Hall of the Mountain King

by Tarr, Judith

  Vadin groaned, but he obeyed. Mirain went round from man to man with a word and a touch for each, a cake, a bit of fruit, a gesture toward the stream.

  No one else voiced a complaint. In very little time by the sun, they were up and saddled and astride. Their water bottles were full, their mounts refreshed, although they rode with care at first to limber stiffened muscles.

  The sun warmed them; the wind was clean and keen. They stretched into racing pace.

  oOo

  The Black Peaks rose before them, curved around the high vale of Umijan. Somewhere in that tumble of ridge and valley, crag and tarn, ran the enemy.

  Sunset would find him at Umijan’s gates. Sunset must find them within, with Baron Ustaren their sworn ally.

  “Pray gods we get to the Gullet before the traitors,” said Jeran, who was Marcher born, “or they’ll swallow us while Ustaren watches.”

  The Gullet: the last stretch of the race, the long narrow way between walls of stone, rising slowly and then more steeply to the crag of the castle. Eight troopers and a prince, armed only with swords, mounted on spent seneldi, could find neither cover nor defense there.

  Vadin was not afraid. He was far too intent on keeping the pace. Thus when they started up yet another of a thousand nameless slopes, he stopped without thinking, and only wondered when he saw the Mad One’s saddle empty, Mirain running low to the crest.

  Still unthinking, he half fell to the ground, pursuing as stealthily as his exhausted body would allow, coming up beside the prince.

  The ridge looked down on a river meadow walled with crags and swarming with an army. Mounted men, men afoot, even a few chariots, advancing as the tide advances, steady and inexorable.

  “The Gullet?” Vadin whispered, although he could see nothing that resembled a castle.

  “Not yet,” answered Mirain. “But this is the way, and there is no other, only a tangle of blind valleys.”

  Vadin peered at the walls. They were not precisely sheer to his hillman’s eye, but a senel could not climb or traverse them. And the valley was full of rebels. With no wood or copse to conceal a passing company, only grass and stones and the bright path of the stream.

  Jeran was beside them, greatly daring, whistling softly when he saw what there was to see. “They’re slower than I thought: still an hour’s gallop from the Gullet.” He was haggard, caked with dust as they all were, trembling with weariness, but he grinned. “We’ll make it yet, Sunborn.”

  Mirain did not react to his new title. He was intent on the army. “Arrogant,” he muttered. “No scouts. No vanguard. Rearguard—No. They’re all in the valley. We’ve come at them sidewise, that’s luck, but not luck enough. Unless . . .” He paused, eyes narrowing. “Look; they’re in good order, but not as good as they should be. They don’t expect trouble.”

  “Will we give them some, my lord?” Jeran asked quickly, with a ghost of eagerness.

  Mirain’s eye glinted upon him. If Vadin had not known better, he would have sworn that Mirain was as fresh as a lordling newly risen from his bed. But his steadiness had to be an act of will: the strong face of a king before his people.

  Better that than the other choice, that he was much less human than he liked to appear. He touched the Marcher’s shoulder, and the man glowed, waking to new vigor. “Tell the men to rest a little. If any dares not trust his mount or himself, let him be truthful. We must reach Umijan before yonder army.”

  No one would admit to weakness. No one flinched under Mirain’s stare, although he did not spare the power of it, searching each hollowed face.

  At last his head bowed. He breathed deep, as if he had come to a decision. Slowly he raised his hands. “We are all at the edge of our endurance. But we must ride as we have never ridden before, and we must ride straight through the enemy. Else we are all lost.”

  The unmarked hand spread toward the seneldi. Even the Mad One’s proud neck drooped, although he tried to arch it under his lord’s eye; his sides were matted with sweat and foam, his breath coming with effort.

  And he was the best of them all. Mirain turned his golden palm to catch the sun. “I have no strength to give you all, but what I have, I would give to our seneldi. Have I your leave?”

  They stared at him, dulled minds struggling to understand. Vadin had an advantage: he had seen what Mirain could do.

  “Magic,” he said sharply, to wake them. “God-power. He’s asking leave to put a spell of endurance on your beasts.”

  One by one, raggedly together, they assented. They were Mirain’s now, heart and soul. They watched him with awe and—yes—love, as he laid his hand on each broad brow beneath the horns of the lone gelding, between the eyes of the mares.

  And life flowed back into the spent bodies. Light kindled in dimmed eyes; nostrils flared, testing the wind.

  Last of all Mirain came to the Mad One. That one hardly needed his touch to swell and preen and stamp, but Mirain stood long by the strengthened shoulder, both hands on it, cheek against the tangled mane.

  With a sudden, almost convulsive movement he turned. Not Vadin alone caught his breath. In so little time, Mirain’s face had aged years. But he sprang into the saddle, straight as ever, and the Mad One moved forward. “Come,” Mirain commanded. “Follow me.”

  They rode openly over the crest, down the long slope toward the mass of the army. Whether by some trick of Mirain’s power, or because they had not looked to be overtaken, the rebels made no move against them.

  Perhaps, with the sun in their eyes and the dust rising to cloud their advance, men judged the swift newcomers to be stragglers of their own force. No banner taught them otherwise, and no armor glinted warning. Filthy, worn to rags, mounted on lathered and gasping seneldi, the strangers might as easily have been fugitives in search of sanctuary.

  There was space to skirt the left flank, a stretch like a road between army and cliff, and Mirain claimed it, with his men pounding after.

  Vadin heard a voice, a call that sounded like a question, growing peremptory. He crouched over Rami’s neck.

  “Run,” he prayed. “Longears, Rack-of-bones, love of my life, run.”

  His right eye was full of the glitter of weapons. His back crawled, yearning for its lost armor.

  He fixed his whole being on the flying tassel of the Mad One’s tail. It would carry him out of this. It would bring him safely home.

  The voice begot echoes, not all born of air and mountainside. “Hold, I say! In whose name do you ride?”

  “My own!” Mirain bellowed back. “Behind you—Moranden of the Vale—a day’s ride—”

  The Mad One veered. Mirain’s arm swept the rest onward, but he sat his stallion well within bowshot of the captain who had hailed him.

  Vadin was bone-weary but he was not yet dead; he knew what Mirain was trying to do, and he had strength left to be appalled. He caught at the reins.

  But Rami with her velvet mouth, Rami whose obedience had never been less than perfect, Rami had the bit in her teeth and would not turn aside. He heard Mirain’s voice, indistinct with distance. The lunatic was telling them where Moranden was, and how many men he had, and what his spies had said; but not what Mirain himself had said.

  And the army had slowed to hear him. The ranks behind were straggling. Some were cheering.

  “But you,” called a captain with a voice of brass. “How do you know this? Why are your men—” He broke off. He spurred his senel closer to the Mad One, who danced away, horns lowered. “Who are you?”

  Mirain laughed and bared the torque at his throat and spun the stallion about. “Mirain,” he called over his shoulder. “Mirain Prince of Ianon!”

  The Mad One seemed to take wing, so swift was his escape. Behind him the army milled in disorder. But some of its men were quick of wit.

  Something sang, sweet and high and deadly. The Mad One came level with Rami.

  A senel shrieked. Down—one was down before them with an arrow in its heart. Rami swerved; the Mad One leaped over the
struggling body.

  The rebels were beginning to move. It struck Vadin then, purest truth. If Mirain could hold them with his voice, could not one man hold them with his sword, tangle them further, gain more precious moments? Rami was free again, light in his hands. He gathered the reins to turn her about.

  A band of unseen steel imprisoned his wrists. The mare strained forward.

  The Mad One’s eye burned briefly upon Vadin’s. Mad himself and raging, helpless as a man in chains, Vadin craned over his shoulder. Six. They were only six. Knots of men and beasts marked the fallen.

  One of the six was free, or set free, stealing the glory Vadin had chosen. Riding in that swooping arc, singing a wicked satire, whirling his bright sword.

  Arrows could not touch him. Spears fell spent about him. Singing, he plunged into the foremost rank, and men howled and died.

  “Mirain!” Vadin stormed at a rider of stone. “Mirain!”

  The vale narrowed before them. There at last beyond doubting was the black gorge and the loom of Umijan against the setting sun. Behind them the army had loosed its most deadly weapon: a company of mounted archers.

  “Ride!” cried Mirain. “Trust to the god and ride! Umijan is before us.”

  Aye, like the very keep of hell, black Gullet, black crag, black castle. And the last of the Gullet was the Tongue, and that was a path against one sheer wall, for the other dropped away to a precipice and far below a cold gleam of water; and this eagles’ track reared steeply to the frown of the gate. Truly Umijan could never be taken, for there was not even space for three men abreast to assail its walls, and the cliff that edged the path melted into the very crag of the castle.

  If Vadin had had a grain of strength left, he would have laughed. He knew the gods did. Of all that terrible race, this must be the worst, with arrows raining and life pouring away and one misstep the road to certain death.

  With every stride he knew Rami’s great heart would burst. The air beckoned, the emptiness beyond the narrow polished path, singing of rest.

  He clung to the pale mane, straining as Rami strained, willing her to run swift, run straight, run steady. “Only a little way now. Only a little. Up, my love. Up to the gate. Up!”

  She heard him. The archers or the road had taken Vian. There was only Jeran behind him, and little Tuan, and Mirain—Mirain mad to the last, herding them, defying death to take him.

  Tuan’s staggering roan went down, barring the narrow way. The Mad One swayed on the very edge of the precipice.

  Tuan shouted, shrill as a child, and howled as Mirain swept him headfirst across the saddle. The stallion gathered and hurtled over the dying mare.

  The foremost archer spurred upon his heels. The mare, thrashing, caught the foreleg of the rebel’s mount. It screamed and toppled and spun slowly over the rim.

  The Mad One hurled himself up the steep ledge. Jeran lagged, his lovely golden mare dying as she ran, he weeping and cursing and beseeching her forgiveness as he lashed her on. But it was the Mad One who gave her strength, who gored her flank with cruel horns, driving her upward.

  Vadin burst into quiet, and for an eternal instant he knew that it was death. Until he saw walls and a paved court and people thronging, and the Mad One plunging through the gates with Jeran’s mare before him, and the gates swinging shut. Slowly, slowly, the golden mare crumpled to the stones. Jeran lay beside her and wept.

  The race was won. They had come to Umijan.

  TEN

  Vadin was on the ground. It was cold, and he did not remember falling.

  He dragged himself up, inch by tortured inch, knowing all the while that when he was on his feet he would go mad. He must tend Rami, or she would die; he must tend Mirain, or his honor as a squire would die.

  They had Rami, people who insisted that they knew how to care for her. More gathered around Jeran’s mare, and a valiant few tended the Mad One. Mirain—

  Mirain stood in a circle of giants, eye to eye with the tallest of them all, who stood to Vadin as Vadin stood to Mirain. Even in his fog of exhaustion Vadin knew who this must be; the likeness to Moranden was uncanny.

  Mirain’s voice came clear and proud and indomitable. “Good day, lord baron, and greetings in the name of the Prince Moranden. He bids you make ready for his coming; he requests that his resting place be free of vermin.”

  Vadin sucked in his breath. The people about looked as shocked as he felt, and some were stiff with outrage. But Baron Ustaren looked at his kinsman’s ambassador and laughed. “What! Shall I leave no rats for my cousin to hunt at his leisure?”

  “Only if you are prepared to be counted among the quarry.”

  Vadin edged toward Mirain. Not that he had much hope of being useful; some of the onlookers had throwing spears and some had strung bows. And men in Umijan were large even for northerners. He was the merest stripling here, with barely strength to stand, let alone fight.

  They let him stand at his lord’s back, which proved the sublimity of their contempt. Mirain was oblivious to him. The prince was staring the baron down, and succeeding in it.

  Ustaren had less pride than Moranden had, or more guile; he yielded with all appearance of goodwill. “The rats shall be disposed of. How may I name the bearer of his lordship’s command?”

  “As Prince Moranden himself names me,” Mirain answered. “Messenger.”

  “So then, sir messenger, shall I house you among the warriors? Or would I be wiser to treat you as my guest? or as a priest? or perhaps as the heir of Ianon?”

  “Wherever I am placed, I remain myself.” Mirain’s chin lifted a degree. “Lord baron, you have vermin to hunt, and my companions stand in sore need of tending. Have I your leave?”

  Ustaren bowed low and shaped a sign that Vadin almost knew. Others repeated it as he said, “All shall be done as the Sun’s son commands.” His voice raised to a roar. “Ho, Umijan! We ride to fight.”

  oOo

  Vadin lay in a bed that should have been celestially soft, and ached in each separate muscle and bone. He had slept as much as he was going to, but his body could not heal itself as quickly as that. Even his ears throbbed dully.

  Someone was snoring, or more likely some two, Jeran and Tuan abed in the guard’s niche of Umijan’s great chamber. Mirain, who never snored, held the other half of that vast bed, long enough and broad enough to dwarf even the Lord of Umijan.

  Someone must have laid them all in their places, undressed them and cleaned them. Vadin remembered coming here, and knowing whose chamber it was, but no more than that.

  The two soldiers had been carried unconscious. Vadin had walked, and been inordinately proud of it.

  Mirain had not only walked, he had been giving orders. He would have put himself to bed, simply to prove that he could do it.

  With some effort and no little pain, Vadin raised himself on his elbow. Mirain slept like a child, lying on his stomach with his face turned toward Vadin and his hand fisted beside it. Maybe, had he been younger, his thumb would have been in his mouth. But the face was no child’s. Even in sleep it was furrowed with exhaustion.

  Vadin’s teeth clicked together. Mirain did not sleep on his face. He slept sprawled on his back or curled neatly on his side. And not weariness alone had graven that deep line between his brows.

  Very carefully Vadin folded back the blankets. Mirain’s back was clear, smooth, unhurt. No arrow had found its way there.

  He was wearing a kilt, clearly not his own; it was overlong and wrapped twice around him. As if that could have deceived Vadin, who knew that Mirain slept as bare as any other man in Ianon.

  The kilt, pathetic subterfuge that it was, had slipped upward as he slept, baring what it was meant to hide. Vadin wanted to howl like a beast.

  Soft, Mirain was not, he had proved it beyond all questioning, but he had not ridden all his life in the poor protection of kilt or battle tunic. And he had ridden the greatest of all Great Races, half a day and a night and nigh a full day again, and never once, never for a
n instant, had he let slip that he was being flayed alive.

  Vadin should have known. He should have thought. He should have—

  “Nonsense.” Mirain was awake. He looked no less haggard, but his eyes were clear. “You will say no word of this.”

  Vadin understood. Not that anyone would think the less of Mirain for it, but that damnable pride of his—

  “That has nothing to do with it!” Mirain snapped. “Can’t you taste the danger here? If it’s known that I’m hurt, they’ll hover over us day and night, not merely keep a watch on the door.”

  The part about danger was true enough. Vadin started to unwind the kilt; Mirain glared but did not try to stop him.

  It was not as bad as he had feared. The wounds were clean, though not pleasant to see. They had not festered.

  Vadin covered them with care and rose. Not till he reached the door did he realize that he had forgotten how much he hurt. He drew the bolt and called out, “Redroot salve and the softest bandages you can find, and something to eat. Be quick!” He was slow in closing the door, and he was careful to move stiffly.

  The salve came in a covered jar, and it was redroot indeed; its pungency made his eyes water. The bandages were fine and soft, the food substantial and steaming, and there was a pitcher of ale.

  They were sparing no trouble here. For Mirain’s sake, Vadin wondered briefly, or for Moranden’s? He bolted the door in curious faces and advanced on Mirain.

  The prince was sitting up, which was admirable for appearances but appalling for his hurts. “Lie down,” Vadin ordered him.

  For a miracle he obeyed. Once he was flat again, he loosed a faint sigh and closed his eyes.

  Vadin’s own were wide and burning dry. He remembered his mother the day the brindled stallion had gored his father; she had looked the way he felt now. Stiff and quiet, and very, very angry.

  The anger tainted his voice, made the words cruel. “Brace yourself. This will sting.”

  Vadin’s hands were gentler than his tongue. Mirain was quiet, all but unflinching. But of course; he lived with a fire in his hand to which this was a mere flush of warmth.