by Craig Davis
Chapter XX
The air over Feallengod had turned crisp, and the sun set a little earlier with each passing evening. The keen chill that blew across the land now inspired one to feel alive, and to prepare for the deadness to come. The animals needed shelter for the night, and the fields begged for harvest, but now none would serve; the paste had removed both need and desire for the earth’s good gifts. The times and traditions had come around this season as they always did on the island, but autumn activities snapped to a halt when Domen ordered all those branded to turn out straightway at the village gate, equipped for war.
A much sharper force gathered, and better equipped, than the ragged assailants of the great battle. The surviving men had tasted combat, tasted the sharp business of swords and pikes, many now proven by the loss of friends, family or limbs. Weapons and shields rattled amply, as all Domen’s blacksmiths and woodworkers had turned to the task. Some men drilled day and night with the longbow, others the lance, others the sword. Horses and matériel had been confiscated, first from everyone without the brand, then those with. Domen had pressed a proper army, built upon forced service and humbling paste, dumbly obedient, able to defeat or oppress any rival to his thumb. Now arose a chance to prove its might, to make an example, to show all the people the strength of the lion.
Somewhere in the distant horizons, Ecealdor remained unwilling or perhaps unable to bring down his fist.
Only a few days had passed. As dusk pulled its dark shroud over the island, Mann and Cynn mustered the militia. The men, some barely in their teens, others in their eighties, lined up in phalanxes twenty deep, segregated by weapon. Women fell in behind the soldiers, forming companies, carrying supplies for siege or battle. Their breath misted, only barely visible, in the darkness; Domen, of course, found solace in the gloaming.
A striking stallion served as his high throne, snorting and strutting before the lines of troops. “I emerge from my consecrated sanctuary to face you again, people of Feallengod! Only the most desperate events could pull me from my exalted counsels to join your battle. Feallengod approaches its greatest hour! At last I give you obligation to defend the lion! Your privilege at last comes to serve the lion, to kill and die on its behalf! Now at last, your time arrives to join my struggle, to wipe out the dissidents who corrupt our land!”
The warriors lofted their weapons and raised a stirring cheer, Mann and Cynn commanding from behind the mincing horse. Domen planted his fists upon his hips, his thrusting chin affirming the mob’s veneration, comically puffing up his puny frame. Yet still the strains of wickedness bulked exceedingly in his voice.
“Those who do not love the lion betray Feallengod! Those traitors reject the mark of the lion, they reject you, my faithful, obedient subjects. While you gladly declare your loyalty, they draw away to hatch treachery, and deceit, and violence!”
The crowd again roared, now in judgment of their countrymen’s retreat. Domen’s raised hands made indulgent show: He understood, he empathized with their outrage, as though they were one with him, and they should fall quiet, and quickly.
“They try to overcome us, but we will overcome! They try to establish a kingdom upon Feallengod, but we will defend our island! They cling to old dreams of glory, drifting upon the air like smoke, but we will increase my splendor! Come, come with me to this grand cause! Give over yourselves to the lion, even your lives, to the end of your lives! Then will I ascend without equal, I will be just as he is! We march to the plateaus!”
Again a gathering of voices lifted, but this time met no effort from Domen to quiet them. His squealing mount galloped up the lines and back, a banner bearing the golden lion ripping in the wind high above. Mann and Cynn signaled the march to begin, to the low mountains; and so they turned on their heels, advancing like a true corps of military men.
The march took the better part of the night, but the troops did not tire. Domen indeed had molded them well for his service, long dark drills adapting the people to working through the night. The tramping of their feet persisted unrelenting as they made around the foot of the mountains; officers barked out cadence as line upon line of weaponry bore toward the quarries. In a matter of hours the sounds of the march alerted sentries watching the horizon from our mountain fortress.
Beorn followed the point of the sentry’s finger, peering intently into the darkness. The night sky lay still far short of dawn, with no stars to help. Squinting made him no difference; “No, I don’t see them yet. The light goes out of my old eyes. But I hear it — I do hear it.”
Almost everyone upon the mountain, and I among them, rushed to the ledge to peer along with the rising glow of the sun. The minutes marched on, and light advanced upon us as single-mindedly as Domen’s troops. Soon the mass of armored manpower appeared out of the gloom, led by Domen upon his rowdy horse. Slowly, steadily, they surged toward the low mountains like fate itself.
Suddenly our attention spotted a few simple folk of the island at the foot of the mountain face. These men and women, a dozen or so, another little community that had refused to take the brand, and now came out of hiding to seek refuge, knowing the purge had begun. Immediately I thought, I should be among them, and looked behind me foolishly to assure myself the girl had reached the mountaintop. Arms reaching upward for a rope or chain, they called out for deliverance — their voices as small as their hope of survival. Many upon the plateau called back, others made helpless gestures with their hands; Beorn stood and watched, turning and pacing with agitation. The peoples’ cries rent at me, and I desperately looked about for some salvation to offer. The army drew ever closer, and the risk of lowering a ladder simmered deep within Beorn’s eyes.
Finally he blurted, “I can’t take this! Lower a rope!”
With a shout a gang of men, I among them, fetched the rope we reckoned to have the greatest length and secured it to one of the rustic cranes. Over the precipice the end flew, looking like a wisp of smoke.
At the bottom the worst of panicked humanity unfolded as each individual fought the others for the lifeline. The weak were flung aside as the strong sought only their own salvation, and the soldiers marched nearer and nearer. At last a single man got a firm grasp on the rope and began his difficult climb. In agonies of struggle he lifted himself one arm’s-length at a time, grasping clumsily for foothold, swinging side to side.
The columns of the army moved in without thought, without delay. Another man jumped upon the rope, and it swung like a pendulum. The fiber ground against the sharp edge of a high ledge jutting out of the mountain and quickly began to unravel against the strain. Again my mind flashed to the stone, to its fraying rope, to its silent judgment poised. The first man somehow had made it a full quarter of the way up, and more refugees took hold of the end. Tighter still the rope stretched, grating across the unforgiving rock, until the inevitable end fell upon those people. The rope snapped, and betrayed its victims to their fate.
His face waxen and blank, Beorn turned away from the shelf. I heard him say quietly, “Failure. Is there no end to this failure, this fatal weakness?” My own heart fell dead.
“Help! They’ll kill us! Help us! Please!” the lost people cried vainly before Domen’s soldiers. My own words, “They will be slaughtered,” came back to me. Frantically the people tried to scramble up the mocking steep sides of the mountain, sliding helplessly down on the loose rubble. Why languished I not at the bottom also? For what cause did I elude the teeth of the oncoming massacre? More sad than terrible, and haunting for their nearness to me, their eyes will never leave me. I swear, as if payment for doom I had wished upon them, the eyes of their deaths will never leave me. Afraid to look, afraid not to look, the people stared upon the army folding over them as they pleaded and struggled against the mountain’s sheer face. Domen’s lashing whip stirred his men’s bloodlust as the mob swallowed the screaming, unarmed people. Flailing fists and bludgeons blotted out eyes alight with terror. Tiny areas of angry violence boiled up like swarming ants, t
hen fell still. Horrified voices echoed off the mountains and then went silent — that quickly lives slipped out of existence. On the plateau strong men and women gasped and sobbed at the sight; many had to turn their eyes away. I could only stand and wonder at what had become of Feallengod.
As well, at that moment I knew the plateau did not save me, nor did the people, nor the tree. As long as my heart pounded and lungs demanded air, each beat or breath might come as my last. For all my careful service to myself, though I gave my words again to the king, I gained nothing if not in serving him, and his subjects. Until that moment alit, I might as well still toss about in the skirts of a whore, or the tight neck of a bottle. For this be truth – all the moments that I thought myself rich, I was poor; all the times I made for myself love, I was destitute. All the times I wept for myself, I gained yet more reason to weep. All my wasted life when I believed I saw the truth, I was blind as an unblinking statue. All the times I thought myself full of life, instead I beat upon the door of death.
“We come for your bones!” Domen called out.
“That same death awaits us,” said Beorn to witnesses of the atrocity. “He will call for us to surrender, and offer us pardon, then slay us like a butcher at his trade.”
“I offer you mercy!” Domen continued.
“The mountain will hold him off for a while, perhaps not long,” Beorn said. “I yet carry the bruises of Domen’s mercy. Do we let ourselves fall into his hands?”
The men closest to him murmured and grumbled, vowing never to surrender. I spoke for no others, nor for myself; I knew, whether right or wrong, my end did not matter.
“Come down now, and return to your homes in peace!” Domen brayed.
“I must agree,” said Beorn. “Our worst fate lies in survival within in his hands — we must consider death’s other option. Dare you prepare to take your lives from Domen, in order to save them?”
All of us who heard stood in stony quiet. Not one agreed, but not one dissented, and I as well. I knew nothing for the others, but Beorn’s words shook me not: I would go to my death believing my own end did not matter.
“If you resist, we will strike down every man, flay your bodies and tan your hides for shoe leather!” Domen screamed the end of his benevolence. Shaking his fists, he spied unblinking for any movement from the mountaintop.
A tiny speck flew into his view from over the edge of the plateau, a stone careening into sudden menace over the army. It caught Mann squarely upon the forehead, caving skull into his brain. Without even a grunt he fell at the hooves of Domen’s startled horse, raring to finish whatever work remained. Beorn turned and looked upon Cwen in utter disbelief, and I leaned back with gay laughter. “Nicely done,” he said at last to his lady, and then over the mountain ledge, “There’s all the answer you’ll get today.”
Domen flew into a rage; Cynn stood struck dumb, mystified by his brother’s flabby corpse. “Gather your wits together, fool!” Domen screamed, sinking a kick deep into his belly. “Useless toad! Get the officers together! Now!” Cynn whimpered and blubbered, but went to his task.
Domen barked out orders. “Shod your feet to climb this mountain! Spike your shoes and cast up hooks! Take the women’s bandages and oil, and soak the fabric. We’ll turn things of healing into flaming arrows. Blazing hail surely will set something up there to burning. You over there, get those men together! Take beams from the quarry and build a siege tower — I don’t care how, just make it tall. I swear upon my own head, they will not see the sun rise again, not one of them! They will never again draw breath to defy me!”
A flurry of activity billowed at the foot of the mountain as soldiers hastened to their orders. We could see the scaffold rising quickly, but each new level made it lean and groan under its increasing weight. Men attempting to scale the mountainside stumbled upon the unfamiliar spikes under their feet; as well, we kept them occupied with rocks thrown from overhead. Their bowyers took hardest toll upon us, sending a rain of flames into the materials at our encampment. Their arrows flew gracefully high into the sky above us, arching to a slow apex before angling downward again and hurtling into their unseen targets. The heavens glowed thick with fire.
Beorn put a bucket brigade to work on the blazes, but our cups and pails carried no sufficient water to quell the waves upon waves of flaming missiles. Occasionally an arrow found a man or woman, sent into a screaming panic, and so also pulling from the water lines those who snuffed out flaming clothes and dressed wounds. I myself took an arrow to the arm, but my injury counted naught, and I simply tore off my burning sleeve. I gave myself over completely to tending those whose light fell dim from the flickering darts. Soon great blazes engulfed whole shelters and stockpiles of supplies. As we scurried to fight the flames or nurse one another, our defense of the mountain fell to neglect.
By trial and error, Domen’s men grew more skillful at climbing the rocky incline, no longer under a deluge of stones upon their heads. They found which grooves in the walls offered them a secure grip and quickened their ascent. The tower extended ever higher, and the bowmen crawled up its framework like flies upon a corpse, each new landing gaining them a clearer shot onto the plateau. Slowly the entire army began to take the mountain.
Domen dismounted his command to join the climb. Years of deftly scaling the rugged slopes surrounding his high refuge left this mountain face little challenge. Instinctively his jagged toes knew where to find the next foothold, his claws which tiny ledge to clasp in turn. Shouldering larger men out of the way, he worked his path from one side to the other and back again. His glowering face, never turning from his goal, made terrible spectre as I dared gaze down upon him. As he drew ever nearer the top, Domen’s lusting sense of power grew. While exalting himself ever higher, he prepared to claim his final conquest of Feallengod, victory in his long conflict with King Ecealdor. At last he would drive down his island, subject and ruin this people so treasured to his enemy lord. His arms and legs bounded with strength, fed by his hatred for everything so long denied him. Quickly he had climbed several yards higher than the men of his army, and his baleful eyes appeared over the rim of the plateau.
Beorn looked on with anguish spilling over. Whether the scene be at the top of the plateaus, or along the sides of the mountain, impending violence surrounded him. I lay my hands upon his arm and shoulder, an attempt to offer comfort, a vain gesture lost in the chaotic melee. The flames roared and spread, feeding upon oils and alcohol among the supplies, flaky ashes dancing upward with sparks on the torrid air. The men and women huddled together, panicked by each new shower of arrows. Many used their bodies to shield the wounded, crouching over those too weak to protect themselves. Others simply looked about in confused terror, wishing for some escape. The morning showed fully golden pink in the eastern sky, hovering over Ocean Heofon.
Domen’s bloody, gnarled hands and feet gripped the flat peak and lifted him over the ledge like an insect. The cruel teeth of his grinning snarl portended savagery to come. Slowly he gained his feet, plotted an arcing path toward the people, his eyes burning with malice, one hand’s bony fingers stroking the other, clenched into a fist. I shuddered at the sight, not so awful to behold, but because I knew now how close I had come to him. My end mattered not, for I died his enemy. Our men drew what ragged weapons they had and held them ready over weeping loved ones, waiting only for a sign from Beorn to inflict their own compassionate carnage. But Beorn saw them not; when he spied Domen’s loathsome form climbing onto the plateau, his mind flew into confusion. In anguish he paced the mountaintop, long strides and agitated gestures, the very image of a madman. Tearing his fingers through his hair, he cried out the desperation I had long ago accepted as truth: “Meaningless! Every day, every breath, meaningless! Who can deliver us from this death?”
The sun rising distant over the waters revealed an angry cloud unrolling over the island, yet the surrounding sea lay smooth as glass. A thunderclap began to rumble gently in the distance, from no particular d
irection, but far from dissipating, it lingered and grew. A sudden, drenching cloudburst — fresh, cleansing rain — hit the plateau, cooling sheets lasting only a few moments but leaving the great fires mere hissing, steaming embers. In a flash so fast — I’m not sure I remember, but never will I forget — a stunning streak of lightning rent a gash across the full breadth of the sky from east to west.
Slowly, and yet as if the heavens strained in urgency, the thunder built until the skies unleashed a tremendous blast of sound upon the island: A sound like cannon fire, or a legion of trumpets, but greater by thousands, perhaps only thousands; like the crescendo of a multitude of orchestras. Within it echoed the devastating, metallic resonance of all the wars of all of history, fought at one horrendous moment; a sound like the rolling, mounting roar of an avalanche bearing down upon doomed fate, gaining muscle and speed along its descent. The explosion of noise erupted with cascading energy, invisible, terrible to the islanders as we watched this devastating, unseen force visited upon our brittle, physical world. Feallengod’s mighty peaks shook under the pressure of the tremendous percussion, as if they themselves feared crumbling to dust. We upon the plateau all fell, cast down, thrown from our feet; climbers flew off the sides of the mountain like water droplets shaken from its shoulders. My head caught the edge of a stout wooden frame as I went down, bouncing and twisting to the side. My brain spun and showered with color, then swirled into a daze, and numbing fear paralyzed me: The paste might be taking hold again to suck me into utterly deep, inescapable terrors of my own making. My eyes swam, and I struggled to at least lift myself to my elbows.
Great boulders broke loose from their moorings upon the peak, bounding down the mountain face to crush all of Domen’s soldiers caught under the cascade, and the terrible quaking endured. A last, tortured, splintering crack pitched the siege tower tantalizingly to one side – it bowed and paused, its creaking audible over the screams – then into complete collapse, dumping men and arms to the ground, pummeling the scattered people below with massive timbers. From the intense rattling of the land burst forth the fountains of Four Rivers, crashing with spraying brilliance upon the feet of the mountains, and the onrush swept many into the yawning mouth of the sea. A tremendous tangle of bodies and screams roiled at the foot of the mountain as the entire army fell to waste.
At the foot of the mountain also lay the body of Gastgedal, his arms swung out, stretched to each side, palms toward the sky, a sword embedded into his right side.
Of all his forces, only Domen alone stood safe upon the plateau.
Knocked to the ground, victim of the severe shaking, he who would rule the island panicked, trapped within a mob of his enemies, defenseless, with only his anger and hatred to strengthen him. None of us moved toward him, nor took we even notice of him (I speak for myself, for neither did I see my fellows, nor hear, nor touch.) The storm had abated as quickly as it once arose, and as the cloud passed over the island, the sun directed its light onto a point of brilliance upon the highest peaks of Feallengod. And every eye drew to it.
I had only begun to regain my senses and knew nothing swirling upon me. I still feared the illusions haunting me, my mind’s trickery making me believe things that were not. Falling images like men and skeletons and stones flitted about me and spun into a great mass. Something told me that ages and ages of fractured details had suddenly come to their unified end; and so my reason begged me not to believe. But horrified screams of “Look out! What’s that?! What’s coming?!” arising from the groveling people, waving frantically toward the tall zenith, gave witness to reality. Some tried to gain their feet, but they had no place to run. All stared with the terrible fascination of the doomed.
As the mists rolled down from around the peaks, a figure appeared draped in awe, color swirling about it in an unnatural way, high upon the uppermost point. A figure of tremendous grace, of resolute mission, of radiant beauty, unafraid against the billowing maelstrom just passed. I could not make out his face, so remote his distance, neither could I discern his intent. My head still swam from the blow, or from the paste, perhaps — I alone among those on the plateau had partaken. I did not know then; now I need not wonder what the others might have seen. To me he appeared bathed in light, so bright as to almost obscure him altogether, so cool as to heal the blind, and so I saw.
His garments, shimmering like snow and delicate as gossamer, went the length of his body, resting gently at the top of his feet, strong and dark and rich as bronze. A golden belt about the waist held fast his robe, floating in the swirling breezes of the plateau, and also a long sash, deeply red like sardius, draped over his right shoulder. From the belt hung a great scimitar, a menacing curved blade sharp upon both edges, one for severing, the other reaping. Broad and burly he held his shoulders, and his hair hung in loose platinum curls just below his neck, their luster ablaze in the sun. His face glowed like luminescent copper, tanned and ruddy, his countenance without dismay, without conflict, instead displaying the peace of confidence, the courage of absolute assurance. Sparkling eyes, green as jasper, flashed with resolve like a flame of fire. Upon his head rested a golden crown, encrusted with precious jewels, engraved with delicate runes. About him hung a spirit of wonder, so that every man and woman upon the plateau felt drawn to him, and yet all parted to make his path clear.
The people of my island say even the meanest poet can bring flowering eloquence to the stroke of suffering, and still the greatest psalmist can string barely ten words together to celebrate joy. And so, perhaps because our lives’ foundation lies upon bedrock mourning. The shroud that covers each step of our walking, each turning of mind, spreads over in flowing billows of gentle sorrow: We miss our beloved. Long we do, for that distant time of embrace. Then shall joy be born of suffering, and Coren stand among us.
A warm, sweet fragrance floated upon the air. I knew the man to be no spirit, no figment of imagination, but as real as my own heart beating. And I knew nothing else mattered, for Coren had arrived. He made his way down the treacherous mountainside easily — he fairly glided, wisping fog spiraling about his descent — and then he reached the great plateau, and now his feet again exalted Feallengod.
Yes, the Prince came to us, the Magister — this man Coren returned, but not as I nor anyone had ever seen him before. And the multitude of memories of my own perverse scoffing, the faithless accusations of lying I had leveled at my king, all rushed over me like the dry dust of stampede.
“I cannot stand before you!” for suddenly I grieved again, not for the destruction that lay about me but for that within.
The people, as one, went to their knees before Coren. Beorn’s heart leapt as he realized his eyes beheld the appointed day of the ancient promise, that one thing came to a close forever, something that even in its greatest beauty had left a tender void in the hearts of the people, and another thing utterly new prepared to begin.
I gazed at my knees resting upon the plateau, in the midst of security that a moment before had been a plain of annihilation. All the reason and self-reliance in the world blew away with the wind now. This, the finest thing I had ever done, the one show of wisdom my life had ever produced — to stand with Coren — had set everything right.
From the ground below a glad noise arose. I turned to look, and through my tears I could make out Cirice, and Witness, and thousands of others, eyes cast to the plateau, looking up at Coren in adoration and rejoicing; thousands who had joined with Coren, and against Domen so long ago; thousands returning to once again populate Feallengod. Cwen collapsed into pure, helpless joy: There too walked Astigan, carrying a fawn upon his shoulders, even his death exposed as a lie. My gladness at seeing again the friend of my youth defied description then and still now, and there behind him Liesan, restored to health and happiness; and yet still only Coren commanded my delight. In the distance, in the bays and inlets of the eastern shore, brilliantly colorful longboats from Gægnian gleamed in the morning’s new light, and the beauty Feallengod had once kno
wn rekindled there in the communion of the ages. A roaring cheer rose like incense from the plateau as every soul called out to returning friends, family long lost, and every voice sang praises, every voice but one.
“You be Coren!” Domen demanded, exclamation more than question, lying upon the ground, casting a charred squint to the dazzling light.
“I am.”
“I killed you!” screamed Domen.
“Not so, for never was I victim. You do not know the depths of what I have finished. And so, as I show you, I live.”
Domen wrenched his body in frustrated defiance. “Long I knew this day’s arrival, yet never did I believe!”
With no source of shade upon the plateau, Domen lay fully exposed to the hateful brightness of the sunshine. Only the shadow of the son gave him any shelter from the light.
“I came to you once before, Feallengod,” said Coren to all. “I came to you in humility, but no longer. Today I come to you in all the glory of the king’s courts in Gægnian, in all the power I have known since the beginning, for the end was determined from before the beginning. All things are made subject to me, by the will of my father, King Ecealdor.
“As a witness of Ecealdor’s love for you, oh Feallengod, he gave me to you once before. Far from standing distant, I join in your suffering, and in suffering never were we closer, you and I. Now Ecealdor pays the earnest upon the promise, and he gives me to you once again. To seal his devotion to you, for the sake of his glory and promise, this time I am come to you, oh Feallengod, chosen out of all the greater kingdom, to claim a bride. Ecealdor makes a marriage alliance with you, people of Feallengod, to last through all generations.
“Make no mistake. I am Coren, I am the sovereignty of Ecealdor, I am the power of Blawan. If you have seen me, you have seen Ecealdor; I bear the sign of the seamrog.”
Then his eyes fell upon me, the most wretched of traitors, mouth of the most foul denials, enemy to his followers and his father. His gaze burned a hole in me as I suffered my shame.
“You, my friend — your heart breaks for another. You loved deeply a subject of Ecealdor. Is not Liesan’s story your own, and that of all Feallengod as well? For mankind opens the womb in grief, and into grief, and many times the cause remains hidden. Yet still those who endure the fiery darts but remain faithful to the king defeat his foes, do they not? And so I take part in the suffering your enemies would inflict. I take part in the penalty of being born upon Feallengod – not by fate, but by choice – to reveal my father greater than the enemies he banished here. I became a man of Feallengod to be like you, so you now can be like me.”
I stood never more guilty in my rebellion, but I received the grace of the king. And at last the binding ropes were cut, and the stone no longer hung over my head to crush me. And I stood upon the stone.
“Oh, blessed little island, Feallengod! Yes, you nestle within the greater kingdom just a tiny speck, but you have taken part in the greatest victory of all days past or to come. King Ecealdor has not established you in vain. In your suffering, in your weakness, you have persevered, and the forces of Domen have not triumphed. You have fought valiantly in resolute belief. Though led into slaughter, you are found to love your king more than your own lives, and you have served to humiliate the king’s enemies. For this time have you long groaned, Feallengod, for now the royal presence vanquishes forever the insurrection that has torn at your soul, vanquishes forever the forces of evil and hatred, and we regather this little island, this grand battleground, into the courts of Gægnian. The suffering we endured together, that I chose to endure with you, is ended.”
I stood unthinking for a moment, and then unthinking I asked, “But why You?”
“Because of Love.”