The Bitterbynde Trilogy (179 page)

‘Never mind, Tully,' said Ashalind, her pulse beating like threshing flails. ‘I know it. The riddle's answer is a seabird, the elindor.'

‘Thou art overly acute,' said Prince Morragan regretfully. He stepped from somewhere, or nowhere, and extended his arm. The raven flew through the open window, to perch thereon.

The library brightened. Pellucid light poured down, for the chamber now lay naked to the sky, the ceiling having disappeared without a sound. The nine lamps flared, showing that the tall casements had melted like panes of ice. They left wide interstices through which stars dazzled and the wind careened. Between the empty window-frames the walls remained upright. Stripped of their panelling they revealed themselves as monoliths of solid basalt, capped by stone lintels. Within this primitive and monumental circle the carved furniture and carpeting remained unchanged—incongruous, decadent.

Figures drifted in through the gaps between the monoliths, the courtiers of the Crown Prince mingling with the various wights addicted to the proximity of the Faêran.

Amongst them sauntered the Each Uisge in field armour, a sculpture in metal: the curved ridge of the gardebraces jutted from his shoulders on either side, meeting the rippled shoulder-defences of the pauldrons at a smooth seam. The lamels on both the upper and lower cannons of the vambraces were layered and scalloped like the scales of a fish, adorned by rows of pearly rivet-heads, chased and molded to match the breastplate with its foliate seaweed design.

The couter protecting the left elbow protruded in a great fan-shaped shell of steel, large by contrast with the winged-shell reinforcement on the right elbow. The lamels fitted him closely at the waist. From the body-armour depended shield-shaped tassets ridged and fluted with pointed arches, prolonging the defence of the skirt over cuisses embellished with jagged wave designs which differed on each thigh. Fan-shells glittered on the poleyns, at the outside of the knees. The wave-crests on the greaves arrowed down in reflection of the upreaching peaks on the cuisses. The gauntlets were silver lobsters.

He moved out of view.

Negligently, Morragan stroked Ashalind's hair, toying with a few tresses.

She burned.

‘Gaze through the window,
lhiannan,'
he suggested.

Between two basalt pillars stretched the dew-silvered net of a cobweb. Its strands glittered and thinned, then dissolved. Behind this mesh, a scene was displayed—not the evernight of Darke, but the circadian day of clean-rinsed Arcdur.

Once more the Eye of Gramarye roved through the land of stone and pine. Once more Ashalind could recognise no clue to the whereabouts of the elusive Gate of Oblivion's Kiss, or if it seemed she was about to do so, some hindrance obfuscated it. Searching, she felt her strength drain away as though the pith was being sucked out of her bones. ‘No more,' she pleaded, but there was no relenting. The search was long. Her shoulders sagged with weariness. By the time the beautiful voice of Morragan said, ‘Draw back,' her sinews hurt as though she had been reaping in the fields for three days and three nights.

Just as the scene of Arcdur was fading, another landscape overlaid it for a while—a field of war at sunset. The sky ruptured into long red wounds. Behind a mountain, the merest sliver of a fingernail moon came up in a misty nimbus the colour of spring leaves.

Beneath the bloody light of the dying day Ertish troops confronted Namarran assailants. The troops were organised in battle formation. Each battalion formed themselves an oblong composed of three ranks consisting of heavy cavalry, spearmen, archers and crossbowmen, with light cavalry on the flanks. In the front lines, the spearmen knelt on one knee, holding their shields before them, the lower edges braced upon the ground. Their spears slanted towards the enemy, all at the same angle, like a forest of saplings bowing beneath the powerful vectors of a hurricane. The Finvarnans had rammed their spear-butts into the rocky soil. Behind them, the archers and crossbowmen were arrayed. The archers, also on one bent knee, protected themselves with shields held on the left arm, until the instant they sighted and released an arrow. In the third line waited cavalrymen, shielded by the infantry until the moment was right for a cavalry charge.

The rebels' horses refused to drive themselves at this bristling hedge of spears. As long as the Ertish infantry remained steadfastly in this formation, they were secure, although without mobility there was small chance of defeating the enemy.

For a long interval the rebel forces subjected the Ertish warriors to an incessant hail of arrows, bolts and javelins. The constant barrage under imposed conditions of impassivity enraged the Erts, to the point that their discipline eventually crumbled. Some of the spearmen sprang to their feet and began to advance. To ensure the integrity of the shield wall, the rest were forced to follow.

As the Finvarnan companies advanced over the rough terrain, their attention fixed on deflecting the onslaught of missiles, they were unable to keep marching in step. Breaches opened in their ranks and into these gaps charged two divisions of the barbarians' heavy cavalry, javelins levelled. Once in the heart of the fray they fought with sword and mace, hacking, hewing and smiting. Caught in disarray, the Ertish infantry had no chance of withstanding the cavalry charge. They broke ranks and scattered into the waxing darkness. As soon as the barbarian hordes saw their enemy giving ground, they attacked in full force. The Finvarnans were routed.

But this battle had by no means decided the contest. The greater conflict was yet to come.

Between the stone pillars, the image altered.

Early sunlight reached long wands across the Nenian Landbridge, stretching shadows from the long lines of horsemen who rode solemnly, nine abreast, into its oncoming radiance. Beneath their helms, the soldiers of the Legions of Erith narrowed their eyes against the glory of the dawn. Their spears and banners stood up in serried ranks like a glittering forest. Darts of golden light glanced from their armour, visible from miles away. High above, Windships rose and dipped among the clouds, and twelve squadrons of Stormriders passed like flights of great birds of prey. The jangle of stirrup and bridle came ringing faintly on the breeze.

There rode among the Stormriders Lords Voltasus, Ustorix, Isterium, Valerix and Oscenis. Among the Legions was numbered a soldier entitled Second Lieutenant Diarmid Bruadair of the Emperor's Regiment, his tabard resplendent with the King's Lion in regimental colours. Nearby rode a more lissom soldier with hair alight and a long quiver at her back—Corporal Muirne Bruadair of the Royal Company of Archers. A taller archer rode at her side; young Eochaid of Gilvaris Tarv.

Further back marched companies of men in less disciplined array. Their war-gear was flamboyant, one might say reckless, being mainly of hard-boiled leather riveted with iron. Some drove chariots, some rode mettlesome steeds, others strode afoot singing lustily, not in the Common Tongue. Their hair caught and tossed the fire of the new day. A roar of laughter could dimly be heard; an ox of a man sat astride his warhorse, brandishing an axe and shield. Sianadh Kavanagh it was, none other—a warrior singing patriotic songs while following Mabhoneen, Chieftain of the Erts of Finvarna and his rallied squadrons.

The Arysk rode with the Legions also—the Icemen, three Rimanian battalions in war-harness glittering like sunlight on snow. And the stalwart brown-haired men of Severnesse rode, as well as those of Luindorn.

The Dainnan were there in silver-white mail overlaid by long surcoats. Among them was Sir Heath with the knights Tide, Firth, Dale, Flint, Gill, Tor and many more chivalry of their
thriesnuns.
The Royal Attriod rode with the Dainnan—Tamlain, Duke of Roxburgh, and Thomas, Duke of Ercildoune; Octarus Ogier, Lord High Chieftain of Stormriders; John Drumdunach, Lord High Commander of the Royal Guard; Richard of Esgair Garthen, Lord High Sea Admiral; and Istoren Giltornyr, Lord High Sky Admiral.

And he who rode at the head of these
thriesnuns,
these battalions, these wizards and fleets and squadrons,
he
came forth like a lion.

Called
James XVI, King-Emperor, he stood out from the rest, mounted on his armoured war-horse Hrimscathr. The sword Arcturus was scabbarded at his side, its damasked quillons deflecting the sun's rays to blinding shards. He was exactly as Ashalind had once pictured him with thought's invention, shining in golden field-armour with its slender, elegant lines, cusped borders and shell-like rippling. Damascening glinted on the lames, studded metal roses were connected by riveted laminations to shoulder, elbow and knee, and adorned the breastplate. The Lion of D'Armancourt roared upon his breast. His helm was crested with a great golden lion, a star-tipped crown encircling the war-beast's shoulders. Beneath the metal nose-guard was a glimpse of the high cheekbones, the strong chin, the eyes as keen as knife blades. He smiled at one of his captains and the lean lines of laughter appeared at each corner of his mouth. The Royal Attriod in their plumed splendour surrounded him, armoured cap-a-pie, light splintering off richly ornamented chausses, vambraces, coudieres, genouilliers, tassets, gauntlets. Flanked by standard-bearers, a trumpeter, the Dainnan, the Legions of Eldaraigne and battalions from the armies of every country in Erith with their banners and gonfalons, the gay pennons unfolding their points along the breeze, this sovereign of a lost realm looked towards the wide lands opening out from the Landbridge and advanced steadily into Namarre.

All these scenes came and went in a flash. As Ashalind watched, dusk veiled the landscape and stars shone through it. Knights and men-at-arms dissolved into indigo shadow—the skies of Darke caught in the spider's net between the monoliths. Limply, Ashalind draped her arms over the sides of the X-framed chair and rested her head upon one of them.

‘Thou must do better in thy search, if thou'rt to soothe me,' said Morragan, and this time there was a perilous edge to his tone. With a flick of his hand he signalled to his cup-bearer. ‘Shouldst thou not soon find the Gate, Elindor, martial conflict shall recommence in earnest.'

‘Would you make war against your brother and sworn sovereign?' Ashalind cried, starting up.

Morragan made no reply. He strode away, his cloak unfurling like violent smoke.

The Faêran cup-bearer leaned to the girl, saying: ‘The stirrings of this strife were begat long ago, after thy sly visit to Huntingtowers. A duergar was in possession of a skein of zircon locks and by this love-token, the reality of an active Gate was revealed. Namarran insurrection was engendered in order to distract Angavar from the discovery of thee.'

‘How could you all be so certain the High King was not aware of the Gate?'

‘On learning of its existence, Angavar would certainly have ridden for Arcdur with nine and ninety Faêran knights and ladies. Had he done so, we should have known it instantly. Dost thou underestimate us even now?'

‘The purpose of distraction was achieved. Let there now be an end to conflict.'

‘'Tis His Royal Highness's desire to crush those who have leagued themselves with Angavar—the Legions of Erith, the Dainnan and the mortal Seven. Mighty are the forces of the Unseelie Host now gathered. Mighty are the Princes of the eldritch Attriod. Namarran warriors have allied also themselves with the Host, although beside the rest, their puny strength is as a javelin of water. By now they understand that more than their own ambitions are at stake, but they see the fulfilment of their goals as an adjunct to any war against the Empire.'

‘For no good reason does your liege harass the men of Erith,' Ashalind said faintly, collapsing back into the chair and accepting the goblet from the cup-bearer's hand. ‘They have done him no harm.'

‘Spies and thieves are all men,' said the Faêran cup-bearer scornfully, ‘liars and meddlers, glutted on greed, lack of generosity, rudeness and selfishness, gloominess, untidiness, disorderliness, undue curiosity, slovenliness, ill temper and bad manners. Yet for all these faults the Fithiach would not deign to wage war upon humankind if not for Angavar, who loves them.'

‘I repeat, there is no reason for war games now that I am here!'

Lord Iltarien stepped close to her, saying, ‘Now that preparations have proceeded this far, our Prince has decided to carry the business through to its apposite conclusion. Angavar is aware thou dost bide with us in Gothallamor, though too late has he arrived at this wisdom. He also knows our Prince is behind the uprising. He will attack. Already he pushes across the Landbridge into Namarre. We are ready.'

Quoth the stylish Each Uisge, gurgling like a drain:

‘The Raven's wings will spread wide across Erith's skies when Angavar Iolaire yields and is made a haggard.'

‘Then you are conspirers and treasoners to your King!' shouted Ashalind, flinging the goblet and its contents at the Faêran knights. ‘Treasoners all!'

The globules of wine solidified in midair. Teardrops of jet and diamond rattled to the floor like a beaded fringe, bringing down in their wake a curtain of darkness so thick that nothing could be seen, and through this utter absence of all light tore a howl of preternatural menace. A subsonic pressure pounded at Ashalind's ears and she heard Caitri's thin scream like a scratch on the edge of a vitreous chalice. Then something seized her and flung her to the ground.

10

THE BATTLE OF EVERNIGHT

Of Love and War

Green hills rise up against the skies; behemoths of bygone time,

Silent beneath soft rain, bright sun, and silver star and frosty rime.

Grass covers, like a velvet cloth, the sunken halls where sleepers lie.

Stone caverns hide the gleam of gold, of armour and of jewellery.

Magnificent in splendid state, adorn'd with gorgeous pageantry,

Scutcheons blazoned with a sign—knights of mystic errantry.