Conall Gearnach could restrain his ire no longer, and boldly cried, ‘Do you mean to humiliate us?’ He stood upon the ground, feet braced apart, hands on hips.
Alarmed at his outburst, bystanders tried to hush him. ‘Two-Swords, do not let pride be our undoing!’ Warwick warned.
Musingly, Zaravaz regarded the famed warrior who had called him to question. ‘Be wary how you speak to me, soldier of Slievmordhu,’ he said. Turning his back, he directed curt instructions to another of his officers, who proceeded to deal with Gearnach’s challenge.
‘I, who you may denominate as Zwist,’ this lieutenant said coolly, ‘say to you, Conall Gearnach: be careful not to anger my lord Zaravaz, or you will come to regret it with every beat of your overweening heart. Now, regarding the unbinding of the animals on whom you have so lately been pressing your buttocks: examine your principles. Do you truly believe it is estimable to batten upon the spine of a beast, to make slaves of freeborn creatures? Is it admirable for a grown man or woman to behave like an infant who is carried on its mother’s shoulders because it is too feeble to walk on its own hind legs?’
It struck Asrăthiel that these opinions were surprisingly close to her own. The appearance of kindness in these unseelie wights seemed strangely at odds with their demonstrable cruelty. She realised, too, that no war horse had been harmed in battle.
‘So it is a moral issue, is it?’ Gearnach shot back. ‘If riding horseback is so degrading, why do you?’
The goblins Zwist and Zerstör flanked the warlord in an invisible instant, their daemon horses sniffing at him with their red nostrils, and baring their pointed teeth, but Slievmordhu’s foremost knight did not quail or betray any sign of fear.
‘The trollhästen,’ explained the unseelie knight called Zwist, obviously at pains to restrain himself from executing Gearnach on the spot, ‘unlike the horses of Calaldor, have a symbiotic relationship with goblinkind. Do you know what that means, O unkilled brave?’
Gruffly, Gearnach shook his head.
‘Believe me, we would hesitate to waste our breath explaining,’ said Zwist, his pale fingers caressing the haft of his dagger, ‘only that our lord has requested it of us. Symbiosis signifies a relationship of mutual benefit or dependence.’
‘The trollhästen, in fact, love goblinkind,’ said Second Lieutenant Zerstör. His steed tossed its emerald mane. ‘They draw nourishment from the power that resonates from our life force, we of the Glashtinsluight. When they are not near to us, they begin to fade and waste away. Their obsession is to bear us upon their backs. They are our contracted companions, never our slaves. Do you understand?’
Gearnach sucked his teeth as if debating within himself. ‘Convenient,’ he risked brazenly.
Gripping his sword hilt Zerstör directed an impassioned plea to his king, which was denied.
‘Leave Conall Two-Swords to his dilemmas of principle,’ Zaravaz said in bored tones, waving a hand dismissively. Like his opponents, he had dismounted. His lieutenants reluctantly withdrew from Gearnach’s inflammatory presence, casting longing looks over their shoulders, like wolves whose pack leader has forbidden them to devour a fresh kill. The ground reverberated with the hammering of hooves as the last of the unsaddled horses galloped away.
‘Let me think,’ the goblin king said loudly and theatrically. ‘One more ransom. Whom shall I choose?’ Dangerous, sardonic, vigorous, Zaravaz strolled unhurriedly up and down the lines of the human assembly, absentmindedly tapping his fingers against his black-clad thigh as if deep in thought. All at once he came to an abrupt stop.
Steeped in resentment, fear and ire yet standing as straight and proud as their dignity required, his audience waited. Although they were racked with misgivings, they were beginning to believe that they were escaping their predicament relatively lightly. So far, the Lord of Wickedness, true to the unpredictable nature of wights in general, had chosen hostages—or victims—who were hated or feared by much of the populace, and in fact most people considered that the four kingdoms were well rid of the two scheming tyrants.
Zaravaz spoke again, so suddenly he surprised them all. ‘I believe I shall take—’ he spun around on his heel, his cloak flying, and flung out one arm, ‘—this one.’
He spoke Asrăthiel’s name.
The damsel started. She stared, wide-eyed, but there could be no mistaking that it was she the unseelie slayer had addressed. ‘What?’ she cried in disbelief. ‘He jests!’ she remonstrated, looking wildly around, seeking confirmation of her diagnosis from her companions. When she perceived by their stunned expressions that none would be forthcoming, a stringent iciness seemed to douse her slowly from head to foot. Her heart began to race as countless possible scenarios flashed through her mind, and she struggled for breath, as if she were drowning. In that agonised moment, she almost wished for instant death. ‘Save me,’ she whispered, so softly that no one heard but herself.
Hubbub broke out on all sides. William rushed forward to position himself between Asrăthiel and the goblin king. ‘I forbid it!’ he shouted, while Avalloc and Warwick and every human voice joined in clamour to express their displeasure.
‘A covenant has been made!’ exclaimed Zaravaz. ‘You must honour your word!’
‘We will not give her up,’ they vowed, and the swords of men chimed like silver bells as they slid from their scabbards.
‘You may take the first two tithes, Zaravaz,’ roared Avalloc, ‘but not the third.’
‘On my oath, it is like chopping stone necks with a blunt axe!’ the goblin king cried indignantly. ‘Will we ever get through?’
As he spoke, hundreds of flashing eldritch blades appeared in the hands of the extraordinary knights, the kobolds extended their talons and brandished their pitchforks, and the trollhästen neighed, rearing up and scraping the air with barbaric hoofs, their satin coats gleaming with a metallic lustre, their manes and tails streaming like green torchlight. The horde drew together in a dark mass of antlered helms and gleaming swords, from which their silver embellishments and pale jewels glimmered like stars in a sable sky. The assembled multitude, who had raised an uproarious shout of condemnation, hesitated. They gazed silently on the formidable and experienced corps they had spontaneously defied, and recoiled from their forward line.
The lieutenants of Zaravaz petitioned their king in the language of Tir, so that their foes might comprehend, ‘Merely say the word, lord, and we shall tear them socket from socket. We shall rend their flesh and pluck out their eyes; mince them and scatter their steaming meat across the moors to feed the crows.’ Aroused by desire to attack, the goblin knights trembled with choked-back truculence and pent yearning.
Not for nothing, thought Asrăthiel, are they feared. But I must be strong. And indeed, after the first instant of immoderate panic she had quickly recovered her equilibrium. Relegating fear, she faced her prospects with as much calmness and rationality as she could muster.
She glanced around, sensing the thirst for blood ripe in the air, and noting the look of intense anticipation on the faces of the unseelie warriors. What she chose to do at this fraught moment would prove to be a pivot point. If the terms were refused, the entire human race would be in utmost peril. It was an inconceivable responsibility, but the right path was unquestionable. Wights speak the truth, and honour their promises.
Besides, against almost all evidence she was beginning to formulate the odd notion that Zaravaz might not intend to deal harshly with her. His impromptu display of what might, at a precarious stretch of the imagination, be termed kindness towards Ronin, though it was inconsistent and entailed browbeating the decrepit druid, had sown that seed. Goblinkind’s incongruously merciful philosophies regarding animals reinforced this impression.
Stepping around William she faced the goblin king and said, ‘Since you have given your word of peace, I will go with you.’
Uproar broke out again.
Cuiva Stillwater and Shahzadeh of Ashqalêth took hold of Asrăthiel and pulled he
r back within the mortal fold. Everyone in that company vowed they would never allow her to become hostage to the wights.
‘There is no choice to be made,’ said Avalloc said wrathfully. ‘You shall not go. How could you make such a foolish declaration!’ It was the first time in her life Asrăthiel had ever seen her grandfather angry with her.
‘There will be no talk of yielding to this demand,’ said King Warwick, scanning the battle-primed goblin ranks in a last-ditch effort to take measure of their strengths and weaknesses. ‘When we perish we will take as many of them with us as possible.’
Thorgild said darkly, ‘The day the House of Torkilsalven gives a girl to the lords of unseelie is the day the world is engulfed by the sun.’
Flourishing his sword high in the air, Conall Gearnach cried, ‘Let us put an end to these unscrupulous stealers of women, these ravishers!’ and Prince Ronin said, ‘Asrăthiel, you are Storm Lady, heir to Rowan Green. What should we do without you?’ The reply that sprang to her tongue, although she did not utter it, was Exist.
‘I pledge my kingdom’s army to your protection,’ said Princess Shahzadeh, ‘should the goblins try to take you by force. Come, let us away from here, you and me! Let us find horses and ride for Ashqalêth!’
But Asrăthiel shook her head. ‘That is a dream,’ she answered.
Cuiva Stillwater, White Lady of the Marsh, whispered, with tears in her eyes, ‘As you loved your mother, and love her still, Asrăthiel, forbear from lunacy. Think of her lying in her glass bower amongst the roses. Would you abandon her? Would you abandon us all? Jewel would never have let you go.’ This, of all appeals, touched Asrăthiel most, yet it could not blind her to circumstance.
‘With respect, Mistress Cuiva,’ she said presently, ‘I believe you are mistaken. My mother would wish me to do as I judge fit, and my father also.’
William Wyverstone gazed at the damsel, at the swan-curve of her waist and her eyes bluer than the distance. He was being eaten out with passion; consumed with the heartfelt desire to keep her secure. Taking her aside he said, ‘Asrăthiel, I beg you not to even consider such an act of sacrifice.’
From afar came the ringing voice of Zaravaz: ‘Some time this century would be convenient.’
‘My lord is not to be kept waiting!’ warned Second Lieutenant Zerstör.
‘William,’ the damsel said gently, ‘I am invulnerable.’
‘Upon my life, Asrăthiel, that hardly matters! There are a thousand atrocities they might devise for you!’
The goblin king stood watching, a little way off, leaning against the flank of his daemon horse as though afflicted with ennui. Asrăthiel looked up at him and called out, ‘If I should go with you as your prisoner, will you work me harm or disgrace?’
‘If you ask us politely,’ he replied, giving a sarcastic bow.
The weathermage turned back to William, who muttered furiously, ‘What kind of answer is that? ’Tis, at best, prevarication, at worst a dire threat! You know how clever all wights are at equivocating, since they are incapable of lying!’
‘I believe they cannot seriously harm me, even if they try.’ There was no way to explain, even to herself, her unfounded and probably invalid premonition that the wights would not work ill upon her. ‘I am willing to take the risk.’
William took the damsel’s hand without speaking, and gazed at her mournfully. Shortly she added, choking on the words, ‘I must. For all that I hold dear.’
The prince kissed her fingers and released her.
‘No gold,’ cautioned Lieutenant Zauberin, and Asrăthiel unclasped her sword belt, giving Fallowblade’s scabbard to her grandfather, along with a swift embrace. She moved to the forefront of the mortal crowds, where she addressed her people.
‘My decision is made,’ she cried loudly, so that as many as possible might hear. ‘If you respect me you will not hinder me. Sheath your weapons. You might grieve for me awhile, but then put aside sadness, for now begins the season to restore order to the four kingdoms. Mankind is saved. Rejoice. Farewell, friends. I go of my free will alongside Ó Maoldúin and Virosus.’
With that, and with the shouted entreaties and blessings and lamentations of the multitude filling her ears, the damsel turned and walked towards the unseelie hordes.
Bitter was the anguish of those she left behind. There was not a dry eye amongst them, and many called out her name, extending their arms as if to reach out and retrieve her. Prince William flamed with grief and wrath. Like many, he was unable to hold himself back as Asrăthiel departed, and made to dash after her, and had to be forcibly restrained by his own men.
With a jolt of surprise Asrăthiel felt herself being swung through the air as if she were a wisp of straw, and next moment she was seated sideways upon the back of a fluidly moving daemon horse, in the midst of a sea of fell riders as alluring as lovers. The swords of the goblin knights had been returned to their scabbards, their conditions for the cessation of hostilities having been fulfilled. The miserable captives Uabhar and Virosus had been hoisted on the shoulders of hefty kobold warriors. They were being unceremoniously carried pick-a-back, jolting up and down as their eldritch bearers trotted along on muscular legs. As the cavalry began to move northwards, the king’s lieutenant flung a last retort over his shoulder, ‘We depart, but we leave behind our watch to enforce the law.’ No one was quite sure what that meant, but it was too late to enquire.
Asrăthiel fancied she spied something moving in the new-sprung herbage; a small figure, a wight maybe. Against reason she watched from the corner of her eye, half expecting the urisk Crowthistle to make some rash move to rescue her, from which she would, naturally, try to save him. But she saw him not.
Of course not! Anxiety and lack of sleep must have impaired her memory—she had despatched him with the golden sword.
She moved off with the eldritch chivalry, but her compliance was not to be the final interaction between humankind and goblinkind that night.
As the unseelie knights withdrew, a band of mortal warriors attacked them from the rear.
Even as Asrăthiel had been speaking earnestly with William for the last time, Conall Gearnach was holding a separate discussion with Prince Cormac Ó Maoldúin, who had, after much inner striving, managed to find it in his heart to set aside his hatred of his brother’s slayer in the cause of military cooperation.
‘The Lady Asrăthiel is immortal and invulnerable,’ said the warlord, his eyes sparking with anger, ‘but those unseelie libertines will not scruple to invade her honour with the most unbridled licence. I will die before I allow that to happen.’
‘I am of like mind with you,’ said the prince, somewhat aloofly, ‘but she has chosen. It is her will. What can we do?’
‘There is one chance left, sir. Mindful of wights’ skill with equivocation I have studied their words closely, and it dawned on me that while the wights indicated that if we met their king’s terms our race would be spared, they have never precisely stated that he would authorise genocide if we did not. It is a slim hope, but worth clinging to.’
‘Why should they not carry out their threat?’ Cormac asked.
Gearnach shrugged. ‘The reasoning of wights is as convolute as a nautilus shell and not readily laid out to the light, but I’ll vouchsafe they would be pleased to have a few human toys to trifle with during the idle hours of their immortality, and that they cannot do if we are all gone. If mankind’s death can be postponed, it might later, somehow, be avoided.’
‘What is your intention?’
‘I have committed a crime for which I have not yet compensated,’ Gearnach declared bleakly. ‘I have still to pay for my folly before the gate of Ironstone Keep.’
‘A crime of passion, yes,’ answered Cormac, ‘nonetheless the blood tax is already paid. You have served Slievmordhu like no other soldier in the annals of our realm.’ Magnanimously he appended, ‘Be at peace, Conall.’
‘It was an offence committed in haste and error,’ said the Knight of the Br
and, ‘but with unbearable, unpardonable consequences. Kieran and Halvdan were as my own sons. No,’ Gearnach continued, ‘justice is not yet balanced, and I cannot live with debt overshadowing me. I cannot—live.’
Silence followed his words.
Said Cormac, comprehending Gearnach’s full meaning by the words he had not spoken, ‘I believe it is worth the attempt. Ronin would stop you if he knew.’
‘Of that I am certain,’ said Conall Gearnach. He added, ‘Yet Ronin will rule our country well. Better than he that went before.’
In painful understanding the two men gazed upon one another, and for an instant the warrior made as if to reach out his hand for the clasp of friendly parting, but let his arm drop by his side instead.
And that was how Gearnach came to lead the desperate charge against the departing goblin knights.
The delegates of Tir saw him running to the attack. It was all that the warlike ones amongst them required; for too long had they been keeping their rage in check. Without delay they rushed forward in his wake, brandishing their swords.
‘Madness!’ shrieked Queen Halfrida, wringing her hands. ‘They must be stopped ere they drag us all down to ruin!’
Yet it was too late to stop them.
‘At least Gearnach had the wisdom not to try to pick up Fallowblade,’ said Cuiva Featherfern sadly, peering at the streak of sunlight that lay on the heath under the stars.
Queen Saibh of Slievmordhu closed her eyes, so that she might not witness her three surviving sons plunging into this insane and unwinnable conflict.
‘Fall back! Fall back!’ courtiers were shouting in panic, and the queens, with their retinues, were shepherded to safety, away from the site of the skirmish. Men were turning on each other, some endeavouring to join Gearnach, others fighting to restrain their comrades from such recklessness. Furore held sway. They were armed, the dignitaries of Tir, and armed to the teeth. In preparation for their final encounter with the perfidious goblins, several had put on hauberks or brigandines beneath their outer garments. Accoutred were they, but their efforts were far from being coordinated. There was no military discipline. Furthermore, some were getting old, a few were not in the best of health, and many had led lives of indolence; they had not the strong thews of trained soldiers. Each fought his own battle.
Fallowblade Page 22
