The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  “Then, again, I ask for your sword, Right Hand.”

  Eamon dismounted and carefully unbuckled his sword from his belt. He also ungirt Eben’s dagger and laid it, with the scabbarded sword, in Leon’s hands. The man watched him with little trace of emotion and Eamon could not help but wonder whether Leon had forgiven him for their last encounter.

  After Eamon, the Hands also dismounted, giving both torch and sword to Leon’s men. Wilhelm did likewise but bore the Master’s standard down from the saddle. It moved overhead as Eamon met Leon’s gaze once again.

  “We have given both pledge and blade,” he said. “Lead us to the Serpent.”

  “Your horses will remain here,” Leon told them. “You will find them upon your return.”

  “Very well.”

  Leon nodded once and then turned to the bridge. As they began to move, a small group of hobilars formed up about them. Eamon caught sight of Wilhelm’s hands; they trembled about the banner. “Courage, Mr Bellis,” he said quietly.

  Wilhelm nodded.

  They crossed the last stretch of grass to the River’s bank and the awesome bridge that spanned the running water. Eamon had heard reports from the South Quarter that the Easters had brought the bridge to the River by land and water in parts and that, with the aid of men on each bank and holks on the water, they had completed their pontoon within a day of the attack on Dunthruik’s port.

  They set foot on the bridge. It had been lined to either side with two rows of tall stakes, about which the rushing water flowed out to the sea. Eamon could not help but smile grimly. The stakes were to keep flotsam and jetsam, natural or otherwise, from striking and destroying the bridge.

  Against the sheer expanse of the River and the breadth of the bridge, the torches borne by their escort cast the dimmest of lights. As they crossed, the broad grey waters rushed by beneath them, with starlight caught between the churning currents. For a moment, Eamon felt as though he were caught on a bridge over a sea of stars, unable to see either the bank from which he had come or the bank to which he went.

  They stepped down onto the far bank, and Eamon began to distinguish some of the ghostly shapes he had seen as distant lights from the plain. Coming down among them was like coming into another world. Fires dotted the bank for the warmth and comfort of man and beast. Gathered a little way back from the River were what seemed hundreds of tents and groups of guarded wagons. Banners showing stars and suns fluttered in the breeze, and from every side murmurs grew as men emerged to look upon the Right Hand of the Lord of Dunthruik alighting on the West Bank.

  Fearing a chorus of jeers or curses, Eamon did not meet the watching eyes. But neither curse nor jeer met him. The men simply stared: the Master’s eagle had reached their camp.

  Leon led them firmly through the camp to a clearing. The sound of the River roared behind them. The breeze carried snatches of song. The wayfarers were in good spirits.

  The clearing to which they went was filled with a long row of tents. Each was grander than those that stood near the River and they bore a host of different banners and flags. At the far end of that long line of pavilions hung a banner that showed the sword and star, and by it another, bearing a unicorn. The pavilion that they marked was made from great folds of blue fabric. As he looked up at it, Eamon’s blood ran hot. The King was there.

  They crossed the field swiftly. In the fallen dark Eamon could see the figures of men standing between the tents. More men stood on guard at the pavilion’s entrance. One of them gave a start and stared at him in astonishment. As he passed by, Eamon realized the man was Giles.

  Leon took them quietly inside, and the guards held open the entrance to the pavilion so that Wilhelm and his banner could pass unimpeded. As they entered, Eamon had to blink to adjust his eyes to the torchlight.

  “The Right Hand of Edelred,” Leon announced. As he did so Eamon gazed about himself in astonishment.

  The whole tent was blue. Silver facings lined its edges. There was a table to one side and various trunks about it, each covered with blue cloth. It filled Eamon’s eyes with the sting of tears. After so many long months of unending red and black and gold, the gentle touch of the King’s blue was like waves of water coursing through a shrivelled land. The colour washed into his heart to cleanse him from weariness and toil.

  Others were in the tent – men that he knew and who knew him. They stood together by the table. Eamon was overjoyed to see them, but he caught sight of Wilhelm and the red reminded him who he had to be and what he had to do.

  “Greetings to you, Right Hand,” said a voice – a trumpet of homecoming to his long benighted heart. “And greetings also to your escort.”

  “You would greet us?” spat Heathlode in surprise.

  “Lord Heathlode,” Eamon reprimanded sternly.

  The Hand pressed his lips together and stared defiantly back at the one who had greeted them. That man smiled.

  “Men of Dunthruik are always welcome here,” he said.

  Heathlode’s jaw fell open and he turned to Eamon as though to speak again.

  But Eamon did not meet his gaze. Instead he looked up and inclined his head formally towards the speaker.

  “For your greetings we exchange our own, Serpent,” he answered.

  Hughan nodded graciously. Eamon felt a flood of joy pass through him as their gazes met.

  “Lord Goodman brings terms from the throned,” Leon told them.

  “Indeed!” snorted Anastasius. The Easter lord stood near Hughan and wore an amused expression.

  “We will hear the terms, Lord Goodman,” Hughan said.

  Eamon drew the roll from off his back and opened it. There was a thick scroll inside, and this he withdrew, handing the empty canister to Lonnam. As he unrolled the scroll, his eyes were met first by the great eagle which spanned the crown of the paper and then by the words, each pristinely but ornately scribed.

  His blood chilled: how could he read what lay in his hand to Hughan? How much he wished that he could hurl the thing away! They were vile words and he could not lay them against the one he served.

  He looked up and saw that Hughan watched him. The King knew his doubt. “Do as you came to do, Lord Goodman,” he said. “I am listening.”

  Eamon drew a deep breath. The eagle peered at him, crying to him of his broken faith, as he read:

  From the hand of the Crowned Eagle, Edelred, glorious Lord and Master of Dunthruik and all its realm; to the Serpent, who presumes to name himself heir to a broken house.

  In this land he is both trespasser and recreant, base-born and unlessoned; this land and city and throne revile him, naming him foe and villain, devourer and slanderer. In his wickedness the Serpent has betrayed east and west, drawing them from our wing to his threadbare and barren banner.

  In his foolish arrogance he has dared to come against us in war. For the sake of this land which he would claim, let the Serpent heed well these terms of peace that we, the Lord and Master of Dunthruik, magnanimously extend to him, one undeserving of our beneficence.

  First, the Serpent shall cede all his claims to this land, disowning blood and gainsaying any oaths that he has made. All rights of blood and oath shall be rendered unto Edelred, Master of Dunthruik and the River, and shall be rendered by the Serpent’s own tongue and hand, as a lasting ordinance.

  Second, the Serpent shall give his binding oath to leave this land; neither he nor his descendants shall ever enter it again, and his followers shall lay down their arms and commit themselves to the service of the Master of Dunthruik.

  Third, the Serpent and his allies will vow never again to take up arms against sovereign Dunthruik, its allies, its realms, and its glorious Master.

  Fourth, the Serpent shall recompense in full for his hostility against this land, paying for every damage caused in the pursuit of his wrongdoing.

  Fifth, the Serpent will himself bow his knee to the Master of Dunthruik, coming in person to ratify the terms of this concord within a day of its delivera
nce. He will send word of his acceptance by the Right Hand of Edelred before dawn on the fifteenth day of May, in the Five hundred and thirty-third year of the Master’s throne.

  Non-concordance with these terms will be interpreted as incitement for the Master of Dunthruik to defend his own by all means available to him, showing neither pity to the fallen nor mercy to the defeated.

  Eamon finished reading; his throat felt dry and he fought to keep his hands from shaking. The Master’s seal was at the foot of the page, and Eamon shuddered to touch it. Some terrible power seemed bound up in both that mark and the words, which filled the tent with silence.

  Scarcely daring to breathe, he looked to Hughan. Of all the faces in the pavilion the King’s alone remained calm and determined.

  “I will discuss these terms with Edelred’s Right Hand,” he said. “Lord Anastasius, Lord Ithel, and Leon, I would have you remain also. Leon, please have Giles lead the Right Hand’s escort to a place where they may wait. Then send Lord Feltumadas to me.”

  Leon bowed at once and stepped outside the doorway. Eamon looked back to the Hands and cadet. Lonnam looked pale, and Wilhelm bit his lip. Heathlode simply set his jaw. Eamon met each of their gazes in turn.

  “Remember my words,” he cautioned.

  “Yes, Lord Goodman,” they replied.

  Leon and Giles returned, the latter leading a group of men. Hughan looked to Eamon’s escort. “You will not be harmed.” Then the King nodded to Giles, who led Hands, cadet, and banner away.

  Eamon felt the weight of the terms as he looked back to the watching Easter lords and King. The King looked at him and smiled.

  “Well met, First Knight,” he said at last, “and well come.”

  Overwhelmed, Eamon sank down to one knee and bowed his head. No words came to him, but the one to whom he knelt crossed the distance between them and lifted him to his feet. Eamon tried to meet the King’s loving gaze but his heart was both awed and shamed to be its object.

  “How can you greet me thus,” he whispered, “after what I have brought to you?” His tongue burnt with the names he had been forced to lay against the King; his heart churned with betrayal. The throned had known that he would read them. It filled him with bile.

  Hughan watched him for a moment. “I know you,” he answered, “and I have known you since long before you walked in Dunthruik.” He looked down at the parchment in Eamon’s hands. “There was no shame in your reading this to me, and I am not sorry that you brought it.”

  Eamon stared, bereft of words. Tears touched his eyes and he shook. To come, after long weeks of walking in Edelred’s palace, into the star-wrapped pavilion of the King, and to be loved and welcomed by that man, was more than he could comprehend.

  It was then that Hughan smiled, reached forward, and embraced him. “Eamon!” he said, and laughed.

  Eamon had never known such relief as in that moment.

  Hughan stepped back from him and pressed his shoulder encouragingly. Almost in a daze, Eamon became aware once more of the Easter lords.

  “What means the throned by sending terms?” asked a voice.

  Eamon looked up and for a moment his heart froze, for Feltumadas came storming into the pavilion, his voice full of outrage. Feltumadas was accompanied by three other Easter lords – two of whom appeared to be twins – along with two of Hughan’s generals. Though Eamon remembered almost at once that the man sweeping past him was truly Feltumadas he felt a flicker of fear run through his veins.

  “Terms, indeed!” Feltumadas spat.

  It was then that the Easter lord suddenly stopped, looked once to Hughan and his allies, and then back to Eamon with an astonished stare. “You!”

  “Me,” Eamon offered.

  “You are Right Hand?” Feltumadas asked. Eamon was about to reply when Anastasius spoke.

  “He is without his colours,” he said.

  Eamon met their gazes. “I have my colours. Indeed, I promised you, Lord Anastasius, that when next we met, you would see me wear them truly.”

  “I see a good deal of black, Lord Goodman.” Anastasius peered at him with interest. “What say you to that?”

  “Little,” Eamon answered. Gently he reached up to the fastening of his cloak and undid it, before setting his hands to his black robes. He pushed back the weaves of black to reveal what he wore beneath. He had had to search long among his things to find it, had feared even that it might be lost in one of the many changes of quarters he had made since he had first bought it, but he had found it. As the Easter lords looked at him, their eyes grew wide.

  For beneath his thick travelling cloak and darkling robes, Edelred’s Right Hand wore a shirt of blue. It was still torn where the King’s emblem had been ripped away at a ball so long ago, but the shirt’s colour shone unrepentantly in the torchlight.

  Eamon looked up to meet Anastasius’s gaze – he, Leon, Ithel, Feltumadas, and the remaining Easters and generals stared at him in surprise. Hughan smiled.

  “You are a man of your word, Lord Goodman,” Anastasius said at last, a delighted smile on his face.

  “Are you the man who struck off my head?” Feltumadas asked.

  “Yes,” Eamon answered.

  Suddenly Feltumadas’s fierce face broke into a smile uncannily like his father’s. “You excelled yourself in boldness that day, First Knight,” he said, “and I thank you for it.”

  Eamon stared at him. Feltumadas nodded once, then looked to Hughan. “What is this I hear of terms, Star?” he asked.

  “They are here,” Hughan answered, gesturing to the paper still in Eamon’s hands.

  “The throned does not ask much,” Ithel put in. But for the glint to his eye, Eamon might have taken his words seriously.

  “The Star’s withdrawal, humiliation, oath of service, and blood of his first-born child?” Feltumadas asked.

  “He stops a little short of that, brother,” Ithel replied. “But only a little.”

  Feltumadas turned to Eamon and took the terms. He read them quickly, his face turning from one shade of disgust and outrage to another. He soon looked up with an angry laugh.

  “I don’t believe it!” he cried, and looked to Hughan. “You would hear my counsel, Star of Brenuin?”

  “I know your counsel, good Feltumadas,” Hughan answered. He looked up to include each of his generals and allies in his gaze. “I believe I know what you would all counsel me.”

  “We will follow your command, sire,” Leon told him, “whatever our counsel.”

  “You cannot take these terms!” Feltumadas insisted.

  “They are not terms unless in name,” Eamon told them. “He wants you to fight, Hughan. He is waiting for you with… with terrifying eagerness.” He felt the eyes of the others on him and turned again to Hughan. “He has had me with him day by day, and I have seen him; I have heard his thoughts. All that matters to him is that you fight.”

  Silence fell. Hughan looked at them one by one. “We did not come here to be bound to Edelred,” he said. “Nor did we come to let his desire for battle turn us from it.”

  Eamon matched his gaze. “Then, sire, you may have need of this.”

  Every eye was on him as he reached deep into his robes and shirt and quietly drew out the map that he had brought from Dunthruik. He unfolded it and laid it on the table with the terms, smoothing the creases and gazing down at the city. A strange feeling moved through his heart; of pity and sorrow that the streets and stones would have to bear the violence which he knew to come.

  “This map was drawn by a fine cadet. It is the most detailed of the city that exists. When you prepare for battle – and that must be early, with the first light – you must beware an initial charge from the cavalry in the north. It will take us a long time to deploy our men onto the field; they will all come from the Blind Gate. Make as much use of that time as you can.”

  “And you are certain about all this?” Leon asked suspiciously.

  “I am the Right Hand,” Eamon answered quietly, “an
d I presided over the council where Dunthruik’s plan of battle was decided. The cadet who drew this map served me while he lived. I have walked through the Blind Gate many times and know well its width. The city also has some form of artillery – something I believe to be beyond mere engines. I know no more of it than that and so I say: be wary.”

  An odd look crossed Anastasius’s face, but Hughan nodded firmly. “Thank you, Eamon,” he said.

  “There is another matter that I must speak to you about,” Eamon added, meeting the King’s gaze. “It concerns the Nightholt.”

  Hughan watched him for a moment and then nodded.

  “Would you have us leave you?” Anastasius asked.

  “Thank you, Lord Anastasius.”

  Together the Easter lords left the tent and, at a nod from Hughan, Leon and the other generals went with them. Eamon watched anxiously as they left and then looked back to Hughan.

  “Anastasius knows a little about the Nightholt,” Hughan said quietly. “I received your message. Know that Mr Grennil and his family are safe, and delivered your message well.”

  A weight fell from him. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you for sending him,” Hughan answered.

  “You may not thank me for what I have done,” Eamon spoke nervously. “The Nightholt was found. I found it, a long time ago, but some Hand withheld it from the Mast… the throned. I took it to him.” He shivered, feeling its weight on his hands and fire in his flesh. “I gave it to him. Since then…”

  “He has been waiting for me.”

  “Yes.”

  Hughan gently touched his shoulder. “Peace.”

  “It is the greatest treachery I have done you!” Eamon replied. “The curse of my blood came upon me in that hour, Hughan! How can I have peace? I made myself his in doing it.”

  “How long must you believe him? You know he is a liar set against you. You are not his, First Knight,” Hughan answered firmly. “Your heart is true and your blood is not cursed.”

  “Don’t you know what the Nightholt is?” Eamon yelled and then he fell awkwardly silent. “Hughan, I’m sorry.”

  Hughan measured and then calmly matched his gaze. “I know what it is,” he said, “and what was perverted to make it.”