by Bill Fawcett
Drawing his knife, Reswen rose to his feet. He crept into the shadows at the side of the tent, gesturing for Jremm to remain where he was. Jremm held his breath and waited, watching the tent’s entrance just a few steps away. Then suddenly, behind Reswen, a figure stepped into the light, and when Jremm saw the sword he drew out his knife and prepared a strong, silent leap.
The guard spotted Reswen. Raising his sword high, he opened his mouth to yell, and Jremm tensed the muscles in his legs and put out his claws. But suddenly a flash of the power washed through his head, and when his eyes cleared he saw the guard lying on the ground. His mouth was still open, but his chest didn’t move. Jremm could sense he was dead.
Feeling more vital to their effort, Jremm watched with renewed vigilance. Reswen reached for the blanket that covered the entrance. Looking in, he stared for almost a full minute, then pulled the blanket back and slipped out of sight.
Jremm heard a groan, then a scuffle, than at last a short cry that ended in a muffled, fading whine. Reswen emerged from the tent with the king’s brother a step behind. There was blood on their pants and fur. To Jremm’s puzzled look the warrior shook his head, as he led Gerianan quickly and less quietly out of the camp toward the east.
Then the nobles came.
The muffled whine must have been loud enough, in the silence of the camp, to alert someone. And in a camp of war, sound sleep was almost unheard of. But the reasons did not matter, for the race was now on. Gerianan shouted, and Reswen grabbed his arm, and Jremm started running as fast as he possibly could.
They bounded across the road, their ears pressed back and their heads thrust forward. Gerianan ran with them, neither resisting nor trying to turn back. Beside him ran Reswen, his graceful stride mocking Jremm’s frantic pumping, the strength of the mercenary’s muscles apparent with every step. Every few heartbeats he would turn to look at Gerianan, but the prince matched them step for step.
The gate was now in sight. Atop it burned the flame of Bralittar, the flame of Ar that shone for friends of the city. To Jremm it seemed that the flame blazed for him, lighting his fearful and tortured way home. He ran in panic toward it, his bursts of breath now short and harsh, and in terror he wondered if his legs would keep him going. He could hardly feel them, and he began to stumble more than run.
Then he looked up, and he saw the gate open. Out of it streamed the king’s personal guard, marching swiftly toward the approaching noblemrem. Jremm ran past them, falling on the ground once through their ranks. By the time he gained his breath, the noise of battle was strong in his ears.
He stood up on uncertain legs. Before him the guard slaughtered those who had not given up the chase. At their front stood Reswen, a sword now in his hands, the blood on its tip shining in the moonlight. And there, beside him, his own sword swirling, was Gerianan.
Then the battle ended, as suddenly as it had started. Thirty of the nobles’ army lay dead on the ground, the dead of Ar totaling less than ten. The rest of the nobles’ mrem had retreated back toward the safety of their camp. A shout rang out from the victorious mrem. Then Andelemarian strode out from the gates, and the mrem raised their swords to salute their king’s approach.
He stopped in front of Reswen. The warrior bowed, then stood aside and said, “Majesty of Ar, I return as you commanded. The prisoner has fought beside me.”
“Why?” was the king’s only word.
Gerianan stepped forward. “Because I was wrong. And wronged, as well. The nobles held me captive. They needed my title, but would never let me rule. Better a prince than a pawn. I know that now.”
“Why should I believe you?” the king asked angrily. His words were hissed, almost a challenge.
Gerianan stared into his eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispered. Jremm noticed that blood stained his fur where a sword had cut one shoulder.
“If I might speak,” Reswen interrupted, “I can offer some information.” His tone was calm.
At the king’s nod, he continued. “Three guards held him,” he explained. “Unless I misjudged completely, they were preventing his escape, not my entry. That is why I was able to kill two before the third could react. When he did, I thought the plan was destroyed.”
He paused and looked around. “But before he could shout, Majesty, the Prince Gerianan leaped on him, took away his knife, and sliced through his throat. He tried to scream as he died, but the most he could manage was a high whine. That alone saved the plan. The whine aroused the camp, but not as quickly as a shout. We were able to escape. It would not have been possible without the prince’s help. Nor could I have made him come against his will.”
“Perhaps he was merely afraid,” the king said. “Afraid that even a shout would not have spared his life.”
Reswen nodded. “I thought that, too,” he answered. “But during the escape his urgency was sincere, and he ran of his own will. And it was he that turned first to face the nobles, a task that I would gladly have left to the army of Ar. Gerianan wanted to fight.”
For a long while the king was silent. Then he turned to his brother and asked, “What do you want?”
Gerianan bowed slightly. “I want to reinstate myself as Prince of Ar,” he said. “I want to prove to the people of Ar that I no longer desire your throne. I will renounce all claim, if you wish. I want to help you find a proper heir.”
Again the king stood silent. At last he said, “Your words are convincing, as is your manner. But I withhold full judgment until you have given us proof. I will say, though, brother, that I too want these things. Prove your sincerity, and I will rejoice in your return. There is no joy in doubting one’s own brother. On that day, Ar will celebrate and so will we... together.”
Gerianan smiled. “Let me begin,” he said, “by leading a part of your army into battle.”
Andelemarian showed surprise. “When?” he asked. “And why only part?”
“Tonight is the first answer,” his brother replied. “Tonight against the nobles. I know their camp, and I know their weaknesses. As for the other, I want only part. The part that will bear the brunt of the battle. If I live, all is proven. If not, it will not matter. So you know I do not plan to betray you, let Reswen command the whole.”
For a moment the king looked startled. He stared into his brother’s eyes, sorting through Gerianan’s words to see which might be true. At last he looked away, first off to the east and then down to the ground. Gerianan stood and waited as the mrem of the guard held its breath.
“Reswen is able,” the king broke the silence. “But no more able than you. And so you will split the command. Then the people will know my brother has returned and is welcome.” At this Gerianan smiled and looked at the warrior. Reswen seemed shocked, nearly unable to move. Then the king reached out and pulled his brother to him. Together they clasped each other amid the cheers of the guard.
“But you will need a commander,” Andelemarian continued when the cheers ended. “With two generals, a commander is needed to keep you from argument and dissent.” He looked to the sky, then again to the east where the first false light was beginning to glow, and then at the dimming stars. When he brought his head down he announced his decision.
“I will command the army of Ar,” announced the king. Once more the cheers of the guard echoed off the towering city gate.
•
Preparations sped. The army was ready at dawn. As the light came red to the cold eastern sky, Andelemarian called for Jremm. Flattered by the summons, surprised the king even thought of him, the young wizard hurried to where the king stood alone.
“I am at your service,” he said.
“And you have served well, my H’satie,” the king answered. “But you will not serve me as well as a soldier. I command you to return to Berrilund at once.”
Jremm stood in shock. “But Berrilund said....” he began.
“I know what he said,”
the king replied. “But he, too, must obey my commands. Tell him I have sent you to him, because I believe he will need your strength more than I. There is more to this than dissenting nobles. Something evil stirs in the east. Something even I can feel.”
Confused and puzzled, Jremm bowed and turned away. He almost ran through the gates of the inner palace, suddenly realizing that the king now knew of the Council. For years Eronucu had kept its secret well, but now Andelemarian spoke almost openly of its existence. Soon he would ask Berrilund for the reason.
But for now he walked wearily through the palace. Opening a door, Oormet beckoned him inside. The old mrem took him down to the kitchen, where Berrilund awaited him. On the wall hung a large, grease-filthy apron. Then the three walked the corridors to the palace’s lowest levels, and they entered the Council-room and took the last seats.
“Oormet has joined us, though only as an advisor,” Berrilund announced. “He has long suspected something was protecting the king. I have decided it is better we work together. When all this is over, we will formally thank him.”
The graying chamberlain stood up. “I am old, too old to fight,” he observed in a low voice, “but not so old that I can sit idly by. Berrilund has told me of the danger from the east. I must admit that I am almost overwhelmed at the extent of your con... uh, organization, but grateful for your assistance. There is little I can contribute except knowledge, but what there is you may use as you will.”
Lanalia leaned toward him. “We have no time, old friend,” she said. “Tell us what you see. Tell us how they fare.”
The healer’s words were soothing. As he began the chant of seeing, Jremm found them pleasant, making it easier to open his mind to the others. And then Jremm saw, clearly in his mind, the army of the king as it awaited the order to march. To his left he saw Reswen, to his right Gerianan. Only the king was missing, and Jremm wondered if he would appear at the front of the ranks.
But suddenly the view changed. Reswen and Gerianan seemed to move back, while the warriors flowed by him on all sides. A few minutes later he saw no warriors at all, only the light that shone from the camp straight ahead. Then quickly the army swung back into view. This time they faced him, and they stood with swords high.
“Eastward we march,” he heard a voice say. Suddenly it dawned on him that the voice was his own. Or not his own, really, but the voice of the king. Then he felt foolish, and laid his head in his arms, realizing at last what the presence of the chamberlain had done. Oormet had given him Andelemarian’s eyes.
“We march,” the voice repeated. “We march against the rebellion of the nobles of Ar. We will march quickly, and we will not stop. The nobles will meet us in battle, and we will fight until it is won.
“For some, this battle will be bitter. You will fight today against mrem of your own blood. I did not want this, but neither can I prevent it. For others, this battle will mean death. For that I am sorry, but once more there is no choice. Bralittar will guide the warriors that fall, and it is sung in the songs that in death you will be happy.
“Only one thing is certain. The battle will not be easily won. The mrem we fight are mrem who fight like us. They have trained as we have, and they know what we know. But one thing marches with us, and this thing will go far to winning the day for us. We have on our side Bralittar himself. For Bralittar guards the city of Ar.
“Let us march, and fight, for the glory of Ar.”
When the two armies met, there was no battle. They had formed to defend themselves, but no noble gave the order to attack. It was almost as if they were unable to act, their eyes showing fear and confusion. These were brave mrem, many of whom had proven themselves in other battles. Andelemarian took their hesitation as an admission of error. He resolved to leniency for all who had stood by his brother. His confidence rose as the nobles’ ranks parted to let him pass.
So the king did not stop. Instead he marched, at the head of his guard, unmolested through the camp, straight for the tent where the strange light that still shone. None dared oppose him, for he was the king and Gerianan stood by his side, and he strode with the strength that lay deep in his blood.
Over the opening hung a blanket, and the king tore it down. Stepping into the tent, he looked down at the floor. There, motionless, stood a sand-colored mrem. His fur bristled, and his back was arched, and his ears lay back on his head. And around his head a green light glowed.
Then the king screamed, “Liskash!”
Inside the Council’s chamber Berrilund scrambled to project a barrier between the king and that light. He was too late.
The sandfur opened his eyes. Out of them poured a deadly green light. But Andelemarian did not move, did not blink, did not breathe. He simply stared at the light, and drew it into himself.
“Hold it inside!” Berrilund shouted, and Jremm felt the force of the Council’s great strength. He felt green light enter the king’s brain, felt the brain fight the terror that the king now knew. Then the sandfur pulled hard to release the light, but the Wizards of Ar held it unrelentingly inside.
To Jremm, hardly more than an observer, the two powers seemed to grapple forever, as the light burned hot. Brighter now, and hotter still, it took the king’s mind and twisted it so violently that Jremm heard himself scream. Again, and once again, it squeezed and twisted and stabbed at the golden light that trapped it, but the sandfur could not find the strength to tear it free. Then at last the green light weakened, and flickered, and died with a distant agonized moan. The last thing Jremm saw was the sandfur fading. Then all went black, and Jremm opened his eyes. Oormet was crying, tears staining his fur. Jremm shivered. There had been a stark, ravening emptiness that still chilled him just before the contact had broken.
Andelemarian was dead. The king had died.
Even this far inside the palace they could hear the sounds of the battle raging outside. The nobles, throwing off their daze when Cwynid vanished, had attacked immediately. Reswen had already ordered the army of Ar into the gap they had left for Andelemarian to pass, and so before the fighting began the nobles’ center was split. The king’s guard, now led by Gerianan, burst from the camp behind them, determined to exact revenge for the king’s death.
“The sandfur is gone,” he heard Berrilund say. “But I do not think he is dead.”
“He’s alive,” Gaelor grunted. “He fled. That’s all.”
“Will he return?” Oormet’s voice muttered.
“Not here,” Berrilund answered. “We will not see him near Ar. He knows we finally have him marked. Whatever else he may do, Cwinyd will not come near Ar.”
Jremm raised his head. “He will go to Cragsclaw,” he whispered, his voice drained of strength and his heart filled with sorrow. “Mithmid has told me of him.”
Berrilund started. “What did he say?”
“Cwinyd was there,” the young wizard mumbled. “At Sruss’s battle. Mithmid didn’t know his name, but he mentioned the sand-colored fur. Cwinyd was the one whose magic has aroused the highlanders.”
“Then,” said Lanalia, “we must turn our attention there.”
“We will,” said Berrilund. “As soon as Gerianan has won. But first we must prevent any interference in the battle here and then recover. If we try to act now, when we are all exhausted, we will lose everything.”
“We must save Sruss,” Gaelor protested.
“We have to act wisely or we will lose both heirs,” Berrilund corrected.
•
“You betray me, Arklier,” Crethok fumed at his brother. “Yesterday you failed to reinforce my attack and as a result it failed.”
“It had already failed,” the other ClanSon rebutted bitterly. “You were throwing away lives. My mrem will be needed for the next assault.”
“Nor did you kill that bandit.” The younger brother accused. “You show more respect for the enemy than for your own brother.” He
resented the way all the mrem had followed Arklier’s lead ten days earlier during the Sleishers’ funeral. His efforts to persuade even his own guard to attack while the castle’s garrison was exposed had failed.
“He has more honor,” Arklier replied viciously. There was disgust in his tone. Outside, the clansmrem were cold and exhausted. Already the foragers had to travel over half a day to find un-pillaged villages. “I am considering ordering my clansmrem home.”
“You cannot!” Crethok snapped.
“And why not?” Arklier answered just as loudly.
“Because you agreed to obey me for this siege,” the younger mrem insisted. His tone was quieter. Not cowed, but calculating.
“I agreed to join you,” his brother corrected. “And only on the urging of your pet wizard.”
The flap opened and the tan form of Cwynid stumbled into the tent. He wore bronze armor, as if coming from a battle, but it was scorched and burned. His fur was matted and dirty and his teeth yellowed. Both brothers froze at the sight. Arklier expected some comment that would indicate his insult had been overheard. He got none.
“You must continue the siege,” the magician insisted.
Both mrem continued to stare.
“The Lords have ordered it.” Cwynid said this as if it resolved everything.
Arklier stood as if slapped. Crethok stared at the furs on the tent’s floor.
•
It had been three ten-days since Lord Sleisher’s death. They had held against a fierce assault the next morning and three more since. Nine days earlier Talwe had ordered gathered all the food that remained and placed it in the castle’s citadel. Now Mithmid oversaw armed guardsmrem who ensured every mrem received his fair portion. There was little else for him to do. The magics of the Eastern Lords had nullified his own skill. Every few days the portion each mrem was given to eat diminished. Next week there would be only enough for the guardsmrem.
