by Martin Ash
So Duke Hugo had crept forth in darkness from a concealed sally port beneath Giswel Holt's eastern wall. Twenty knights and fifty heavy horse had accompanied him, with one hundred footsoldiers following in support. The horses' hooves were muffled, the men carried much of their armour wrapped in cloth to prevent noise. Now the cloth and muffles were removed, mail and plate donned. The fires of the Karai twinkled through the trees, the closest less than fifty yards away. Just a short while longer, enough for the oncoming dawn to reveal the precise location of their quarry and salient features of the land around.
Duke Hugo mounted his horse. He could discern the silhouettes of the thick tree-trunks around him, dense and opaque, tendrils of grey mist wreathing ghostly between. He glanced around, to the knights on either side of him, the heavy horsemen and invisible footsoldiers beyond. All were looking to him for the word. His throat was dry, his palms damp. The pre-dawn was without a sound. He raised his helmet and placed it upon his head, adjusting neck and cheek-guards for comfort. There was a hint of glimmering pale gold light low at his back through the trees. Ahead he made out the dim shapes of Karai tents across the rough bare ground beyond the trees. Hugo unsheathed his sword and held it aloft. He drew back his lips, glanced about him once more to be sure his men were ready, then roared, "Forward for Giswel, for Enchantment's Reach! Forward for freedom! Charge!"
They galloped forth in two columns, each of two files, fanning out once they broke free of the trees and weaving between the sharpened stakes and caltraps the Karai had laid for defence. Hugo's spirit soared; he felt his fear, smelt it in his sweat. The din of his charging men was deafening. Karai guards were coming alert now, rushing to meet them, but in disarray, without formation. He swung his sword, brought it down to take a Karai head from its shoulders. More came at him. It was the first time he had met them face to face. He took in their white, wrinkled visages, grim set but emotionless and still mute as they fought, as his men ploughed into them, striking them down. It was too simple. He thundered past a tent. Two Karai rushed at him with spears. He brought the first down with another blow, swerved his horse to avoid the second, twisted about in the saddle, struck once, twice. A fountain of blood spurted high and the Karai slipped writhing in death to the ground.
The air was thick now with the clamour of conflict, the screech of steel on steel, the yells of Hugo's men, single staccato barks of command and occasional laboured grunts from the Karai. Hugo peered about him as he surged on. His men were in the thick of it, hacking, stabbing from their saddles, while the footsoldiers came from behind, pouring a bloody wave into the enemy. As far as he could see the scene was the same.
To his left a knight was in difficulty, hemmed in by four or five of the enemy. Hugo swung around and charged. A Karai fell to his blade, then a second. The knight broke free, spun his mount and barged a Karai warrior to the ground.
"Onward!" yelled Hugo. "Before they can swamp us! Yaaah!"
The knights and horsesoldiers of Giswel pounded on, through the basic camp, striking down any who came against them, making for the slope behind. From there it was a short gallop to the right, through a small copse beneath the lee of a low cliff, and down again to the area of excavations that marked the mouth of the tunnel the Karai were constructing, presumably in an attempt to undermine Giswel Holt's walls.
Hugo risked glancing back. The infantry were fully-engaged, most of the horse troops had broken free. Bodies littered the ground, Karai and human, but many more Karai. Now, as planned, he veered right, followed by three quarters of his mounted force. The remainder, following the battle-plan devised the previous day, spun about and charged back down the slope to put themselves among the Karai who were running from east and west to aid their stricken comrades.
Hugo grinned, his sword high. It was all going so well!
An arrow sighed past his head, then another. He ducked low to his horse, urging it to its best speed, shifted his shield to his right shoulder. He had anticipated archers and knew his men would be relatively exposed on this brief stretch. But there could be relatively few bowmen, visibility in the pre-morn was still restricted to less than thirty yards, and the copse was just a short way ahead. That and the cliff would provide cover until the men of Giswel Holt charged down to the mine. There they would be among Karai again, and no arrows could fly.
He reached the trees, their welcome dark shade enclosing him. They were sparsely spaced, there was hardly need to slow his pace. His knights were with him, his ears filled with the thud of their horses' hooves, the jangle of harness and armour. Fleet dense shadows pounding through the sombre wood. He roared his ebullience, rejoicing in the kill, the savage splendour of his bloodied blade. So far as he could tell he had lost but a handful of men.
He veered towards the cliff. A little way further on it broke onto a grass slope. Then the mine at its foot. . . .
At that moment Hugo knew that something was wrong. Little more than a fleeting impression at first, an awareness of something moving between the trees. Then a grey shape, darkly mottled, swift and bulky. Another, and another. He heard a cry to his left, and a sound of something not human. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed one of his knights upon the ground with his mount. A monstrous shape was upon him, pounding him with massive fists. Then another knight went down, two of the things leaping upon him.
Something sprang out of the cliff face into Hugo's path. He swerved, striking out with his sword. He just had time to see the bestial face, lank powerful limbs and overlong body, then his blade struck into thick grey flesh. The creature emitted a dismal howl. With difficulty Hugo wrenched his weapon free.
Now others were dropping from the trees and high rock. Their roars filled Hugo's ears. He knew bewilderment, an awful sinking feeling in his gut. The cries of his men, the terrified screams of their horses pierced him like barbs. A pair of the troll-things were careering towards him. He tried to veer between them. One reached out long arms to seize his horse's head, yanked it around. The horse fell, catapulting Hugo from the saddle.
He hit the ground hard, rolled, came up kneeling, his vision fuzzed, a throbbing, blazing pain in one shoulder. A troll rushed at him, raising two arms, hefting a cudgel. Hugo lunged, piercing its belly. The troll bellowed its agony and twisted away, its movement wrenching Hugo's sword from his grasp. He stood as another troll swung its cudgel. He blocked the blow with his shield but the force of it sent him staggering backwards. Now Hugo felt panic for the first time. Terrible, cold, clamouring. Another horse was felled close by, its rider slamming into the earth and lying still. Hugo ran to him and seized his fallen sword. He whirled, striking out at random. A mighty cudgel blow hammered into his shoulder. With an agonized yell he tumbled to the ground, somehow managing to keep hold of the sword, his whole being vibrant with pain. A gigantic troll towered over him, swiping with an axe. Feebly Hugo raised his shield, but his arm was numbed and would not obey him. The troll's blow came around inside the shield. Hugo staggered to his feet, stared uncomprehendingly at the stump of his arm where it ended above the elbow, rhythmically pumping the bright fountain of his lifeblood.
Weakly, he raised his sword, struck at the troll, became aware through a haze of terror that his blow was wild, that he was faint, his legs would not support him. He was on his knees, the world rotating in a blur of greenwood and hazy red. Something colossal rammed him, sent him flying, now beyond pain, rolling, coming to rest upon his back. He was cold, very cold. The troll was upon him. Strange, he no longer feared, was more fascinated. Its hideous grey face, long canines bared, sinking into his belly. There was another troll now. He was a feast. And cold; ripped and flung, unbearably cold.
The world was turning strangely white. He struggled to regain his feet, against the unbearable weight pressing down, glimpsed the blood spraying from his arm. His head sagged back, too heavy to bear. The creatures feeding on him and he wanted. . . he wanted. . . . He cried out his awful final distress. He stood in a wide green meadow dotted with wildflowers.
A figure was before him, her arms wide.
Hugo frowned, confused. "Mother, why are you here?"
He was glad to see her, though he did not understand. It had been so long. Years. He was a boy again.
"Mother, it is dangerous."
She shook her head, smiling warmly, delighted at the sight of him. Such a long, long time. . . . She came towards him. He had never thought to see her again. He did not understand, but he knew there was no danger now. He was glad. So glad. He ran forward to leap into her open arms.
*
Prince Anzejarl was sitting down to breakfast in his pavilion when the news was brought to him by one of his commanders. He showed no visible reaction but within himself he knew a strange mixture of emotions as he learned of the deaths of the Duke of Giswel and his men.
"Were there survivors?" he asked.
"The majority of footsoldiers and horsemen involved in the initial attack fought their way back to the castle," replied the commander. "Of those that came on for the mine, more than half were killed or injured by the trolls. The others managed to escape. But it was a masterful plan, my Prince. The trolls performed excellently."
"Injured?" queried Anzejarl. "The trolls took prisoners?"
The man shook his head. "They ate them. A few they dragged away for later."
"Then they still live?"
The commander gave a shrug. "You might call it that."
"It would be useful to question these men," said Anzejarl. His commander looked dubious. Anzejarl turned to Olmana, who shook her head.
"It would not be advisable," she said. "You command the trolls but you would be on dangerous ground were you to try to take their meat from them now. There’s a certain primordiality, a sacred and inviolable ritual, which must be observed. The trolls of Enchantment have won a battle, their passions run deep, mingling with instinct. No, Anzejarl, you would excite passions that even you cannot control were you to attempt to take their prizes from them. What could be learned from these prisoners, anyway?"
"King Leth's intentions, possibly."
"I would doubt it." She rose and came to him, draping her arms about his shoulders. "Rejoice, brave Prince. The Duke of Giswel is dead. In a short time now the castle will surely fall."
But Anzejarl could not find it within him to rejoice. Not because the concept was still relatively new to his psyche, but more that he could find small cause for celebration at the deaths of so many brave men. For some reason he found this unsettling. As with so much else there were deeper aspects to his feelings these days, powerful undercurrents that he could not fathom.
The commander departed. Anzejarl sat on in silence.
"You are troubled?" whispered Olmana.
"I feel so many things."
"You are still adjusting, still Awakening. But come," she pressed her lips to his neck. "Olmana has ways of comforting your troubled soul."
"Behind it all, within this dark jungle of emotions, there lies a void. I feel an unknown. Unanswerable, even unaskable questions assail me. I contemplate emptiness." Anzejarl put his white hands to his face. "Is this part of it too, Olmana? The Awakening? Is this a feeling of being human?"
Olmana took his hands, kissing him and drawing him to his feet. She backed towards the soft palliasse of their bed, bringing him with her, lowering herself to the cushions and pressing her lips to his thigh. "You are still growing, Anzejarl. What you sense is what has still to be filled. Let me take your mind from these things."
He moaned with the pleasure of her kisses and her touch, yielding to her even though they had spent themselves in loving only an hour earlier. She drew him down to her, her fingers slipping beneath his garments, seeking, her warm lips touching his. Anzejarl closed his eyes. For an instant, through his pleasure, he glimpsed her in another guise, as he had seen her in his dreams. He recoiled, just momentarily, his eyes opening, staring into hers. Did his dreams tell him something, he wondered. Her lips were on his again, her tongue slid into his mouth, her body pressed against him, her fingers closing around his hardness. He could not resist her. With her free hand she peeled aside her silk gown, took one of his hands and placed it upon her naked breast. He had forgotten what he had seen, had forgotten that he knew that she was not all - or was indeed much more than - she seemed. He could not help himself.
II
Later she woke him. "There are things we should discuss."
The light from outside the pavilion told him the morning was well-advanced. He felt easier now. She had done what she had said. He was sharp and untroubled, his mood of earlier dispelled. He barely recalled the doubts and uncertainties that had plagued him.
"Enchantment's Reach," she said.
"You want to move against it now?"
"Why not? Giswel Holt is no longer a threat. You can leave the siege force in place. The soldiers will not sally forth again so briskly. But now we must move swiftly. The child is not far away, and I will not lose him."
He saw and heard her passion as she spoke those words.
"Does Leth have him?"
"That I have yet to determine. I sense only the life of the child. What of the forward camp, Anzejarl?"
"I have had no word, but it’s early. The warriors will not have arrived there yet." He risked a question. "Olmana, what is this child you seek?"
Her eyes flashed. "That is for me to know. Do not become too curious, Anzejarl. Be warned, it is a trait the Gift bestows, but in this instance at least it is one you will do well to disregard."
He took the rebuke in silence, eased himself from the cushions, stood and dressed. His gem eyes followed Olmana as she moved about the tent. She was agitated. Strange, that her equanimity seemed to suffer as a result of restoring his. As though she had given something of herself to restore him, and in doing so was temporarily reduced.
He wanted her again, but she turned and faced him. "What of it? Can you march immediately?"
He nodded. "I’ll give the order."
NINE
I
Lord Fectur, High Invigilate and now Absolute Regent of Enchantment's Reach, took proud stock of his day's achievements. It had taken precise planning and much hard work to arrive at the immensely gratifying position he now occupied. He acknowledged that Fortune had aided him, and was the more fortified and reassured for that. All else notwithstanding, he could never have overthrown Leth had not luck sided with him in his endeavours. No matter the support that he, Fectur, had gathered, no matter the doubts voiced so volubly by so many on the matter of King Leth's decisions - in themselves they would not have been enough. To have been able to demonstrate persuasively that the King was no longer in control of himself was one thing - even if most persons tacitly acknowledged that it was largely a pretext. To have himself installed as Regent - to have taken control of the throne! - was another matter entirely. It had required that extra boost, the validation of Fate.
Fectur was mightily pleased with himself. But he was not so foolish as to anticipate a smooth ride ahead.
A dominant consideration nagged: the Queen.
Her disappearance had been most fortunate. He could hardly have planned it better himself. There seemed little doubt now that she had been captured or murdered by the Karai. Troops from the Security Cadre, as well as Leth's men, had scoured the forest where her ambush had taken place, and found nothing. What tracks were visible had led away deep into the forest towards the west before they became obscured. As the Queen's body had not been recovered it seemed reasonable to assume that she had been taken; alive or dead.
If the latter, he had nothing to fear. But the possibility of the former remained a spectral threat. What if the Karai made contact, demanding terms for her release? Could he keep it quiet? Or contrive by some means to ensure that the Karai did not succeed in returning her? At any cost, she could not be allowed to return. She would undo everything; all he had achieved would be chaff in the wind.
He briefly consoled himself with the knowledge that for the Karai negotiations of
such a nature were unheard of. Their campaign to date had consisted solely of warfare and conquest. They showed little interest in the overtures of their adversaries, irrespective of the incentives offered. Not a single monarch or envoy of the overrun Mondane Kingdoms had succeeded in establishing useful communications with Prince Anzejarl, or even his subordinates, prior to conquest. But to Fectur's knowledge the Karai had never before held such an important hostage. Would it change anything? No word had been received at Enchantment's Reach, leading him to assume not. But Fectur needed to make contact with Prince Anzejarl if he was to survive. He believed he had, almost within his grasp, the leverage to break the Karai prince's customary silence. But he could not permit any negotiations over the Queen.
Fectur wondered about Anzejarl's motives. Was he content simply to raze, plunder and subdue? It seemed not, for Fectur accepted that there was almost certainly a link with the Legendary Child. It was as good as established that Anzejarl had the support and protection of a god, implying a deific interest in the Child. It was a daunting thought. Could Fectur really hope to sway a god from its chosen path? He would have to be utterly sure of the god's motives. Even he balked at this. Was it possible to know the mind of a god?
Perhaps, he thought, for he had a few of the right kind of indications.
Fectur returned his mind to his most immediate concerns. Leth was his first and most pressing problem. Disposing of the King - utterly necessary, demanding swift action - was something of an obstacle. An accident, perhaps a spectacular suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed, would serve. It had to be carefully and convincingly managed in order to retain the loyalty of a strong majority of supporters. But there were important matters to attend to before he could terminate Leth. Most urgently, Leth's outburst at the Special Assembly, his outrageous assertion of knowledge of Enchantment's gods and of Enchantment itself. Though he had spoken in the heat of the moment, that in itself was not reason to dismiss his words. The contrary, in fact. Impassioned, he had given every impression of having blurted out far more than he had intended. And the words he had spoken carried resonances that were potentially too momentous to be disregarded without serious investigation.
