by Tad Williams
Deornoth shook his head. “No, harper. If we do not fight, we will certainly be less than men, whether they kill us or not. We will be less than dogs, who at least rip the bear’s guts as he kills them.” His gaze traveled from face to face. “Sangfugol,” he said at last, “we must plan. Why don’t you sing a song against the chance of any of these cow-herders wondering why we are gathered or what we speak of.”
“A song? What do you mean?”
“A song. A long, boring song about the virtues of quiet surrender. If it comes to an end and we are still talking, begin again.”
The harper was plainly agitated. “I know no tune like that!”
“Then make one up, Song-bird,” Isorn laughed. “We have been too long without music, anyway. If we die tomorrow, we should live tonight.”
“Make it a part of your plans, if you will,” Sangfugol said, “that I would prefer not to die at all.” He sat up straighter and began to hum tunelessly, searching for words. “I am frightened,” he said at last.
“So are we,” Deornoth replied. “Sing.”
Fikolmij swaggered into the bull run soon after dawn touched the gray sky. The March-thane of the High Thrithings wore a heavy embroidered wool cloak and a rugged gold stallion on a chain around his neck. He seemed to be in an expansive mood.
“So the reckoning comes,” he laughed, then spat upon the ground. His wrists were weighty with metal bracelets. “Do you feel fit, Josua Lackhand?”
“I have felt fitter,” Josua said, tugging on his boot. “Do you have my sword?”
Fikolmij waved; Hotvig stepped forward bearing Naidel in its sheath. The young Thrithings-man watched the prince curiously as Josua drew the sword belt around his hips, managing adroitly despite his missing hand. When it was buckled, Josua drew Naidel out, holding the slender blade up to catch the morning light. Hotvig stepped back respectfully. “May I have a whetstone?” Josua asked. “The edge is dull.”
The March-thane chuckled and produced his own kit from a pouch on his wide belt. “Sharpen it, stone-dweller, sharpen it. We want the only the best sport, as you have at your city tournaments. But this will not be quite the same as your castle-games, will it?”
Josua shrugged, smearing a thin film of oil along Naidel’s cutting surface. “I have never cared much for those, either.”
Fikolmij’s eyes narrowed. “You seem very fit indeed, after the lesson I gave you last night. Has this witch cast some spell on you? That would be dishonorable.”
Joshua shrugged again to show how little he cared about Fikolmij’s ideas of honor, but Geloë stepped forward. “There have been no charms, no spells.”
Fikolmij eyed her distrustfully for a moment, then turned back to Josua. “Very well. My men will bring you when you are ready. I am glad to see you up. It will make for a better fight.” The March-thane strutted out of the paddock, followed closely by three of his guard.
Deornoth, who had watched the whole exchange, cursed quietly. He knew what effort it had taken his prince to act so unconcerned. He and Isorn had helped Josua climb to his feet in the hour just before first light. Even after the healing draught Geloë had given him—an unmagical concoction to bolster Josua’s strength; Geloë had bitterly regretted the lack of a sprig of mockfoil to make it truly efficacious—the prince had still found it difficult to dress himself. The beating Fikolmij had given him had taken a terrible toll on his undernourished frame. Deornoth secretly doubted that Josua would even be able to stand after swinging a blade for a short while.
Father Strangyeard approached the prince. “Your Highness, is there truly no other way? I know the Thrithings-men are barbaric, but God despises none of His creations. He has put the spark of mercy in every breast. Perhaps...”
“It is not the Thrithings-men who wish this,” Josua told the one-eyed priest kindly, “it is Fikolmij. He bears an old hatred for me and my house, one that even he will not fully admit.”
“But I thought the Stallion Clan fought for your father in the Thrithings War,” Isorn said. “Why should he hate you?”
“Because it was with my father’s help that he became war-thane of the High Thrithings. He cannot forgive the fact that it was the stone-dwellers, as he calls us, who gave him the power his own people would not. Then his daughter ran from him and I took her with me, losing him a bride-price of horses. To our friend the March-thane, that is a terrible dishonor. No, there are no words, priestly or otherwise, that will make Fikolmij forget. ”
Josua took a last look at Naidel’s keen blade, then slid it back into its sheath. He gazed around at his assembled people. “Heads high,” he said. The prince seemed strangely clear-eyed and cheerful. “Death is no enemy. God has prepared a place for us all, I am sure.” He walked to the gate in the fence. Fikolmij’s guards opened it, then formed a spear-bristling escort as Josua walked across the wagon-city.
A swift, cool breeze was blowing across the grasslands, an invisible hand that ruffled the meadows and thrummed in the tentlines. The low hills were dotted with grazing cattle. Scores of grimy children who had been dodging in and out among the wagons left their games to follow Josua and his makeshift court as they trudged toward the March-thane’s paddock.
Deornoth looked at the faces of children and their parents as they came to join the swelling procession. Where he expected to see hatred or bloodlust, he found only eager expectancy—the same eagerness he had seen as a child on his brothers’ and sisters’ faces when the High King’s Guard or a painted peddler’s wagon had passed their Hewenshire freeholding. These people hoped only for some excitement. It was unfortunate that it would take somebody’s death, most likely that of his beloved prince, to provide it.
Golden ribbons flapped on the fenceposts of Fikolmij’s enclosure, as if this were a festival day. The March-thane sat on a stool before his wagon door. Several more bejeweled Thrithings-men-other clan leaders, Deornoth guessed—were seated on the ground beside him. Several women of various ages stood nearby, and one of them was Vorzheva. The March-thane’s daughter no longer wore the rags of her court dress. She had been dressed in a more traditional clan costume, a hooded wool dress with a heavy belt studded with colorful stones and a band across her forehead that tied at the back of her hood. Unlike the other women, whose bands were of dark hues, Vorzheva wore a white ribbon—no doubt indicating, Deornoth reflected sourly, a bride for sale.
As Josua and his followers stepped through the gate, the prince and Vorzheva caught each others’ eyes. Josua deliberately made the sign of the Tree on his chest, then kissed his hand and touched it to that spot. Vorzheva turned away as if to hide tears.
Fikolmij stood and began to speak to the assembled crowd, slipping back and forth between Westerling and the harsh Thrithings dialect as he held forth to the seated dignitaries and the other clanfolk gathered around the paddock fences. As the March-thane roared on, Deornoth slipped forward between the half-dozen spearmen who had followed Josua into the enclosure and moved to his prince’s side.
“Highness,” he said quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder. The prince started, as if woken from a dream.
“Ah. It’s you.”
“I wanted to beg your forgiveness, my prince, before ... before whatever happens. You are the kindest lord a man could want. I had no right to speak to you as I did yesterday.”
Josua smiled sadly. “You had every right. I only wish I had more time to think about the things you said. I have indeed been far too self-absorbed of late. It was the act of a friend to point that out.”
Deornoth fell to a knee, pulling Josua’s hand to his lips. “The Lord bless you, Josua,” he said quickly. “Bless you. And do not close too swiftly with that brute.”
The prince thoughtfully watched Deornoth rise. “I may have to. I fear I have not the strength to wait long. If I see any chance at all, I must take it. ”
Deornoth tried to speak again, but his throat was too tight. He clasped Josua’s hand, then retreated.
A ragged volley of shouts and ch
eers rose from the crowd as Utvart climbed over the paddock fence and took his place before Fikolmij. Josua’s adversary stripped off his cowhide vest and displayed his muscular torso, which had been rubbed with fat until it glistened. Seeing this, Deornoth frowned: Utvart would be able to move quickly, and the fat would help him keep warm.
The Thrithing-man’s curved sword had been thrust scabbardless through his broad belt, his long hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head.
Utvart wore a bracelet on each arm, and several earrings dangled against his jaw. He had daubed his scars with red and black paint, making himself seem a kind of demon.
Now he pulled his sword from his belt and lifted it over his head, engendering another chorus of shouts. “Come, Lackhand,” he boomed. “Utvart is waiting.”
Father Strangyeard was praying aloud as Josua walked forward across the enclosure. Deornoth found that rather than soothing or reassuring him, the priest’s words rubbed on his nerves until he had to step away; after a moment’s consideration, he moved to a spot along the fence just to the side of one of the guards. He looked up and saw Isorn staring. Deornoth shifted his chin in a virtually undetectible nod; Isorn eased over toward the wall also, until he stood a few yards from Deornoth.
Josua had left his cloak with Duchess Gutrun, who cradled it like a child. Beside her stood Leleth, dirty fist clutching the duchess’ tattered skirt. Geloë was a short distance away, her yellow stare hooded.
As Deornoth surveyed the group, other eyes met his and slid away, as if fearing to maintain too lengthy a contact. Sangfugol quietly began to sing.
“So, son of Prester John, you come before the Free Folk of the Thrithings a little less great than you once were,” Fikolmij grinned. His clansmen laughed and whispered.
“Only in my possessions,” Josua said calmly. “As a matter of fact, I would like to propose a wager, Fikolmij-between the two of us, you and me. ”
The March-thane laughed, surprised. “Brave words, Josua, proud words coming from a man who knows he will soon die.” Fikolmij looked him over calculatingly. “What kind of wager?”
The prince slapped his scabbard. “I propose to bet on this and my good left hand.”
“Good, since it is your only hand,” Fikolmij smirked. His clansmen roared.
“That is as may be. If Utvart defeats me, he gets Vorzheva and you get her bride-price, is that not true?”
“Thirteen horses.” The March-thane was smug. “What of it?”
“Simply this. Vorzheva is already mine. We are betrothed. If I survive, I gain nothing new.” His eyes met Vorzheva’s across the crowd of watchers, then moved back to her father with cold regard.
“You gain your life!” Fikolmij spluttered. “In any case, it is foolish to talk. You will not survive.”
Utvart, waiting impatiently, allowed himself a thin smile at his thane’s words.
“That is why I wish to make a wager with you,” Josua said. “With you, Fikolmij. Between men.” Some of the clansmen chuckled at this; Fikolmij looked around angrily until they fell silent.
“Speak on.”
“It will be a wager of little value, Fikolmij, the kind that bold-willed men make without hesitation in the cities of my people. If I win, you will give me the same price you are asking from Utvart. ” Josua smiled. “I will choose thirteen horses from you.”
There was an undertone of anger in Fikolmij’s hoarse voice. “Why should I wager with you at all? A wager is only a wager if both sides risk something. What could you possibly have that I want?” His expression turned cunning. “And what do you have that I cannot simply take from your people when you are dead?”
“Honor. ”
Fikolmij drew back in surprise. The whispers around him intensified. “By the Four-Footed, what does that mean?! I care little for your soft-hearted, stone-dweller’s honor.”
“Ah,” Josua said with a ghost of a smile, “but your own?”
The prince turned suddenly to face the crowd of Thrithings-folk who hung over the fences of Fikolmij’s great paddock. A ripple of quiet talk ran through the throng. “Free men and women of the High Thrithings!” he cried. “You have come to see me killed. A bray of laughter greeted this statement. A clod of dirt hurtled toward Josua, missing him by only a few cubits and rolling past Fikolmij’s clansmen, who glared out at the assembly. ”I have offered your March-thane a wager. I swear that the Aedon, god of the stone-dwellers, will save me-and that I will beat Utvart.”
“That would be something to see!” one of the crowd bellowed in heavily-accented Westerling. There was more laughter. Fikolmij stood and moved toward Josua as if to silence him, but after looking around at the shouting spectators seemed to think better of it. Instead, he crossed his arms over his broad chest and watched sullenly. “What do you wager, little man?” one of the clansmen near the front shouted.
“All that remains to me: my honor and the honor of my people.” Josua drew Naidel from its sheath and lifted it high. His shirt sleeve fell back; Elias’ rusted manacle, which he still wore around his left wrist, caught the faint morning light like a band of blood. “I am the son of Prester John, the High King who you remember well. Fikolmij knew him best of all of you.” The crowd murmured. The March-thane growled his discontent at this show.
“Here is my wager,” Josua shouted. “If I fall to Utvart, I swear it will prove that our god Usires Aedon is weak, and that Fikolmij speaks true when he says that he is stronger than the stone-dwellers. You will know that your March-thane’s Stallion is mightier than the Dragon and Tree of John’s house, which is the greatest house in all the city-lands of Osten Ard.”
A chorus of shouting voices rose. Josua calmly surveyed the crowd. “What does Fikolmij wager?” someone cried at last. Utvart, standing only a few ells away, was glowering at Josua, obviously furious at how his thunder had been stolen, but just as obviously unsure as to whether Josua’s wager could somehow increase his own glory when he slaughtered this crippled city-dweller.
“As many horses as Vorzheva’s bride-price. And my people and I to go free and unhindered,” Josua said. “Not much when matched against the honor of a prince of Erkynland.”
“A prince with no house!” someone catcalled, but a host of other voices drowned out the heckler, exhorting Fikolmij to take the wager, crying that he would be a fool to let this stone-dweller show him up. The March-thane, features twisted in poorly-hidden rage, let the crowd’s urgings wash over him like rain. He looked quite ready to grasp Josua’s neck in his hands and throttle the prince himself.
“So. It is done,” he snarled at last, lifting his arm in a gesture of acceptance. The watchers cheered. “By the Grass Thunderer, you have heard him. The wager is set. My horses against his empty words. Now, let this foolishness come to a swift end.” Much of the March-thane’s enjoyment seemed to have evaporated. He leaned forward, speaking low so that only Josua could hear. “When you are dead, I will kill your women and children with my own hands. Slowly. No man makes me butt of a joke before my clans and steals my rightful horses.” Fikolmij turned and stalked back to his stool, frowning at the jests from his randwarders.
As Josua unbuckled and cast away his sword belt, Utvart stepped forward, corded arms gleaming as he lifted his heavy blade.
“You talk and talk and talk, little man,” the grasslander snarled. “You talk too much.”
A moment later he bounded across the intervening space in three long strides, his sword swinging in a great arc. Naidel flashed up, deflecting the blow with a dull chime, but before Josua could bring his slim blade up for a cut of his own, Utvart had whirled and begun another powerful, two-handed sweep. Josua again managed to sidestep Utvart’s attack, but this time the curved sword rang hard against the prince’s guard and Naidel almost flew from his hand. He staggered back a few steps across the muddy turf before he could regain his balance. Utvart grinned fiercely and began circling, forcing Josua to turn quickly so the prince could keep his left shoulder facing the Thrithings-man. Ut
vart feinted, then lunged. Josua’s boot heel slid on the hoof-trampled ground, forcing him to drop to one knee. He managed to turn Utvart’s thrust, but as the big man pulled his blade free it sawed back across Josua’s sword arm, freeing a ribbon of blood.
The prince rose carefully. Utvart showed his teeth and continued circling. A trickle of red dripped from the back of Josua’s hand. The prince wiped it on the leg of his breeches, then raised it again quickly as Utvart feigned another thrust. Moments later the blood was again dribbling down Josua’s wrist and onto his hilt.
Deornoth thought he understood the strange business of the wager-Josua was hoping to make Fikolmij and Utvart angry in the hope it would lead to some sort of mistake-but the prince’s idea had all too obviously not succeeded. The March-thane was indeed furious, but Josua was not battling Fikolmij, and Utvart did not seem as hot-headed as the prince had probably hoped. Instead, the Thrithings-man was proving himself a canny fighter. Rather than relying blindly on his superior strength and reach, he was wearing Josua down with heavy blows, then springing away before the prince could counter.
As he watched the one-sided combat, Deornoth felt his heart falling like a stone. It had been foolish to think anything else could happen. Josua was a fine swordsman, but he would have had trouble with one like Utvart at the best of times. Today, the prince was injured and poorly-rested, weak as a stripling. It was only a matter of time....
Deornoth turned to Isorn. The young Rimmersman shook his head grimly: he, too, understood that Josua was fighting a defensive action, putting off the inevitable as long as possible. Isorn lifted his eyebrow inquiringly. Now?
Father Strangyeard’s murmured prayers were a counterpoint to the shouting throng. The guards around them were staring raptly, eyes wide, spears held only loosely. Deornoth lifted his hand. Wait ...
Blood was rilling from two more wounds, a slash on Josua’s left wrist and a broad gouge in his leg. The prince wiped sweat from his forehead and left a broad scarlet smear across his face, as though he sought to match Utvart’s painted scars.
