Hall of the Mountain King

by Tarr, Judith

  oOo

  “Now he is in his element,” Ymin said. She rode in the van with Vadin and Alidan and the scholar from Anshan, with her harp on her back and no weapon at her side. Her eyes were on Mirain, who was riding now far back among the footsoldiers. He had hung his helmet from his saddlebow; as she watched, his teeth flashed white in laughter at some jest.

  "He’s a born leader,” said Vadin. “Whether he’s a general, too, we’ve yet to see.”

  “He will be.” Alidan shifted in the saddle. Her stallion champed his bit; she let him dance a little until he settled again into his long-legged walk. “He can be anything he chooses to be.”

  “Remember,” said Obri the chronicler, “he had his training in Han- Gilen. Soft the Hundred Realms may be in the reckoning of the north, but they breed famous commanders. A southern general, I’ve always thought, and an army from the north: the two together would be invincible.”

  “He is not a southerner!” Alidan cried.

  “He is Sanelin’s child and our king.” Alidan’s face did not soften; Ymin smiled at it. “And you, lady, are his most loyal worshipper.”

  Vadin’s brows met. “It’s talk like that, that he’s desperate to get away from. Push him hard enough with it and he’ll get himself killed, just to prove he’s mortal.”

  “Or that he is not.” Alidan left them, forging ahead on the open road.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The army advanced at a steady pace past fields ripe with the harvest. Those who labored there were women and children, the old and the lame and a few—a very few—men of fighting strength who kept their weapons close to hand. They paused to watch the column pass, bowing low to the vivid figure of the king.

  Yet even in Ianon’s heart the poison had spread. Once from amid a field of bowing farmfolk a shout thrust forth like a spear: “Upstart! Priestess’ bastard!”

  With a snarl a full company burst from the line. Mirain clapped heels to the Mad One’s sides, hurling him across their path, driving them back. He sat his stallion before them, eyes blazing. “Do we ride against farmers or fighters? The enemy lies yonder. Save your wrath for him.” The Mad One bounded forward. “To the Marches!”

  “To the Marches!” they thundered back.

  oOo

  The Towers of the Dawn rose before them, rose and loomed and passed. Some of them had come this way with Moranden as their commander, riding to a war that had been a lie; as this one was not. Beyond them rolled the green hills of Arkhan, and Medras fief, and the cold snow-waters of Ilien with its outstretched arms: Amilien that ran through the cleft of Sun’s Pass into the eastern mountains, and Umilien flowing dark and deep into the labyrinths of Night’s Pass in the south and east of Ianon. But Mirain turned west past the branching of the waters and crossed the fords, entering into Yrios.

  Here at last, terribly and inescapably, was the mark of the enemy. The fields were black and charred, the farmsteads crumbling in ruins. The villages were villages of the dead. It was as if a long line of fire had swept across the hills, sparing nothing made by man, stopping short where the level land began. Neither man nor beast remained, and of birds only the carrion creatures that feasted on the fires’ leavings.

  “Days old,” said Vadin through the bile of sickness, standing by a mound of ash that had been a byre. The stench of smoke was strong, catching at his throat, but stale; the ashes were cold.

  Mirain trod through the ruins, heedless of the soot that blackened his cloak. His eyes were strange, blind. “Four days,” he said. His foot brushed a grey-white shape: the arch of ribs, a small human skull. He lifted it tenderly, but it crumbled in his fingers.

  With a sound like a sob he let it fall. He wheeled. There were tears on his cheeks, white fury in his eyes. “All this land lies under a shadow. I find no sign in it of my enemy. But she is here. By her absence I shall find her.”

  “She?” wondered Kav who kept near to him, exchanging glances with Vadin.

  Mirain heard. “The goddess,” he said like a curse. “Come, up. Up, before more of my people die to feed her!”

  oOo

  Beyond the place of the skull he led his army north and west, following the wide swath of destruction. There seemed no end to it. The marauders had not always burned what they had taken; fields of grain lay low as if borne down by trampling feet, and amid them stood broken villages, and orchards hacked and hewn, the fruits taken or trodden into the ground.

  “This is not the passage of a king coming to claim his throne,” said Alidan, her voice harsh with horror. “What can he hope to rule if he destroys all he passes? He must be mad.”

  It was evening, the sun new set; they had camped on the east bank of Ilien, well outside a village of corpses. Although Mirain had not summoned them, Alidan had come with Ymin and Obri to his tent, to find Vadin there as always, with Adjan and one or two other captains, and the burly form of that Prince Mehtar who had offered Mirain his daughter. Mirain himself sat well back among them, eyes closed, as if he would have preferred to be alone.

  It was Prince Mehtar who responded to Alidan’s words. “Not mad,” he said. “Taunting. He tells us, ‘Come, out, follow me; see what I’ll do to you when I let you catch me.’”

  “But to slaughter innocent people—his own people—”

  “Now, lady,” said Mehtar, “of course you find this hard to bear. War is no place for a woman.”

  She half rose; with an effort she controlled herself, but she could not keep her hand from her swordhilt. “A mountain bandit will take what he can and despoil the rest. A man who would be king would preserve all that he may and save his armed strength for his enemy.”

  Mirain stirred, drawing their eyes to him. “Moranden would be king. But you forget his mother and the one she serves. They have no care for common folk save as sacrifices. It is not he who commands this, but they.”

  “How do you know?” Mehtar demanded.

  Mirain regarded him. He was a large man and overbearing, and though respectful of Mirain’s rank and parentage, inclined to let the youth’s body blind him to the king. Under that steady stare he subsided rapidly.

  “I know,” Mirain said. “I think . . .” He spoke with care, as if the words tasted ill on his tongue, yet he could not help but speak them. “I hate him for what he has done. Yet I think I pity him. To be condemned to this, to see his country laid waste and to have no power to prevent it—that is a suffering I would not wish on any man.”

  Soft, Mehtar’s eyes said clearly, although his tongue was silent.

  “Would it help any of us if I raged before you and howled for his blood?”

  Still Mehtar said nothing.

  Crowded though the tent was, Mirain rose and began to prowl. He circled the silent staring company and left them. After a moment Ymin followed.

  oOo

  He stood close by the tent, but the air was free on his face. She could see his guards, two of his proud shaven squires, but they stood apart in shadow. Mirain was almost alone.

  He drew a deep breath. His tent stood on a low hill; all about it flickered the fires of the camp. The air was keen with frost, Brightmoon waning but strong still. Greatmoon would not rise until dawn, close as he was to his dark, when was the goddess’ greatest power. That was her holy day, as Brightmoon’s full marked Avaryan’s rite.

  He shivered. It was not a physical cold; his cloak was lined with fleece and he was well clad beneath.

  Ymin moved toward him, close but not touching, her face turned to the stars. She was keenly aware of his eyes upon her; she let him look his fill, knowing that he took comfort in it.

  He choked on laughter. She turned to him, thinking a question. After a moment he answered it. “I stand here, stark with the terror of my destiny, and lose all my fear in a woman’s face. It seems that I may be a man after all.”

  “Have you ever doubted it?”

  “No,” he said. “No. But it betrays a talent for distraction.”

  “Since you need it,” she said, “s
hall we find a fire? Then you may gaze to your heart’s content, and I can return the compliment.”

  “I am nothing to stare at.” His finger brushed her cheek. “They weave a cloth in Asanion, rich and soft, fit for kings. Velvet, they call it. Your skin is dark velvet.”

  “And yours. You are far from ugly, my dear lord.”

  “But far from beautiful.”

  “Moranden has beauty. Has it saved him?”

  “It may yet.” The cold had come back into his voice. “He’s out there. I can’t find him. But I feel him. Shadow guards him.”

  “The goddess branded him. You healed the brand. You are a part of him also, a little, although he has no knowledge of it.”

  “Not enough to help him. Far too much for my own peace.”

  “I think we had better look for that fire.”

  It was faint and feeble, but it was laughter. He took her hand and kissed it and held it a moment, head bowed. Before she could speak he was gone, back to the tent and the great ones huddled together like children afraid of the dark.

  oOo

  It was Vadin who haled them out, prince and all, and ordered the guards to see that no one else came to trouble the king’s sleep.

  “Sleep?” Mirain inquired with lifted brow.

  “Sleep,” said Vadin firmly. “You think I don’t know how you’ve been spending your nights? Brooding doesn’t make you any fitter for battle, and magic’s not working, and you can’t plot strategy till you know where your enemy is.”

  Mirain submitted to the stripping of his kilt and the freeing of his braid, but his brain was not so easily subdued. “We’re being lured and we’re being mocked. Odiya’s revenge, long and deadly sweet. When it pleases her she’ll slip her son’s leash, and we’ll lie neatly in the trap.”

  “For a mage whose enemy’s spells are too strong to break, you know a great deal about her mind.”

  “She’s no stronger than I. She’s merely hiding. And I can use my wits as easily as anyone. I know what I would do if I were she.”

  “You wouldn’t wreck your kingdom behind you.”

  “No?” Mirain lay where Vadin set him, on his stomach on the narrow cot, hands laced under his chin. As Vadin began to knead the tensed muscles of his shoulders, he sighed with the pure and unselfconscious pleasure of a cat. “I think,” he mused, “if I were as bitter as she, and nursed so ancient a grudge, I might find no price too high to pay for my vengeance.”

  “That’s your trouble. You persist in seeing all sides.”

  “So do you.”

  Vadin attacked a knot with such force that Mirain grunted. “I see them. I don’t condone them. And I don’t pity the man in whose name whole villages are burned to the ground. He’s a man and a prince. He shouldn’t suffer it.”

  “Ah well, you were raised a lord in Ianon. We foreign bastards are less implacable.”

  “Foreign,” Vadin muttered. “Bastard.” He glared at the smooth wellmuscled back. Not a scar on it. Those were all in front, or below where a lord carried the brands of his life in the saddle. “You didn’t lose your breakfast in the first village we came to.”

  “So then, Ianon breeds strong minds, the south strong stomachs. I saw as bad or worse in the war against the Nine Cities. They don’t simply kill and burn the innocent. They make an art of torment.”

  “Did you pity them, too?”

  “I learned to. It was a hard lesson. I was very young then.”

  And what was he now?

  Ageless, Vadin answered himself. And the more so the longer this march went on, with no enemy and no fighting and only a dead land before and behind. The army was losing its edge. Horror and outrage could only sustain them for so long; Mirain was holding them with his magic, spending himself with no certain hope of return.

  Vadin’s fingers lightened on the easing muscles, more caress now than compulsion. Mirain’s eyes had fallen shut although his mind was still awake; his breathing eased, deepened. “Listen,” he murmured. “Listen, Vadin.”

  Silence underlaid with the sounds of an army asleep. Far away a direwolf hymned the moon. Mirain’s voice came soft and slow. “No, my brother. Listen within.”

  Nothing at all. Utter stillness.

  “Yes. A fullness of silence. It will be soon now. Mark you. Mark . . .”

  He was asleep, his last words surely part of a dream. Vadin drew up the rough blanket Mirain insisted on, no better than a common soldier’s, and snuffed all the lamps but the one by the cot.

  In the dim flickering light he spread his own blanket and lay down. A grim smile had found its way to his face. He was fast going as mad as his master. Bidden to work magic, he had obeyed and not even thought to resist, let alone to be afraid.

  When at last Vadin’s mind let go, his dreams were of darkness and of silence and of nameless fear. But it was not he who was frightened. He lay cradled in Avaryan’s hand on the breast of his Lady Night.

  TWENTY-TWO

  A mist came with the dawn. The sun turned it to gold and rolled it away, baring twin ranks of hills that marched from north to south. In the distance they curved together; here they bounded a level plain, all but treeless, with Ilien running narrow and swift down its center.

  Across the western hills and spilling onto the level lay a darkness that did not lift. There were sparks in it. Swords’ points, spearpoints, and the eyes of the enemy. Vadin’s dream had taken shape in the living daylight.

  Mirain stepped from his tent into the sun’s warmth. He had taken time to dress, plait his hair, don his armor.

  At the sight of him a ragged cheer went up. But most eyes strained westward.

  “It’s vast,” someone whispered near Vadin. “Thousands—ten thousands—gods preserve us! They carry their own night.”

  “But we,” said Mirain in a voice that carried, “bear light.” He swept up his sword. “Avaryan is with us. No darkness shall conquer us. Swift now, to arms!”

  His trumpeters took up the call. The enemy’s spell broke; the army began to seethe.

  “Well done, my lord,” Adjan said, dry and cool. “Once they’re armed, you’d best feed them and set the scouts to their work. Yonder horde doesn’t have a feel of early battle.”

  “It does not,” Mirain agreed. “Vadin, see to the feeding. The scouts, Captain, are yours to command.”

  oOo

  Armed, fed, and drawn up in battle array on the western slope of the ridge, the king’s men settled to wait. The enemy seemed motionless beneath their shroud.

  As the sun mounted and the stillness reigned unbroken, a horror crept through the ranks. Raid or skirmish, siege or open battle, all of those they could face. This half-seen enemy who had grown out of the night, who now showed no sign of attack or even of life, made them forget their courage. More and more their eyes sought the king.

  At first he settled by his tent to break his fast and speak with his commanders. Even from the edges of the camp his scarlet cloak was clear to see.

  As the morning advanced with no word from his scouts and no move from the enemy, he beckoned to Vadin, leaving the captains to debate battle now, battle later, battle never. The Mad One, whom no tether or hobble could hold, had freed Rami from her picket and led her up the hill. The grooms had brushed them both until they shone, and plaited their manes scarlet battle-streamers.

  King and squire descended to meet them. The Mad One lowered his head to blow into his comrade’s hands, and pawed the ground. In an instant Mirain was on his back.

  Adjan found the king among the cavalry of Arkhan, admiring the points of a trooper’s dappled mare. His eyes flashed at once to the captain, but he brought his colloquy to a graceful and unhurried end, withdrawing easily, taking with him the men’s goodwill. But once behind the lines, he loosed his hold on his patience.

  “Well? What news?”

  “One scout has come back,” Adjan answered. “The others he knows of are dead. He’s not well off himself.”

  “Is he badly hurt?”


  “Arrow in the shoulder. A flesh wound, no more; the doctors are taking care of it. But his mind . . .”

  The Mad One was stretching already from canter into gallop.

  oOo

  It was as Adjan had said. The scout sat in the healers’ tent, hale enough in body, while an apprentice bound his shoulder. But his eyes were too wide; a thin film of sweat gleamed on his brow.

  As Mirain approached, he thrust himself to his feet, sending the healer sprawling. “Sire! Thank all the gods!”

  Under the terror he was a goodly enough man, square and solid though smaller than most men in Ianon, hardly taller than Mirain himself. He was no novice, nor was he the sort of man who was given to night terrors. Yet he fell at Mirain’s feet, clutching them, weeping like a child.

  Mirain dragged him erect. “Surian,” he said sharply. At the sound of his name, the man quieted a little. “Surian, control yourself.” With a visible effort the man obeyed. Mirain kept a grip on his good shoulder. “Soldier, you have a report to make.”

  He drew a shuddering breath. Under Mirain’s hand and eye he found the words he needed. “I set out as commanded, to reconnoiter the southeastern edge of the enemy’s army. There were six men with me. We kept to our places, each of us signaling his safety at intervals. We met no opposition. If the enemy had sent out scouts, they were better at their work than we.

  “We advanced with all caution. A bowshot from the enemy we stopped. No; were stopped. It was an act of will to move forward. The enemy was still a shape in shadow; when I tried to reckon numbers, my mind spun and went dark. I never called myself a coward, sire, but I swear, at that moment I could have bolted, honor and duty be damned.

  “One of my men broke, left his cover and ran. An arrow caught him in the throat. An arrow out of the air, with no bowman to be seen behind it.