Warautumn

by Tom Deitz

  Caught up by the spell of the place, they all turned toward the clearing in silence, with Avall and Strynn still in the lead. A moment later, the trail ended abruptly atop a slab of stone big enough for their entire party—and twice as many more—to stand upon. And then Merryn gasped indeed.

  There was the lake, and there was the island within it: a near perfect circle of dark, vitreous stone, festooned by swags of greenery. But that wasn’t what amazed her, though it was as beautiful as any mortal place she had ever seen. No, what took her breath was what she saw when she looked left.

  The land sloped steeply to that side, curving around a sort of bay or cup in the side of the ridge that encircled the lake, as though some impossibly huge creature had taken a neat bite from the rim. That, with the slope, permitted the first truly comprehensive view they had yet achieved of the land to the southwest. And there, halfway toward the horizon, lay a sheet of what could only be water: water that Merryn knew with absolute conviction was the signal mystery that had haunted her imagination since she was a child: the much-rumored, seldom-seen enigma that could be nothing else but the western sea.

  The presence of gulls wheeling in the sky thereabouts all but confirmed it, as did the fact that Avall had said that the lake water held a faint salty tang, as though the two bodies were in somewise connected.

  “Well,” Merryn announced happily, “I’ve seen what I came west to see; now I can leave this place content.”

  Lykkon, however, looked more sober. “So near and so far. It’s a pity we don’t have time to investigate more. It would be wonderful to say one had swum in both seas.”

  Avall nodded in turn. “It would indeed. But in any case, the trail looks to run that way for a while, so we’ll at least get to come a little closer. And there’s another thing,” he added. “It’s one more reason to return.”

  Merryn grinned at him. He grinned back. But Myx was the first to turn his face away and gaze, yet again, at the opposite horizon. “That way lies Gem-Hold—and Eron,” he said solemnly. “And that way, for now, lies the future.”

  PART II

  CHAPTER XXIV:

  CHALLENGE

  (NORTHWESTERN ERON: MEGON VALE–NEAR-AUTUMN: DAY I–MORNING)

  “There’s a herald on Gem-Hold’s ramparts,” Veen announced breathlessly, from the entrance to Vorinn’s tent. His guards rushed up on either side of her, barring nearer approach with crossed spears, their faces flushed with chagrin beneath their duty helms.

  Vorinn tried to suppress a grin. Veen would have brushed right past them in her haste: she who was most conscientious of the entire Regency Council about ceremony and propriety. But then the import of her words struck him in fact.

  “A herald?” He was on his feet in an instant, reaching for his formal cloak, sword, and helmet. “Is that all? Was Zeff with him? Has someone informed Tryffon and Preedor?”

  “He’s got a parley flag,” Veen replied quickly, dodging deftly aside as Vorinn brushed by her in his haste. “He’s alone—and I’ve already sent my second to inform the Chiefs.”

  “Took long enough,” Vorinn muttered in passing. And with that, he thrust through the outer entrance and into the brighter light of the morning camp.

  It was the first day of autumn, he realized—or of the quarter that contained it, more precisely; the Eronese calendar was quirky that way. Summer and winter were honored with entire quarters—one for joy, one from fear—and lasted forty-five days either side of their respective solstices. Spring and autumn had to make do with eighths centered on the equinoxes and crowded, in autumn’s case, by Near-Autumn and Near-Winter before and after. Which didn’t change the fact that summer was to all intents over and winter not impossibly far away.

  In any case, this was an auspicious day—because he had already decided, long before the herald had appeared, to call Zeff down to parley at a hand past noon. That Zeff had preempted him was not important, though he could think of any number of possible reasons why that might have occurred, the most plausible being the same one that had prompted Vorinn himself to act: that only another eighth remained in which an army might return to Tir-Eron in time for Sundeath and the Proving of the King. Who that King would be, if not Avall, Vorinn had no idea. He himself nursed aspirations in that direction, but perhaps Zeff did as well; it would be just like him. And a sovereign from Priest-Clan would certainly be one solution to the current disaffection—though not one Vorinn could endure.

  He supposed he would know how things lay soon enough. The way he saw it, Zeff would either call for Vorinn’s surrender or offer up his own. Vorinn had long since prepared replies to either eventuality.

  He had reached the palisade now, and saw its primary gate opened before him by a tide of eager-faced soldiers who seemed to have caught the same impatient excitement that had infected Veen. His horse was waiting, too, but he eschewed it. Now that Zeff’s moat effectively filled Megon Vale, it was only a dozen strides to the siege engine that had become the royal viewing tower. He mounted it in haste, waiting for those to catch up who would.

  And then slowed abruptly. Heralds were not Chiefs or Kings, and were entitled to less ceremony and deference. Vorinn therefore mounted the last few steps—the ones that would take him into full view from Gem-Hold—at a deliberately leisurely pace. It wouldn’t do to appear too eager.

  So it was that he had stilled his face to calm serenity when he stepped out onto the platform, adjusted his cloak about his shoulders, and set his helm upon his head, making certain that the Regent’s circlet was fully displayed. He doubted that Zeff would have seen it earlier, which would add to the herald’s confusion, since he would likely be expecting either Avall or Rann.

  The herald registered no surprise, however; then again, he wasn’t supposed to—and knew, moreover, what he was about to say. Which gave him a slight advantage—but only a slight one.

  He was a proper herald, too: clad in precisely the prescribed regalia, save that every item was pristine Ninth Face midnight blue and white. He even held a staff, while a lesser herald stood beside him with a speaking trumpet.

  For his part, Vorinn advanced to just behind the railing, folded his arms for a moment, then motioned for his own horn to be brought forward. Only when that had been accomplished to his satisfaction did he speak.

  “Herald, I see you,” he intoned the ritual acknowledgment, his amplified voice echoing up and down the vale. “Do you have words for me?”

  “I have words for the King of Eron,” the herald replied. “Is this Avall syn Argen-a I see before me?”

  “It is his Regent, acting in his name. And in that name, I have authority to treat with all and sundry.”

  The herald paused briefly, as though taken slightly off guard, then composed himself with exemplary haste. “You wear the Regent’s circlet of Eron, so it appears to me, which is sufficient proof that you are empowered to hear the message with which I have been entrusted.”

  “And what message is that?”

  The herald stood straighter and began to speak, not reading: “Be it known this day, the first of Near-Autumn of this year and reign, that Zeff of the Ninth Face does hereby challenge Avall syn Argen-a or his appointed champion to single combat with swords at a place and time to be hereinafter named, so long as it please his opponent and betrays not the security of either combatant.”

  “I hear this challenge,” Vorinn called back clearly. “I would also like to hear where this place might be in which our champions could meet so securely, for it seems to me that they would either have to swim or deliver themselves up to an enemy.”

  “Such a place can, however, be provided,” the herald answered. “Though it will require some preparation. If, however, you would do this thing, we will send word how and when, for your approval.”

  “I would hear this ‘how and when,’ ” Vorinn responded. “And I will wait.”

  “I will convey this word to our Chief, Lord Vorinn. But would you do us all the courtesy of announcing who your champion
might be?”

  “Ah, sir herald,” Vorinn retorted, with a grin. “For that I fear it is Zeff who must wait.”

  “You have not formally accepted,” the herald reminded him. “I hear it implied in your words, but you have not expressly stated—”

  “I accept, in the name of Avall and the Kingdom of Eron,” Vorinn shouted. “And may Fate smile upon the most deserving.”

  “May Fate smile indeed,” the herald called. “By your leave, Lord Regent, I will convey your words. I will return to announce time and place.”

  “My leave you have,” Vorinn replied. And stepped back from the railing.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Tryffon growled through his beard. “The Face was the challenger; it was for you to name weapon, time, and place—yet Zeff clearly had all three predetermined.”

  Vorinn shrugged, though part of him agreed with Tryffon’s assessment. He had, indeed, been rash. But no rasher than he had already planned to be. “It makes no difference in the long run,” Vorinn told his kinsman. “I had already planned to challenge Zeff today, which would have given him choice of time and place anyway—I would have had to be that magnanimous. But that would also have betrayed the fact that I am to be our champion. This way, they won’t know who it will be until it is almost time. That plays into our hands. Anticipation alone could skew the battle.”

  Tryffon regarded him keenly. “You don’t look like you believe that, not entirely.”

  Vorinn slumped against one of the corner posts, gazing around reflexively to see who else might be listening. A glance and a nod sent Veen and the rest of his entourage toward the stairs. Tryffon raised a brow.

  Another shrug. “Easier than going all the way back to the tent to talk, especially when we’re waiting.”

  “I’m listening. Though I think I already know what you’re going to say.”

  Vorinn scowled. “Ah, then you’ve already considered the implications.”

  Tryffon scowled in turn. “I’ve considered some of them. The Eight know if they’re the ones you’re considering.”

  Vorinn sighed heavily. “So … we can spar or we can talk. Very well, what I think is this. While we’ve all but told Zeff that Avall is no longer in control here, he does not know that as an absolute fact. The most he can know is that Avall isn’t actively in control, and that he’s sufficiently incapacitated to require a regency—and the most that implies is that the regency can better be served by me than Rann.”

  “We’ve covered this much over and over, boy.”

  “Fine. But hear me. With all that’s gone on lately, we tend to forget that Zeff’s original ultimatum was for us to surrender the regalia. He must therefore assume that we have it with us. Whether or not he believes it, he can’t omit that from his plans entirely. And while he must have guessed by now that the replica regalia was indeed intended as a ruse, he still cannot discount the possible presence of the genuine article. The Eight know we’ve tried to second-guess him on that, on why he’d think we haven’t deigned to use it. Certainly he’s predicated his defense upon that assumption.”

  “Get to the point, boy.”

  “The point is that Zeff is willing to face us now, while suspecting that we have the Lightning Sword and the regalia that goes with it, and knowing—from his point of view—that we have the replica sword, which is nearly as powerful. It therefore stands to reason that he thinks he can stand against them and probably win. And since we know that he has flooded the mines, and a fair bit of time has elapsed since then, the only reasonable conclusion is that Zeff has managed to contrive a weapon of his own that he thinks can stand against anything we can bring to bear.”

  Tryffon blinked like one dazed, then folded his arms and frowned even more deeply than heretofore. “All that makes sense, boy—fearfully, logical sense. Which then raises the question of how you think you can possibly beat him, given that we have neither sword, shield, nor helmet.”

  “Hope, determination—and the fact that I’m the better swordsman.”

  “You’re mad! Or a fool!”

  “Both, probably. But it’s the only solution I can see, unless we want to sit here until Deep Winter, making up excuses for Avall and waiting for Priest-Clan to consolidate its power past breaking. And believe me, Uncle, we either break its power in the next quarter, or we lose any reasonable chance of breaking it at all.”

  “I—”

  “Hsst, Uncle,” Vorinn broke in. “Here comes the herald.”

  “In Gem-Hold’s—what did they call it? Viewing plaza?” Preedor gasped, half a hand later. “Are they mad?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Vorinn replied, with slightly more control than he had evinced with Tryffon earlier. Excitement did make him rash; that was a fact. But at least the warring factions had broken their long impasse.

  “And how do they propose to manage this?”

  Vorinn took a deep breath. “First, remember that I can’t go into the actual hold, with or without escort; even I’m not that big a fool. And keep in mind that Zeff won’t come out here for the same reason, and that the only way we can possibly arrange anything resembling neutral ground is either by choosing a site that gives everyone equal access, or no one. We could manage the first after a fashion, if Zeff drained the moat, but he won’t do that. He can, however, drain it partway, and redirect some of the rest—enough, apparently, to give us access to a raised pavement in the viewing plaza above the water courts on the south end.” He paused, reached for paper, and drew.

  “There were already walls around that end of the hold, Two-father,” he went on, sketching rapidly. “Notably, there are walls around the forecourt twice as tall as a man. They were built for decoration more than defense, but they’re more than adequate to hold in water, which Zeff has made them do.”

  “I know all that, boy,” Preedor growled. “I spent three quarters here twenty years before you were born.”

  “Fair enough,” Vorinn replied. “But things can change in twenty years, and one of the things that has changed fairly recently is that, to the south of the forecourt and raised one level above it, there’s now a flat walled area about fifteen spans square that was carved out of a spur of the mountain and which serves, in part, as a place from which to look down on the water courts, which are lower. From the outside it still looks like mountain, which is why we’ve tended to forget about it during our planning—not that we could climb that side anyway, or get a siege tower to it—and the only access to it from the outside is by way of a narrow flight of steps that have, until this morning, been under half a span of water at their base and double guarded from above. Anyway, once you actually get there, this plaza is ringed by sets of steps and so on, but in the middle of it is a raised platform that, conveniently enough, is big enough for two men to fight on. There’s a walkway from our side of the walls leading to this platform, which is apparently about five spans from either side and five spans across.”

  “What about access to the hold?” Preedor inquired.

  “Actually,” Vorinn replied, “the only access from the hold is via an arcade from the second level that runs from above the west side of the forecourt to the top of the steps that ring the plaza. Those steps would normally be underwater, but Zeff’s men apparently think they can build a pontoon bridge out to the central platform. Access would be limited for both of us—since neither access route would be more than a span wide, which isn’t wide enough for any worthwhile battle, plus they know we can’t fight in water, which would still fill the plaza about waist deep.”

  “And they’re going to drain the moat for this?”

  “Enough to uncover the bottom part of the outer access stair—and this central platform and the access walk from our side, to the depth of a hand below it. That will still leave water half a span deep around the platform. And while it will also require draining the rest of the moat somewhat, the main edge of it should only draw back maybe a span at best. In other words, it would present much the same deterrent
it does now.”

  Preedor snorted loudly. “It sounds preposterous and ridiculously complicated, but it’s probably the closest thing to neutral ground that can be found. So I suppose it will have to do.”

  Vorinn regarded him gravely. “I know you don’t approve, Two-father, but I’d be glad to hear any halfway reasonable alternative.”

  “That’s just the trouble,” Preedor huffed. “I can’t think of any. In any case, to my mind the crucial question is this: Assuming we do manage to defeat Zeff, does he have the authority to speak for the rest of the Ninth Face warriors who still remain in the hold? Do we even know, absolutely, how their chain of command functions?”

  “We don’t”

  “And what—Eight forbid—if you lose?”

  Vorinn stared at the carpeted floor. “He retains the hold, while we give him and twenty-four guardsmen free passage out and vow not to pursue them for one day after.”

  “And what do you think can possibly be his reasoning for this?”

  “Only one thing comes to mind. He wants to make himself King of Eron, and that can only be done in Tir-Eron at the changing of the seasons at Sundeath.”

  “Easy enough to prevent that,” Preedor muttered. “Just cut off a finger.”

  Vorinn shook his head. “Somehow I don’t think Priest-Clan would note such a minor aberration, given how things are now. My preference would be to send him back to Tir-Eron without his head.”

  “We’ll know this time tomorrow,” Tryffon growled.

  “This time tomorrow,” Vorinn agreed, “we will.”