In the Eye of Heaven

by David Keck

  In the fields, the last great charge had devolved into tangled skirmishes. Swords flashed over a storm of grunting men and beasts.

  "God!" the downed man moaned. "You whoresons. I think you've separated me from one of my arms. Ach, some bastard's stepped on my hand."

  Guthred moved his heel. "You're lucky you're alive, Lordship." He was busy keeping an eye on every shield-bearer and every rider. Durand watched the faces change with every heartbeat. He couldn't imagine tracking it all.

  The prostrate knight wrestled his helm off, gasping, "Oi! Back, you bastards. There's a man still alive down here." An older knight, past forty, grimaced from a tight mail hood. A graying beard bristled nearly over his cheekbones. For a moment he worked his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, but then he looked up—one eye remained an empty pucker. "Who owes me the arm?"

  "That's him that's looking over you," said Guthred, taking his eyes from the lists. "I dropped you."

  In front of them, a man flew from his saddle. He hit the turf like an ox dropped from a wall.

  "Ah," One-Eye said. "Gimme your arm, friend." He reached up, and Durand caught his hand without thinking. The man levered himself up. "There," the stranger said, "you're settled. Arm for arm. I still owe you a life, though, I think." He was smiling. "Tell me where I'm to stand till they're done. I could use a drink. This will ruin me. I'm Berchard, by the by."

  A conroi of men in blue swung past, the leader with a kicking enemy slung over his saddlebow.

  Guthred looked to Durand. "Put your new friend by the fire pit. We'll start a pile."

  Abruptly, Coensar was before them. He brought ancient Keening up in a salute—maybe to Durand, maybe to the crowd. The mob was loud behind them.

  But as Durand glanced at the throng, his gaze fell upon a woman's face. She stood straight-backed, looking down on him from one of the wellborn boxes. Half the crowd was looking right at him, but Durand knew her; she was the one from the stream. Under the Eye of Heaven, her hair was not dark at all, but red as new blood. She wore it uncovered in the style of a maiden.

  "Aw no," Guthred was saying. Somewhere across the field, a group of knights in stained gear was walking from the lists, disarmed.

  "I'm afraid they're taking the polish off your grand performance there, boy. That's three of ours just yielded."

  AN HOUR LATER, Durand and Guthred were catching their breath among the tents, having just hauled a knight—big as a carthorse—to safety. One of Lamoric's men, the giant had taken a blow to the forehead. The needle pulled, then popped, as Guthred's man worked on the knight. The wound bristled with eyebrow and stitches as the big knight took a pull from his wineskin.

  While Durand watched the surgeon's work, Guthred kept an eye on the field.

  "Aw. Aw no. Aw no!" He ripped the skullcap from his head and whipped it to the ground. "Not another! This'11 break us. Lamoric's getting a good show for the Herald."

  Out in the lists, a knight Durand did not recognize was on his knees. "Does that make eight?" Durand asked.

  "Or nine, friend. It might as well be nine. This will cost us." It could mean the armor, horses, and weapons of every man, all lost to ransom. Guthred bent to collect the iron bowl of his skullcap. "We haven't had a day like this in ages." He looked at Durand, and spent a long moment still and staring. "You're a real good luck charm."

  The day had been long, and frustration had Lamoric's retainers snapping and snarling. An hour before, Durand and the other shield-bearers had to scuffle with the men of another retinue. One of Lamoric's knights had hit the turf right at Durand's feet. They could hardly watch another man dragged off.

  "Come," said Guthred. He nodded to the carthorse knight. "He don't need his hand held. You'll see, he'll be up and surrendering like all the others in no time." A thread of blood slithered from the big man's brow to his beard.

  Abruptly, the crowd was howling. "Hells, what's this?" Guthred said and bolted for the lists, elbowing a path to the front row with Durand in tow.

  As Durand stepped out, Lamoric, easy to recognize in solid red, swung down from his warhorse. In front of him, a lean knight was getting up from a hard fall. He levered a shield from the muck.

  It was covered in diamonds: blue and yellow, azure and gold.

  "Host of Heaven," said Guthred. "Lamoric's knocked Moryn Mornaway on his arse!" Moryn's ransom would buy every man they'd lost. But Guthred's face was tense.

  "Can he take him?" Durand asked.

  "Shut up," was Guthred's reply.

  Lamoric did a good job playing the grave knight-at-arms, waiting for Lord Moryn to collect his sword and shield. Some of the crowd were shouting, "Get to it!" and "Past time for kissing now!" There was laughter.

  As Moryn stood, Lamoric raised his blade to the red face of his battle helm. When Moryn answered, Lamoric moved: gallant salute turned murderous attack as Lamoric wrenched his blade into a high slash. In the wheeling moments that followed, the two combatants sent a flickering exchange to nick shields and test distances.

  The Lord of Mornaway was swift and supple; Durand spotted something in the man's gait: he'd done something to his hip. An opening like that could be enough.

  The two combatants danced apart, reeling to catch themselves in clean guard positions. Lord Moryn assumed an outlandish pose, coiled with his sword cocked over his off shoulder. Durand had never seen the like.

  "Come on. Coen's shown you," Guthred muttered.

  Moryn waited like an adder, poised as Lamoric jittered out of reach. Suddenly, Lamoric saw some chance. He lunged close, jamming his red shield high. The Lord of Mornaway uncoiled—a fraction too slow.

  In a confusion of shields and blades, Lamoric's sword clapped over Moryn's armored knee.

  The lord of Mornaway sprang clear, clutching at the pain. The steel cap over the knee had blunted a maiming strike, though God knew what had become of the bone behind it.

  Some of Moryn's men made to jump in. Durand braced himself to throw his fists against their swords, but Moryn snapped his hand into the air, stopping it all.

  Gravely then, the Lord of Mornaway stood and raised his blade in salute.

  He was brave, but no man could fight if he couldn't move.

  Lamoric prowled in, sure to throw speed and mobility against his opponent. Astonishingly, however, the hobbled Lord of Mornaway kept the Red Knight at bay, twitching stop-thrusts into Lamoric's path. Mornaway was a skilled swordsman, and he had seen a dozen violent winters before Lamoric was born.

  But Lamoric circled, forcing lean Moryn to step and turn, each time on the bad leg, and each time in the ruts and troughs of the torn ground. The Lord of Mornaway could not last long.

  Inevitably, he staggered on the knee.

  Lamoric leapt into that moment. He beat Moryn's blade wide and crashed bodily into the knight, pitching him off guard. Red and diamond blue stormed around each other, then, from the midst of this hail, one tight backhand slipped through: Lamoric's blade caught Moryn's helm. Then, with a wrenching twist, he rang another tight backhand from the steel. Moryn's long hands fumbled at the face of his helm, his shield loose. The crowd was silent.

  And, after a wavering moment, Mornaway collapsed. Lamoric set his point at the lord's throat. "Do you yield?"

  Two or three of Moryn's men leapt down from their saddles. Durand and a few others jumped into the lists. Impossibly, Moryn's hand waved them back yet again. Lamoric leveled his blade. "Lord Moryn Mornaway, do you yield?"

  "I do." The warped helm tumbled free and a brutalized older man winced up at his captor. "You have fairly bested me. And, on my oath, I am your prisoner."

  Durand was not the first to charge into the lists.

  HE SAW THE girl again from the thick of Lamoric's men as they carried their Red Knight master back to camp. Until Durand looked up, he was an unthinking participant in the mob, but when he glanced from the crush and saw his Maid of the Stream looking down, he forgot the others. Eyes dark as a faun's, but staring through him. The mob gave Durand a shove.
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  He spotted the red flash of her hair as she walked down the benches toward a set of plank steps not far away. Durand broke away from the rest and reached the steps just as she arrived.

  "Hello," Durand said, and she looked. Her eyes were enough to stop his breath.

  "Do you remember me?" he asked.

  She said nothing.

  "You disappeared. I am glad you are well."

  The eyes held him another moment, then darted. The crowd jostled him closer. Like a child, Durand wanted to ask if she had come to see him, or if she had seen him hoist Coensar's prize from the lists.

  "A fine day," he managed, instead.

  "I shouldn't—I shouldn't be speaking with you," she said, and she was already turning. "Wait! Who are you?" "A lady's maid," she said.

  A tiny thing, it took her only a moment to slip off into the crowd. Durand could not follow.

  THERE WAS LAMORIC, stalking in circles and swinging his crimson mantle. The great red helm was still on his head. When every man in the camp had a drink in his fist, Lamoric planted his foot on his chair, and turned on the only somber man in the camp: Moryn Mornaway.

  Already, one of the swordsman-lord's eyes had closed, swelling tight. But his back was straight as a spit.

  "Welcome to my camp, Lord Moryn," said Lamoric. "I am very pleased to make you my guest."

  The lean knight nodded a shallow bow. "I must be quicker in the future."

  "Or face a less fortunate opponent."

  Sweat plastered hair against tall Moryn's forehead like ink on wet parchment. He blinked, narrowing his better eye. "Do I know your voice, Red Knight?"

  "I have chosen not to use my own arms in the lists," answered Lamoric.

  Lord Moryn paused, then said, "A novelty."

  "Well, I am forced to avoid the feasts, I am afraid."

  "And if I encounter you once more, I may not know you."

  "Regrettable," Lamoric allowed.

  "I should like to face you again," said Moryn. "I should like that very much. If you will not give me your name, you must be sure to wear this red helm when next we meet. A satisfying prize, it would make."

  "Lord Moryn," said Lamoric, abruptly. "You are an honorable man?"

  Moryn stiffened. "It is rarely questioned."

  "And I have never heard it said that you ran off when paroled or struck a man unawares."

  Moryn was still as a drawn line; he took a slow breath. "Half-a-thousand knights are sworn to fight in the name of Mornaway. The house of Mornaway is as ancient as any in this realm. I do not take the honor of my lineage lightly." He narrowed his eye once more, looking close at the red helm. "I ask you plainly, Knight in Red. Should I know you?"

  Lamoric took hold of the great red helm and, after a good showman's pause, lifted the thing from his head, and there he was: Lamoric of Gireth, youngest son of the duke, sweaty and grinning.

  "You?" said Moryn. The word slid like a blade of ice, even as Lamoric smiled.

  "And I will have your word now that you will tell no one."

  After an astonished moment, Moryn wheeled to the onlookers. "Sons of Atthi witness. Before the Host of Heaven, I, Moryn Mornaway, heir to the lands between Lost Hesperand and the Westering Sea, swear that no one shall learn the true name of this Knight in Red by word or deed of mine." He turned stiffly back to Lamoric. "Will this suffice?"

  "Lord Moryn," said Lamoric, setting the slot-eyed helm on his knee, "I find myself quite satisfied just now."

  Moryn fixed Lamoric with a smoldering eye. "I would welcome the opportunity to redeem my honor."

  "And I do not feel it necessary to repeat our confrontation. It was quite decisive, I think, brother-in-law."

  The wounded lord drew himself to his full height, saying, "Then we are finished. Our men will arrange the ransom. I must appear at the feast, and there is little more for us here."

  "Again I am satisfied," said Lamoric.

  At a look from Mornaway, the startled knights of Lam-oric's entourage parted and allowed him to walk from their circle.

  "You see?" said Lamoric. "That is but a taste of what will come when we succeed. We will open their eyes!" He grinned. "Poor Lord Moryn, he never liked that a wastrel of my ilk married his sister." Durand remembered some scandal; no one spoke much of it.

  Stiffly, Coensar answered, "No, Lordship."

  "He liked that I bested him even less. I am satisfied indeed."

  "Yes, Lordship."

  Lamoric chuckled. "Well then," he said, "how have we done, all in all?"

  "My Lord, not well. We've lost nine men to ransom, which will likely cost us half our mounts and armor. Moryn's price may save us. And I only managed to take one hostage." Coensar looked around. Suddenly, Durand realized what the man was searching for. The one-eyed knight was missing.

  "Where's the new man?" demanded the captain. Now, Guthred turned. "Durand!" Durand stepped forward. The one-eyed man had fled. "Your friend?" said Coensar.

  "I've seen no sign of him, Captain. Not since we brought him here."

  "Did you have him swear out a parole?"

  It had never occurred to him. They had left the man right in the camp. He must simply have walked out. Coensar looked tired. "No, Sir Coensar."

  Guthred's fists were white.

  Just then, a strange voice broke the silence. "Ahem."

  Quick-fisted thugs like Badan caught hold of the stranger before he could utter a proper word, though this did not stop the man from shouting.

  "Bloody whoresons! Set me down!" Durand saw fists and heels and a bearded chin as the man kicked and snarled in the hands of his captors. With Badan in charge, Lamoric's lads planted the stranger before their master's chair.

  He had only one eye.

  "You were saying, Sir?" Lamoric prompted, gesturing that Badan should give the man room to breathe.

  "Bastards!" the stranger spluttered. "My leaving was square in line with the ordinances of chivalry. There wasn't one of you whoresons had time to make me yield, let alone vow not to wander off, and I ain't planning to climb back into the bloody lists today to give you a second crack at—"

  "Hells!" Badan leapt from the one-eyed knight, as if the man were a knot of serpents. Stumbling among his comrades, Badan snatched his sword free, horror in his face.

  "What is it?" Lamoric demanded. Half the men had their blades drawn.

  "Berchard," Badan gasped.

  The stranger looked up, narrowing his good eye as though he were surrounded by madmen—but then he seemed to realize.

  "Ah!" He pointed. "It's Badan, yes? Where's all the hair?" He smiled.

  Badan was shaking his mostly naked head.

  Berchard nodded up to Lamoric, confiding: "You'll have to excuse my old friend here. He thinks I've risen from the dead."

  Badan made the Eye of Heaven.

  "He and some mates of his left me hanging in Pendur, is all." "Oh, did they?"

  "It's an old story now. And, with luck, I'll get a chance to tell it, as I can see you're a decent fellow who wouldn't want to kill a man just to stop his tongue wagging. I've seen that face of yours, haven't I? What with this setback here today and all, you may need another hand, and I'm a free man with no hindrances." He smiled. "And—"

  Durand felt a sharp pain at the nape of his neck: a twist of fingers in the short hairs. Guthred snarled in his ear. "Oh, you're a luck-charm, that's certain. You mind I'm watching."

  10. Death and Dreaming

  Only Coensar took the city track down to the feast. With Lamoric playing Knight in Red, he kept to the abandoned hilltop as night fell. The Heavens swung above them, scattered with stars. If they turned from the fire, they might look down on the hall of Red Winding, where tall windows winked over the black glass of Silvermere. They scraped together a simple feast of their own with beer, hot sausage, and cold meat pie. Most fell to bragging and laughing. A few of the group were watchful, waiting.

  Durand took himself to the firelight's cool fringes—the first chance he'd had to thi
nk in all the hours since dawn. He could not believe that only one day had passed since Fetch Hollow. He still bore scratches from those oaks. He still had hot spoken to Lord Lamoric: He still had not confessed.

  While the men laughed at one long story, Durand noticed Lamoric standing without a word and step into the dark, a strange look in his eye.

  Berchard's voice drew Durand's attention back to the fire. "I've told you, not till I've finished my supper."

  "All right then," said Badan, lurching to his feet "Then I've got one. While you buggers weren't looking, I'm out there. You should have seen the bastard." He mimed a lance under his arm. "Hit him square on the shield. Dead center. Tore one of his boots off throwing him down, the whoreson." His yellow teeth sparked like a dry fire.

  "He got up barefoot, the mooncalf, blinking and stumbling about, like." Badan reeled around the fire, mimicking his victim. "Any case, he could have surrendered right there, but he pulls his sword and starts waving it around." Badan followed suit, drunkenly hauling out his own razor-edged blade as the others flinched and swore. "What could I do? There he was, armed, and would he hand his sword over to me? Ballocks! So I circled him a few times." The sword flickered round a few circles. "Still on horseback, like? Not about to let him take a free poke at me." He jabbed the air, missing ears and elbows.

  "Hells, Badan," Berchard swore.

  Durand grimaced.

  The blade swished.

  "I kept shouting at him: Yield! Yield, you whoreson. But he would not. He just kept working his mouth and blinking. And I'd had enough."

  Badan grimaced, abruptly distracted. "—Filthy jaw." He spotted Durand beyond the circle of his audience. "Your bloody elbow's broken a tooth for me, oathbreaker." There was some laughter. Durand didn't join in.