Mordant's Need

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Geraden overrode the mediator. ‘Why hasn’t he used it already? If he still has that mirror set up – if it’s ready – why hasn’t he used it before this? He could bring anything through. Even if he didn’t hurt us, he could cripple the Alends, maybe even kill Prince Kragen – or the Alend Monarch.’

  ‘Because he didn’t need it then.’ Terisa wasn’t thinking about what she said; the words seemed to come out by themselves, reasoned into clarity by a separate part of her mind. ‘He needed time to set his traps, time to spring them. He needed time to get Festten’s army in position, time to get rid of the Perdon, time to make all his mirrors.’ The rest of her brain blundered helplessly around the edges of the promise Artagel had made in her name. ‘But we let him do all that safely. Prince Kragen held off – he held off from trying to take Orison. Nobody interfered with what Eremis was doing. So he didn’t need to use this mirror. He could afford to leave Alend alone.’

  Geraden nodded harshly. ‘I understand. Now it’s time. Now he needs it. We’re moving. His traps are ready. He’s got everything he wanted except you. He can’t beat us with just one mirror. Even a few hundred of those black spots can’t beat an army this size. An avalanche can’t. Firecats can’t. But if he can hurt us now – if he can kill the Tor, or Norge, or Prince Kragen – he can damage us terribly.’

  ‘Then we will foil him simply,’ put in Master Barsonage. ‘We will turn from the road. We will pass outside his mirror’s range of focus.’

  Geraden nodded again, rose up in his stirrups to shout to Artagel. But Terisa said at once, ‘No!’

  Master Barsonage and Geraden stared at her.

  No. Oh, curse it. What was she thinking? This was insane.

  ‘Artagel told everyone I can shift Eremis’ mirrors.’ But that wasn’t what she meant to say, that wasn’t the point. She tried again. ‘This is a trap. We need to stick our heads in it. We need to spring it the other way. Isn’t that why we’re marching in the first place? Isn’t that what we decided?’

  Ahead of the guard, the Tor and Norge had stopped. Artagel had finished explaining what was on his mind. In the gray dawn, the Tor looked strangely sunken, irresolute, as if he were torn between the desire to flee and the necessity of marching. Kicking his mount, Artagel started back toward Terisa and Geraden.

  ‘Eremis wants to scare us,’ she said while her thoughts throbbed like her heart. ‘He wants to make us doubt ourselves.

  ‘We should try doing the same thing to him.’

  ‘What do you mean, my lady?’ asked Master Barsonage, nearly whispering.

  ‘She means,’ Geraden snarled back as though she appalled him, ‘she thinks she ought to do it. Stick her head in the trap.’ He had to swallow fiercely to clear his throat. ‘Shift Eremis’ mirror so he can’t use it.’

  ‘Impossible,’ protested the mediator. ‘Is it not true that she has never seen the mirror which shows the place where those fatal creatures are found? And how can we be sure that Master Eremis does not intend to translate some other evil against us? And—?’

  ‘Not that mirror,’ Geraden snapped, controlling his alarm with anger. ‘The flat one. The one that shows the intersection.

  ‘No.’ Now he was speaking to Terisa, speaking so intensely that his words seemed to burn. ‘What makes it impossible is the vantage, the direction. We know what the Image is, but we don’t know what side it’s seen from, what the perspective is. You can’t shift an Image if you can’t identify it first, see it exactly in your mind.’

  He was saying, Don’t do this, don’t do this.

  ‘I’ve got to try.’ As if that were an explanation, she said, ‘Artagel promised.’ But the stricken look on Geraden’s face demanded better. She made another effort. ‘I don’t really know how far my talent goes. I haven’t had very many chances to explore it. We’re counting on the idea that I have power we can use, but we don’t really know what we’re counting on. And the closer we get to Esmerel, the more dangerous everything is. I’ve got to try.’

  Geraden clearly wanted to argue, shout. Deliberately, she went on, ‘We’re staking everything on the hope that King Joyse didn’t abandon us. He trusted us – he trusts us to make his plans work while he’s away.’ She had the distinct impression that she was completely out of her mind. ‘If we aren’t going to at least make the attempt, we might as well stay here.’

  For one painful moment, Geraden’s expression turned to bleak, bitter iron. But then his lips pulled back into a fighting grimace. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  ‘No, you aren’t,’ Terisa countered before Master Barsonage could object. ‘We can’t afford to risk both of us.’

  ‘If you think I’m going to let you do this alone—’ Geraden began.

  She wasn’t listening to him: she had already hauled on her reins, dug her heels into the nag’s sides. As if she were unaware of her own quickness and had never considered the possibility that she wouldn’t be obeyed, she commanded, ‘Stop him, Ribuld. Keep him here,’ and started to forge among the riders toward Artagel, the Tor, and Castellan Norge.

  Ribuld caught Geraden by the strap of his swordbelt and neatly plucked him off his horse. While Geraden sputtered in outrage, Ribuld wrestled with him. Geraden was tougher than he appeared, nearly frantic as well: he managed to unseat Ribuld. They fell together into the mud. But Geraden couldn’t break away.

  Terisa reached Artagel.

  ‘I need protection,’ she panted; her own strange audacity took her breath away. ‘Eremis won’t miss a chance to attack when he sees me in his mirror. Somebody’s got to keep me alive so I can work.’

  Artagel’s excitement shone as brightly as Geraden’s frenzy. Calling men after him, he wheeled his mount and began clearing a path for her.

  They reached the Tor and Norge and rode past with six more guards behind them, hurrying now so that she wouldn’t have time to lose her nerve – so that she wouldn’t be infected by the Tor’s slumped irresolution.

  While she rushed toward the intersection, she tried to clear her mind, make herself ready.

  This decisive urgency was different than the rage which sometimes blocked her. It was full of fear – and fear lead to fading – and fading led to translation. The first thing she needed was an alternative Image, a place she could shift Eremis’ glass to. As soon as she recognized that necessity, however, her mind filled up with scenes which couldn’t bear attack: the Closed Fist; rooms and halls in Orison; Sternwall; Vale House. She had to thrust them away, get them out of her thoughts before she did something terrible unintentionally. If only she had seen any part of Esmerel accurately, she could have used it – or tried to use it – to hurl Eremis’ attack back against him.

  He had cleverly avoided that danger.

  Was his foresight really that good? Was he ready for her now?

  A squad of Alend horse rode into the intersection, intending either to meet or to stop her. Artagel stretched his mount a few strides ahead and began yelling at the Alends, warning them away. She caught a glimpse of Prince Kragen, saw him react without hesitation, shout his men back.

  Around her, the trees seemed to skid into focus past the bare ground leading from Orison. She had only been here on one previous occasion: the day Geraden had caught Nyle, dooming him to Master Eremis. And the ground then had been still covered with snow, the trees still black, leafless. And beyond the intersection had been cold, ice-caked snow, not an army of Alends.

  Sawing inexpertly on the reins, she brought her horse to a halt. At once, Artagel and his companions formed a defensive cordon around her; instinctively, they faced the Alends with their swords drawn, as if the danger came from Prince Kragen’s soldiers.

  Her pulse straining and her head giddy, she did her best to ignore the men, the horses, the swords. A number of the Alends sat their mounts with their spears levelled – ignore that. She needed time, time to see the place vividly as it was now, time to consider it from as many different angles as possible; time to prepare herself for the Image which had to
be shifted.

  Unfortunately, her enemies weren’t stupid. And her disappearance from Eremis’ cell had given them at least a hint of her true talents. Either she had effected her escape herself, or she possessed some kind of link with Geraden which had enabled him to locate and translate her in the dark. In either case, she was a dangerous opponent.

  Before she had a chance to calm herself, before she finished turning wildly, trying to see the intersection from every side at once, before she knew what she was going to do, a touch of cold as thin as a feather and as sharp as steel slid straight through the center of her abdomen—

  —and a black shape full of teeth came down on the shoulders of one of the guards.

  With a single, tearing bite, it ripped out the base of his neck.

  By the time his body toppled to the ground, the creature had already gobbled its way into his chest.

  More shapes: five, ten, fifteen. Shouts hit the trees. Swords flared in the cold sunrise. Prince Kragen and a dozen Alends charged into the fray. Artagel seemed to be dancing on the back of his mount, pirouetting, as he slashed an attacker out of the air above Terisa’s head. Then he dove at her, carried her off her horse to the ground where he could control her movements, keep his sword between her and the creatures.

  And still through the chaos of whirling vision, whirling blades, of horses and teeth and blood, she felt that touch of cold as the mirror stayed open, the translation continued, launching black raveners at her as fast as they could come.

  She tried to use the sensation, cling to it, make it lead her to its Image; she had to see that Image in her mind before she could change it. But it eluded her.

  Geraden was right. It was impossible.

  Another guard went down. All the guards seemed to be down, with gnarled shapes no bigger than puppies feasting on them. But some of them must have been Alends, because she had guards around her yet, protecting her like Artagel, hacking their swords madly at the open air.

  Artagel had to fling her aside, had to use both hands on his sword in order to cut away three beasts at once. The catch in his side slowed him, nearly cost him his life. With a wrench of effort and pain, he hauled his blade around.

  She sprawled toward the hooves of a panicked horse. That touch of cold was driven through the center of her belly like a spike, nailing her to the ground. She was so afraid that she forgot everything – forgot to dodge the horse, the creatures, forgot to ward herself – forgot everything except the feather-and-steel sensation of Eremis’ glass.

  There she found it: on the edge of fading, the verge of the blind dark. Above her – higher than her own vantage. That was how it had eluded her: she hadn’t taken into account the way the black shapes came down onto her defenders.

  As if she were leaping up inside herself, carrying the cold of translation with her, she looked into its moment of temporary eternity, its flat abyss, and saw the Image.

  She saw the bloodied ground from nearly fifteen feet in the air, saw the frantic and squealing horses, saw her defenders, the corpses, the dead or feeding creatures—

  Fast and hard, desperately, like slamming a door, she turned what she saw opaque, gave it an Image as blank as frosted glass.

  Inside her, the touch of cold snapped and vanished as if she had shattered something.

  At the same instant, the rush of gnarled bodies and teeth was cut off. In fact, it was cut off in midcreature. Two of the beasts flopped to the ground without the rest of their bodies: they had been sliced in half as neatly as with a cleaver.

  The attack was over.

  ‘Terisa,’ Artagel gasped, ‘my lady.’ He got his hands under her arms, lifted her to her feet. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think I broke it.’ She couldn’t find a point of balance anywhere in the intersection. The ground tilted; men veered from side to side; Artagel’s face swam in and out of view. She had no idea how she was able to speak, when it was obvious that she had lost the ability to breathe or think or hold up her head. ‘The mirror. I think we’re safe.’

  Prince Kragen appeared: he seemed to heave over the horizon from somewhere far away. ‘You like risks, my lady,’ he said through his teeth. ‘I have lost seven men.’

  ‘And Eremis lost a mirror,’ Artagel retorted over his shoulder, panting and angry. ‘Maybe you don’t like the trade, but he’s going to think hard before he tries it again. My lord Prince.’

  Terisa had no attention to spare for Kragen. Clinging to Artagel, she asked, ‘How many did we lose?’

  He looked around. ‘Three.’

  Three. Ten men altogether. Ten men dead because she took a risk she didn’t know how to handle, ten. And if she hadn’t finally shifted the mirror when she did, the carnage would have been worse. Maybe much worse. Because she took the risk—

  Trembling like a child, she sank to the ground and clamped her hands over her face to shut out the sight of death.

  Artagel stood over her and glared at Prince Kragen as if daring the Prince to blame her for anything. When Kragen shrugged and withdrew, Artagel sent his guards back to Orison. ‘Tell my lord Tor the intersection is safe. And tell Geraden she’s all right. She broke the mirror.’

  Terisa didn’t hear the men leave.

  ‘My lady,’ Artagel said thickly, ‘you did the right thing. If we only lose ten men for every mirror Eremis has, he doesn’t stand a chance.’

  She couldn’t raise her head, even for Artagel.

  What about High King Festten and his twenty thousand Cadwals?

  The Tor and Norge and their escort were the first riders to arrive from Orison. The Tor didn’t dismount – maybe he couldn’t, and still be sure of being able to get back up on his horse. But he addressed her in a voice she remembered, a voice with cunning and resolution hidden in its subterranean rumble.

  ‘My lady Terisa of Morgan, it would have been a grave mistake if I had required you to remain behind.’

  She tried to nod without looking up. Apparently, he had recovered some measure of assurance. She had accomplished that, if nothing else: she had given the old lord a bit of hope by demonstrating that it was possible to fight Eremis’ Imagery.

  Then Geraden reached her. Muddy and bedraggled, almost delirious with anger and relief, he flung himself off his mount in front of her as if he meant to snatch her from the ground. Instead of picking her up, however, he hunkered down to her, gripped her shoulders hard, shook her gently. ‘Don’t ever do that to me again,’ he demanded. ‘Don’t you dare. Can’t you get it through your thick skull that I love you? We’re together in this. I’d rather walk through fire until I drop than be a spectator while you live or die.’

  Oh, Geraden.

  She put out her arms to him, and he caught her in a fierce hug. ‘Together,’ she murmured so that he wouldn’t let her go. ‘I promise.’

  After a while, he helped her to her feet.

  Until she wiped her eyes and looked around, she didn’t realize that all the forces of Orison and Alend were waiting for her.

  Prince Kragen was there, mounted before the Tor, with a new squad of men behind him. Artagel had gone back to his duty in Orison; but Castellan Norge and his escort supported the Tor, with a road full of guards issuing from the castle at his back. The old lord faced Prince Kragen squarely; however, the Prince didn’t speak until Terisa met his gaze.

  To her surprise, she saw unmistakably that some conflict in him had been resolved. The clenched bitterness, the suggestion of savagery, was gone from his expression; his black eyes shone with excitement. She had no idea what decision he had achieved – but she could see beyond question that he liked it.

  After holding her gaze for a moment, he turned to the Tor.

  ‘Should I conclude from this display of force, my lord Tor,’ he asked acerbically, ‘that your intention to march against High King Festten and Master Eremis in Esmerel is unchanged?’

  ‘Assuredly, my lord Prince,’ the Tor replied in a corresponding tone. ‘If I had the slightest desire to do battle with
you, I would not go about it in this fashion.’

  Kragen indicated the purple pennon. ‘Has King Joyse returned?’

  ‘He has not.’

  ‘In that case’ – Prince Kragen straightened his shoulders – ‘the Alend Monarch wishes to speak with you. He asks you to accept the hospitality of his tent, with Geraden, the lady Terisa, and Master Barsonage – and Castellan Norge, of course.’

  Terisa and Geraden stared. Norge clenched his jaws as if he were stifling a yawn. The Tor’s eyes showed an undisguised gleam of hope. Nevertheless he didn’t ask what Margonal wanted to talk about. Instead, he inquired firmly, ‘What guarantee of safety does the Alend Monarch offer us? As his guests, we will be deeply honored – and completely vulnerable.’

  Prince Kragen shrugged slightly. ‘My lord Tor, the Alend Monarch is a man of honor. He neither insults nor betrays his guests. On this occasion, however, he is prepared to match your vulnerability with his own. You may bring with you a hundred horsemen, who will be permitted to surround his tent. Surely no treachery on our part will succeed at killing a hundred men before they can threaten or kill the Alend Monarch himself.’

  ‘A remarkable gesture,’ Master Barsonage whispered to Terisa and Geraden. ‘The Alend Monarch is not notoriously complaisant about hazards to his person. Perhaps there is hope for an alliance yet.’

  Terisa and Geraden didn’t reply. They were waiting to hear what the Tor would say.

  ‘My lord Prince,’ drawled the old lord as if nothing surprised him, ‘the Alend Monarch is unexpectedly considerate. I am prepared to rely on his honor entirely. I will accompany you at once, with Master Geraden and the lady Terisa of Morgan.’

  The Tor held up his hand to forestall movement. ‘Castellan Norge will remain among his men – as will the mediator of the Congery. They will keep their strength ready to march at the earliest possible moment.’

  Norge nodded amiably. Master Barsonage started to object, but subsided at once. The point of the Tor’s decision was obvious: if the old lord was betrayed, most of Orison’s fighting force would remain intact.