by David Keck
It snuffed air through its soft nostrils, and shook its great head. “Long was I king over the men of the shores—fat with blood.” Its tongue slid like a curl of gray excrement, savoring some remembered pleasure. “The firstborn of man and beast they slid down to me. Cool bodies to comfort me in the dark. But now my traitor people cringe at my enemy’s heels.”
A great belch of indignation erupted from the rotten giant: a stink like foul egg. “Long now has mockery been my meat. ‘Bull’ these Sons of Atthi called me, and bull they send me, riddled with their darts of iron.”
The thing blinked its lamp eyes, the bulk of its great head reeking and dripping putrefaction. “You wore their bull talisman. I smell its stink on your neck. I’ve had my fill of mockery.”
It flashed teeth like a row of hog’s ribs.
“Two thousand winters have I cringed in the slime with the whisker-fishes! Like some toothless elder, I’ve supped on watered blood from the sailors’ flagons.” The thing hammered the water with one knotted fist, and Durand rocked on his few planks.
If he could not reach the far shore, Deorwen would die. They all would. And so Durand sucked a breath through his nostrils, and snarled, “You must let me pass.”
The monster cocked its putrid skull. “ ‘Must’?” And then it was moving.
Durand snatched Gunderic’s Sword of Judgment free, but the monster was swifter. An iron grip caught his shins, pulling down—the waves slammed shut beyond his fingertips. He thundered fathoms deep, the weight of the dark stamping air from his lungs.
He had a moment before drowning.
In the milk-light of the fiend’s gaze, gray dunes rippled under the twitching ceiling of the waves. The monster leered with Durand in its fist; the great globes of its eyes pulsed.
“What did he tell you, the walking God?” said the monster.
Durand struggled. He remembered the Traveler—the strange encounter he’d had, the promises the Traveler had made. It had saved him from drowning.
In a cloud of rot, the great teeth were bare once more. The gelid fires of the monster’s eyes flared again: midnight lightning that flickered over a forest of unwholesome shapes, far and wide: bloated corpses tethered by ankles and wrists. Soft men in sailor’s garb. Blue maidens in billowing shifts. Knotted with black weed. Bulls dangling toward the waves.
Then the grip was gone, and Durand burst back into the air.
“You are not for me to steal from Creation. Not yet. Even now, the Eye is upon you. Powers above and below, they watch you.
“But you will not gloat long, I think.” The thing bared teeth. “Men are greedy. Men are fools. Men are treacherous children—they hoard slights in their darkest hearts. Even now, the fools wrangling for the Great Seat prise at the long chains your Patriarchs set upon this realm. The bonds are slack, and soon I will have outlasted the spawn of my enemy. Two thousand bitter winters, mocked, forgotten.”
The thing grunted.
“You are dangled under my nostrils, but I will not bite. I will not call the great Powers down on my head for you and that blade. But I will leave something with you as I have been left here. Something for your darkest heart.
“Do the wise women still play their Firstborn game? For every babe, a forefather from the First Dawning—and a doom to share across the gulf of ages.” The monster flashed its rotten grin.
“For you it must be Bruna, Bruna of the Broadshoulders. Bruna Betrayer, Bruna Betrayed. Your soul reeks of treason.” Durand grimaced. He had heard the name in the mouths of blind savants, Green Ladies, monsters, and mad abbots. A long-ago lover who betrayed and was betrayed.
The monster made a show of sniffing the air, before bending close—this was no giant now, but only a black calf stretched over a man’s bones.
“And I scent the man who will turn on you.”
Durand blinked.
“You flinch, I see,” said the Banished thing. “How should you be treated, traitor? And I see the hour and the hand. And he is known to you. This one who strikes you down; he has struck you before. Yes. Well you know him, this traitor to traitors.”
The brute sneered, a twist of its half-bovine features that cut deep creases across its muzzle. “Betrayal is bitter, but it is the savor of the day. And soon you will drink long of it.”
Durand’s fist clenched around the grip of the old sword. He wondered how the brute would like the bite of steel.
The monster leaned close, almost daring him to strike. “The next to paddle in my mere will not be so fortunate. And you . . . when this kingdom falls, see me then and I will treat you to a proper welcome.” With that, the thing slapped a scythe of water across Durand’s face, and fell back into the waves—dark lightning diving deep.
DURAND LOOKED UP when coarse reeds brushed his knuckles. His legs settled to the bottom sand. Through panes of ice caught among the reeds, he dragged himself ashore and lay shuddering on the sand.
The dark hummocks of upturned boats indicated that he had come up near a fishing village of some kind. For a moment, his eyes fell shut despite the urgency of his mission. His every muscle was as flaccid as the organs of a man’s belly. Then a light blazed around him.
Soldiers in the liveries of Gireth’s houses stood around him. “By the Powers,” they said.
The Eye of Heaven had split the pale horizon. Light lanced into the foggy passageways of Durand’s skull. He winced.
The picket soldiers dropped to their knees, touching their heads to the ground as though Durand were one of the Powers of Heaven.
“What’re you doing, eh?” A sturdy man, bone white and gray-stubbled, had tramped up to the guards and now gave each a good boot—Durand took him for a captain.
The man turned his attention on Durand. “I’m not sure you’re much of a spy, friend. Get up.”
Durand climbed onto his knuckles.
“Now, what are you up to?” The grizzled captain knelt, looking hard into Durand’s face. He had an old sword in his fist.
“I’ve come from the d-duke,” said Durand.
The captain narrowed one green eye, lifting Durand’s chin with the blade. “Right. Which one, eh? That’s what I’m wondering.”
Slowly, Durand reached for the Sword of Judgment.
“Careful,” said the captain, but Durand didn’t draw the blade. Gems winked in the man’s squinting eyes where some long-ago smith had worked the Gireth bull into the cross guard.
Now the man winced, tired or disgusted. “It’s awful bloody early. Their Lordships won’t like to be wakened.”
“Th-there’s no time.”
23. The Relief of Acconel
While the others ran news of Durand’s arrival across the camp, Durand followed the grumbling captain through a maze of chill shadows, guy ropes, and latrine pits to a blue and gold pavilion: the Baron of Swanskin Down’s tent. It was striped like a child’s toy. Dripping, Durand thought of the streets of Acconel and the days of choking smoke. “Here, boy,” grunted the captain. “I’d wager they’ll be here soon enough.”
With that, the man left.
A page stood staring up at Durand.
Durand dripped. “I have come from Acconel.”
“You are Durand of the Col,” said the page.
Thinking that the boy must have been told, Durand managed a quick nod.
The page stared into Durand’s eye—almost insolent. “You’re the baron’s son. The one who left after the Traveler’s Night last year.”
The boy looked ten years old. His hair was dark and roughly shorn. He wore a surcoat to match the baron’s arms.
“You fought Duke Radomor at Tern Gyre,” the boy continued. “And his Champion. You were with Sir Coensar at the River Glass and at Hesperand.”
Only fatigue kept astonishment from Durand’s face. Watching the boy, he waited for his frozen mind to supply some explanation, then the boy’s serious expression reminded him: “The Col. The clerk’s boy. I met you in the courtyard of my father’s hall when you were throwing
messages down that old well.”
Durand still had a tiny dimple in his forehead where the boy’s lead petition had struck him as he climbed the well stairs from his meeting with the Traveler. The boy had been just as inscrutable then.
“They say the duke named you Bull.”
Durand laughed, a puff of air. He blinked slowly to find strength. “How do you come to be here of all places?”
“Your father. My father approached him. I am to be a knight. The baron sent me as page to the hall of the Baron of Swanskin Down.”
It was not possible. “Baron Hroc is making landless knights?”
“My aunt has some noble blood.”
The clerk must have asked at just the right time; Durand couldn’t grudge the boy a chance.
He took the page by the shoulder.
“I must see the baron.”
The clerk’s boy pulled open the flap of the pavilion. His eyes never left Durand.
“Your father is in camp,” the boy added.
THE BARON OF Swanskin Down was a stout man with a silver brush of a mustache. At Durand’s entrance, he climbed from his cot and scowled, wrapped in his bedclothes. “Lord o’ Dooms,” was all he said. Bald on top, the man was otherwise pelted in white curls from the tops of his feet to the ends of his ears.
Soon others made their appearance.
The Baron of Sallow Hythe slid into the pavilion looking like some villain out of a child’s play from the arch of his brow to the end of his pointed beard. Bluff young Baron Honefells strode in smiling, and laughed out loud at Swanskin in his bedclothes. The baron of nearby Mereness, a small fellow with curling red hair, took a place by the tent wall.
As did Durand’s father, Baron Hroc of Col.
Despite shudders, Durand managed to set out the situation, and give the gathered barons their orders.
Sallow Hythe spoke through steepled fingers. “With our numbers, an attack is unlikely to break the siege. We are no match for Radomor’s strength. I had hoped to hear from Mornaway.”
Swanskin grunted. “By rights, we should have had word from his bloody Highness. It should be his host putting Radomor back in his place.”
Sallow Hythe raised an eyebrow. “Cousin, while the king bridles at his rebel brother’s border, do you think he will send his battalions to us? Now that Prince Eodan has pulled Windhover from Errest, Ragnal will not step one foot from his brother’s border.”
Durand smeared his eyes. Here was the Rooks’ rumor confirmed. The kingdom was coming to pieces.
“Prince Eodan’s pride will be our ruin,” Swanskin grunted.
“While the royal brothers wrangle, we must consider sending an emissary to Radomor,” said Sallow Hythe. “He might agree to terms. It is possible that for the right price we might ransom those trapped within the castle.”
Now, a true cold shot through Durand. It was impossible.
Swanskin nodded. “Radomor’s always been an honorable man, though sullen. I saw him ride on the Hallow Downs, battering back those bloody savages.”
Before they’d even begun their haggling, every man, woman, and child in the castle would have died waiting.
“You do not know the man,” said Durand.
The barons swiveled. “Sir,” said Swanskin, “I served beside Sir Radomor in the King’s Host. While he led the contingent of Yrlac, I led that of Gireth. I have known his noble father and seen him wedded to His Grace’s daughter. He is—”
“They are all dead!” snarled Durand. “All those you mention. Alwen. Duke Ailnor, Radomor’s father. Even his own son.” Blood thundered in Durand’s ears. He was going to wind up on his face.
Meanwhile, blotches had bloomed over Swanskin’s cheeks. “Sir, by Heaven, you forget yourself!”
Durand shook his head, wavering where he stood. “The Radomor you knew is lost. I’ve seen him since Hallow Down. His own father knew. He and his pack of fiends have written their terms in blood. Silver will not buy him now.” It was getting harder to stand.
Now, the smiling Baron of Honefells stepped forward, setting his hand on Durand’s arm. “He’s not a friend, then, eh?” The blond stubble on the man’s big jaw twinkled as he grinned. He was hardly older than Durand. “The duke knew our numbers?”
Durand took a breath. “Aye, Your Lordship. He knew. Kieren knew. Lamoric. Before you could bargain them free, they’ll all be dead. The order was ‘come at once.’ ”
With a broad and shrugging smile, Honefells said, “That’s settled then.”
Swanskin grunted.
“Agreed,” said the Sallow Hythe. “We try for the city.”
Astonished, Durand happened to catch his father’s glance: Baron Hroc, though closemouthed, scowled at these carryings-on. Baronies like Swanskin Down, Sallow Hythe, or Honefells dwarfed the Col. And the bear-like mountain baron, himself, seemed smaller here than on his own lands.
The Baron of Sallow Hythe rubbed his jaw. “Our force will require a day’s march to reach the city—even with our pack train behind. If we strike camp and march within the hour, we could never reach the city before twilight.”
“Marching up in broad daylight,” said Honefells. “And arriving too late to fight.”
“Yes.” Sallow Hythe’s expression was sly.
Honefells clapped broad hands. “So. You’d have us hold off, then. Is that it?”
Sallow Hythe’s answer was a small tilt of his head.
“I suppose. If we set out at dusk,” Honefells allowed, “we might reach the city at dawn, or before.”
“What use is an army that’s marched all night?” grumbled Swanskin.
Baron Honefells shrugged wide. “It won’t be easy. There are seven leagues of cart tracks between here and the city. The ground is wet and the ruts will be knee deep if my Honefells is anything to go by.”
Sallow Hythe smiled once more. “But we may achieve surprise.”
“That we’ll need for certain,” said Honefells. “If Radomor guesses we’re near, he’ll dig in. And if our friends from Yrlac so much as foul the gateways, we’ll be outside with no engines, no engineers, and no time to build.”
Swanskin grimaced, raising his hands in exhaustion with the bantering debate of the younger men. “So be it, then. If we’re to have any hope of shaking Yrlac loose, it will be at dawn: one day’s time. I’ll give the orders.” He shook his head. “Bloody King Ragnal. Garelyn’s in irons. Prince Eodan and his lands of Windhover have broken loose. Heaven knows what’s become of Mornaway. The king should be here himself.”
“Clearly, it does not seem so to His Highness,” said Sallow Hythe. “In any case, we had better notify Duke Abravanal of our intentions.”
Honefells nodded. “Aye, it’d be a shame to come bowling into Acconel with the garrison asleep in Gunderic’s Tower.”
Now, Swanskin snorted. “Where will we find another fool to swim the mere, you mean.”
“—I’ll go back,” said Durand. He remembered the rambling threats of the fiend upon the mere. Another man would not get past it. And Durand was tired of these men.
Honefells put a big hand on Durand’s shoulder. “I suppose, friend, we might just be able to find a more exhausted man. . . .”
“Send him,” Swanskin grunted. He may have muttered something about fools.
Durand glanced at his father—who looked ready to snarl at Swanskin. “Lordships, if I’m to get past Radomor’s men, I’ll have to come in after nightfall. I’ll put my head down for a few hours, and then be on my way. That should give me time enough.”
Sallow Hythe spread his fingers. “He has made the crossing once. . . .”
Durand thought he saw his father move to say something.
DURAND WOKE LOOKING into his brother’s face.
The moons of the last winter had left no mark upon it. Hathcyn was precisely the same man that had worried over Durand at the Col. Beyond him, a golden light bloomed against the west wall of the tent.
“They tell me it’s time,” said Hathcyn. “You’r
e to cross as soon as you’re ready.”
Durand had spent the day on the straw floor of a borrowed tent, rather than seeking out his family—something more a collapse than a decision.
“Hathcyn,” Durand said by way of greeting.
Hathcyn forced a gentle enthusiasm. “News of your exploits has reached us all the way up in the Col. I heard you even pulled Lamoric out of the Mount of Eagles: a perilous place to be hostage now that Ragnal is summoning his barons into—”
“I am wanted at the mere,” Durand grunted. Someone must have given him a blanket. It seemed that every muscle in his body had been torn during the events of the day before.
“Father is outside,” Hathcyn said.
Durand had already stepped out. The camp he’d found at dawn was gone now. His was the only tent surviving of a thousand others.
Durand’s father stood with arms locked over his chest. Behind him, the Eye of Heaven gleamed low over a mere now more gold than silver.
“Durand,” he said.
Durand nodded.
“You’re at Acconel?”
Durand nearly laughed. “Aye.”
“Mm. With Lamoric.” This might have been disapproval.
“The heir now,” Durand reminded him.
“Aye.” His father nodded.
The two men stood in the warm brilliance, saying nothing.
“You’re carrying messages for the duke?”
Durand looked his father in the eye. “Aye.” The baron scratched his bearded neck, eyeing the ground between his son’s boots.
“Your mother mentioned you—spent time on her knees praying over one thing and another since you left. She wouldn’t know you were in Acconel now, of course.”
“I must go back.”
After this deep and thoughtful conversation, the baron nodded.