by Peter David
But they were adamant. They told us flatly that the road to the Golden City seemed completely clear. There were no troops anywhere along the way to oppose us.
“It’s a trick,” growled Boar Tooth a short time later when we conferenced in my tent.
I was laid out with my head resting comfortably in the Lady Kate’s lap as she fed me dates. Outside I heard the customary songs of my greatness being sung. I realized I had heard them all before, and resolved to have some new ones written.
“It has to be a trick. An ambush,” continued Boar Tooth.
“What ambush?” Slake demanded. “How? Where? The scouts claim they had a clear view of the territory all the way to the walls of the Golden City. It’s not as if there’s a good deal of vegetation behind which they can hide.”
Boar Tooth had been pacing furiously, but now he turned to Slake and said, “What are you suggesting?”
Slake shrugged. “Perhaps they realize that their cause is hopeless.”
“Nonsense!”
The Lady Kate spoke up, pausing with a date dangling over my mouth. “Why is it nonsense? Is it not true that their cause is hopeless? Nothing can stand against the Peacelord! We all know that! Perhaps they do as well.”
“Or perhaps,” I said slowly, “our scouts have been corrupted by Meander. That would be consistent with the manner in which he operates. He uses bribes and generosity to sway opposing soldiers over to his side.”
But Slake and Boar Tooth, although they had been in disagreement over what to make of the reports, were adamant that this could not be so. “We swear on our lives, Peacelord,” Boar Tooth said firmly, “that these men are unimpeachable.”
I sat up, scratching my chin thoughtfully. “It is indeed your lives that are being sworn upon, gentlemen, since it is already quite evident that mine is not at risk.” I had continued to tell no one of the odd incident with the fire. If I did indeed have a vulnerability, which seemed to be the case, informing anyone of it—even those I ostensibly trusted—would be pure foolishness. As far as they knew, I continued to be impervious to all harm, and that was the way I wanted it. “Well, we shall know soon enough, I suppose. We march for the Golden City … on the morrow!”
Well, it rained on the morrow. And the morrow after that.
We sat there in our camp, bored out of our minds, but I refused to command an attack in such foul weather. It would provide far too many variables. If we were marching into new territory against an enemy of unknown size, we certainly didn’t need to add to our woes by battling in inclement conditions. For a time I wondered if Sharee was involved somehow … whether she was manipulating the weather patterns to slow me down. But finally I dismissed the notion. The simple fact was that sometimes it rained. That was all. It needed no weatherweaver to cause it to happen; nature was sufficient to attend to it.
The sun broke on the third day upon a ground covered with muck and mire. The weather was humid, zealously preserving the moisture so the terrain wasn’t drying as thoroughly as it would have been. But the men were becoming impatient, and I admit I was also getting tired of sitting about. So we set off shortly after breakfast, with a song in our hearts and murder on our minds.
We were in sight of the city before noon. In the distance I saw a small mountain range, including one that seemed to tower above all the others, so high that snow actually dusted the upper reaches of it. I inquired as to the name of it from one of the captured guides, who was reluctant to talk at first until Boar Tooth threatened to loosen his tongue permanently, at which point the guide said, “That is Mount Aerie. It is said to be the home of various flying creatures who prefer to make their homes at high altitudes.” At that time I had Mordant perched upon my arm, and the guide looked nervously at the drabit as he spoke. “Some say that beasts such as those,” and he pointed apprehensively at Mordant, as if afraid the drabit might snap his finger off, “originate from Mount Aerie.”
“He’s not a beast,” I said sharply, “or at least, not in comparison to some of the human monsters who walk upon two legs that I’ve met in my time.” Mordant seemed to appreciate this and made an odd “cooing” sound in the back of his throat. The guide wisely chose not to press the matter.
The Golden City was now less than two miles off, and new scouts went out this time to see what the situation was. We were on the main road leading to the city, and called a halt as we awaited the appraisal from the scouts. From where I was sitting, though, it appeared that our first reports had been absolutely correct. There was no sign whatever of any organized resistance. What, did they plan simply to sit there and welcome us into their city so that we could bring it down around their ears without a fight? Considering we had initially heard so much about their endeavors to stand against us, I had to admit to myself that I was feeling somewhat disappointed over the apparent ease with which we would achieve our victory.
Not much later the scouts returned, riding hard all the way, and there were looks of both incredulity and concern on their faces … the former because of what they had witnessed, and the latter out of fear that they would not be believed. Considering what they told us, I could easily understand their worries.
The men had been milling around, but many drew close as the scouts prepared to make their reports. We were standing in about three inches of mud, so none of us was in an especially good mood. We ringed them, our faces already painted in the battle designs of woad, and we looked fierce and eager for battle. So the woad exaggerated the expressions of wonder upon our faces when the scouts gave their reluctant report.
“The gates to the city are wide open,” said one of them.
This caused exchanged looks of confusion among my men. “Wide open?” said Slake skeptically. “You mean … they are not even barred against us? They do not offer the most minimal of defense?”
“That,” said the other reluctant scout, “is not the least of it, or even the most insane.” He took a deep breath then, with the air of a man who is about to hurl himself off a very high cliff, knowing that a large array of pointed rocks awaited him at the bottom. “We saw a man who, by all descriptions, was likely King Meander. But … but he has gone mad.”
“Mad?!” There was now confused babbling from all around. The scouts had no idea which way to look first or whose question to answer. As for me, I simply stood there, taking it in, almost not daring to believe while all the time suspecting the next words I was going to hear.
It was the Lady Kate who took charge. Stepping forward, she said firmly, “How now? Mad in what way?”
“He …” The scout gulped, looked to the other for assurance that what he was about to say was not the height of insanity, and then told us, “He has climbed to the top of one of the parapets … and he is strumming a lute and singing bawdy songs. And he appears to be the only one there; the rest of the city, for all the activity we were able to perceive, was empty.”
Well, that was enough to get everyone talking at once, each man shouting to be heard while Kate tried to calm them and answer their fears. Some were shouting that it was ill-fortune to battle a madman, for such creatures were often the beloved of the gods and had divine backing. And many others were crying out that it was a trick, an ambush. That Meander was expecting us to come riding in, confident in our victory, only to find ourselves under attack, and that the last thing we should do is give him what he wants and go barreling into the city to certain doom.
And then I could not contain myself anymore. I began to laugh, louder and louder with each passing second. My men looked perplexed, as if concerned that whatever insanity might have grabbed hold of Meander had now gone to work upon me as well.
“Peacelord?” inquired Boar Tooth nervously, for now all attention was upon me and my demented cackling. And Kate, equally apprehensive, said, “My love … ?”
“It’s a trick!” I finally managed to get out once I’d gotten enough breath back to speak. “But not a trick concealing an ambush. It’s a bluff! A colossal bluff!”
Kate came forward, resting with obvious concern a hand upon my shoulder. “My sweet … my beloved Peacelord … are you quite certain?” And the men did not look any too pleased, either, not exactly eager to throw themselves into a situation that seemed to defy every known law of combat tactics.
But I never doubted it for a second. “It’s a desperation ploy,” I said with what I hoped would be enough confidence to inspire the men to believe me. “Obviously what happened was that Meander was unable to keep his volatile collection of sellswords and gangs in order. Nor was he able to inspire confidence in the hearts of the men of Steppe Nineteen. Knowing that we were coming, knowing that their defeat was assured, all have fled.”
“Fled?” asked Kate. She did not appear entirely convinced. “But then why … ?”
“Why would Meander stay behind? Take this crazed chance? Because,” I said, slowly circling the men and chuckling as if explaining the most simple avenue of warfare instead of one which was highly unorthodox. “Because he is just egotistical enough, or brash enough … or insane enough, if you will … to think that he can save this city single-handedly. And the bluff might have worked were I not familiar with it.”
“Bluff?” They seemed more puzzled than ever.
Slake and Boar Tooth were standing next to each other, so I stepped in between them and draped an arm over either shoulder. “King Meander,” I explained, “has a very selective memory. Apparently he recalls a time, some years ago, when a desperate young squire—left with the impossible task of defending a fort populated only by a king, a princess, and a jester—hit upon a desperate scheme that caused an entire army to become frozen by its own uncertainty.” When they persisted in staring at me blankly, I let out an exasperated sigh and said, “This is my gambit he’s instituting. I did this very thing! I convinced a king, known for his wiles, to do exactly what Meander is doing now … except at that time, it was Meander himself who headed up the invading army! And his army became so convinced that it was a trap that they turned around and left … rather than charge a completely empty fortress! Cold steel works its wonders on man’s spirit, but nothing paralyzes people more than cold, stinking fear. And that’s what he’s trying to do now … to us!”
“But … he must know you wouldn’t fall for such a trick, considering it’s your own scheme!” the Lady Kate pointed out.
I released my hold around Slake and Boar Tooth’s shoulders and walked around back to her. Shaking my head, I said, “Remember, I told you his memory is selective. He very likely does not associate the trickery foisted upon him by a lone squire, whose name he probably doesn’t even recall, with an invader backed up by an army five hundred score strong! We have him, I tell you! In fact,” and I was struck by a thought, “there may well be helpless citizens in the city, hiding in their homes, praying that this folly is successful because their own army was unwilling to face up to the odds and be cut down! This will be the easiest attack in our history!”
All around me now there was nodding and smiling and laughter as my men realized not only the foolishness of their own concerns, but were also beginning to envision the absurdity of a king perched upon a parapet, hoping to scare off invaders by singing ludicrous tunes. Soon the entire army was rocking with laughter, and then one of them started chanting repeatedly, “Peacelord! Peacelord!” Others took up the cry and soon the dreary day was filled with soldiers cheering me. Never had I felt so exhilarated, so alive.
By this point, with the plundering of cities in the previous Steppes, we had amassed a considerable number of horses. Over half my men were mounted, giving us a considerable complement of horsed warriors. It was they who took the lead now, with me at the head, of course, firmly astride Entipy and anxious for retribution and further glory. We pounded down the highway leading to the Golden City, howling battle cries, not the slightest bit hesitant in our purpose or our belief that we were going to win.
We drew within sight of the Golden City. It was an impressive sight, I’ll admit, with elaborately curved and crafted towers, beautifully painted in shades of blue and brown, that seemed capable of touching the sky. As was not unusual for most larger cities, mighty walls ringed it to afford it protection … not that it would do any good against us. As we got closer, I could see him, perched right where the scouts had said. My blood boiled with fury, pounded behind my eyes and I could already see in my mind’s eye my sword gutting the bastard. Oh, but first … first, perhaps, I would tie him up and let a half a dozen harlots attack him. Rake his face, his bare chest, any part of him they chose with the fingernails they routinely kept so sharp. In short, give him just a taste of the suffering that my mother had undergone under his less-then-tender ministrations.
The road was still thick with mud, Entipy’s hooves chewing it up and sending it flying to either side. I was relieved, frankly, that we were not going to have to fight a major battle on foot; slogging through gobs of mud to hack away at an enemy was never my idea of a fun time. But carving up a helpless foe … yes, that would be most enjoyable.
Less than a mile now remained between us and our target. I could see him up there, and he tossed off a jolly wave. He was much as I’d remembered him. The solid gray hair, the thick gray-and-black beard, the face with a craggy, weatherbeaten look. From that distance I couldn’t make out those old, tortured eyes, or the four scratches upon his face which I believed had been left by my mother when he had tried to commit brutal acts upon her. I held no delicate beliefs about the woman whose loins had spat me out into the world. She was a whore; she plied her trade with her body. But there were some things that a right and decent whore simply did not do, and when she had refused to submit to Meander’s desires to do them, he had slain her. He … or at the very least, one of his men, and since he was their leader, that made him responsible enough as far as I was concerned.
Closer and closer still, and I could almost feel the sudden shock that would greet my arm when I drove my sword through his face … or perhaps his gut. Yes, that would be preferable. It would take him several days to die from a wound to the stomach, and during that time, he could be … played with.
And while all this was going through my mind—as I was in the forefront of the charge—Mordant suddenly angled down, and he was screeching at me. I afforded him barely a glance at first, and then I saw that he seemed agitated somehow. But I was in full gallop at the moment; I didn’t have the time to devote any attention or energy to the concerns of a pet.
And that was when Entipy let out a sudden, alarmed shriek, jerked suddenly, and with no warning beyond that, toppled over.
I barely had time to throw my sword clear, out of reflex, as Entipy went down. I hurled myself clear of the saddle and hit the ground, coming up in a roll and covered with mud and dirt. I looked around desperately, saw my sword sticking up out of the ground, and lunged for it.
It was incredibly fortunate that I had been as far ahead of my men as I had been, because had they been close behind me when I’d toppled, they’d have run over me before they were able to stop themselves. As it was they reined up, but barely in time, and a number of the mounted soldiers crashed into one another, their beasts whinnying in alarm and my men crying out as their legs were mashed between the sweating, heavy bodies of their beasts.
I yanked my sword out of the muddy ground, and my feet almost went out from under me. Had my right leg still been lame, I would not have been able to stand at all, but fortunately it had become as powerful as my left. I righted myself before I fell and looked at Entipy. Beneath my woad, my face went deathly pale.
A still quivering spear was sticking out from the base of her throat, right at the jugular groove. Poor Entipy was done for, flopping about like a beached fish, her blood mixing with the dirt and mud beneath her. Her eyes looked at me with what seemed open accusation even as her body was rocked with spasms.
Seeing a creature called Entipy die so brutally had more impact on me than ever I could have expected. I screamed out in rage, spun to face Meander,
whom I held responsible, blinded by my fury to the slow-in-coming realization that he could not possibly have been responsible for the missile which had cut down my horse.
And suddenly they were everywhere. The ground to either side of us literally seemed to come alive, and at first I thought that somehow a weaver of gargantuan power had actually ensorcelled the very ground against us. But then I saw flashes of black and silver, the colors of Meander’s Journeymen, and howls of challenge as we were beset on either side. And above it all, the mocking laughter of Meander.
Then I understood, but too late to pull my men out.
I could see them in my mind’s eye the previous days now. They had no magiks at their disposal, but they must have been able to tell that rainstorms were moving in. They had used the knowledge of the incoming rains to plot their strategy. They had offered no initial resistance, waiting for the storms, and when they had arrived, there had been Meander’s men with shovels, picks, whatever digging implements they could find, burrowing channels into the muddy, rain-soaked ground on either side of the highway. Row upon row of them, enough to conceal who-knew-how-many hundreds of them, and then rolling about in the muck and mire to cover themselves in it. And then they had lain there in hiding, camouflaged, displaying infinite patience, waiting for us to come riding right in between them so that they could outflank us.
It had been no bluff. Meander had taken my strategy and not simply copied it, but improved upon it. And in my arrogance and overconfidence, I had led my men right into the trap which had snapped its strangle hold upon us.
I heard my men crying out, I heard Meander’s laughter, louder and louder. I heard the dying cries of my horse, my startled and frightened men calling my name as they suddenly found themselves in the midst of an ambush, and—although I had not been present for it—I heard the death rattle of my mother.
Darkness and black fury surged within me, and a burning in my chest that liked to cremate me where I stood. And then I screamed, a howl of agony and fury combined that might be vomited up by a hundred voices of the damned, crying out in unison as they are consigned to the depths for eternal punishment.