by Tad Williams
“Hark, men, hark!” Deornoth shouted, standing upright in his stirrups so that he could better view their position through the mist. “Follow me on the retreat! Careful as you go!” It was hard to tell, but he thought he saw something more than half the force he had taken out now ringing him round. He raised his sword high, then spurred Vildalix in the direction of the great log barricades. An arrow whipped past his head, then another, but the aim was poor, or else the archers were confused by the mist. Deornoth’s men lifted a thin cheer as they rode.
“Where is Binabik?” Josua fumed. “He was to be my messenger, but he has not come back from Hotvig.” The prince made a face. “God grant me patience, listen to me! Perhaps something has happened to him.” He turned to young Jeremias, who stood by, panting. “And Hotvig said Binabik left his side some time ago?”
“Yes, Highness. He said the sun has lifted a hand since the troll left, whatever that means.”
“Damnable luck.” Josua began pacing, but his eyes never left the battle below. “Well, there is nothing for it. I do not trust the call to carry so far, lad, so go to Simon and tell him that if hears nothing by the time he has counted five hundreds or so after Hotvig’s men have ridden out, then he and the trolls are to rush in. Do you have that?”
“If he doesn’t hear the horn, wait to a count of five hundreds after Hotvig appears, then rush in, yes.” Jeremias considered before adding: “Your Highness.”
“Fine. Go, then—run. We are at the time when moments matter.” Josua waved him off, then turned to Sangfugol. “And you are ready, too?”
“Yes, sire,” the harper said. “I have been trained by the best. I should have little difficulty wringing a few honking sounds out of something so simple as a horn.”
Josua chuckled grimly. “There is something reassuring about your insolence, Sangfugol. But remember, master musician, you must do more than honk: you must play a victory call.”
Simon was looking over the small company, mostly to keep himself busy, when he suddenly realized that Sisqi was not among the gathered trolls. He quickly went among the Qanuc, checking every face but finding no sign of Binabik’s betrothed. She was their leader—where could she have gone? After a moment’s thought, Simon realized that he had not seen her since the muster before Leavetaking House.
Oh, Aedon’s mercy, no, he thought desperately. What will Binabik say? I’ve lost his beloved before the battle even begins!
He turned to the nearest of the trolls. “Sisqi?” he asked, trying to show by shrugs and gestures that he wished to know her whereabouts. Two troll women looked at him uncomprehendingly. Damn, that was what Binabik called her. What was her full name? “Sis—Sisqimook?” he tried. “Sisqinamok?”
One of the women nodded urgently, pleased to have understood. “Sisqinanamook.”
“Where is she?” Simon could not think of the troll words. “Sisqinanamook? Where?” He pointed around to all sides and then shrugged again, trying to convey his question. His small companions seemed to grasp his meaning: after a long round of murmuring Qanuc-speech, those nearest indicated to him with perfectly understandable gestures that they did not know where Sisqinanamook had gone.
Simon was cursing roundly when Jeremias arrived.
“Hullo, Simon, isn’t this glorious?” his squire asked. Jeremias seemed quite excited. “It’s just like what we used to dream of back in the Hayholt.”
Simon made a pained face. “Except we were hitting each other with barrel staves, and those men down there will use sharp steel instead. Do you know where Sisqi is—you know, the one Binabik is going to marry? She was supposed to be here with the other trolls.”
“No, I don’t, but Binabik’s missing, too. Stop, though, Simon—I have to give you Josua’s message first.” Jeremias proceeded to relay the prince’s instructions, then dutifully ran through them a second time, just in case.
“Tell him that I’m ready ... that we’re ready. We’ll do what we’re supposed to. But Jeremias, I have to find Sisqi. She’s their leader!”
“No, you don’t.” His squire was complacent. “You’ve become a trollish war chieftain now, Simon, that’s all. I have to run back to Josua. With Binabik gone, I’m his chief messenger. It happens that way in battles.” He said it lightly, but with more than a touch of pride.
“But what if they won’t follow me?” Simon stared at Jeremias for a moment. “You seem very cheerful,” he growled. “Jeremias, people are being killed here. We may be next.”
“I know.” He became serious. “But at least it’s our choice, Simon. At least it’s an honorable death.” A strange look flitted over his face, twisting his features as though he might suddenly burst into tears. “For a long time, when I was ... under the castle ... a quick, clean death seemed like it would be a wonderful thing.” Jeremias turned away, hunching his shoulders. “But I suppose I must stay alive now. Leleth needs me as a friend—and you need someone to tell you what to do.” He sighed and then straightened up, gave Simon an oddly flat smile and a half-wave, then trotted back into the shrouding greenery, disappearing in the direction from which he had come. “Good luck, Simon—Sir Seoman, I mean.”
Simon started to call after him, but Jeremias was already gone.
Binabik’s return was abrupt and somewhat startling. Josua heard a soft rustling noise and looked up to find himself staring into the yellow eyes and sharp-toothed maw of Qantaqa, panting on a rise just above him. The troll, seated atop her back, pushed some branches away from his round face and leaned forward. “Prince Josua,” he said calmly, as though they were meeting at some court function.
“Binabik!” Josua took a backward step. “Where have you been?”
“I ask your pardoning, Josua.” The troll slid off Qantaqa and made his way down to the level place where the prince stood. “I saw some of Fengbald’s men who were exploring where they should not be going. I followed them.” He gave Josua a significant look. “They were looking for a place with better climbing. Fengbald is not being so foolish as we were thinking—it is clear he is knowing he may not dislodge us with this first attack.”
“How many were there?”
“Not a great number. Six ... five.”
“You couldn’t tell? How closely did you watch them?”
Binabik’s gentle smile did not reach his eyes. “There were six at first.” He patted his walking-stick, and the hollow tube and darts contained therein. “Then one was falling down the hill again.”
Josua nodded. “And the rest?”
“After they had been led away from the places they should not be, I left Sisqi behind for distracting them while I went quickly up the hill. Some of the women of New Gadrinsett came down to help us.”
“The women? Binabik, you are not to place women and children in danger.”
The little man shook his head. “You know that they will be fighting just as bravely for saving their home as any men—we have never known any other thing among the Qanuc. But be of quieter heart. All they did was come for helping Sisqi and myself in the rolling of some large stones.” He flattened his hand in a gesture of completion. “Those men will be no danger to us any more, and their searching will bring no reward for Fengbald.”
Josua sighed in frustration. “I trust that at least you did not drag my wife along to help roll your stones?”
Binabik laughed. “She was eager to go, Prince Josua, that I will say. You have a wife of some fierceness—she would make a good Qanuc bride! But Gutrun was not allowing her a step out of camp.” The troll looked around. “What is happening below? I could not easily be watching as I made my way back.”
“Fengbald, as you said, was better prepared than we expected. They have built some kind of sleds or carts that roughen the ice so that the soldiers can move more easily. Deornoth’s attack was pushed back, but Fengbald’s Erkynguard did not chase him; they are still massing on the lake. I am about to—but enough. You will see what I am about to do.”
“And do you need me to go to Hotvig
?” Binabik asked.
“No. Jeremias has taken on your tasks while you were introducing Fengbald’s spies to the ladies of New Gadrinsett.” Josua smiled briefly. “Thank you, Binabik. I knew that if you were not hurt or trapped, you would be doing something important—but try to let me know next time.”
“Apologies, Josua. I was fearing to wait too long.”
The prince turned and beckoned to Sangfugol, who came quickly to his side. Father Strangyeard and Towser were both standing solemnly, watching the battle, although Towser seemed to be listing slightly, as if even the deadly combat below was not enough excitement to keep him from his midday nap much longer.
“Blow for Freosel,” Josua said. “Three short bursts, three long.”
Sangfugol lifted the horn to his lips, puffed out his thin chest, and blew. The call echoed down the wooded hillside, and for a moment the flurry of battle on the ice seemed to slow. The harper gasped in another great draught of air, then blew again. When the echoes died, he gave the call a third time.
“Now,” Josua said firmly, “we shall see how ready Fengbald is for a real fight. Do you mark him down there, Binabik?”
“I think I am seeing him, yes. In the red flapping cape?”
“Yes. Watch and see what he does.”
Even as Josua spoke, there was a sudden convulsion in the front line of Fengbald’s army. The clot of soldiers nearest the wooden barricades abruptly stopped and swirled back in disorder.
“Hurrah!” Strangyeard shouted and leaped; then, seeming to remember his priestly gravity, he donned his look of worried concern once more.
“Aedon’s Blood, see how they jump!” Josua said with fierce glee. “But even this will not stop them for long. How I wish we had more arrows!”
“Freosel will be making good use of those we are having,” Binabik said. “‘A well-aimed spear is worth three,’ as we say in Yiqanuc.”
“But we must use the confusion Freosel’s bowmen have given us.” Josua paced distractedly as he watched. When a little time had passed, and he evidently could bear the waiting no longer, he cried: “Sangfugol—Hotvig’s call, now!”
The trumpet blared again, two long, two short, two long.
The flight of arrows from Sesuad’ra’s defenders caught Fengbald’s men by surprise: they spilled back in confusion, leaving several score of their fellows lying skewered on the ice, some trying to crawl back across the slippery surface, trailing smears of blood like the tracks of snails. In the chaos, Deornoth and his remaining force were able to make their escape.
Deornoth himself went back three times to help carry the last of the wounded past the great wall of logs. When he was sure there was no more he could do, he slumped to the trampled mud in the shadow of the high barricade and pulled off his helmet. The sounds of struggle still raged close by.
“Sir Deornoth,” someone said, “you are bleeding.”
He waved the man away, disliking to be fussed over, but took the piece of cloth that was offered to him. Deornoth used the rag and a handful of snow to wipe the blood from his face and hair, then probed at his head wound with chilled fingers. It was only a shallow cut. He was glad he had sent the man off to aid those in greater need. A strip of the now bloodied cloth made an adequate bandage, and the pressure as he knotted it helped to soothe the ache in his head.
When he had finished looking over his other injuries—all quite minor, none as bloody as the nick in his scalp—he pulled his sword out of its scabbard. It was a plain blade, the hilt leather-wrapped, the pommel a crude hawk’s head worn almost featureless by long handling. He wiped it down with an unbloodied corner of the cloth, frowning in displeasure at the new notches it had gained, however honorably. When he had finished, he held it up to catch the faint sunlight and squinted to make sure he had not left any blood to gnaw at the honed edge.
This is no famous blade, he thought. It has no name, but it has still served well for many years. Like me, I suppose. He laughed quietly to himself; a few of the other soldiers resting nearby looked at him. No one will remember me, I think, no matter how long the names of Josua and Elias are spoken. But I am content with that. I do what the Lord Usires would have me do—was He any less humble?
Still, there were times when Deornoth wished that the people of Hewenshire could see him now, see the way he fought loyally for a great prince, and how that prince depended on him. Was that too prideful for a good Aedonite? Perhaps....
Another horn call shrilled from the hillside above, disrupting his thoughts. Deornoth scrambled to his feet, anxious to see what was afoot, and began to climb the barricade. A moment later, he dropped down and went back for his helmet.
Pointless to take an arrow between the eyes if I can avoid it, he decided.
He and several other men carefully lifted themselves so they could nose over the topmost logs and peer out through the crude observation slots that Sludig and his helpers had cut with their hand-axes. As they squeezed into place, they heard a great shout: a company of riders was breaking from the trees a short distance to the east, heading out onto the ice and directly toward Fengbald’s rallying forces. There was something different about this company, but in the confusion of mists and flailing men and horses it took a moment to see what it was.
“Ride, Hotvig!” Deornoth shouted. The men beside him picked up the cry, cheering hoarsely. As the Thrithings-men pounded across the frozen lake, it quickly became apparent that they were moving far more easily and skillfully than Fengbald’s men. They might almost have been riding on firm ground, so sure was their horsemanship.
“Clever Binabik,” Deornoth breathed to himself. “You may save us yet!”
“Look at them ride!” one of the other men called, a bearded old fellow who had last joined a battle when Deornoth was a swaddled baby. “Those troll-tricks work, sure enough.”
“But we are still far outnumbered,” cautioned Deornoth. “Ride, Hotvig! Ride!”
In a matter of moments, the Thrithings-men were sweeping down on Fengbald’s guardsmen, the horses’ hooves making an oddly clangorous thunder on the ice. They struck the first lines of men like a club, smashing a path through them without difficulty. The noise, the clashing of weapon and shield, the shrieking of men and horses, seemed to double in a moment. Hotvig himself, his beard festooned with scarlet war-ribbons, was plying his long spear as swiftly as an expert river-fisher; every time he darted it forward it seemed to find a target, bringing forth flaring sprays of blood as red as the silken knots in his whiskers. He and his grasslanders sang as they fought, a shouting chant with little tune but a horrible sort of rhythm which they used to punctuate each thrust and slash. They wheeled around Fengbald’s men with amazing ease, as though the battle-hardened Erkynguardsmen were swimming in mud. The leading edges of the duke’s forces wavered and fell back. The Thrithings-men’s fierce song grew louder.
“God’s Eyes!” Fengbald screamed, waving his long sword in purposeless fury, “hold your lines, damn you!” He turned to Lezhdraka. The mercenary captain was staring with slitted, feral eyes at Hotvig and his riders. “They have some damnable Sithi magic,” the duke raged. “Look, they move across the ice as though they were on a tourney field.”
“No magic,” Lezhdraka growled. “Look at their horses’ hooves. They wear some special shoe—see, the spikes are flashing! Somehow your Josua has shod his horses with metal nails, I think.”
“Damn him!” Fengbald stood high in his stirrups and looked around. His pale, handsome face was beaded with sweat. “Well, it is a brave trick, but it is not enough. We are still far too many for him, unless he has an army three times that size hidden up there—which he has not. Bring up your men, Lezhdraka. We will shame my Erkynguard into giving a better account of themselves.” He rode a little way toward his leading forces and raised his voice in a shriek. “Traitors! Hold your lines or you will go to the king’s gibbet!”
Lezhdraka grunted in disgust at Fengbald’s frenzy, then turned to his first company of Thrithings mercenar
ies, who had been sitting stolidly in their saddles, caring little for what happened until their own turn should come to ply their trade. They all wore boiled leather cuirasses and metal-rimmed leather helmets, the armor of the grasslands. At Lezhdraka’s gesture, the large company of scarred and silent men straightened. A light seemed to kindle in their eyes.
“You carrion dogs,” Lezhdraka shouted in his own tongue, “listen! These stone-dwellers and their High Thrithing pets think that because they have ice-shoes on their horses, they will scare us off. Let us go and bare
their bones!” He spurred his horse forward, taking care to stay on the path provided by one of the battle sledges. With a single grim shout, his mercenaries fell in behind him.
“Kill them all,” Fengbald shouted, riding in circles beside their column and waving his sword. “Kill them all, but especially, do not let Josua leave the field alive. Your master, King Elias, demands his death!”
The mercenary captain stared at the duke with poorly-hidden contempt, but Fengbald was already spurring his horse forward, screeching at his faltering Erkynguard. “I care little for these stone-dweller quarrels,” Lezhdraka shouted to his men in the Thrithings-tongue, “but I know something that idiot does not: a live prince will get us better pay than Fengbald would ever give us—so I want the one-handed prince alive. But if Hotvig or any other whelp of the High Thrithing walks living from this field, I will make you scum eat your own guts. ”
He waved again and the column surged forward. The mercenaries grinned in their beards and patted their weapons. The smell of blood was in the air—a very familiar smell.
Deornoth and his men were struggling back into their battle array when Josua appeared, leading Vinyafod. Father Strangyeard and the harper Sangfugol straggled after him, muddy and disarrayed.
