Darkling Fields of Arvon

by James G Anderson

  "As you well know, from Gharssûl a new order has come—vibrant, living, powerful, a new order not to be gainsaid by brain-addled simpletons who place such undue stock on living in the faded glories of the past. No, we have a glorious new order that has stepped into the breach. Its power is beyond resistance, and it is taking the place of the old. All the peoples of Ahn Norvys now receive it with the acclaim and gratitude it deserves.

  "Except here in Arvon," Ferabek continued, his voice grown somber, "where grave and contentious afflictions beset the body politic, afflictions that hinder the inevitable course of our new Gharssûlian order, afflictions that beg a purgative remedy. My faithful subjects and vassals, let me not mince words. I speak of treason, a nefarious breaking of faith that wears many deviously subtle guises, but none more subtle than what I have found here in Arvon.

  "I am Autarch of the Gharssûl Confederacy." Ferabek raised a clenched fist, his hand trembling with anger. "I, constituted by right of main force and natural order as liege lord of this kingdom. I am the bearer of a new dispensation, and I am here to apply my sovereign remedy to Arvon's cankerworm of conniving treachery." Composing himself, he turned suddenly to his left and nodded to the soldiers beside the headsman. They advanced to the foot of the dais, where Gawmage and Messaan stood rooted to the spot, a look of shocked surprise on their features.

  "Seize them! Seize the traitors, who lay false claim to crown and harp!" Ferabek bellowed, his arm extended as he pointed directly at the two most eminent members of the Mindal.

  "H-how so, my lord? What I have done, I have done on your sufferance." Gawmage turned to look up at Ferabek. "What have I done to cause offence? This?" He raised the spiked silver rod in his hand. "I willingly surrender to Your August Majesty." The silver mace fell to the flagstone at Gawmage's feet. He reached to his head and removed the golden circlet. He let it fall to the ground as he lifted his eyes to meet the gaze of Ferabek. "I surrender the throne to you." The Dinasantrian climbed the first few of steps of the stage, head bowed and hands clasped in deference, even as the soldiers advanced in a tightening half-circle below, their swords drawn.

  "I-I-I, too, my lord," stuttered Messaan, ashen-faced, behind Gawmage. "Ever only acting by your leave and in your grace—on your sufferance, like my lord the king, ever only on your sufferance, Lord Ferabek." The man stooped, as if bowing, and placed the harp on the ground, then inched cautiously away from it, as if the thing bore contagion. The soldiers closed behind him, and in an effort to evade them, he scrambled up the steps off balance, jostling with Gawmage.

  "Seize them! Now!" Ferabek shook with fury, his finger still extended in accusation. Black Scorpions now jumped ahead onto the steps and drew around Gawmage and Messaan, forcing them back-to-back.

  The black-clad executioner strode forward, Rhodangalas held lightly in hand, his forearms as powerful and heavily muscled as Devved's. Now, however, he presented an even grimmer figure, for his head was covered with a hood, its slits for eyes giving him a fiercely impassive air.

  With little show of resistance, his chiselled face twisted in a scowl, Gawmage was pushed roughly down to the foot of the stairs. Two soldiers sheathed their swords, then grabbed his arms, while a third stood ready with a length of cord to bind his hands behind his back. In a burst, Gawmage flew from the hands that restrained him and made a mad lunge for the mace that remained lying close by. Seizing the haft, he swung it wildly around and struck the nearest Black Scorpion a wicked blow across the side of the face, just below the protection of his helmet. The man screamed, then slumped down writhing in pain, his head crumpled to a mass of blood and pulp by the wicked spikes. Before Gawmage could free the weapon from the man's face, another soldier sprang forward and brought his sword down full on the mace, knocking it from Gawmage's grasp to the flagstones. Dragoons surrounded him again and pressed him to the ground, pinioning his arms behind him and binding his hands. Struggling against the hands that held him, he was dragged to his feet, wheeled around before the headsman, and forced to his knees. Three soldiers held him fixed in place by the shoulders and arms, as another, facing him, grabbed two fistfuls of the man's white mane and pulled his head forward and down, exposing the back of his neck.

  Rhodangalas whistled through the air in a full arc barely slowed by flesh and bone. The severed head was lifted high, the face twitching, eyes wide and mouth agape in a noiseless scream of horror. The Dragoons drew back smartly, and the headless body slumped sideways to the ground. Kal winced, but could not look away. Blood pooled on the flagstones and ran away from the corpse in crimson fingers down joints and runnels in the pavement, one such finger meeting and encircling the discarded coronet of the king of Arvon that still lay where it had fallen.

  The shocked silence that had fallen over the Great Square below, as the scene unfolded, gave way to an uproar of approval as the crowd was swept up in the bloodlust and the shifting tide of power. Many, however—Uferian and his retinue, among them, Kal could see as he strained to look, as well as his own companions—stood silent, wide-eyed and incredulous, struck dumb by the stark display of cruelty to which they had just been witness.

  The Dragoon holding Gawmage's head handed it to an attendant, who scurried away with the trophy, careless of the blood and gore as he clutched it to his tunic. Other attendants rushed in to remove the rest of Gawmage's corpse, leaving a broad smear of crimson on the pavement before the dais as they dragged it away.

  Ferabek now inclined his head towards Messaan. The craven man had been held in tight check, whimpering and without a struggle, cowering, his eyes darting back and forth but averted from the bloody scene, his mind become unhinged by the sudden turn of events. Slowly, sensing that his time had come, Messaan opened his eyes and stared up at Ferabek even as his captors pressed him forward to where Gawmage had just stood. His foot slipped in the blood, and he fell to his hands and knees. Urine pooled around him, staining his brown robe and streaking the crimsoned stones a lighter red.

  "No! No, my lord! You c-c-can't. I've done nothing! N-n-nothing. No treason. You are my master, I tell you, my one and only master." Messaan craned his neck, seeking Ferabek's eye, his soft, pliant face contorted with fear. "I will do your bidding. Believe me! You must believe me! Whatever you want! Believe me! Believe me!"

  His mewling rose to a scream as he begged for his life. Kal stifled a strange admixture of pity for the pleading figure and raw contempt for his display of cowardice. At least Gawmage had died as a man—not so Messaan.

  Once again, Rhodangalas came hurtling around in a smooth death stroke in the hands of the executioner. This time there was no triumphant display of the head, which was removed quickly and unceremoniously along with the body in its long bardic cloak, now sodden and dripping.

  One attendant stepped forward and gathered up Gawmage's crown, cleaning it of gore on a cloth that he carried, then setting it on a cushion of blue velvet held by a second attendant. Yet another had picked up the harp Messaan had left on the ground near the executioner, who remained standing at stiff attention, holding Rhodangalas point down before him, both hands on the pommel, ready for whatever grim new task might be required of him.

  The attendant who bore the slender golden coronet on its cushion ascended the stairs of the dais and held it out to Cromus. The magician had remained unmoved throughout the happenings, a look of supercilious disinterest on his face, except for the long glance he cast at the patterns of blood on the pavement below, which he studied with the hint of a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. He now turned to the attendant that had come to his side and lifted the coronet without a word.

  Having doffed his bonnet, Ferabek turned to face the crowded square. Cromus moved behind him and held out the slender crown with both hands, tall and gaunt, like an ungainly bird of prey.

  "Vassals and loyal subjects of Arvon, know you this." Cromus let the words ring out slowly and then paused. "The age of Ardiel has ended. The ploughman's seed is no more. A new order rises in its place." He paus
ed again. "A new order demands a new king. Fresh bloodlines sprung from the soil of Gharssûl. Behold!" Cromus cried, his voice rising and becoming shrill as he placed the crown on the head of the Boar. "Behold His Royal Majesty Ferabek, High King of Arvon! Ruler of the world!"

  Ferabek stood looking over the crowd, his powerful earthen solidity strangely magnified by the symbol of kingship he now wore on his brow.

  "Hail, Ferabek!" Cromus intoned, as he moved to stand at the Boar's right hand.

  "Hail, Ferabek!" The crowd took up the refrain again and again.

  Though much shorter than Cromus, Ferabek dominated the stage, lifting his arm in acknowledgment of the crowd's approbation. His thick lips stretched in a smug grin. The crowd cheered for long minutes without abatement, until, at last, he quieted them with a lifted hand. Now the other attendant came forward, holding the Talamadh, and mounted the steps of the dais. Ferabek beckoned him forward and took the golden harp from his hands.

  "Now, by the power that is vested in me as high king of Arvon—first in a line of blood that will stretch through the ages from generation to generation—I give Ahn Norvys its new Hordanu—its true Hordanu—keeper of the Talamadh, keeper of the earthborn harmony, first in a line of bards that will sing the glories of this new order." With that, Ferabek pressed the Talamadh into the hands of Cromus, who bowed. "Cromus, Lord of the Harp, will usher in the new order in song on this auspicious day, this day which has been known as the Summer Loosening but shall be no more, for just as the infancy of spring yields to the ripeness of summer, so does the futile promise of the old harmony submit and yield to the new order. And so, this high feast of Ahn Norvys shall no more be called the Summer Loosening, but shall be called henceforth the Day of Triumph!" Ferabek raised his hand to Cromus, who bowed again and lifted the Talamadh. Eyes agleam, Cromus sought the strings of the harp.

  "Hold, Cromus!" Ferabek commanded. "Before you usher in this new order, before you sing the Day of Triumph, one last affair of state remains. There remains one last bit of sordid treachery we must uproot, yet one more false claim of kingship we must rebuff." Ferabek turned to where Kal stood in the shadows below the dais and lifted an upturned palm. "Bring him forth, our so-called king, along with the portrait of his late, lamented sire."

  Kal took a breath and tried to calm himself as his guards herded him to the front of the dais. He cast a fearful glance at the hooded executioner. Above him, Ferabek had seated himself on his chair of state.

  "To us, to us, let him come to us, our esteemed royal personage. Stay, stay!" Ferabek bade the guards hold back, even as other servants placed the easel with the portrait of King Colurian in full view of the crowd. "Yes, without his courtiers, himself alone, so that we may admire him." Smiling coldly, he beckoned the young Holdsman up the steps of the stage.

  His feet leaden, stifling the lump in his throat and the churning of his stomach, Kal plodded his way up the stairs unaccompanied, closing the distance between himself and the Boar, who hovered over him on his thronelike seat, dark and threatening, as inevitable as a looming storm. Fighting his dread, Kal came to stand before Ferabek, the man who as Autarch of the Gharssûlian Confederacy had brought so much of Ahn Norvys under his sway.

  In a sudden display of agility, Ferabek leaped from his chair and strode up to Kal, stationing himself within arm's length of him, looking him over with a quizzical and malicious eye, taking in the young Holdsman's dress and features from top to bottom with an exaggerated attention to detail. For long moments, not a word passed the man's lips. So close that he could almost smell and feel the Boar's feral energy, Kal struggled to stave off his feelings of hopeless fear.

  Finally Ferabek spoke.

  "Well, well, well! What have we here? Yet another king for Arvon? It seems that Arvon has a surfeit of kings."

  "I am not a king," Kal said, suppressing the quaver in his voice.

  "Ah, but your clothes betray you." Ferabek pinched the sable edge of the red velvet surcoat. "Why, you're the very picture of your sire."

  "You're mistaken."

  "How so? Have you not heard the common wisdom in that far-off highland haunt of yours? Clothes make the man. Look, look how royal we are, the two of us vying with one another for overlordship of Arvon. So nobly attired, the both of us." Ferabek indicated his own identical garb with a flourish of his hand.

  The crowd had fallen still, utterly still, hanging on every word of the conversation, its sharp clarity of tone causing it to resonate throughout the square in echo from the surrounding buildings.

  "You're mistaken. I'm not who you think I am. I am not Colurian's son. I am not Starigan. He remains lost. I'm no king."

  "Well, of course you're not. How could I be so terribly simple? You'd think I was a highland yokel born and bred." Below them, the crowd twittered at the jest, and Ferabek smiled appreciatively before returning to Kal. "Why, of course you're not Prince Starigan," he said. "The very thought is absurd." Ferabek's tone took on a harder, ironic edge as he brought one arm across his chest and used it as a rest to cradle his forehead in the palm of the other hand, caressing the coronet that circled his brow, his features creased with an exaggerated frown.

  "Why, that's it! I've found the very answer! Such an easy conundrum to solve—why it is that you cannot possibly be the long-lamented King Starigan!" His mouth grew slack with a mocking smile as he lowered his hand, gazing spellbound at the splayed fingers and open palm as if they were an oracle that held the solution that he sought.

  "Why, a king is not a king without his crown!" the Boar cried out even as he tore the bonnet from Kal's head and cast it off. "A king's but a common knave, the shadow of a man without the glister of gold on his royal brow!" With two hands, Ferabek lifted from his own head the regal circlet of gold that he had stripped from the ill-fated Gawmage. "I crown thee King Kalaquinn Wright." Kal flinched as the Boar placed the circlet on his head. "Hail, King Kalaquinn! Hail, Your Royal Highness!" Ferabek stepped away and bowed in false obeisance, then fixed a steady, pondering eye on the young Holdsman again.

  "Has a fine ring to it, does it not? King Kalaquinn Wright, foremost of my vassals. Or should it be King Starigan? No, no, High King Starigan rather, so near to the throne, so desirous of my royal estate that he mocks me with his garb, makes mimicry of my kingship, my high kingship over Arvon." Like a rising storm, Ferabek now ground his teeth in a sudden manifestation of anger, which seemed to subside almost as soon as it began, replaced by a tone more sinister for all its wheedling softness. "Ah, but let us leave aside rancour, King Kal. Cromus, pray, what do you think? May I be so bold and so familiar as to call our royal personage King Kal?"

  "By all means, my lord, he has earned your honour and your respect," Cromus said, tipping his head ever so slightly toward Kal.

  "Good King Kal, king of the old and the moth-eaten, the pride of Ardiel's long and illustrious line. Come, I have a notion to be festive. Let us celebrate our discovery of the lost prince and his crowning." Ferabek clapped an easy hand on Kal's shoulder. Kal bristled at the intrusive shock of the man's touch, but did not speak. "It's a pity, though, that he wraps himself in silence, our good King Kal. I've a notion that he might be stirred to speech by song. Cromus, what say you hand him the Talamadh for a spell? Don't worry, you'll get it back soon enough."

  The Thrygian magician proffered the harp to Kal, grinning rapaciously, his half-lidded eyes looking down his aquiline nose.

  "Take it!" Ferabek ordered curtly, his voice rising to a surly growl at Kal's hesitance to reach out and accept the instrument. "Or do we need to punish your friends for your unwillingness to cooperate?"

  "Come, play us a jig, O king of what is past," Cromus urged, lifting the harp higher. "Or better still, a lay for your crowning."

  "Very good, Cromus! We need a lay for his crowning . . . . It will be his dirge."

  Thirty

  The fog that had clouded Kal's thoughts cleared like the mists of a summer's dawn retreating before the sun. Below him, the crowd had
fallen into an uneasy quiet, anticipating the next gruesome event in the day's spectacle. Cromus's raptorial form still loomed to Kal's right, holding out the Talamadh. The arched swan's neck and golden strings gleamed in the sunlight. Kal traced its gentle curve with his gaze, but did not move. Behind him, the Boar grunted his encouragement and patted Kal on the shoulder. The Holdsman bristled again under the touch.

  "Not in the Harp, but hands that play . . . The one who sings, and not the Lay . . ." Like the thought of a thought, words drifted to Kal's mind. "Mark, it is he who sings today . . . For I Hordanu am . . . for I Hordanu am . . . Hordanu am . . ."

  He let his eyes fall to the press of people filling the square below him. On their faces, in their eyes, he perceived the breadth of human emotion—passion and hope, expectation, fear, elation and sorrow, grief, anger, joy, despair, indifference—all were laid out before him. In his breast, his heart skipped a beat.

  "For I Hordanu am . . . I Hordanu am . . . Hordanu am . . ."

  The crowd shuffled and murmured in the cobbled courtyard. To Kal, the colours of the lords of Arvon's retinues seemed to grow in vividness, as if the sun had begun to shine brighter. Somewhere, a young child cried with the choking sob of protest over a whim not catered to by his parent. A breath of breeze teased a stray lock of hair at Kal's brow beneath the circlet of gold, and he heard the soft rustle of a banner hung from the walls of the palace towering behind him. Cromus rocked almost imperceptibly back and forth, still holding out the Talamadh, gloating over his prize, his dark mirth catching in his throat as a muted cough. Ferabek's hand now rested on Kal's shoulder. He felt its prickling heat.

  "Come, come, King Kalaquinn." The Boar spoke in a low voice, its spell binding, its power palpable and absolute. "Come, my lord, you bear the crown, now take up the harp, your precious token, and play for us. Come, here"—Ferabek lifted his hand from Kal's shoulder—"take our seat as your own, as your regnal throne. Rule over us in song, O king of an age now spent, now ended. Come, play!" He shoved Kal stumbling a step toward the Thrygian magician, who pressed the Talamadh into Kal's hands, spun him around, and pushed him in the direction of the chair.