by Tad Williams
“Here, let me help you, Majesty.” Jurgen had lost his helmet somewhere between the stairs and this moment; as she took his hand and let him hoist her up onto the saddle, she could not help marveling how young he was, this guard captain. I was already a grown woman before he was born, she thought. And now he saves me. I will see him made a lord for this.
Then something came hurtling from the side and struck Jurgen in the head, knocking him out of the saddle. Miriamele was almost torn from Orn’s back by the knight’s fall. When she looked down she saw that he had been hit by a shoeing hammer, which now lay in the straw beside him. She could not tell if Jurgen was alive or dead, but a deep dint in his forehead oozed blood, and she knew she could not possibly lift him up into the saddle before she was pulled down herself by the crowds streaming in through the open gate.
She slid down from the skittish horse just long enough to yank Jurgen’s sword from its scabbard, then clambered back into the saddle, pulling her skirts up until she could straddle it, though her feet did not quite reach the stirrups. She kicked with her heels as hard as she could and the gray horse sprang forward, shoving open the unlatched stall and heading for the open stable doors.
Faces loomed before her, and hands tried to grab at the reins, but she hacked at them all with the heavy sword and then clung to the horse’s neck as they burst out into the thickest part of the crowd. Some of the intruders tried to get out of the way and were run down, others flung themselves aside. By the time the gray horse reached the gate and burst out into the road, most of the folk that had forced the gate were already behind them.
God rest you, Sir Jurgen, was all she could think. She clung to Orn’s neck as a few rocks flew past her, thrown by members of the mob—one even struck the horse’s flank and made him dance for a moment, but Orn found his stride again and galloped on. Half the west wing was now afire, flames climbing from the tops of the windows, reaching greedily for parts unburned, and the east wing was beginning to burn as well. She could see men on the palace roof above the main residence tipping statues from their niches down to the courtyard below, dancing on the roof tiles and exulting like demons.
God rest you, Jurgen, she thought again. Without you I would be dead and Simon a widower. God protect the duchess and her children. And God’s mercy on this ungodly hell called Nabban.
49
Gatherers’ Way
Jarnulf had been in his eyrie since the hour before dawn, poised to deal or receive death, perhaps both; his nerves were tightened to such a pitch that he felt if someone touched him he might hum like the strings of a lute.
He had spent weeks preparing for this day. He had prayed to God over and over for strength, for sureness of touch, for the eye to see and the mind to understand, so that he would not waste what he felt sure would be his single chance.
The doubly curved shape of his bow came from the Thrithings-men, who often fought from horseback; Jarnulf had purchased his from a bowyer in Erkynland who had learned the trick of making them from the grasslanders themselves. It had cost him quite a few silver quintis-pieces but he had never regretted it.
Even with such a powerful bow, he knew he would have to make a long, long shot from a place far outside the camp, so he had built himself a platform in the trees high on the hillside, working silently for only an hour at a time so he could still bring back enough game to lull any suspicion about his absences. When the platform was finished and tied securely into place, he took countless practice shots—always away from the camp—to learn how the winds and height and surrounding vegetation affected the arrows’ flight, then climbed down and laboriously gathered the flown arrows. He knew he would have to draw the bow to its outermost limits, as well as his own, but after all his preparations he felt sure he could manage one accurate shot. He had never heard any tale of Queen Utuk’ku wearing armor, and though she would be surrounded by armed, lightning-swift Queen’s Teeth guards, Jarnulf felt certain he could put an iron-tipped arrow into her heart before any of them even grasped what had happened.
His bow now lay on the platform beside him, still wrapped in the cloth that kept it, and the arrows, and the coiled bowstring, dry and warm. When the time came he would add his finishing touch to the chosen arrowhead, then stake everything on a single shot.
And if God is good and my heart is pure, the bitch queen will die. My oath to Father and to the Lord of this world will be fulfilled. The Hikeda’ya may catch me and kill me, but it will not matter. I will have a certain welcome in Heaven.
* * *
• • •
It was past noon when the camp suddenly stirred into greater life. Jarnulf sat up, rubbing his hands to warm them, and watched as the Hikeda’ya warriors and others swarmed over the clearing, busy as ants. Clearly something was happening, and it seemed equally clear that it must be the queen’s arrival driving them all into such a frenzy.
He took the bow from its protective cloth and looped the bowstring over one end, then used his foot to brace it as he bent the bow back to receive the other loop. He had done this over and over in recent days, and had thought through each step so many times that he felt now as if he moved in a dream.
The bow strung, he watched the excitement far below as his hand lit on his chosen arrow. He would not wipe the dragon’s blood onto the arrowhead until just before he was ready to fire, because he knew that the corrosive blood would eat away the iron if he left it on too long, but he kept the clay jar ready, as well as the splinter of stone he would use to spread the black, sticky stuff when the moment came.
But as he watched, Jarnulf suddenly felt uncertain. If the Norn troops were preparing for the queen’s arrival, why were they taking down the tents of Akhenabi and the other officers and nobles? Would they not even stay here long enough for the queen’s company to water their horses and rest before marching out?
A good-sized group of Sacrifice soldiers were hitching a team of eight horses to the front of the great cart that carried the bound, sleeping dragon. As Jarnulf watched, a figure in white that he knew must be Saomeji led the giant Goh Gam Gar to the back of the immense cart, where a large wooden yoke was lowered onto the giant and locked in place, then chained to the cart’s back end. The giant did not resist, which showed that Saomeji must be using the crystal rod that controlled him.
Jarnulf saw that Goh Gam Gar was going to be used to push the wagon through mud and wheel ruts that the horses could not overcome by themselves. That meant the Hikeda’ya were not just taking down the camp, they were preparing to move out, and soon. But he saw no sign of the queen’s caravan or of Akhenabi and the others waiting for her arrival. In fact, some of the Sacrifices had already formed into lines and were beginning to march silently away from camp toward the southeast, farther into mortal Erkynland.
He could not wait any longer to find out what was happening. Jarnulf left his bow and everything else on the platform and swung himself down from limb to limb until he dropped to the ground, then hurried downhill toward the camp.
As he made his way through the milling Hikeda’ya, most of whom did not bother to look at him, Goh Gam Gar spotted him.
“Ho, little mortal!” the monster bellowed. “There is still room for you. Perhaps they find a yoke small enough for your shoulders and you help old Gam push this lizard to Naglimund.”
Naglimund! Jarnulf knew the name, though he could not guess why the giant had spoken it. The castle had been the site of a horrific battle during the War of Return, taken by the Hikeda’ya and then eventually retaken by the mortals. It still had an evil name to many, though it was only a mortal fortress now.
He saw Saomeji instructing a half-dozen Singers as they removed books, chests, and sacks from Akhenabi’s carriage and packed them onto a baggage wagon. Jarnulf could not help wondering how many deaths were contained in that collection, how many plagues, how many poisons, how many spells to maim and kill. The thing that had been Makho stood
near Saomeji, watching, his single eye dull and showing scant sign of life. Jarnulf had stayed away from the onetime Sacrifice since Akhenabi had revived him, but he could not afford that now—he needed to find out what had happened during the morning.
“My lord Saomeji,” he said as he approached, then remembered to bow: Saomeji had conducted himself like a member of the nobility since they had returned with the dragon. “I see much activity. Will you tell me what happens here?”
Robed in white, and with skin scarcely darker, Saomeji’s eyes seemed to glow like little suns as he turned to Jarnulf.
“We are leaving.”
“But why? I thought we waited for the queen and her forces?”
“What right do you have to know the movements of the Mother of All?”
“None, Lord Saomeji. But I had hoped to be rewarded for the help I gave you and Chieftain Makho.”
“Hah.” Saomeji’s mouth curled in a malicious smile as he looked over to the unmoving Sacrifice. “Chieftain Makho. He is less than that now—and more, too. But the queen does not stop here. We are to meet her elsewhere. Time is fleeting, so plans have changed.”
“You are to meet her at Naglimund?”
Saomeji’s expression closed like a shuttered window. “Where did you hear that?”
“The giant shouted it at me. But I do not know where that is,” he lied.
“The giant thinks himself necessary—but he will not be so for much longer.” Saomeji pursed his lips in barely hidden annoyance. “Yes, we go to the place the mortals call Naglimund. If you still hope for some reward from the palace, saddle and prepare to ride.”
Jarnulf’s thoughts were racing. It had been a risk waiting here for the queen, one that could have ended in his death at any time if Saomeji or Akhenabi had decided they had no further use for him. He had already wondered several times why he had been allowed to stay with the Hikeda’ya so long. And who was to say this group of Sacrifices would even see the queen, let alone be allowed near enough for Jarnulf to do what he planned? No, if he was to complete his sworn mission and fulfill his oath, he would have to find another way—another opportunity.
“In truth,” he said at last, “I do not wish to go any farther into mortal lands. I have done my duty to the queen, but I have left my other tasks unfulfilled for too long.”
This caught Saomeji’s attention. The Singer looked at him carefully, as if, like his master Akhenabi, he could discern the thoughts behind a man’s face. “So just like that, you will go back to being a Queen’s Huntsman?”
“It is the task for which I was trained. And it is a task I have always done well.” But if he wanted to keep the imposture believable, he had one more thing to do. “But before I go, there is the matter of . . . silver.”
“Silver?”
“Makho agreed to pay me a silver drop for every day I guided your Talons. Even if you would be a miser and only pay me for the trip to Urmsheim, that is still the matter of many silver drops—but I would hope you would pay me also for each day I helped you bring it down the mountain. I did what I promised and more. You, Lord Saomeji, will present the beast to the queen, and receive praise and no doubt advancement. I ask only my due.”
“I do not seek advancement,” Saomeji said, but there was an odd edge to his words, almost more wistful than angry. “I seek only recognition for my loyalty.”
“And I am sure you will receive it, my lord. But I wish to return to a quieter life, tracking and capturing fleeing slaves. Will you honor Makho’s bargain?”
Saomeji seemed about to say something, but whatever he was thinking was hidden again behind the stony seeming that the Hikeda’ya showed to the world. He motioned to one of his servants and made a series of gestures, Order of Song sign-talk that Jarnulf did not understand. The servant bowed and went off.
“He will bring back your silver, mortal, one drop for each day of your labors. And when you are among the other Huntsmen again and bragging of your riches, tell them also that their Hikeda’ya masters keep their word, even to mortal slaves. The Mother of All is generous.”
“I have never doubted the queen’s goodness, my lord,” Jarnulf said.
* * *
For Nezeru, it was a day full of surprises.
The first came just before sunrise, while she was waiting for her pursuers. Her stolen horse had been running for several days with hardly any rest and was exhausted. She had seen enough of the current troop of Sacrifices following her to know that they numbered half a dozen, and she knew even with her Talon training she could not hope to beat so many Hikeda’ya in open combat, so she left her horse higher up the hill, found a great shelf of reddish granite that stuck out like a snake’s tongue from a heather-mantled hillside, then hid herself on top of the slab and waited for her enemies.
Yes, enemies, she thought, full of bitterness. But not by my choice. Because of Jarnulf. Because my own people believed him over me. And because Saomeji, another halfbreed like me, called me a traitor and set the War-Shrikes on me. I owe the Singer for that. But since she doubted she would survive to see sunrise, she could not make herself believe she would ever have a chance to exact revenge.
She lay tight against the shelf of rock, peering down at the rainy forest. Already she could see a hint of movement in the darkness, shivering branches, the hint of hooves against the damp ground. For the dozenth time, she wished she had a bow and enough arrows to send her pursuers to the Garden, but she had nothing except Makho’s sword and the knives at the back of her belt.
Not just Makho’s sword—Suno’ku’s sword, she reminded herself. One of the greatest of our people, she who broke the Northmen’s lines and rescued hundreds.
But Suno’ku had died. That was the end of the hero’s story. The general had been crushed beneath the falling mountain at the gates of Nakkiga, and all the songs of praise, all the flowers placed before her grave at the Iyora Clan’s vault did not make brave Suno’ku any less dead.
And in any case, there will be no songs for me—who honors a traitor? If I die here, I will never be anything else in my people’s memory. Saomeji and the mortal Jarnulf had stolen from her something far more important than her life.
Now, as she stared through the dim light at the forest below her, Nezeru saw the first of her pursuers and received her first surprise. They were Hikeda’ya Sacrifices, there was no doubt of that—she could see the pale smear of their faces before she could see anything else of them—but as they moved through a gap in the tree cover, she saw the insignia on the arms of their dark coats.
They were not War-Shrikes.
Instead, they wore on their arms the rune that stood for the sound “Zo”. They were of the Legion Zosho, named after the gyrfalcons that ruled over all the birds of Lake Rumiya on Nakkiga Mountain’s broad skirts.
So more than one legion of Hikeda’ya were chasing her. No wonder her pursuer’s horses always seemed fresh. But how could that be, unless they came from some other fort even nearer than the War-Shrikes’? How many Sacrifice fortresses had been built in what she had always been told were lands that the mortals had stolen long ago? And why would so many Sacrifices be sent after Nezeru, one lone Sacrifice, even if they thought her a traitor?
She never discovered whether the hunters had already caught her scent, or if she had given herself away in some other manner, but within moments after she spotted them the Gyrfalcons dismounted, left their horses in the cover of the trees, and began making their way up the slope where she had hidden. She could see they had more in mind than simply getting to a high place: they moved like spies, staying close to the ground and using the dark, brushy heather for cover. They did not know she had neither bow nor arrows, so they were taking no chances. She almost laughed.
Some of them may be many Great Years older than I am, yet they chase me like I was the most dangerous beast in the woods.
She could not help wondering w
hether she could help bear out their caution. Thinking of Suno’ku made her remember not just the great general’s death, but also a deadly trick the Hikeda’ya had played on the mortals during the long retreat to Nakkiga after the failure of the War of Return. She rolled over and began to look around the shelf of stone and on the hillside above her, but there were no stones small enough for her to work loose that would be do any real damage to her pursuers. The moment of hope guttered and died.
It would be sword-work, then, though Nezeru had little doubt how it would end. She only hoped she earned an honorable death while wielding Sunoku’s blade.
Silently, she repeated her death-song while she listened to the almost noiseless approach of the Gyrfalcons. She slid forward again to check their numbers, and counted five, which meant one had probably stayed behind with the horses.
If I cannot be a hero, I might settle for being an infamous terror. It is too bad I will not live long enough to become that kind of story, either. They would tell the young Sacrifice acolytes, “Never leave your bed at night, or Nezeru the Treacherous will take you—”
She was distracted by a thin cry from below. For a moment she thought it was her pursuers’ call to attack and readied herself to spring to her feet and fight, but as she peered down she saw one of the Gyrfalcon soldiers rolling back down the slope. It seemed impossible—no trained Sacrifice would lose their footing so easily—but then another of the Gyrfalcons staggered to one side. Nezeru saw him clutch at his ribs, where blood was already draining from him. Arrows! But from where?
