by Steven Brust
Miklós said, "Vilmos."
The giant stirred and looked at him. Viktor appeared in the doorway, stepped through and to the side. He turned back toward those he commanded and said, "Take Prince Miklós. Kill him if necessary."
Miklós said, "Vilmos."
The sound of footsteps. His heart sank and he was certain that, by now, his trembling was visible. He met the giant's eyes. The first of the guards appeared in the doorway, found Miklós, and raised his sabre to chest level, arm straight, wrist turned over, exactly as Viktor taught for fighting in close quarters.
"Vilmos."
The guard stepped fully into the room.
He got no farther. Vilmos reached out and took the guard under his armpits, lifted him over his head, and threw him down the hall. There was a curse and a cry as he landed. Vilmos looked startled. "He cut himself on someone's sword," he explained.
Vilmos moved forward, positioning himself in the doorway. Miklós felt a wave of relief rushing through him; it momentarily left him as weak-kneed as his fear had before. He stole a quick glance at László. The King stood as still as the idol of the Goddess had. He held his sabre pointing up. He stared at Vilmos, eyes wide. His self-confidence seemed to be wavering for the first time that Miklós could ever remember.
When Miklós's glance returned to the doorway, he could barely see past the giant's form that two guards stood facing him there. One struck at Vilmos. Miklós could not see what he did, but in an instant the guard was on the floor and the giant had the sword in his hands. He broke it in half as if it were flint and cast the pieces onto the ground before him.
As far as Miklós could see, the other guard got as far as raising his sword before one of Vilmos's mighty hands came down upon his head; he dropped like a lead weight.
Two more red uniforms took their place and were treated with equal courtesy. Miklós glanced at Viktor. The captain still held his sabre. He watched Vilmos carefully and licked his lips. He seemed unwilling to attack.
Miklós watched his brother deal with two more guards, take a step back into the room, then turn and give Miklós a quick, almost shy smile. Then he returned to the doorway.
At that moment, Miklós heard Brigitta's voice next to his ear. "Do nothing, wizard," she said.
Miklós spun. There was a look of concentration on Sándor's face, and he was staring at Vilmos. Thoughts of his own power came to Miklós's mind, but—You must find a new weapon, master. He looked around, as if hoping to see something lying on the floor. Behind him, he still heard the sounds of Vilmos scuffling with guards.
Sándor was still concentrating. As Miklós tried to decide what to do, Brigitta acted. She stepped forward with a speed Miklós could not have guessed at. She reached Sándor before the wizard was aware, and, placing both hands on his chest, pushed him into the tree.
He fell backward, startled, and slid to the floor. Brigitta rushed past him as he started to rise. She stood behind him and took into her hand a trailer covered with thin leaves. She wrapped this, tendril-like, around his neck and pulled tight, gripping both ends with her left hand.
Sándor seemed startled, but raised his hands in a gesture that reminded Miklós of the Demon Goddess. He wanted to yell to Brigitta that the power could be summoned from the source faster than she could strangle him, but there was no need. With a strength he hadn't realized she possessed, her closed right hand came crashing down directly onto the top of Sándor's head. The wizard sighed and fell back, senseless.
Miklós, cursing himself for doing nothing, stared at the tree. There's your weapon, fool.
How then? What did the tree conceal within its massive leaf covering?
László still hadn't moved. Brigitta's eyes widened suddenly, staring over Miklós's shoulder. As Miklós turned, there came a sudden motion from the side.
Brigitta had seen that as Vilmos was soundly drubbing the guards, Viktor had finally begun sneaking up on the giant from behind. But the flash of motion was Andor.
To the wonder and amazement of Miklós, if not everyone in the room, fat, slow Andor had jumped and fallen onto Viktor and was wrestling him to the ground. The captain would have had no trouble in a contest of strength with Andor, but the combination of sheer dead weight along with the arms wrapped tightly about his body took him some time to deal with.
"Vilmos," called the young Prince. "Look to your side!"
The giant did and saw what was occurring. He took a moment from his bashing of guards to drop his fist on Viktor's head, just as Brigitta had done to Sándor. Viktor lay still. Vilmos looked at Miklós, gave him another quick, shy grin, and returned to facing the guards. Andor looked at Miklós, started to smile, then dropped his eyes.
From what Miklós could see of the number of bodies piled in front of the door, he doubted that many guards were left by now.
Then Brigitta called, "Miklós, 'ware the King!"
The Prince spun and saw that László was moving forward steadily toward Vilmos's back, Állam leveled in front of him.
Now is your time, Miklós, he told himself. And, even as he did, he wondered if he would have the courage to act. Yet, to his own surprise and eternal pride, he found that he was moving forward. His hands empty, he came behind László and tried to take the wrist that held the sabre.
But the King was quicker and stronger. Almost absentmindedly, László struck the Prince in the forehead with the pommel of his sword.
For an instant, all he saw were the colors and patterns on the inside of his eyes. Then Miklós found that he was on his back, near the tree. Brigitta, next to him, met his eyes. Then she, too, charged the King. Miklós wanted to cry to her to stop, but there was no time. With a similar disdainful gesture, László struck her with the flat of the blade, and she fell back, dazed, next to Miklós.
Then it was Andor's turn. He knelt, then squatted, then sprang like an attacking norska. Állam flashed, and Miklós saw blood. Andor howled like a wounded animal, and Miklós saw that he held the stump of his right arm in his left hand, staring at it in horror. His right hand lay, palm up, on the floor next to László's feet.
His eyes met Miklós's for a moment, then he fell backward, sprawling. His upper body was still, but his legs kicked out, pitifully. Brigitta crept over to him on all fours and began tearing strips from her dress to bind his maimed arm. Miklós looked at László, whose eyes were wide with horror. Yet the King stared not at Andor but at Állam gleaming in his hand. And, even as Miklós watched, the blade began to tremble, as if László couldn't control it. The King looked up at him with an expression of helplessness.
Vilmos, finished with the guards, stood and took another step into the room. He faced László, his arms held out in front of him. The King shook his head in denial; then it seemed that his arm was nearly pulled from its socket by the sabre.
Állam struck at Vilmos like a snake. Miklós saw it connect with his side, and blood spurted, mixing with the pool that had formed when Andor's hand had been cut off. Vilmos looked puzzled, and took another step toward László. "Miki," he said.
The expression on the King's face twisted, as if the rage embodied in the weapon had worked its way into his soul. He moved toward Vilmos and thrust for his heart, but the giant-twisted, so the sword only grazed across his chest. A rip appeared in his jerkin, and a line of blood showed against his skin.
"Miki," he said.
Now, what, princeling? Take another dive at László to at least die fighting? For what?
László stepped back before the giant's advance and cut down. This time blood came in a smooth, even flow from Vilmos's cheek. "Miki."
Your weapon, idiot! Find your weapon! You don't know what it is, but you damn well know where!
László tried another cut for Vilmos's side. The giant stepped back, but the blade caught him above the previous cut; he stumbled, and there was more blood flowing from his body.
With a wrench that was almost painful, Miklós turned his back on the battle and dived through the foliage. Behi
nd him, as if from a great distance, he heard once more, "Miki."
Inside, under the cover of the leaves and branches, there was a pale light that seemed to come from all around. Miklós cast his eyes to the trunk, now thick and solid, almost bursting with life.
Growing from it, sticking straight out, was a single, large, bare branch; thick and heavy in appearance, as if it were put there for just this purpose. Perhaps it was, thought Miklós, as he reached for it. It came away in his hand with a sharp crack.
He took it with both hands. It was nearly as big as he was. It was as heavy as a stone, and Miklós found that he could hardly lift it.
Yet, only a few feet away, Vilmos was dying.
Miklós cradled the branch in his arms. His back threatened to break, and his legs felt weak and watery. He forced his legs to carry him forward a step, but he nearly fell over and was forced to take two steps backward to avoid falling and being crushed beneath the weight.
He cursed silently, found his footing, and leaned forward slightly. He ran, rather than walked, back into the dim light of the chamber.
When he stepped back, Vilmos was only inches from him. There was another wound on his face now and a gash high on his right leg. His stomach had been cut open. Miklós could almost see the quivering of Vilmos's organs, but he allowed himself no time for nausea.
With all of his strength, he held the massive staff out with both of his arms.
"Take it, Vili," he said in a barely audible whisper.
The giant reached out his right hand and took it. Although he had never, as far as Miklós knew, used a club or a staff, he gripped it in both hands as if he knew what he was doing. Yet he seemed almost unaware of his actions; seemed to be concentrating wholly on László. He stumbled forward with the staff held out before him like a shield.
Miklós sank to the floor. László stepped back a few paces, until he was nearly in the far corner. He was uninjured, yet sweat beaded his forehead and his breathing was labored. He took a few tentative passes through the air with Állam, but Vilmos didn't seem to notice; he merely took another step forward. László's eyes narrowed as he studied the unadorned staff, and he shot a quick, speculative glance at the tree.
Állam seemed to jump in his hand, as if unwilling to refrain from battle. Vilmos took another halting step forward. László's mouth opened, and he broke forth with a yell that echoed throughout the room: the snarl of a cornered dzur or the battle cry of a charging dragon.
Almost faster than Miklós could see, the sabre swept down in a great arc toward Vilmos's head. The giant raised his staff. It was almost too late—almost, but not quite.
Steel met wood in a flash of white light that left Miklós with spots in front of his eyes, and with a clap like thunder that left a ringing in his ears. At the same time, he felt the tree behind him sway and tremble.
When Miklós could see again, Vilmos still stood, the staff resting against the floor. László stood facing him, the hilt of Állam still in his hand. On the floor next to the King lay the blade of the sabre, now only a broken piece of burnt and twisted metal.
Vilmos tottered. But before he fell, he lifted the staff once more and thrust it into László's stomach. The King cried out and fell to the floor, where he lay moaning softly and moving his head from side to side. Vilmos collapsed to his knees. A faint smell of smoke filled the room.
For a moment no one moved. But then a breeze came from the open window, bringing the clean scent of the River, mixed with the fresh growing fragrance of the tree. Vilmos turned and there were tears in his eyes, but he said, "Thank you, Miki."
Brigitta stood and came over to the giant. She stroked his forehead, and, with his own garments, bound some of his lesser wounds. The blood still flowed freely from his side and his stomach, but there was little that could be done for those. László still moaned quietly on the floor.
Miklós saw that Andor's stump had been bound and was no longer bleeding. His severed hand still lay where it had fallen. Miklós turned his eyes from it. Viktor was still as death, yet Miklós could see the slow rise and fall of his back as he breathed.
There was a thud as Vilmos let the staff fall next to him. Brigitta looked at Miklós and caught his eye. She glanced down at the giant, then back at Miklós, and shook her head.
Miklós felt a lump rise in his throat, and for a moment he couldn't swallow. Then, with an almost desperate need to do something, he stepped between Vilmos and László, over to the branch he had taken from the tree. He looked at it, wondering whence it had come. It was plain and seemed almost to have been polished. There were no marks of twigs or leaves or other branches on it. The end where he had broken it from the tree was, impossibly, rounded and smooth.
Yet he was not then able to complete his inspection, for at that moment the Palace itself, from its very foundations, began to moan and rock back and forth, as if to match the actions of the King as he lay hurt and stunned before the tree and his brothers.
Miklós rose to his feet, but was knocked down again by the shaking of the Palace. Brigitta sprawled over Vilmos, who seemed not to feel her weight. Miklós looked up, and he saw that the ceiling was tilting, ready to come down upon all of them. Cracks appeared in the floor and walls, and Miklós longed for the strength to reach out to Brigitta, but his knees were weak and she was too far away. He caught her eye for an eternal moment of love and anguish, but another tremor pulled her attention away.
Yet even then, Miklós's eyes were drawn back to the staff. The one end was rounded, but the other had a peculiar shape to it. Miklós, despite the agonized tremblings of the chamber, looked closer. Yes, there was no doubt: it had been carved.
Carved into the shape of a horse's head.
Even the eyes seemed to be there—sparkling like jewels. And as he watched, they seemed to come alive and look at him and see him.
The chamber swayed, cracked, and fell apart.
The tree shook itself and seemed to reach out in all directions. The horse's head carved upon the staff opened its mouth then and said, "Fear nothing, master. You have done well."
INTERLUDE
The palace seemed to vanish around the tree. Freedom! it cried. All of the energy contained within it burst at once, and it grew as if in all the time since it began it had been changeless. It grew as a mountain will from a volcanic pit, or as love will when two predestined souls find each other, it seems, at that one time when they both need to.
What is this? A falling ceiling? Its roots could now support far more weight than that and not feel it; it guided the ceiling safely to the side. A crumbling floor? It cradled those who stood on it as if they were babes and it a mother with a thousand arms. A dying man? This is no time for death—this is a time for growth and renewal. Another man has lost a limb? It grieves with him but rejoices that he yet lives.
It burst upon the world around it crying, Here! Here I am!
Parapets, golden and silver in the sunlight, sprang above the River and laughed with it. Streamers flew from towers that shone white and pure. Within, corridors exploded from nothing to join rooms that were yet to be, and the circular stairways it built were wide and comfortable, for the time for fear was past. It laughed at the world outside and dared it to join in its dance of creation.
Castles and palaces and hovels turned from it in fear and jealousy, but it only laughed, calling, join me, join me! You have life within you, too. They turned from it for now. But they could neither destroy it nor forget it.
A birth, and a death, as if they were one thing. For if they are not, they appear too often together to be far different.
Its story is barely beginning.
Yet the story of those within is not yet done.
SIXTEEN
The Tree
Miklós looked around him, wondering at the sudden lack of motion. He recognized at once that he was inside of the area enclosed by the tree. He heard the sounds of crumbling and breaking but only as from a distance.
Andor knelt, clutchin
g his arm, oblivious to his surroundings. Brigitta looked around, even as Miklós did. Vilmos stirred, and, unaccountably, his bleeding had slowed, even seemed to be stopping. Viktor shook his head and blinked. Sándor was sitting up, his eyes closed, seemingly lost in thought. László stopped moving. He stared up at the ceiling and breathed deeply.
Miklós found that he was still holding on to the staff. He stared at it, and Bölk looked back at him somberly.
"What is happening, Bölk?"
"A new beginning, master."
Miklós trembled. "How are you alive?"
"As ever. This my thirty-eighth incarnation. I am different, but then, it is always different."
"I am glad you're alive, Bölk. I can't tell you how glad."
"Thank you, master, I don't feel so myself, but that is as it must be."
Miklós blinked, and stared. "What do you mean must be?"
"How can I feel anything, master? You have removed my heart."
* * * *
László's hand hurt, he looked down and found that he was squeezing the hilt of Állam. Next to his leg, he saw the broken, ruined blade.
He brought the hilt piece up before his eyes and saw there the ruination of the trust his fathers had had in him.
He didn't know how he was being protected or where he was, but somehow it didn't matter. The Palace was falling apart around him. He wondered if, in the tower high above, his parents were dying, being swept away with the tattered ruins of the building. He tried to grieve but couldn't. They had died years before, when he had taken the kingship. It was as well if they wouldn't live to see what he had done to it.
His eyes fell on Miklós, staring intently at that strange staff, his lips moving as if he were praying to it. What was it? It didn't matter. Brigitta was staring around her in wonder. Brigitta! Who would have thought it? A little tavern wench, to aid in his undoing. And now, of course, she would gloat over him along with Miklós. Or perhaps they wouldn't. That would be worse, in a way.
He pulled himself upright, then he stood. He thought to catch Sándor's eye, but the wizard's were closed. Was he preparing something? László looked at him closely. No; if he could do anything, he would have done so.
