“I saw this in a Western movie, once,” Garrison remarked. “The Apaches—or maybe it was the Sioux or Cheyenne—they had their ponies lying down on the ground and kept them there by lying down over the horses’ necks. When the Cavalry or wagon train or whatever rode past, every man in the war party sprang onto his mount and they rode up over the ridges they’d been hiding behind, just like they’d popped up out of the ground.”
“Of what do you speak, Champion? When did these events transpire?” Gar’Ath pressed, sounding perplexed.
“Tell you later,” Garrison promised. His eyes flickered from side to side, ridge to ridge. “You think Mitan knows that deal with the second-sight where she can use a spell and see around obstacles?”
“I don’t know, Champion. Why do you ask?”
“I was just kind of sorry Mitan stayed behind with the main column. Wishful thinking, that’s all.”
Garrison stood a little in his stirrups, as if stretching. Still, he could see nothing. The glint of steel he’d spied before was long gone. It couldn’t have been a carelessly discarded aluminum pop can, not on Creath. Garrison made a decision. “Tre’El! Split the column. Have eight of your knights fall off with their weapons ready, and wait until we’re at the top of that rise before they join us.”
“What is it, Champion?” Tre’El asked.
“If it’s a trap, no sense letting the enemy spring it the way they’d planned, is there?” Garrison drew his sword; he hadn’t checked his firespitters to see if Eran’s spell against them still held. He’d thought to ask Swan if she could do something about that, but then the vortex appeared and Mir and his knights rode out and everything happened very rapidly after that.
Gar’Ath unsheathed his blade as well.
Tre’El rode up even with them, settling his sugar-loaf-style helmet over his mail-coifed head. Garrison could barely discern that there was a living being—so to speak—beneath the helmet. Its long, narrow eyeslits were the only true openings. There were, additionally, numerous tiny holes—like the openings in a colander—corresponding to the positions of the wearer’s cheeks, presumably for air intake and ventilation. From within the helmet, Tre’El's voice sounded oddly muffled as he said, “You have a talent for tactics, Champion.”
“Tell me that again if we get out of this alive,” Garrison said.
Tre’El only laughed. “Death isn’t really what you might think.”
“Honestly, it would be fascinating to discuss it with you, Tre’El, and I hope I live through this in order to have that opportunity, among other things.”
Gar’Ath announced, “The moment approaches, my friends.”
“Let’s really surprise the crap out of them,” Garrison said. Extending his sword before him and drawing up his shield to protect the left front side of his body, he shouted, “Charge!”
Garrison dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, Gar’Ath’s and Tre’El’s mounts coming to a gallop on either side of him. A quick glance over his left shoulder confirmed that the other three knights with Tre’El were right behind them and the eight who’d been ordered to stay back were couching lances, drawing swords, readying flails...
“They are madmen,” Moc’Dar growled from within his mask, and he felt himself smile. The Roc’Ar’Kar, lying flat on its right side beneath him, stirred, its powerful hooves pawing the ground. “Yes!”
Moc’Dar sprang from the horse’s neck to his feet, giving a tug to the reins, the mighty animal leaped upright. Moc’Dar wrestled the Roc’Ar’Kar into obedience and grasped the animal’s high-cantled war saddle, mounting quickly as he ordered the five score soldiers with him, “We attack!” To the animal’s flaring ear, Moc’Dar cooed, “We shall both die as we have lived, in the flame of battle!”
Moc’Dar drew his firesword, the Roc’Ar’Kar jumping the low ridge of rock, bounding down into the defile, toward the Champion and the others. “I defy you!” Moc’Dar screamed at them.
The Sword of Koth immediately flanked him, men scrambling to their frantic mounts, running beside their animals, flinging themselves into the saddles. Looking behind him, he saw the scores of the Horde taking to their animals. As he’d withdrawn, buying time, five of the remaining seven elements of his original force had rejoined him.
Surprised as he turned his head, Moc’Dar saw the Ra’U’Ba. He not only held the Ra’U’Ba in contempt as a race, but had come to dislike this one on a personal basis. The Ra’U’Ba called out to him, saying, “You are not the only one who can die bravely in battle, Captain! I will die with you!”
Moc’Dar nodded, and with his sword gave the Ra’U’Ba a salute, then flicked the sword’s flat against the rump of his Roc’Ar’Kar and leaned into its neck. The animal’s mane lashed at Moc’Dar’s leather masked face, his eyes stinging from the occasional random impact and the cold wind around them. He spurred his animal faster, faster.
The Champion and the five men with him—four of them were knights of the old days from the time of Mir—reined in their mounts. Would they stand and die or flee, Moc’Dar wondered?
Eight more knights, several lancethrows back, formed themselves into a skirmish line.
The Champion’s horse reared, the other realm male keeping to the saddle with little grace but noticeable strength of will. “I would have your blood on my sword, Champion!” Moc’Dar called out.
The Champion and his five companions readied their weapons. No firespitter would save this other realmer now, and Moc’Dar acknowledged within himself that the Daughter Royal’s Champion showed courage, refusing to give ground in the face of certain death.
Less than a lancethrow away, Moc’Dar’s troops thundering in his wake, Moc’Dar’s heart sank. The Champion and his cohorts wheeled their horses, spurred their animals away. “Cowardly bastard!” Moc’Dar shouted after him, enraged.
Moc’Dar reined in, his men doing likewise. At the top of his voice, Moc’Dar commanded, “Sword of Koth! Form skirmish line!” His men rode forward, falling into a rank on either side of him, stretching from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see. One of the Sword Generals used his horse to shove the Ra’U’Ba aside, and Moc’Dar ordered his titularly superior officer, “Give place to the Ra’U’Ba!”
“Yes, Captain.”
Moc’Dar’s eyes and the eyes of the Ra’U’Ba met, and then the moment was passed.
Moc’Dar raised his voice again. “Horde of Koth! Form three skirmish lines behind the Sword of Koth!” The clopping of hooves, the rattle of equipment, the creaking of leather, all formed a wondrously reassuring cacophony surrounding him.
Moc’Dar stood in his stirrups. One hundred score of men, all of them ready to fight and die, were ahorse and ready. Moc’Dar edged his Roc’Ar’Kar forward, inclining his head toward the Ra’U’Ba to join him. “Can your mount keep up?”
“If it falls, I’ll run beside you, and then ask if your mount can sustain the pace.”
Moc’Dar truly laughed, and felt a freedom he could barely recall having ever felt before.
“Good man!” Moc’Dar raised his voice one more time, shouting more loudly than he had before. “On my signal! Ready! At a canter! Forward!”
The Sword of Koth a stride behind him and the Horde behind them, all gradually picked up speed.
The Champion, his five companions and the eight knights who had stayed back were all mere silhouettes in the distance, and Moc’Dar knew where they were heading. He would follow, as they wanted him to.
They would lead him to the army of the dead. Nearly out of sight, the Champion and his cohorts stopped. This would be it.
As if materializing out of the ground behind them, there was a line, what little sunlight remained reflecting from swords and helms and armor, knights so numerous that the rank they formed not only stretched from horizon to horizon, it seemed, but beyond, as if, somehow, their numbers girded Creath, a barrier which could not be circumvented.
The Champion and his cohorts were lost among the knights who composed the army of the dead. Every o
ther man in their rank rode a few strides forward, the knights in the now anterior rank raising their lances.
Running out ahead of this rank were archers, countless in number. After they formed, every other of them moved two paces forward and dropped to one knee, the rank behind them closing together. As one, the two ranks of archers drew taut their bows, fired a volley, their arrows landing in the ground. Another volley was fired, the arrows landing closer to the archers. They were setting distance for their longbows, marking the range. The archers remained formed, but slackened their bow strings.
Moc’Dar wanted to feel the wind on his face one last time.
The reins to the Roc’Ar’Kar in his teeth, with his left hand Moc’Dar reached up, slipping the knot at the nape of his neck which bound closed his head-cloth. He flung the black fabric aside. His fingers untied the lashing which bound his mask over his face. He spit the reins away, then tore the black leather from his skin. Moc’Dar cast the mask of the Sword of Koth to the ground beneath his horse’s hooves.
Gathering the Roc’Ar’Kar s reins, Moc’Dar leaned well back in the saddle, brandished his sword at arm’s length above his head and screamed, “Follow me to death!” And to freedom...
Erg’Ran, ahorse, zigzagged his way among the ranks of mounted knights, nearing Mir, calling to him, “I must know before you enter battle! I must know!”
Eyeblinks remained, Swan knew, before the battle would be joined, the first arrows shot. Mir had requested that she remain behind with a rear guard, and she would honor that request, Mitan with her.
Beside Swan, Mir had already donned arming cap and mail coif and was about to lower his helmet into place. But he stopped, turning his face toward the sound of Erg’Ran’s voice. “And what is it that you must know, uncle and mentor to the Enchantress? I am honored that you do think so well of me.”
Erg’Ran, despite the fact that he was on horseback, was out of breath. Sniffing once, he looked Mir in the eye and asked, “Whence cometh your gift of prophecy, sir? Who are you?”
Mir crossed his right leg over the neck of his great steed, his right elbow coming to rest on his knee, and his chin settling into his leather-gauntleted hand. “You have studied my teachings, I am flattered to know, for it is you who led the Enchantress so wisely to this time and place.” He smiled, almost laughing, but not derisively. “Were I to reveal to you the answer to either of these two questions which you set before me, Erg’Ran, would you believe it? Or, as well used to the enigmas in which I have wrapped many of what you have spoken of as prophecies, would you see my answer merely as a riddle?
“You, Erg’Ran, of all who breathe the magic of life, are most well-suited to understand what answer I might give. You risk your life for the benefit of all. Within your brain is a repository of great wisdom, yet you constantly seek more knowledge. You have magic well beyond the ken of any male ever of Creath, yet you foreswear its use for your own ends. When lately I inquired of you from the Enchantress, she regaled me with such facts as these, and most happily enlivened our discourse.”
“I—I do not understand, sir.”
“Ah, but you do! I am a man, and never was I more, nor do I hope ever to be less. I asked questions and sought answers. I was not content in darkness, and struggled for the light of wisdom. A fate was lain before me, and I could not deviate from its design. Like you, I realized that I trod an unforgiving path.”
A voice called out from the foremost rank of knights. “The enemy is near to range for the longbows, Mir!”
“Anon! Anon!” Mir retorted. He looked again at Erg’Ran. “My destiny awaits me once again, as will yours. Only in that hour shall you truly know the answers which you seek. But here are my answers. The gift of prophecy which you credit to me is not prophecy at all, but logic. If one sets out a plan for future history, a time when evil shall be crushed by good, there will always be persons of good heart who see such prophecies as hope and shall endeavor, beyond their ordinary abilities, to bring such happier times to pass. They will find wellsprings of strength which they never knew that they possessed, and courage in greater measure than a thousand armies such as mine.” Mir’s right hand gestured around him, to his knights and archers. “Specificity is the ruination of prophecy.
“And your second interrogative I have already answered, but will vouchsafe to say again: I am a man.” Mir donned his helmet and charged Erg’Ran, “Care for your Enchantress as you do always. Remember, Erg’Ran, that the sweet scented flower and the rankest shrub sprout from the same ground; while quiet diligence nurtures the blossom, unreasoning zeal can foster the weed.”
Mir swung his leg back over his saddle and drew his sword. Quietly, he rode forward, immersing himself in the sea of armored warriors beneath wind stiffened pennants.
Had she been a man, Swan realized, she could have ridden between Mir and her Champion, fought beside them; but, were she a man, there would not be stirring deep within her those feelings for Al’An which so quickened the woman’s heart which beat within her breast.
“Uncle?”
“Yes, Enchantress?” Erg’Ran responded, his gaze at last turning from Mir.
“Al’An will survive the ordeal which is before us?”
Erg’Ran smiled, reached across the gulf between their mounts and closed his hand over hers. “A man fights for many reasons. Al’An genuinely feels for the cause which brought us to this place, to this time. And, of all men, because he loves you, he has great reason to return from the field of battle, to once again be at your side. If passion, then, can armor a man against his enemies, your Champion is well-shielded from hurt.”
Swan nodded.
One thing had been missing from Mir’s words of explanation to Erg’Ran. Had there been nothing more to Mir’s great prophecies than logically based conjecture concerning the course of future history—as Mir purported—then how had he known that the Virgin Enchantress was to seek the origin of her seed? How had he known that she would find a Champion in the other realm? By Mir’s own words, “Specificity is the ruination of prophecy,” Mir had contradicted his very contention.
Swan asked Erg’Ran, “Did you notice something odd in Mir’s words, uncle?”
“Riddles within riddles, Enchantress. Mir draws one into logical befuddlement, concealing his true nature within the very enigma which he leads one to believe that he is about to unravel. There is mystery to Mir, and well he knows it and well he keeps it.”
Perhaps Erg’Ran had so diligently studied the teachings of Mir that he had begun to think like Mir. At times, he certainly talked like him. Swan shook her head and looked away, the fighting about to start. She would second-sight the battlefield, perhaps seeing more than she would wish to see. But before she did that, there was one thing more important than anything. She urged her mount forward, into the knot of men gathering around Mir. Her eyes moving to right and left, at last she saw that for which she searched, the face of Al’An. He conversed with Gar’Ath and one of Mir’s knights.
Swan turned her horse toward him, patted its neck with her hand, the animal moving forward. “Al’An! Al’An!”
Al’An turned his head, saw her, said something to Gar’Ath, then spurred his mount toward her. In an eyeblink that seemed like an eternity, their horses had stopped and they sat facing one another.
“I wanted to tell you that I love you, Al’An,” Swan said.
“And I love you.”
“Then, kiss me only once and I shall keep your touch on my lips until once again we kiss when the battle is done.”
Al’An leaned forward, his horse closer to hers now, his right arm encircling her waist, drawing her close to him. And his mouth came against hers and her limbs were weak and she pressed her body against his. “I won’t die, Swan,” Al’An whispered. “I promise, darling.”
“I shall hold you to your promise, my love.”
Al’An touched his hand to her cheek, turned his horse with a tug to its reins, rode off. A tear fell upon Swan’s cheek and she made no at
tempt to brush it away...
A gap formed within the first rank of knights, Mir leading them into it. Alan Garrison, shield up, sword drawn, rode beside the once again living legend, and with Garrison were Captain Bre’Gaa, Gar’Ath and, hastening to join them, Erg’Ran. Tre’El, Mir’s Knight Commander, sat on horseback between the rearmost rank of archers and the leading rank of knights, awaiting Mir’s signal that the battle should begin.
Riding along the broad defile, their numbers stretching from horizon to horizon, their horses at a steady gallop, were the forces of the Queen Sorceress.
“The Enchantress second-sighted on them, just an eyeblink ago. Moc’Dar, only a Captain, leads them, Generals among them. Most peculiar,” Erg’Ran announced. “The Enchantress tallies their number at one hundred score foemen.”
Mir said, “Numerically, we are then evenly matched. They cannot win over us, they know that. Lightly armored foot soldiers, ahorse on animals which will be more than half-spent before engagement, pitted against heavily armored knights and ranks of archers! For whatever reason they take the fool’s gambit, blood-sworn foemen though they may be and however evil their cause, we do not cross steel with cowards this day.”
Mir leaned across his saddle and told the knight beside him, “Let the word be passed that each of the enemy who fights with honor is rightwise due an honorable death.”
“Yes, Mir!”
Mir looked forward. “Tre’El! The archers shall stand down and retire to take up a defensive position in support of the Enchantress. We shall take no unfair advantage in the field.”
“Yes, Mir!” And, Tre’El ordered, “Archers! Stand down!”
Garrison looked at Mir. Alan Garrison had met brave men and foolish ones, but never before a great man.
As the archers threaded their way past the mounted knights, Mir stood in his stirrups, his visor lowered.
“At a gallop! For the Enchantress!” Mir charged his knights. “For Creath! For freedom!” Brandishing his sword high above his head, Mir shouted, “We ride to victory!” The magnificent white horse on which Mir was mounted moved forward at its rider’s urgings, Garrison knocking his heels against his own animal’s flanks.
The Golden Shield of IBF Page 42
