Authors: Angus Wells
Rytha touched her husband’s hand. “Wait, eh? That’s not perhaps the best way to go.”
Pawl said, “You could, for you are surely the mightiest lord in all the Highlands. But … were you to behead me, then my king would seek retribution. And then you’d surely see all of Danant’s force come against you, and I think that you’d be slain. Better we continue our alliance, no? Better that you deliver Ellyn. Do that, and I can assure you that Talan will gift you with gold and men in such quantity as shall satisfy you.”
“He’d best,” Eryk said.
“Only give him what he wants,” said Pawl, “and it shall all be yours.”
“I shall,” Eryk said, after glancing at his fat wife. “My word on it.”
“But soon, eh?” Pawl smiled. “It’s been awhile.”
“As soon as I can,” said Eryk.
“T
hey cannot find her.” Pawl ducked his head in obeisance before Talan. “They make promises, but deliver nothing.”
He chanced an upward glance to where Nestor sat beside his king—and frightened him more than Talan’s wrath.
“So should we ignore them?” Talan addressed his question as much to Nestor as to Pawl. “Are they of no importance?”
“Ellyn is alive,” Nestor said, “and you need her—alive or dead—to claim Chaldor for your own. To that end, and more, you need the Highlanders. You need them all.”
“All?” Talan shook his head in bemusement. “How many of them are there? Five clans—some few thousand; are they so great a threat?”
“Perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand in all,” Nestor replied. “But fierce fighters—better to have them on our side than find them raiding south against us. Better to persuade them to our cause than fight a war with them.”
“I’ve more men than that.” Talan beckoned a servant to fill his cup, frowning. “I could send Egor Dival to face them and defeat them—I’ve surely the men for that.”
“Indeed, but spread across Chaldor,” Nestor said. “A holding force in every town, and all along the riverbank. You can hold Chaldor like a nut in your fist—but you need Ellyn to be secure.”
“But I don’t have her, and it seems our clansmen ally cannot deliver her.” Talan angled a finger at Pawl. “Is that not true?”
“Not yet,” said the luckless emissary. “Eryk has hunted for her these past years that I’ve spoken with him, but not yet found her.”
“So you’ve not succeeded,” Talan said. “You’ve failed me, no?”
Pawl said, “Forgive me, my lord. I’ve done my best. But …”
Talan halted his plaint with a raised finger. Turned to Nestor and said, “I am tired of these excuses. I’ve no time for them.”
Nestor smiled and pointed a finger even as he voiced low-spoken words. And flame enveloped Pawl.
The emissary screamed once before the fire took him. Then only ashes remained, falling in slow drifts about the chamber that had once been Ryadne’s. Talan watched them descend onto the tiled floor and sighed.
“Were all my minions so loyal as you,” he said to Nestor. “Perhaps I should ask you to go to the Highlands.”
“I believe,” Nestor said, “that I serve you best in close proximity.”
Talan nodded. “Likely so. Surely I’d not have you far from me. I think that … things … come against me.”
“Do they,” Nestor said, “I shall stand beside you and guard you.”
“Then I shall feel safe,” Talan said.
“So should you,” said Nestor, smiling.
Servants cleared away the ashes, and Talan called Egor Dival to the chamber.
“Where’s Pawl?” he asked.
Talan smiled at his aging general and said, “Gone. He failed me.”
Dival stared aghast at the servants who still swept away the last remnants of the emissary. His eyes turned to Nestor, then to Talan.
“You slew him?”
“He failed me.”
“He did his best.” Dival’s weather-beaten face creased into a deeper frown than any of his campaigns had delivered. “It is not easy to deal with these Highlanders.”
There was criticism implicit in his tone and Talan flushed. “He failed me!”
“So you slew him.” Dival addressed this latest accusation to Nestor.
“I obeyed my master,” the Vachyn said.
Dival snorted sour laughter and turned his eyes back to Talan. “And do I fail you, shall you deliver me the same fate?”
Talan shrugged, and glanced sidelong at his Vachyn mage.
“Hold my lands secure, eh? Let no Highlanders come south.”
“Or?” Dival asked.
Talan looked again at Nestor and chuckled.
Egor Dival scowled. It was hard to hide his feelings, but he ducked his head nonetheless, and said, “I am yours to command, my king.”
M
attich had scouts out—Eryk remained intent on conquering the Dur, presumably because Ellyn was blood-linked to that clan, and they had aided our escape, or because he had become Talan’s man—and in time the scouts brought word of my brother’s whereabouts. The massed group of Devyn and Agador were not yet joined by any allies, neither the Quan nor Talan’s men, and Eryk’s force was encamped south and east of our combe.
I had taken advantage of the respite to hone myself further, practicing each day with anyone who’d take me on. Often it was Ellyn, whose own swordskills advanced apace. Indeed, I thought her a good enough swordsman that she might face most warriors and win. Also, she worked with Shara (of which practices I knew no more than before) and spent much time with Clayre and the other wisewomen. Surely she matured. There were fewer displays of temper, and she appeared to have lost her arrogance. I honestly believed that if we succeeded, she would make a fitting heir to her parents’ throne.
But could we succeed?
To achieve that aim I must face Eryk in battle and win the allegiance of both the Devyn and the Agador, and I doubted that could be won save Rytha be slain—which I did
not think I could do. Eryk, yes. I’d put my sword in his fat gut without compunction. But a woman? Much as I disliked her, I doubted I could bring myself to kill her, or even order her death. I chose to set that aside and see where fate delivered me.
When the scouts brought word we discussed our strategy—Mattich, Clayre, Shara, Ellyn, and I.
“He’ll find us soon,” Mattich said, “so we’d best not delay. They outnumber us, but a surprise attack …”
“No.” I shook my head. “Are we to win the loyalty of the Devyn and the Agador, we need to avoid fighting. The fewer slain, the better.”
“Then how?” Mattich asked.
“I challenge Eryk,” I said. “To single combat.”
“He’ll order you slain on sight.” Mattich shook his grey head. “He’ll have arrows in you before you open your mouth.”
“What other way is there?” I shrugged. “You’ve not enough warriors to face the Devyn and the Agador—they’d cut you down. And then, most likely the Quan would listen to Eryk, and all turn on the Arran.” I glanced at Ellyn, who sat grim-faced and silent. “And then everything’s lost.”
Shara asked, “Can you defeat him?”
“Is the fight honest, yes.”
Ellyn asked, “Shall it be?”
“I don’t know.” I chuckled, though were I honest I did not feel at all humorous. “Eryk is devious, but I think there’s a way.”
I outlined my plan, and they listened and agreed.
That night, as I went to my tent, Ellyn joined me.
“Shall we walk awhile?”
I wondered, nervously, what she had in mind, and she doubtless recognized my wariness, for she looped an arm in mine and chuckled and said, “I’ll not attempt to seduce you, Gailard. Only offer help.”
“What help?” I asked.
We walked beside the stream then, and it was a soft
summer’s night. The brook babbled and insects buzzed in the warm air. The moon we Highlanders call the Planter’s hung full-faced in a sky all spread with sparkling stars. I halted and turned to face her.
“Magic,” she said. “I can weaken Eryk; I can give you strength.”
“No,” I said, so fierce she started back. “And do you suggest such a thing again I’ll set you across my knee and …”
“Forgive me? I only … By all the gods, Gailard, I’d not see you die.”
“So you’d use magic to aid me? And destroy my honor? Do you not understand, even now? I go to face my brother in combat, and one of us shall die. But it
must
be a fair fight, else it means nothing. Do you use magic to aid me, then it’s no more than what Talan delivered your father—a victory won through magic, and you’re no better than the Vachyn. Are you to rule Chaldor fairly, then you must let men fight fairly.”
“Forgive me,” she said again. “But … I’m afraid.”
“As am I,” I said, and we walked awhile in silence.
Then: “Please live, Gailard. Should you die, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
She rose on tiptoes then and brushed my cheek with her lips and ran away into the night. I went slowly to my own tent and set to running a whetstone over my blade.
I was checking my buckler when I heard Shara’s voice asking if she might enter.
I agreed and she came in. She was wearing breeches and a tunic, her hair gathered in a long tail, her eyes as troubled as Ellyn’s had been. I invited her to sit, and filled two cups with brose.
“This is no easy thing we face.” She sipped the liquor, watching me over the cup’s rim. “Can you slay your brother?”
I nodded. “Can you slay yours?”
“Easily.” Her smile was grim. “This world should be a better place without him, without the Vachyn.”
“And a better place without Eryk,” I said. “For where’s the difference betwixt him and the Vachyn? Are they not both ambitious beyond all decency? The gods know, but does Eryk have his way, he’ll rule the Highlands as Talan’s puppet—and Talan’s Nestor’s puppet, no?”
She nodded and emptied her cup. “What did Ellyn want?”
“She offered magic to aid me,” I said, “and I refused.”
Shara smiled. “For honor’s sake.” It was not a question.
“Without that,” I said, “I am nothing.”
Shara said, “No,” and rose and touched my cheek again, and said, “Slay him, Gailard, and live. I’d not see you die.”
I took her hand and for a moment she clutched me, then broke free and turned away. “When this is done … When the fighting’s over and—the gods willing—Ellyn’s enthroned …”
I said, “Yes,” and watched her go.
I wished she’d not, for I wanted her then, and felt such desire for her as I’d not experienced for any other woman I had ever known. I wanted her with me, to hold in my arms and love her, and wake up in the morning with her, and all the other mornings of my life. I desired her in ways I could not explain, and knew that I must wait, and hope, and not know the outcome of my desire until she granted me permission, or rejected me. And all I could do was my duty—my geas—and hope.
W
e rode out into a bright morning. The sun was already high, and birds sang loud and joyous. The sky was blue and cloudless, the air sweet with the scent of the heather. I wore my battle kit. Mattich rode with us, accompanied by a small honor guard led by Rob. Shara and Ellyn came kitted in their armor, and Mattich carried that long pole decked with feathers that denoted a parley, which bound the clans to
honorable talk. Save Eryk was prepared to forfeit all tradition, he must listen to us and let us depart unharmed. My hope was hung on that pole.
We found Eryk’s camp and faced his outguards. Mattich lofted the pole and the guards parted, escorting us through the great bivouac to the grandiose pavilion at its center. They gaped at me as if I were a ghost—which, likely, in their eyes I was. I was, after all, a dead man returned to life.
Word had spread and Eryk came to meet us, accompanied by Rytha. They stared at us, surprised. For a while his eyes lingered on me, as if he could not truly believe I remained fleshed and solid and human. Rytha only scowled and pursed her lips. Then Eryk laughed and said, “So, Mattich, do you come to submit? I see you’ve brought the fugitives, and I thank you. I’ll deal kinder with you for that.”
Mattich lofted his pole and cried, “I come to issue a challenge.”
Eryk said, “I see a beaten chieftain, and a dead man with him—and a girl I’d have. No more than that.”
Ignoring him, Mattich said, “I come to parley.”
Ellyn fidgeted in her saddle as if she’d unleash magic now. Shara touched her hand and murmured too softly for me to catch her words. I stared at my brother, despising him. Rytha fixed me with a gaze full of hatred.
Mattich raised his voice, loud enough all those gathered around us could hear. “I come under truce’s banner to issue a challenge. Gailard of the Devyn would claim his rightful command. He challenges you to single combat.”
Eryk’s puffy face paled. “You claim the right of single combat? You are beaten! I need only give the word, and you are slain.”
“And you are bereft of honor,” Mattich said, raising the pole in a great flourish. “Have you robbed the Devyn and the Agador of all honor? Do you deny the ancient rights?”
The folk around us muttered. I could not tell whether they acclaimed Mattich or supported Eryk. I was aware of
nocked bows angled in my direction, and drawn swords, and knew that in an instant we might all be slain.
I said, “Are you afraid, Eryk? You claim command of two clans, but you’d not fight me? Shall you order your men to loose their shafts and slay me in my saddle? That would be easy—
and devoid of honor!”
I leaned down to face him closer. “I challenge you to single combat, Eryk! Fight me for command of the Devyn.”
Eryk licked his fat lips. “Our father banished you. You’ve no right to claim combat.”
I said, raising my voice, “Are you afraid? Does a coward lead our father’s clan? Do the Devyn and the Agador follow a weakling who’ll not pick up a sword?”
Eryk looked to Rytha, whose eyes were hooded and furious, offering him no escape. I swung from my saddle and passed my chestnut’s reins to Mattich. I stepped a little way forward and raised my arms, turning around as I shouted at all the camp.
“Kill me now, eh? Tell your archers to loose their shafts; tell your warriors to come on and slay me. Gain your sad dreams, and give the Highlands to Talan. And live without honor, all men knowing that.”
I thought I might die then, but I saw a man lower his bow, and another sheathe his blade, and I heard a great whisper of agreement. And saw Eryk chew his mustache and close his eyes as if he prayed.