back to the wall. Beside him the stairs, leading up to Miss Kitty’s room and the Kitty girls behind their doors along the long corridor.
Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy Page 40