“I think we shall. Let them kill each other off on the Moor of Yrawnn. We shall retire to the Jaal, and there we’ll await the outcome…” He raised a bull’s horn and on it blew a long and mournful blast. “Fighting men’s one thing,” he said, “but fighting devils is another…”
Then he began to turn his army around.
The men who tended them caught up in battle or killed, the fires burned down, the gray smoke cleared; and what was revealed then was a field of slaughter, where the killing yet continued fiercely. By now it was almost noon, and Albrecht knew that Kor was not coming. In the oyster-colored light of day, he saw, through the visor of his helm, the distant Moor where Kor’s army should have been—and there was nothing there. And all at once a coldness took him; for the first time in years he felt a dread fear of death.
And yet, in all that turmoil, he and Morning Star had not clashed. Glimpses he had of that terrible man on that great white horse, sword hacking, fist smashing—and the horse itself throwing half-wolves left and right. But there had been an army in between them, and now there was army no more—only a fearful heap of gray corpses in black armor or black leather, some elite companies fighting savagely, and himself, sword arm always busy, doing great damage with the Great Sword of Boorn, which it was the King’s entitlement to carry. That sword had been forged for Sigrieth, of Dolo steel, and it would hack through anything that came its way. But not even a master swordsman like King Albrecht, with such a master sword, could win the day alone. And now, he was afraid.
For over yonder Morning Star was fighting, and Sigrieth himself had never fought like that. And all at once, Albrecht knew he had to flee. The day was lost, the kingdom, the empire, and even his Wolfsheim dukedom. But he must save his life. And to do that he had to run, and run now before Morning Star caught sight of him or came at him.
And so, he pulled his horse, rearing high, around. Its shod hooves came down hard on two pikemen who tried to stab it, crushing them to the ground. Then he jabbed it with his spurs, and, crouched as low as possible in the saddle, with no thought of fighting now, save as his way was blocked, fled through the carnage…
He had seen Albrecht once or twice, but could not get to him. Too many wolfmen were there to slaughter first—but Wolfsheim had fought like a demon indeed, judging from those glimpses Helmut had caught. Now, he reined in Vengeance, whose sides were heaving mightily and whose jaws were bloody; and he called the dogs, Death and Destruction, with the yell of “Stirrup!” and they came, reluctantly but obediently. Helmut cradled Rage across his saddle bow and looked about, taking this moment to breathe.
So it had worked. Under smoke’s concealment, he had smashed each wing of Albrecht’s army separately, and then dealt with the center. And as he had guessed, hoped, estimated, Kor, fighter that he was, had no lust for fighting on the Moor of Yrawnn in an evil sort of murk against what could be spirits of the dead. Now Kor had fled, probably back to the Jaal to await developments, and could be dealt with later there. If the army hurried, it could catch him ere he crossed. But for this moment—where was Albrecht?
Helmut’s eyes swept the plain. It was a gruesome sight, and gruesome, too were the cries and moans and howls of the wounded. Above, against the leaden sky, the inevitable carrion crows and kites began to wheel. Fog, real fog and not his homemade one of smoke, whipped by in corpse-colored tatters. And in this shambles, in this wreck of battle, where was Albrecht? Surely the Gods could not have let him be cut down by another hand?
And then Helmut saw the figure bent low on the war-horse, the man in black armor filigreed with gold, the man wearing Wolfsheim’s device and wielding the Great Sword of Boorn. It was Albrecht indeed, and in full flight, out of the battle now and in the clear—and with such a head start that not even Vengeance, with all his speed, could possibly overtake him.
But at Helmut’s stirrup-irons, Death and Destruction whined impatiently. He looked down at them, then at that distant, fleeing figure; and he nodded. He pointed and spoke commands they understood; and suddenly they were off, those two great steel-gray dogs, like arrows from a bow. Helmut touched Vengeance with his spurs and sent the charger after them.
All around him now, half-wolves fled or surrendered. No one offered battle as Vengeance pounded across the plain, leaping here windrowed bodies, crashing there through groups of fleeing wolfmen. Ahead, Death and Destruction wound and dodged through all the turmoil and ignored all else but the prey he’d commanded them to seek. Nor doubted he that they’d overtake it—no war-horse, tired with combat, burdened with a man in armor and its own armor, could outrun those two demon dogs…
And so, taking his time, he rode after Albrecht and saw the dogs begin to gain. They were clear of the battlefield now, on a part of the Moor that had not seen combat. Albrecht must have thought he’d clean escaped. But then Helmut saw him glance back and spot the wolfhounds coursing after him; and then he must have seen the one-handed man on the great white horse, for he flogged his own charger unmercifully.
But there was only so much it could do. Now Death and Destruction had almost overtaken it; now they were level with it; and now they were ahead of it. Then, they wheeled and came on it head-on; and the horse reared and struck. But nimbly they dodged its hooves, and as Albrecht tried to turn it, they blocked it off again, and the horse reared once more. They had Albrecht trapped—no matter which way he whirled the mount, they were there before him, herding that horse, terrorizing it, threatening it—and giving Albrecht all he could do to stick in the saddle.
And so they held the Duke of Wolfsheim until Helmut galloped up on Vengeance. Twenty meters distant, he snapped a command; the dogs ceased their charging. By that time, Albrecht’s horse was blown and trembling. Albrecht wheeled it and brandished the Great Sword of Boorn. He raised his visor, and Helmut saw that his eyes were unafraid.
“So this is the famous Knight of the Morning Star,” he rasped.
“No,” said Helmut, checking Vengeance. “No. Only a little boy whose father was murdered, whose mother was driven to suicide, whose half brother was killed, and whose right hand was cut off.” He lifted his own visor and spat. “I have come for what is mine, Albrecht.”
“This?” said Albrecht. He raised the Great Sword of Boorn. “Aye, if you want this, then you shall have it.” And all at once he charged.
Vengeance leaped forward immediately, and Rage flashed in the air. The two swords—both made of the same steel—clanged together. The horses collided. And each knight was unseated and fell to ground. But each had good armor and came up nimbly. And now they faced one another at sword’s length.
“Have at it, cripple!” Albrecht snarled, and he attacked, wielding the Great Sword of Boorn two-handed. Its mighty blade of Dolo steel would have split Helmut from crown to crotch had it landed fair, but it rang off the blade of Rage, which he could use but single-handed. Then back and forth they fought.
All across the moor those blades could be heard aringing like bells. Rage was a mighty sword, but so was that one of Boorn, and Albrecht had two hands to Helmut’s one. First Albrecht drove Helmut dodging back, then Helmut regained initiative and thrust and hacked so that Albrecht fought clear. On and on they went, blade against blade, until it seemed impossible that flesh could bear so much fatigue.
Particularly that of Helmut. He had been using his sword arm all the long day, even while Albrecht was fighting clear. Now Albrecht’s mighty two-handed blows were wearing down even his iron endurance, his strong left arm. He had to end it quickly; and in his eagerness, he was overbrash. Just as he raised his sword for a blow he hoped would rip Albrecht’s from his hands, Albrecht swung, double-handed, with all his might, and the heavier Great Sword of Boorn rang like a cathedral bell against the blade of Rage and sent it flying wide out of Helmut’s grasp.
Albrecht laughed. “All right, cripple, now you pay your reckoning!” With naught to fear, he raised the Great Sword of Boorn high in his hands and brought it down with terrible power.
It rang again, but not off Helmut’s helm or armor; he threw up the iron fist; the sword blade hit the morning star with a shock that he felt in every muscle. Albrecht cursed and swung again, and then again; and each time, desperately, Helmut countered the blade with that spiked-ball right hand, catching, parrying… And now Albrecht was panting with exhaustion. Helmut could see his eyes behind his helm, and they were full of desperation. But Helmut knew that his were just as desperate; he had no strength to waste…
And so he moved in fast, swinging with the morning star, the chain-mace fist, and Albrecht thought he had him and slashed hard, giving a great cry of triumph at the opening he saw. But the morning star became a blur and caught the blade once again, between its spikes, and Helmut hit backwards with the morning star and gave a twist; and then the Great Sword of Boorn went flying from Albrecht’s hand. Albrecht was unarmed; but Helmut still had the morning star.
Albrecht cried out and raised his hands. But it was no use; the spiked morning star slashed down with terrible force against his helm. His eyes went dull, his knees sagged, and Helmut struck and struck again, battering Albrecht’s head this way and that. The eyes within, visible through the visor, suddenly glazed completely, and Albrecht, as the morning star rang and rang and rang again against the metal, driving it in against his skull, lost consciousness, so that the ringing of that iron fist against his helm must have been the last thing he ever heard, or its spiked awfulness the last thing he saw. For now he fell, lay motionless, and Helmut dropped beside him, raising the morning star and pounding down with it. “For my father!” he screamed as it rang against the armor. “And for my mother! And my brother! And myself! And all good men who here today have died.” And he was still at it when Sandivar came and gently dragged him to his feet and restored his sanity.
They caught the barbarians at the Jaal, and the lesson they taught those cattle people before they could get across and flee back into their Dark Lands was a fearsome one. Then back to Marmorburg; and from the Marble Steps to the Palace, the streets were lined with citizens who raised the cry, “All hail, Morning Star! All hail, son of Sigrieth! Morning Star! Morning Star!”
But Helmut’s face was grim as he rode Vengeance at the head of his army in that parade. Nor did it relax much through the pomp of coronation, when he received the crown of Emperor of the Gray Lands and the congratulations of Carus and his court, who had come to Boorn for this occasion, to do the Morning Star King honor.
And still was he unsmiling and dour as he sat in the royal box and watched the games, the tourneys and the jousts. Hagen flanked him on one side, and beyond Hagen was Nissilda. Neither she nor Helmut had, in all this confusion, had chance to talk; but it seemed to him that he had nothing to say to her anyhow. It was all done, over with, now; he had his revenge, he had his throne, whate’er he wanted was his; but he could feel delight at none of it. He was still frozen within, as he had been ever since his return from that gray underworld, and now it seemed to him that the matter was hopeless. He would go through life like this, full of dead grayness, bitterness, and discontent, but never any human feeling. Restlessly, he turned his eyes away from the games; and then he arose, unfastened the ermine cloak, handed it wordlessly to Sandivar, and stalked out of the royal box. Sandivar turned in surprise. “Where are you—?” But then he broke off, for Helmut was already gone.
He stalked swiftly through the halls of Marmorburg, did Helmut, with Rage belted to his side. He went quickly down the great steps of the palace and strode along the empty street that led down to the Marble Steps along the Jaal. Everyone in Marmorburg was at the games, it seemed, and his footsteps rang loudly on the pavement.
Then he heard behind him lighter, quicker footsteps. “Good King!” He halted, turned, and saw Nissilda running after him, her rich gown of embroidered silk clinging to the curves of her body. She was lovely and distraught; and he should have felt something; but he did not.
She came up alongside and caught his arm, with its steel fist, and said: “You left the games.”
“I had the mood to walk.”
“May I walk with you?”
“Aye,” he said.
Silently, they walked together toward the Marble Steps. There, on the Jaal embankment, they halted. It was sunset now, and the sky was streaked with rich, bright, glowing colors that limned the ruins of old castles on distant hills beyond the city and made the newer ones more splendid. The sunlight glinted on the surface of the Jaal and on the luxurious barges anchored there. It was a scene of most surpassing beauty; and Nissilda said: “What loveliness.”
“I can see none.” His voice was sharp.
“You are still all… frozen, as you said, within?”
“Aye,” he said. “I feel nothing.” Then savagely, he struck his thigh with a doubled fist, and then he turned to her. “And what use is it?” He cried. “To be alive, to be a king, to have a palace, to be mighty in war—What use is any of it, and a man feel nothing?”
Her hand caught his and found it. “It is only a memory that must be obliterated,” she said softly. “Ugliness to be wiped out. Look now, and see,
see
the beauty, and let it wipe from your mind the horror.”
“Nothing can.”
“Try; look, see. The sun on marble, on the old castles, on the hills and on the river. See you not the beauty?”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, in a different tone: “Aye. It is very different from a battlefield.”
“Yes,” she said. She moved around and slipped her hand within his. “Now, you feel my hand, do you not? And it holds yours, and is warm and has life in it.” She raised her hand and with it his and pressed his against her breast. “Life, and the beat of heart.” Her voice was intense, her eyes, as he looked down into them, held him, and suddenly he felt something stir within him. “There is naught but life,” she whispered, “and naught but love, to keep out the dark and horror. They are the only magic that will work against it. Love makes the moment proof against any hell; the touch of lips, the beat of heart to heart, these are all we have or anyone, king or beggar. And if love cannot obliterate your memories of hell, what is it for?” She reached up and pulled his head down, and her lips met his as she pressed his hand against her breast, and he felt the throb of her heart against his fingers, and suddenly it all broke, it thawed, all that was frozen in him; he felt it go like ice in spring. He saw her loveliness and that of the world around him, and all at once gray memories had vanished, faded, were drowned forever in her perfume.