by Anna Thayer
“Courage, men of the King: stand!” he cried, and raised his sword high.
“The King!” The whole line took up the call so loudly that it drowned the drums. For a moment the Gauntlet line seemed to falter. “The King!”
Eamon turned towards the flank of the wayfarer line and pushed forward. The cry of the King’s name followed him. As he reached the forward ranks, the Gauntlet reserve reached them. The first strike ran through the whole line, pressing men and blades together.
“Stand!” Eamon yelled. “Stand, King’s men!”
He felt the pressure all around him as the line tried to hold. The noise of battle was deafening, the clash a terrible and continuous roaring groan.
There was another stomach-churning jolt; the whole line moved back. Eamon turned in horror to his left in time to hear the cry as the southern-most part of the line buckled. A stream of red broke through. A huge, solid, indefatigable mass of Gauntlet blades rose and fell in their bloody work. Blood and bodies were crushed into the sodden earth.
He yelled again for the King’s men to stand. He charged the charging red. Men gathered round him. They called at the top of their lungs and raced forward with him. The weight of armour and blade seemed but nothing to him as he went on, feeling the full flow of blood in his hands and the King’s name over him.
Before him was the Gauntlet, the red dotted with black, Hands in their midst. One of them raised a bow and moments later an arrow spun through the air. The man beside Eamon went down in a froth of blood.
As the Hand nocked another arrow, the King’s men came against the reserve. Several standards swung over the heads of the charging Gauntlet, one belonging to General Waite. Eamon’s heart ached as he saw the other, for it belonged to the West Quarter. The South Quarter came behind it.
Driving down his hurt, he drew breath once more. “King’s men, to me!” he cried.
The lines collided. Eamon’s sword turned crimson in the morning sun. His hands plied a bloody trade on the field before Dunthruik. He did not know how many Gauntlet he struck down before he realized what he did; having realized, he could not stop. Swinging his blade round he struck down another opponent and trampled forward over the fallen body.
Wayfarers were all about him. They assembled themselves into a new line. Eamon knew it was not enough: they would not hold. Scattered and isolated clumps of men drew together into circles to make their last stands. Behind every Gauntlet man they killed, ten more stood. The bold blue line staggered back under the press. The desperation of that knowledge drove Eamon forward with grim and vicious prowess.
“Stand, King’s men!”
He heard more cries to his right. Risking an upward glance, Eamon saw the wayfarer general press south, calling on the men to hold. Looking to the men around him, Eamon saw the ragged line they formed. By falling back a little they could bolster the general and perhaps hold the line.
“King’s men, to me!” he called. Those men still standing came to his side. They drove together towards the general, fending off the blood-charged Gauntlet who came at them.
It was as they reached the general’s standard that Eamon heard a roar. He looked up to see the standard go down beneath a choking wave of red. His heart caved as the Gauntlet fell upon Hughan’s general. Through the shuddering mass of the line Eamon saw men gutted and stabbed.
A Gauntlet ensign came for him with a howl. Enraged, Eamon turned the blade away and quickly downed the man.
“Stand, King’s men!” he yelled. But beneath the screams of the Gauntlet and the rolling drums, the broken wayfarer line could not hear him. He drove away another attack. His sword was heavy in his hand as he gave back another pace before the onslaught.
“King’s men!” he cried, his voice breaking.
Where were the cavalry? Where was Hughan?
There was a shriek by his ear; the man beside him went down. As Eamon turned back to meet his next foe he knew that he turned too late: the soldier lunged at him with a bill. Eamon dodged the first strike, but he could not avoid the second as the bill-butt swung back at him.
It struck his head. The blow sent him reeling round in agony; blood leapt from his lips. He sank to his knees, scarcely aware of a man stepping up to defend him. His head throbbed. His sight spun. Through the awful pain, he heard horns. The sound cracked through his skull like the blow he had received. As he struggled to keep his eyes open, he thought he saw the King’s standard coming across the field at the head of the thundering cavalry. The whole earth shook beneath him.
CHAPTER XVII
Eamon awoke to find himself in a different plain, the sky above him darkened and traces of mist in the blood-soaked air.
There were men about him, dressed in clothes of red and blue, but they were not the uniforms familiar to him. They moved around him and through him, bearing arms and shields that he did not know, though he knew their devices – sword, star, and eagle. In the grisly distance a watchtower looked over a stream that ran red into a field strewn with corpses.
A man rode across the murky field. He was robed in blue, and his armour shone brightly in the dim light. His sword was high in his hand. Words that Eamon could not hear were on his lips. A trumpet called men on to war.
As the rider reached the stream, Eamon saw men in the darkness there. One knelt in hiding among the fallen, dressed in blue. The one in blue arose, sword in hand, towards the rider. He gave a cry and a killing blow to the steed. Behind him was a man with flaming red hair.
In striking bound…
Suddenly Eamon’s eyes were his own again. He was on his feet with his sword in hand. A gap opened in the ranks before him, a tunnel that led to a blue-marked rider on a star-white horse. Eamon knew that his steps took him towards that rider to work again the treachery of his line.
What treachery? This was ever my plan for you, Eben’s son, and you accepted it when you first knelt to me.
There was fire in his hands and at his brow. The King was before him, all his effort turned towards staging the cavalry against the oncoming Gauntlet.
Eamon had a clear run, a perfect strike. He would be unseen, unnoticed, until the Serpent’s heir was a crumpled, gutted mass on the ground. Certainly he could never escape the cavalry, but what of that? The voice told him that their revenge on him would be swift, and he would die vested in the Master’s glory…
Entranced, Eamon’s feet went steadily towards the King. His hands were ready to strike. His head and eyes and blood all burned – his line would be redeemed and ended at one blow. The poetry of it was pleasing.
The King was before him, his blue gaze turned away as he gave commands. He would never know who had struck him…
Strike! Strike now, Son of Eben!
With agonizing effort, Eamon hefted the blade in his hands and turned to face the oncoming Gauntlet. He would heed this voice no more. It was as he stood and felt the thunderous tread of the crying cavalry all around him that he found his own voice lifted in a singing cry against the Lord of Dunthruik:
“My true vow calls again to me, and in his service I am free!”
The King’s cavalry charged against the Gauntlet line. They smashed into it, tore holes through it. The sound and sight and smell of the charging horsemen was terrifying from the ground but Eamon followed it. Suddenly there were Gauntlet men around him. They screamed at him with the fierceness and anger of the Master whom Eamon had defied.
“I am a King’s man!” he cried. He struck them. “A King’s man till I die! The First Knight for the King!” The Gauntlet fell back before him and the King’s horse in fear.
The cavalry rushed past him. One of Hughan’s guards was struck by a bolt and went down to the thick earth. His horse struggled under the fall of its rider. The Gauntlet swarmed about them. As Eamon fought, the King’s cavalry pressed hard at the enemy line and broke through with a triumphant cry. Hughan rode with them and was lost from Eamon’s sight.
As the cavalry rode forward behind the Star of Brenuin, the Gaun
tlet’s spirit cracked. The reserve line fell back.
Eamon fell still, his sword ruddy in his hands. For a moment there were no enemies by him, merely fallen and dying men. He stared at his hands – hands that, but for grace, had nearly killed the King. His limbs shook with terror and exhaustion.
The noise of falling hooves sounded behind him. Eamon turned to see Sahu galloping to him. The beast was running, unhurt and riderless, in the wake of the moving cavalry. With a cry of joy, Eamon received his black steed as it came to him, unlooked for, from across the field.
He took a spear from a fallen knight and climbed into his saddle. “Go!” he called, and he urged Sahu on in the wake of the King.
The movement of his horse beneath him was sure and steady as he rode on into the breaking lines. The standards of the Gauntlet, and of the Four Quarters, fell back before the King’s cavalry and disappeared beneath the charge of the knights. The Guantlet streamed back to the city gates. Hands rode among the Gauntlet, trying to rally them against the wayfarers, but the line was broken. The south flank was lost to them.
As he rode, Eamon passed a bleeding man. The wayfarer was badly injured, but he bore a standard as a crutch as he quitted the shattered field. A crippling shudder ran down Eamon’s spine – the standard was Waite’s.
Eamon turned from it and looked instead to the cavalry. They went north along the line, the King’s banner flapping above them. It lifted his spirits and he spurred on.
Straggling Gauntlet came at him as he made to join the cavalry but he struck them down. Sahu whinnied and then broke into a gallop. As he neared the King’s horses, a red banner in the churning rage of the retreating Gauntlet caught Eamon’s eye. The banner bore four golden lions. Eamon recognized it, just as he recognized the man who held it.
It was the banner of Edesfield, and the man who carried it was Captain Belaal.
All at once Eamon felt a flurry of rage. The captain incited the shredded remains of Edesfield’s men against the King:
“On, you bastards!” Belaal yelled. “On, and reap the Master’s glory!”
The captain’s eyes fell on Eamon, and his face became a picture of hot-blooded wrath.
“Goodman!” he shrieked. Eamon turned to him. The captain surged forward, obstructed by neither corpse nor injured man as he plunged headlong towards the First Knight.
“You vile, whore-son bastard!” he screamed. “Turn-coated, thieving, perfidious, bloody traitor!” Vested with his rage, he dropped the banner and hurled himself at Eamon, screaming: “Death! Death in darkness to you and your heirs, on their own blood! Traitor!”
Of the charge of traitor Eamon was barely aware; his anger had been stirred long before then. With an awful cry, he raised his spear and charged the screeching captain. Eamon drove his horse forward into a gallop. The power of the horse’s strong flanks filled his limbs and arm. Undaunted, Belaal came on, screaming. He drew up his blade.
He never landed the blow. As Belaal prepared to strike, Eamon thrust at the man’s face where the helmet lay open. The spear’s tip plunged into the howling mouth with the full force of knight and horse behind it. Eamon lost the spear as it lodged into the man’s throat in a wash of gore and curses, cracking bone and striking helm.
It was a moment before he realized what he had done. Shaking, he drew his horse to a stop then wheeled about.
He turned and came back at once to the captain and his fallen standard.
Most of the Gauntlet nearby had fled, but five or six men remained. The last men from the Edesfield division stood, astounded, by their dead captain, their faces pale and witless. Eamon thought that he recognized one of them: the man had been a cadet when he had left the town but now bore the rank of lieutenant. There were wayfarers all around them but this man held out his arms.
“Grant me the lives of my men!” he cried, turning his bloody sword in his hands so that the hilt was towards his enemy. He took the town’s standard in his other hand and sought Eamon’s face. “I surrender Edesfield and my sword!” The men for whom he spoke stood terrified behind him. At the lieutenant’s gesture, they cast their blades and axes to the ground. “Grant us our lives!”
Eamon approached the terrified, blood-stained man. He remembered – how he remembered! – the day when he had offered his sword to Giles…
He met the lieutenant’s fearful gaze. “They are granted,” Eamon answered, taking the sword from him, “and I accept your surrender.”
The man stared at him speechlessly. Then he drew himself up. “Who takes Edesfield’s surrender?” the lieutenant stammered.
There, on the field of battle surrounded by corpses, Eamon forced a smile. “One who knows it, and loves it well. My name is Eamon Goodman, and I am First Knight to the King.”
“Goodman,” the lieutenant whispered. Recognition hit the man’s face with a blow keener than that of any blade. Then the man turned the standard in his hands and held it out. “We surrender to you, First Knight, and hope for your King’s mercy.”
The lieutenant laid the banner in his hands; it was heavy and blood-smeared. Eamon took it. Tears filled his eyes, and joy shook his heart. In Edesfield had Ede been betrayed; in Edesfield had he and Hughan found refuge for a time. Now the town’s standard – and its Gauntlet – had been won back to the King.
“You shall have the King’s mercy,” he said.
Eamon discharged the men into the care of some of the wayfarers and looked again to the standard he had won. It moved steadily in the wind before him. The juddering spear in Belaal’s open jaw had fallen still, though blood still issued from it.
Eamon turned away. The King and his cavalry were ahead, as were the Easter standards. They pursued the retreating Gauntlet.
He tapped his horse’s flanks and went after the King, the banner an odd weight in his hand. Hughan looked up as he approached; the King bore a reddened spear. That image struck deep.
“First Knight,” Hughan greeted. His remaining guard was with him, though the rest of the cavalry had run far ahead in their pursuit. Groups of Gauntlet persisted across the field, but many more, including mounted Hands, fled west towards the sea. There were signs of battle by the River, and Eamon wondered whether any men had fallen or drowned there. Given the terrain, he found it more than likely. He realized how perilously – and skilfully – Hughan had committed his cavalry. He could not see what had become of the hobilars and Easters to the north, but he saw that the Blind Gate closed as arrows rained down from the walls. Any man who had not withdrawn to the city would be pursued and killed, or forced to surrender.
As he looked up at the great gate, Eamon could not help but imagine the abject fear and terror that those inside – especially the thresholders, boys and men too young or too old to be grouped into Dunthruik’s militia – would feel. His thoughts passed for a moment to his servants, to the theatre, to the East Quarter. Would they be safe?
He became aware again of the standard in his hand. He turned to the King.
“Though Edesfield is already yours, this I bring you,” he said, holding the banner out across to the King. His voice trembled as he spoke.
Hughan accepted what he offered, his heart no less moved than Eamon’s by what he held.
“Of all the banners on the field today,” Hughan told him, “this was yours to take.”
Eamon felt pain at the back of his head. His eyes drifted to Hughan’s own standard. He shuddered.
“Hughan,” he began, turning to search the King’s eyes. “When you came with the cavalry, I…”
Hughan met his gaze. “You were singing,” he said quietly.
Eamon stared at him. In the whole press of the battle, how had the King heard him singing? “Hughan, I saw… I nearly…” he tried again.
“But you didn’t,” Hughan answered, and a tired smile passed over his face. “Eamon; you turned, and you didn’t.”
“Nor will I ever,” Eamon told him.
“I know.”
They watched each other for a lon
g moment on the plain, then Hughan passed Edesfield’s banner to an aide. As he did, a familiar face approached.
“I see that you live yet, Star!” Feltumadas called as he arrived. The Easter lord’s tabard was marred and torn, but a grim smile was on his face.
“Yes, I live,” Hughan replied. “This surprises you?”
“No,” Feltumadas answered, “merely feeds the rumour that you are not destined for death on a field of battle. But then, Dunthruik’s troops seemed to lack a certain amount of enthusiasm for their work.” He turned to Eamon with a smile. “And you, First Knight? You live still?”
“Just about,” Eamon told him.
“Perhaps you will learn not to discard your helm so readily in future!”
Eamon’s hand went to his head in embarrassment, but he swiftly withdrew it from the nasty lump forming there. “Perhaps,” he answered. It was then that he also tasted the blood on his lips. He counted himself lucky that he had not bitten his tongue in half when he had been struck.
“The Gauntlet and Hands have retreated. Some may surrender,” Hughan said. “The cavalry are routing out the stragglers. I want to reform the lines and prepare to assault the gates.”
Eamon glanced over Hughan’s shoulder at the great mass of the Blind Gate. How did the King mean to do that?
“The men are exhausted,” he breathed.
“If we do not move on the city, we will lose the advantage that the enemy is also exhausted,” Feltumadas replied. Eamon realized that that was not all they might lose: delay would give the city time to fortify itself, to rebuild its morale and courage. And, whatever else happened, the throned was still within the city’s heart and Edelred still held the Nightholt.
Feltumadas looked back to Hughan and gestured excitedly to the Blind Gate. “We will take the gates, Star, and you shall enter in triumph!”
“We will take the gate,” Hughan answered quietly, “but I will not go that way.”
Feltumadas looked stunned.
“You will not go through the gate?” he asked, then laughed. “It is your right – one taken from you when the usurper did so in your ancestor’s place!”