by Jo Walton
“Maga,” she said, grinning. “Cruel-looking thing, isn’t it? What they call a belly-spear. Goes in straight and can’t come out.”
“It’s horrible,” he said. “I’d rather have another ordinary one.”
“The king of Connat gave you this one for your valor yesterday,” Pell said.
Had Maga guessed they hadn’t been fighting in earnest? Probably she had. Even if he were trying to kill Darag, he wouldn’t want to hurt him that much. He wouldn’t want to use that thing on his worst enemy. He would throw it first, casting it wide to get it out of the way. Maybe Darag would call for swords first again.
He did not. There was no need for a boast. When Ferdia was ready he looked over, and Darag was standing ready in his chariot, the heads bobbing on the back as Emer guided the horses slowly forward.
“Ready?” Darag called.
“Yes,” Ferdia said.
He turned to Pell. “Drive straight forward, into the water,” he said. She obeyed without question. Even before they reached the water he aimed and threw the first spear, the barbed one, carefully wide. Then, as they splashed into the ford, Darag’s three spears came thudding across with hardly a breath between them. The first one wounded a horse, causing the chariot to swerve violently to the side before Pell brought it under control again. The second killed the other horse stone dead as they hit the water, bringing the chariot crashing to a halt in the water. Ferdia almost fell as he took aim with his own second spear and had to clutch the side of the chariot with his free hand. Then Darag’s third spear came through the air and took Pell in the chest. The fourth spear was a surprise. It was the one Ferdia had thrown, of course. Darag would hardly have had time to look at it, pulling it out of the ground and sending it back. It took him in the belly, as it was meant to, twisting and spilling his guts out. He would have expected it to hurt, for the blood was coming out in waves, but there was only pressure.
Darag leaped the stream and came to a splashing halt at his side. “Ferdia ap Cethern, the valiant champion is wounded and his charioteer is down,” he called. “I will draw out the spear and bind up his wound. He can withdraw in honor and I will fight the next challenger.”
Nobody questioned this. That was why he had killed Pell, of course. Darag must have thought he could draw out the spear quickly and heal Ferdia with the help of strong spells and the weapon. Everything seemed to be turning red, which was unusual, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. He couldn’t move, the spear-point was pinning him to the chariot. There was water around his legs. If it had been an ordinary spear, it would have been a good idea, serving honor well. Darag was clever. He would never have thought of that.
“Your name in my heart,” Ferdia said, or tried to say; his mouth didn’t seem to be working well. He knew that when Darag pulled out the spear, he would die, before any charm could take effect. He hadn’t expected that it would hurt quite so much, or for quite so long, before the merciful dark.
(THE SONG)
Under the willows
didn’t I see Darag
armed and alone
defending his people.
Beside the ford
didn’t I see Darag
battle-ready
arming with spears.
Into the rushing stream
didn’t I see Darag
pride of Oriel
advancing with weapons.
Deep in the water
didn’t I see Darag
the fearles warrior
slaying the champions.
Out in the flood’s heart
didn’t I see Darag
tears on his face
killing his companion.
Wild-eyed and weary
didn’t I see Darag
black blood his garment,
mourning his enemies.
8
TAKING RESPONSIBILITY
29
(CONAL)
If she came today—which he would not hope, because hope hurt too much—but if she came, he would be able to explain to her that she was wrong. Pain interrupted once more. Conal breathed hard through it but held the thread of thought. There was no time now when pain was not, but there was rhythm still, ebb and flow of the pain-tide. He could hold a thought through to the ebb, and even speak it after. Last night, at least, he had been able to speak it. Now, every whole thought held was a victory. If she came, if, he would tell her Amagien had not been cruel to make him face the bull when he was afraid. If he had not faced him, if he had not faced his fear, how could he have held through this?
He breathed. The sun was shining. The elm, which by rights should have been crushed by the force of his grip, remained straight and tall and utterly indifferent. Birds were singing in the spring sunshine. The pain was not in any one place. It moved through him like breath, like the breath of an enemy contesting for mastery. He would not give in. He could gain very little by standing here in defiance of the pain without moaning or screaming or weeping, but what little there was to be gained was hard-won learning, and he embraced it.
As soon as he heard the chariot hurtling down the road towards him, he turned and signaled the waiting child. It was a girl today, ap Casmal, not yet twelve years old. She did not hesitate but pelted off, her short braids flying up behind her. The camp would have some warning, for whatever good it would do. Conal was one of the strongest of them this morning.
Emer was alone in the chariot, a scarf bound about the lower part of her face. She turned in a tight circle and drew to a halt beside him. He took a step toward her, and another step. He breathed. The pain, its tide rising, breathed through him. He took another step despite it. He could endure this. He could endure anything he set himself to endure. He reached the chariot and realized he would have to climb in.
Emer was saying something about Darag and Ferdia. He could not attend yet. He needed to be in the chariot. He needed to be in the chariot now. But while he could make himself stand upright and even walk, his body balked at climbing.
“Help me in,” he said. Even speaking was an effort.
“I knew you would come back with me,” she said, satisfaction clear in her voice. “Quickly.” She was there, and the touch of her arms was a comfort, but she could not lift him. The horses were fresh and would not keep still without her hand on the reins. They shifted uneasily, making the chariot bounce. Conal did not scream, held on to not screaming. At last he made it in and stood there trembling.
“Back to the ford?” she asked, and took his silence for assent. She took up the reins again and set off once more at racing speed. He could only clutch the side of the chariot and breathe, trying not to pant. The chariot jolted and lurched and he could not move in compensation, so every jerk went through him with a wave of pain, setting the waves at angles to each other so that they eddied and crashed over him in a series of crests without rhythm. After a little while there came an ebb at last. They were almost through the little belt of woodland, they would be at the ford in a moment. Emer’s eyes were hard as flints, she stared out over the horses’ heads as a charioteer should. They came out from the shade of the trees and Emer checked the pace of the horses.
The army of Connat was in front of them, filling the space between the river and the trees on both sides, champions in chariots, painted spearmen on foot around them, banners rippling out in the breeze. He saw Mingor looking enthusiastic, and Allel looking reluctant, and Cethern of Lagin afoot, his face full of grief and fury. Conal fumbled blindly behind him for a spear. His hand met empty space. He turned his head to look, and the chariot bounced over a rut in the road. The pain was everything and everywhere and all of the world for a time, so that it was a moment before he realized that his eyes were fixed on three empty slots where the spears should have been.
He stared at the emptiness for a moment, then started to laugh. He was racked with laughter, as with the pain, which it exacerbated. Emer looked at him, frowning over her scarf. He could not stop laughing. He
had his sword, but he could barely stand. Would they wait for him to climb out of the chariot to challenge them? The waves of laughter fought the waves of pain, and Conal fought both of them for mastery. Emer drew the chariot to a halt, facing the army of Connat.
“Enemies of my people,” he said, forcing his voice steady by will alone. “I challenge you. I am Conal ap Amagien, of Edar, Conal the Victor, and I hold this ford against whoever will stand.” A wild, high giggle escaped him on the last word.
Mingor stepped forward, and Conal realized that unlike Darag, he could not fight anyone who came against him. If he killed Mingor or Allel, it would set a bloodfeud between himself and Emer, and he could not risk that. Allel, perhaps moved by the same thought, put a restraining hand on Mingor’s shoulder. Cethern pushed his way forward to stand by Allel’s chariot.
The pain came swelling up again so that Conal could not hear what they said, and he knew only that there was a silence he was expected to reply into. “This ford is held against you,” he repeated. He drew his sword.
“You are in no fit state to fight,” Allel said, “Go back, Victor. You will die to no purpose.”
“Young people have not learned that life has endings,” said a voice from behind. Conal did not turn to look, he did not need to. He would have recognized Inis’s voice anywhere. “But I am an old man and here I am to stand beside my grandson, with my son and my granddaughter to stand with me.”
Inis and Orlam came forward, supporting Conary between them.
“Ap Fathag—” Allel began.
Inis shook his head. “Weak as we are, we are all coming.”
“Do you stand to fight?” Cethern asked.
“I do,” Orlam said. “I will hold this ford.”
“No,” Allel said. “You cannot. A lawspeaker or a priest might fight to defend their home, yes, but not stand to hold a road when we must kill you at once and on purpose.”
“Then you must risk that, and risk what Rathadun will make of it,” Orlam said. Allel and Cethern looked troubled, and one or two of the older faces among the enemy frowned, but more looked eager and impatient.
“You can stand to fight if you insist,” Allel said. “You may not hold the ford in single combat. We will all come against you. Either you are fighting folk or you are protected, you cannot be both.”
“Then I will fight you, Allel ap Dallan,” Conary said. His voice was cracked and feeble, but his determination showed through clearly. “Conal, will you lend me your chariot?”
“No,” Conal said, speaking against the pain that was rising again. “I will rather fight to defend you.”
“I have already lost one nephew to this foolishness,” Conary said. Emer made a noise in her throat but said nothing. “I forbid you to fight now. There will be time when I am fallen, perhaps. Give me the chariot and your charioteer.” Conal gritted his teeth against pain and frustration.
“I will fight you, Conary ap Inis,” Cethern said. “I am on foot, as you see. My son and your nephew have killed my charioteer and broken my chariot. But you should know that your nephew is not dead. He swooned over my son’s body and holds the ford no longer, but he lives and will recover.”
“Thank you,” Conary said, and swayed with the same pain that racked Conal. So Darag lived. Conal thought he was glad to hear it.
Orlam drew Conary’s sword and put it in his hand. Inis handed him his shield. He took a lurching step forward toward Cethern. Cethern’s sword blocked Conary’s easily. Conal watched with horror-struck fascination. The wonder was that Conary could stay on his feet and avoid Cethern’s blows. His sword and shield were clearly weights he could hardly lift. Yet time and again, he brought them up to block as it was needed.
“That’s practice,” Emer breathed admiringly as Conary staggered but stopped another high blow. Practice and something else, Conal thought as he stood and breathed, enduring. He was not sure he could do what Conary was doing. Conary brought his shield up again. He had never looked so much the king of Oriel as he did now, stooped and staggering and still undefeated.
Emer turned to look at something behind as the pain ebbed a little. “What is it?” Conal asked, holding what strength he had for when he would need it.
“Everyone’s coming,” she said. Her voice was awed. “Meithin and Leary and your mother and Leary’s, everyone, all the fighting folk of Oriel, dragging themselves along.”
Conal did not take his eyes off Conary. There was another exchange of blows. Conary feinted high and thrust low. Cethern blocked the blow with his shield and brought his own sword up fast towards Conary’s belly. Conary brought his shield down to block, but too slowly. Cethern’s sword went in and as Conal’s pain rose high again, Conary crumpled slowly forward onto the grass.
“Do you yield, people of Oriel?” Allel was asking when Conal could hear again. “Will you give us what we ask?”
“What do you ask?” Inis asked in reply. “The Black Bull of Edar? Or our country and our homes? Is this cattle-raid or war now?”
Allel did not answer, which was answer in itself.
“Isn’t this enough?” Inis asked conversationally. He turned to Conal and waved his arm in cheerful inquiry. “Don’t you think this is enough?”
Conal remembered a dream, or something like a dream. He raised his hands and his voice as the pain flowed strong again. “Isn’t this enough, Rhianna?” he addressed the air. “Damona, of the Judgments, have we not suffered even as the mare suffered? Bel, Lord of Moderation, who made the Wards that make us what we are, isn’t this enough?”
The pain rose to a new crest as he shouted his defiance to the gods, and on that crest came a new wrenching. He screamed then, because his mouth was open to speak and he could not stop it. He thought the enemy might take it for a battle cry, because it was surely as loud as one.
Something heard. As the pain was at its highest, blood gushed out from Conary’s fatal wound, and out of the black bloodtide came Blackie. He thundered toward the enemy, head lowered and horns ready. It worked at Edar, Conal thought crazily, wondering which god might have thought this a good answer. Rhianna, maybe. Then, as the wrenching ebbed and his scream died away, the ground around him was covered with the shadows of champions advancing on foot. The pain ebbed and ebbed, and still they came, the shadow of an army wielding the shadows of weapons. He could recognize his own shadow, many times repeated, clustered around him and going forward. Conary’s shadows rose from his fallen body, and Leary’s flowed out from him, and Finca’s from her, and shadows from all of those there who had borne the pain and stood ready to fight on the ninth day. More and more shadows came pressing up from behind; many of them he did not immediately recognize even as they parted around the chariot and flowed toward the army of Connat in eerie silence.
Conal raised his arms, and more shadows flowed out of him. The air around was dark with them, going forward, away from him. The army of Connat was giving way already before the army of shadows. They were back in the water, and still the shadows pursued.
“Should we go, too?” Emer asked.
The pain was still running through Conal, and he still had no spears, although most of his shadows did. “Go on,” he said. Whatever he could do, he would. Emer spoke a word to the horses and they moved on, ears back uneasily.
As they went forward among the shadows, the darkness pressed around them until he could see nothing but darkness in any direction. He heard a cat growl and saw again the huge cat he had defeated on the heights of Cruachan, there among the shadows. He was standing alone on a mountaintop, stars falling all around him. Then he was in the chariot again, moving, with a rush of wings, a swirl of ravens very close, dark against darkness.
Then the shadow of the ogre Bachlach was there, his huge ax held in both hands, swinging up to strike at Conal’s head.
Emer urged the horses on. Bachlach strode after them effortlessly. The pain was rising again. “I think we can outpace him,” Emer said.
“He didn’t have his turn,” Cona
l said, forming the words carefully. “He survived being beheaded, and so did Darag.”
“He’s a god and Darag is his son,” Emer said, not slackening the pace.
“How—” Conal began, but the pain, combined with the jolting of the chariot, was too much.
“I just worked it out,” she said.
Bachlach’s shadow was in front of them, huge and implacable, ax raised. The pain swelled up to meet him, the highest crest yet. Conal bowed his head and felt the ax-blow as mercy. The pain did not ebb, but left him entirely. His head rolled down his chest. He caught it in his right hand, laughing. It was smaller than he would have expected, about the size of the heads on the chariot, not like a living head. It must have been shrunken already.
They were still driving on through darkness. Bachlach was gone, and so was the pain. “Are you all right?” Emer asked.
“I think so,” Conal said. After all, his head was safe in his hand and nothing hurt at all, which was very good. He moved a little, experimentally. He drew a deep breath. It was wonderful. “I love you,” he said.
The shadows were still all around them in the dark, some of them shaped and some shapeless, all of them pressing insistently. Another swirl of ravens came out of nowhere, silently sweeping past. Then the chariot was gone and Emer was gone and he was falling through the star-shot darkness, his head clutched tight in his hand.
30
(ELENN)
She smiled at ap Dair, she smiled at her mother, she smiled at the Demedian king, she smiled at the wedding branches, autumn-colored now, she just smiled and smiled and waited for it to be over.
It felt as if she had kept that smile on her face every day of the four months since the black bull had come charging into camp and died at her feet. She had known at once that Ferdia was dead, though she had not understood what it meant for the war until later. She had smiled and gone on smiling, hiding everything she was feeling underneath the smile. It was surprising how much strength she found underneath. She had thought she was weak, but all the time her strength had been there, waiting for her to find it. She had always hidden her secret feelings away from her mother, but now she hid them from everyone. She was strong. It was Emer who was weak.