The Broken Blade

by Anna Thayer

  His arm ached. Slowly he rubbed his fingers across the place where the fangs of Cathair’s hound had gripped him.

  Whatever he did in the morning, he was to be a traitor. He had always been one. Was he not blind to think that he could come from the battle and have but one name, and one allegiance? Two oaths he had sworn and two marks he bore. The scion of treachery, the house of Goodman was a stillborn house; it did not deserve to live.

  Eamon’s mind reached after Eben’s dagger. By Right Hands was it wielded – Eben and Cathair were not the least of those whose lives it had claimed.

  In the darkness of his thought, Eamon rose from his bed and crossed the room to where the dagger lay. Slowly, he knelt down by it and drew it from its sheath, holding the curved blade before him in the pale moonlight.

  The letters were there; they glared grimly back at him. He reached forward and quietly touched his fingers to them, feeling their cutting shape beneath his skin.

  Surely his task was done? Battle would be joined, and there was nothing now that lay in his power to halt it, or to bring victory or defeat to either side. And what awaited him in victory or in defeat? There was no hope of peace, or rest, or life for him. His life was spent, worn out in deception and in tears, and his blood spent also in the child that had never lived to bear it. What hope had he for goodness or for clemency? What desire had he for life?

  As Eamon gazed down at the blade an answer shivered down his spine: none. To live was to plunge himself ever more deeply in sorrow and in blood. To reach the dawn was to declare his treachery and incur the wrath and hatred of those who admired him.

  You need not reach the dawn, Eben’s son.

  Stunned, Eamon looked at the blade in his hands. It glinted back at him and, as he held it, its weight and shape and form seemed good to him. That dagger seemed the only good thing to him in all the world. He had borne much: who could ask him to carry more? How could he carry more?

  And why should he? It was not despair in his heart, but rebellion. Why should he suffer and bleed and die for any man, or beneath any hand but his own? Why should he live and risk the breeding and bleeding of his house?

  He gazed at the dagger’s guileful blade and saw his own eyes caged between the letters, as though he saw them in a dark and bitter glass. His last service to the city, the Eagle, and the Star could, should, and would be his death.

  Eamon.

  The blade was in his hands and turned towards him, leaning against his very heart as he prepared to cast himself upon it – but the voice, and a memory of Hughan, halted him. “Your blood is not cursed…”

  With trembling hands he cast the blade from him; it clashed into the wall and fell with an angry clatter to the ground. Light flickered on the letters.

  Shaking, Eamon crawled to the post of his bed. He pressed his hands and shuddering body against it and drove his face into his arms.

  Coward! The voice seethed so loudly that it seemed to shake the room. Miserable wretch!

  Eamon.

  Tearfully Eamon looked up to see a weeping man. The vision seemed astonishingly clear, and the depth of the man’s grief was so forceful that Eamon knew it in his own heart. It was in the closeness of their hearts that he knew the man he saw as Eben.

  Suddenly a lady was there. She was fair, her shining eyes were blue, and as Eamon watched she knelt down at Eben’s side. He recoiled from her with woe.

  “Come not near me!” Eben cried, his voice raised in anguish. “I am nothing but a curse!”

  With gentle, fearless hands, the woman reached forward and touched his face.

  “These ills will be undone,” she breathed, “and blessings will be wrought through you.” The lady leaned forward to kiss his grieved and wearied brow, driving back his care and leaving awe upon him. “Peace, Eben,” she whispered. “Peace.”

  It was then that Eamon knew her: Ede’s sister, the root of Hughan’s line, Elaina.

  As the vision faded away he gazed again at his room. The queen’s word of peace filled it, and the shadows shrank.

  “My lord?”

  The quiet voice stirred through his silent dreams. Eamon drew open his eyes. “Yes?”

  “It is time.”

  “Thank you, Mr Cartwright.”

  He rose slowly from his bed. The sky hung dark outside without even the faintest trace of dawn. By lamplight Eamon went, shivering, to his hall and ate what Cartwright brought him. As he finished, Fletcher appeared.

  “Lord Goodman,” he said, his voice dry with the early hour. “We wait to arm you.”

  “Very well, Fletcher,” Eamon answered. “Come.”

  Fletcher bowed and left the room. Moments later he returned with a group of servants. They carried with them the various parts of the armour that the throned had had made for him. As each splendid piece was brought and laid down on a long table before him, Eamon’s stomach turned with dread.

  At Fletcher’s command all the servants left the room. Eamon was alone with his lieutenant and servant. The armour watched him in the darkness – armour fit for a Right Hand and for one beloved of the Master. It had been made to hold him, and him alone.

  Eamon looked at Cartwright and Fletcher. “Let me be armed,” he breathed.

  They dressed him in a thick doublet and hose, lacing them together at his sides and back. Eamon felt the strength of the material on him; it was padded. Sturdy mail gussets covered the spaces under his arms where the armour would not protect him. Cartwright and Fletcher worked silently together and bound the arming points with expert hands. When the doublet was secured, they lay the armour on him.

  He stood as sabatons and greaves were buckled onto his feet and legs, then the cuisses and poleyn, both tightly strapped away from any attacker’s blade.

  Are you ready for war, son of Eben?

  He longed for peace. He longed for a peace that would fill his heart and the River Realm just as Elaina’s kiss had renewed Eben. Such peace, and all his hope, lay in the King.

  Cartwright lifted the breastplate and held it steady as Fletcher began strapping it closely to Eamon’s body.

  You long for peace? The desire of a righteous man! The voice scoffed at him. Neither peace nor righteousness can be yours, Eben’s son.

  He had striven to do right until his heart broke. Had it not been enough?

  The plates and plackarts snapped closely together and the straps binding them were tied. Then Fletcher brought him his pauldrons, upper cannons, vambraces and couters, deftly sliding them over his outstretched arms and fixing them all in place with the arming points worked into his doublet. The pauldrons sat on his shoulders like a layer of finely articulated scales that moved as fluidly as he did.

  “Your hands, my lord,” Fletcher said quietly. Eamon extended them and Fletcher slid gloves and gauntlets over them. Then he brought Eamon’s belt and sword.

  “The blade will break and turn true…” Ashway’s prophecy came back to him. As Fletcher girt the sword securely to his left hip, Eamon knew that this day, more than any other, was the day that his turning would be proven.

  You turn to the words of a frenzied, witless seer for encouragement? They will not save you. You are but broken, Eben’s son. I broke you. There is no truth left in you to turn.

  Fletcher left his side and returned a moment later carrying Eben’s dagger. As Eamon saw it, his blood ran cold.

  In striking bound, son of Eben.

  Fletcher reached up to set the thing at his side. Eamon summoned his courage and turned from the voice.

  “Leave the dagger,” he said.

  Fletcher looked at him in surprise. “You will need it, my lord.”

  “I will have another,” Eamon answered. “I shall not be bound to this one.”

  “It is the blade of the Right Hand –”

  “And this Right Hand has no hand for curved blades,” Eamon answered. “Leave it here. I will have another.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  A simple dagger was set at Eamon’s right
hip and then his tabard was brought to him. It was black and bore Edelred’s own eagle in red, just as the banner Eamon had borne to the parley. Fletcher set it over his breast and made sure that the sleeves hung correctly over the vambraces.

  Last of all they brought him his helmet. It had no visor and offered no protection for his lower face, so that he might see. Three feathers, each of black and red, crested it, and a twisted cord of the same colours marked its rim. It was set on his head.

  You are bound to me, Eben’s son, bound by blood. You cannot undo a work of blood; the Serpent will not loose or save you from it. The voice’s strength was overwhelming, and fire drove at his brow and hands.

  But the queen’s whispered peace was as a grace over his heart. In that peace did he answer.

  “You do not understand,” he laughed. “I am a King’s man, under the King’s grace. No power of blood or scheme of yours can bind me!”

  In silence, the voice left him.

  Fletcher stepped back and looked at him. “You are ready, my lord,” he breathed.

  “Thank you,” Eamon answered; and he was.

  Dawn began to mark the sky when Eamon left the palace. From his quarters to the palace gates, its corridors were lined with men and women who watched his departure. He saw hope and fear in their eyes. The battle weighed on them but it weighed on him all the more, for he knew that he had become the emblem and banner of their courage.

  The streets of Dunthruik were filled with men. Everywhere, he heard the din and saw the eerie glint of arms and armour. Sahu had been armed no less awesomely than he; curved plates covered the small white star-mark upon his forehead.

  He rode to the Blind Gate. The roads nearby were choked with Hands.

  Arlaith was at the Blind Gate looking out over the walls. The Hand wore a full, dark tabard and a long cloak ridged with ochre. The feathers on his helmet showed the same colours.

  Eamon climbed up to him, feeling the strange weight of his armour with each step. He wondered if Arlaith suffered from any similar impediment. The effect of the Left Hand’s tabard and cloak was to lessen any impression of armour at all.

  “Lord Goodman.” Arlaith bowed before coming forward and clasping his hand. “Good morning. How fare you?” he added softly.

  “Well,” Eamon answered.

  “You are well armoured,” Arlaith commented.

  “A gift from the Master,” Eamon replied. He turned and looked out across the pre-dawn plain. There was not yet much to see; the plain lay still and silent. Somewhere in the near distance he heard birdsong. It seemed unearthly. “You will lead the Hands?” he asked, turning back to the Lord of the East Quarter.

  “Yes, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith answered. “We’ll give the Serpent’s hobilars a good fretting, and make space for the knights and infantry – and for yourself.”

  Eamon nodded. He was to ride out at the head of the army. “When do you go?”

  Arlaith pulled a face as he assessed the colour of the sky. “Before dawn.”

  “Not long from now,” Eamon murmured.

  “No.”

  They stood in silence. Recollections of Arlaith’s dire revelations – of her betrayal; had he learned of it just yesterday? – seeped into his consciousness. Eamon steeled himself against them: this was not the time for grief or anger. He had much to do.

  As the dawn continued climbing to the sky, the square below them became saturated with Hands.

  At that moment a Gauntlet officer came up the wall to them, and bowed low. Eamon recognized him as one of the East Quarter’s first lieutenants. “My lords,” he said. “I have enquired as you asked, Lord Arlaith.”

  “There is news?” Arlaith asked.

  “Lord Tramist is nowhere to be found,” the officer answered. “He has not been seen since he returned from the war council.”

  Arlaith’s gaze flicked suspiciously to Eamon, then hardened. “I fear for his safety,” he said. “Tramist would not willingly absent himself in Dunthruik’s hour of need.”

  Eamon stared at Arlaith. “Can we not send out more men to search for him?”

  Arlaith shook his head. “And which men would you send, my lord? All our forces are committed to the front. Which ones would you have me withdraw against the Master’s orders to act upon an unfounded suspicion? I fear Lord Tramist must rely on his own resources for the time being – provided he still lives.”

  “Why should he be dead?”

  “Why indeed?” Arlaith answered cuttingly. He looked back to the first lieutenant. “Assign full command to his captain,” he said, dismissing the officer with a curt wave of his hand. The officer bowed once more and left. Arlaith fixed Eamon with a disconcertingly full and penetrating gaze. “Why indeed.”

  “I do not care for your tone. Do you mean to charge me with his death?” Eamon demanded.

  Arlaith shook his head as he looked down at the Hands below. “No, my lord,” he replied. “My apologies.”

  Eamon was about to speak again when he caught a glimpse of another figure coming down the Coll. Stepping to the edge of the wall, he looked down upon a sight that stole all speech from him.

  The Master rode towards the Blind Gate. He too was armoured, but his armour showed forth like flecks of golden fire in the dim half-light. Red was the tabard that he wore, red the long, gold-hemmed cloak that flowed behind him and red the flaming hair that spilled like tongues of fire from beneath the crown upon his brow. The horse on which he rode was like a steed that had come, flaming, from the very sun itself.

  All those in the road fell back before him, some bowing in wordless wonder and others calling on his glory. The Lord of Dunthruik rode to the gate of his city.

  It was by the steps that led up to the Blind Gate’s walls that the throned dismounted. Robed in fiery splendour, he ascended to the wall’s full height to the place where Eamon and Arlaith both stood. As he reached them, both Right Hand and Left dropped down to one knee.

  “Your glory, Master,” they said.

  “Rise,” the Master commanded. They did. Edelred looked out across the plain towards the River. He smiled.

  “Take your Hands and lead them out, Arlaith,” he commanded.

  “Yes, Master,” Arlaith answered. “To your glory.” He bowed once more before descending the wall.

  Eamon stood silently with the Master, enveloped by the hanging grey of the coming morning. He could see a great number of hobilars out on the plain, soon to be lit by the rising sun. Eamon sensed an odd feeling of nausea in his stomach, and wasn’t sure whether it was the result of his own anxiety or the effect of doublet and armour bound about it.

  It was then that the Master turned to him. “Once, son of Eben, your forebear and I stood on this wall and surveyed this plain.” Edelred smiled. “I do not think he thought that one of his house would stand here with me again.”

  The Master’s reverie chilled Eamon to the core. “It is my great honour to stand with you, Master, and to serve your glory.”

  The Master reached across and laid his fingers to his face. He said no word.

  With a great sound as of a roaring river, the Blind Gate opened. Moments later a dark tide of Hands flooded out of it, Arlaith at its head. To their left, more poured out of the North Gate. The sound of rumbling hooves thudded in Eamon’s ears, and with it a great cry:

  “His glory!”

  The Hands advanced to form a screen across the plain. Behind this sheltering cove of Hands, Eamon would soon ride, followed by the knights.

  “Son of Eben.” Edelred’s voice was full of pride and quivering eagerness. “You were born for this day.”

  He could scarcely endure the gaze with which the Lord of Dunthruik held him, yet Eamon took the Master’s gauntleted hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it.

  “To your glory, Master,” he said.

  Edelred laid a smile upon him. “Go forth in it, my son,” he said. His grey eyes filled with anticipation and delight.

  Eamon quitted the walls and descended to
the gate. Sahu awaited him, armoured head tossing between red harnesses. Wilhelm was also there – the young man had been armoured and wore a tabard that bore a design reverse to Eamon’s own. The pole of the great standard was black and gold and the Master’s standard ran high at its top. By Wilhelm rode two trumpeters, and by them, two Hands, Heathlode and Lonnam.

  Eamon looked at them as he mounted. He wondered whether his poor horse, which had borne him and borne with him through long miles, would live out the day. He touched Sahu’s head fondly as he took the reins. General Rocell and the knights drew up in the streets, ready to parade out of the gates behind him.

  He looked up to the city wall. The Master gazed down at him, a broad smile on his face.

  With that face upon him, Eamon turned his gaze to the open gate. The plain was caught between it, a dun stage soon to be bloodied as the day’s events played out. He wondered what the Blind Gate would see that day.

  He touched his spurs to his horse’s flanks. The gate was before him, the knights behind, and the crisp notes of his trumpeters heralded his going as he passed under the great threshold of Dunthruik. Every stone in the Blind Gate seemed vivid to him.

  The sun rose before him as he rode out of the gates. Dunthruik, its voice raised up in a tumultuous cry, followed him.

  “His glory!”

  Though it was difficult to distinguish anything beyond the screen of Hands, Eamon could see movement across the plain. The arrow-formed lances of knights rode out behind him. He and his staff moved from their path. As each lance exited the city gates, they drew up into banners. Among the glinting sea of banners and crests Eamon recognized the emblems of the Patagons and the Albens; certainly he saw banners of men who had ridden with him to Pinewood.

  Eamon watched in silence as the knights streamed from the Blind Gate, each one a grim and armoured harbinger of the morning. He commanded many men. Many of them rode to their deaths. And the reward that he would render them for their service?

  He hoped for their defeat.

  He caught movement in the screen of Hands to the north. The line fell back before a counter-attack. Some Hands fell, though not many; most simply rode back apace as the screen continued to protect the deploying knights. To the south, cavalry rode across the Easter bridge. By the glint of colour he spied, Eamon knew the coming men to be Easters. The King’s infantry were not far behind them. The Hands, led by Arlaith, fell back to regroup.