by Tom Deitz
The one thing he did know was that he was going to try again right now.
A third breath, and he tried to focus on two things alone: the power he could feel in the gem, which blazed there like a hot coal enclosed in cold iron—present, and warming, but not available to light any fires. And his desire for all this to end, to free himself of this dangerous southern king who threatened everything he held dear. And so, he simply wished at the stone, trying to turn off his intellect so that the raw force of emotion ruled—as it had done, to his detriment, far too often.
For a moment nothing happened. But then … it warmed. Or something; the sensation was impossible to describe. Abruptly, he felt something tug at him. Not at his physical body, but at his self, his consciousness. He tried to control it by raw desire. It resisted; he tried harder. But he had managed to activate it, which meant he might be able to act on his desire.
Out, he thought desperately. Away. Gone from here. Escaped. And with that, he tried to imagine being gone. Freedom around him. Familiarity. Security.
But the image that came to him was of Merryn: asleep—possibly drugged. Without intending to, he moved toward her—a familiar face in an alien country, a person whom he knew to be strong and free. A potentially valuable ally.
Avall? she queried, unbelieving.
Eddyn.
He recoiled from the wash of anger. Yet with it, hiding in it, was a sort of resigned hope.
I’m here and prisoner, he dared. Barrax has the gem, and—
Avall should have it!
Not at present. It was an … accident.
If you’ve hurt him …
In no way he can’t survive. But there’s no time for this. Barrax is watching me. I was trying to escape.
How?
In trying to explain it to her, he found himself thinking images at her that were not limited by words. She grasped some of it—maybe more than he wanted, for that history was bound up with his assault on Avall.
“Eron-man!”
The words came from without, grabbing at him. Seeking to wrest him away from the first hope he’d had in days.
I have to go. I’ll try to work with this thing again. Maybe we can get out of here.
Maybe.
“Eron-man!” that voice thundered.
Eddyn opened his eyes, noted a roaring headache, and closed them again as he found Barrax glaring at him. He shivered uncontrollably.
The king’s glare became a stare. “I don’t know what you did, but that thing glowed slightly, and I felt … colder. It’s not what I wanted, but maybe it’s enough to let you live.”
The king reached for the gem, but paused, and grasped the chain instead. Ever so carefully, he lowered it into a pouch, which he placed in another and stored at his waist.
Then he looked at Eddyn.
Eddyn wasn’t looking back, however.
He seemed to have gone to sleep or fainted. Barrax wondered if it was normal for people to shiver in their sleep like that.
CHAPTER XXII:
PRELUDE TO WAR
ERON; NORTH OF SOUTH GORGE-NEAR SPRING: DAY XXXVII-MIDAFTERNOON
In spite of what his scouts had told him, High King Gynn was approaching the pass called Eron’s Belt with trepidation. Lodged between the ragged peaks of Angen’s Spine on one hand, and the cold Oval Sea on the other, his kingdom consisted mostly of an unbroken line of forested hills following the roots of the mountains, above an open plain of varying width, which in turn slid down to the coast, all split by the six principal gorges, running northwest to southeast. Just ahead, however, mountains, woods, plain, and shore pinched together, giving the country a kind of waist, which was both its vulnerability and its potential salvation, now that War-Hold had fallen. North of that narrowing lay four gorges, in order from the south: Eron, Mid, Dead, and North. Below were South Gorge and Half. The Belt was maybe a quarter way up the land’s length.
It was also the last place short of Eron Gorge itself where Gynn could expect to meet Barrax and hold him—and the best place from which to ride to the defense of South Gorge, if it wasn’t too late already. Even that assumed a certain predictability on Barrax’s part: namely that he and his south-born army would take the safe route along the coast, leaving the Eronese, with their greater tolerance for cold and snow, to claim the heights. From what Gynn had heard, Barrax, though rash and headstrong, was no fool.
Unfortunately, he had one advantage Gynn lacked. Barrax was ruler absolute. He could demand every live body in Ixti walk naked across raw ice, and expect to be obeyed. Even in war, Gynn was subject to reelection and the Rule of Law.
Not that the war-call hadn’t gone out in haste and in force; conscripting levies from every hold within reach—even sleds to North Gorge, which would be icebound for another eighth. Warcraft, in particular, had responded better than expected, though he suspected he’d pay the price of that support in favors if he survived this mess.
At least he wasn’t sitting home playing bureaucrat.
Without really thinking about it, he reined in his steed—an icy white stallion named Snowmelt—and motioned the troops to a halt behind. His elite guard rode vanguard there, a neat line of gold-washed helms and bright swords and spears, all in the crimson cloaks of War-Hold-Prime. Both Tryffon and Preedor accompanied that host, though one was properly too old; unfortunately, there’d been no time to argue.
In any case, the sun was high in a cloudless sky, and the road gleamed with a mix of water and melting ice between the well-laid paving stones. More snow showed among the pines to either side, but the plains looked largely free of the stuff. It had been with no small relief that Gynn had watched the snowpack shrink from waist high, to ankle deep, to splotches of clear ground as he’d led the army south. And now there was a high meadow just ahead, nestled in a bowl between the approaching gap and a higher, final declivity, from which one could look down upon the Ri-Ormill that fed South Gorge, roughly two shots away, down an intimidatingly steep slope. The head of the Gorge itself was farther to the east: two more shots, at least.
The army would bivouac there. The site allowed maximum flexibility. And, depending on the quality of Barrax’s advisers—and prisoners—his foe likely didn’t know it existed.
Impulsively, Gynn slid off his horse and strode forward through the slush, tossing his reins to a squire in Beast-Hold livery beneath War. At that moment, a rider appeared atop the rise ahead. Gynn reached for his sword reflexively, but the man stretched his arms straight out from his body in token of identification, then started down the track.
Tired from the saddle, Gynn marched out to meet him, motioning his advisers to follow. Orders to dismount flowed up and down the line. Already men from the baggage train were rushing up with camp seats and food. Gynn claimed the flattest place he could find, pouring two mugs of hot cider while he waited. He sipped his gratefully.
The scout dismounted when he came within the requisite three spans, then knelt at two. “I need news more than ceremony,” Gynn told him calmly. “Come, sit. Or stand if you will. We need to know what lies beyond.”
Probably not attack, Gynn reckoned, for the scout—he recognized him now: a lad named Whyllor, and, like most of his kind, a Geographer out of Lore by way of War—was fairly composed and in nowise out of breath, though he’d recently knelt in mud, to judge by his tunic, cloak, and hose.
Whyllor pushed back his hood and took the mug from the King’s own hands.
Gynn waited while he drank, noting a disturbance in the ranks to the left and a flash of green and gold that meant someone in messenger garb was pushing through the assembled multitude. Good: He’d have two reports at once.
“How lies the land beyond?” Gynn asked when the man had emptied his mug. “And how lies my enemy upon it?”
Whyllor wiped his mouth self-consciously. “It is as we suspected from his seizure of Half Gorge: He has split his force in two. One part even now infests the tree line beyond the Ri, most likely to come upon the tower and the gorge fr
om the west as soon as the floods recede. The other waits a day’s ride to the south.”
“And the size of this force?”
“The nearer is smaller than yours. The farther—we were unable to get close enough to tell, though, of course, we’re still trying.”
“And the Gorge itself: Does it know?”
“It does. As has always been the plan in case of such attack, the people who inhabit the Gorge’s upper reaches will move toward the Tir-Vonees at the coast, then turn north where the cliffs lower, and join you. The cost will be in buildings and position.”
“But Barrax has not yet reached the river?”
“His scouts surely have, but the floods were early this year and therefore extensive enough to fill Ormill Vale right up to the roots of the mountains. Barrax will expect a plain and find a lake. Nor do I think they know we’re as close as we are—yet. We’ve been very thorough. We know the land, they don’t. And they’d have to skirt through the mountains.”
Tryffon cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, the floods hold us off as well as our foe, and during the floods, even the bridges across the Ri-Ormill are drowned. Still—if I may offer advice, Majesty—we could slight the causeways to them. We may not be able to disable them all, but if we concentrate on those at the top of the Gorge, the bulk of our folk could still escape to the north, and we could force our enemy either to cross the river at flood, or go into the mountains, where we will have advantage.”
Gynn nodded. “So I was thinking. Yet it seems too simple. Barrax looks to have relied mostly on surprise and the fact that he has the weather on his side. But his supply lines are much longer than ours, even if he relies on pillaged stores—of which, I fear, there are many. He will also find his flanks harried. Only a twentieth part of our people dwell in Half Gorge at the best of times, but I doubt many of them will take to Barrax’s rule. Every adult down there has spent time at War-Hold; they know how to fight. Even if no trained leaders survive, leaders will still arise. If we can hold them here until our own numbers are up to strength, we can win this thing. They are a hard wire of arrogance stretched across our land, with new filaments added now and then. We are a forge growing ever hotter. We will melt them if they come too close.”
“Unless our fire goes out.”
“And,” Tryffon sighed, “don’t forget about Eddyn—and the gem.”
“Wherever Eddyn is, he surely has sense enough to avoid the armies of Ixti.”
“Unless he seeks to throw in his lot with them. He would have a powerful bargaining tool in the gem’s communication abilities alone. And we’ve given him little cause to remain loyal to us.”
Gynn nodded. “A rape. An assault. A defiling. A possible poisoning. Two more assaults. The theft of a national treasure. It is as though the man is trying to cut his own throat.”
“Maybe,” Tryffon acknowledged. “But surely we have other concerns than Eddyn syn Argen-yr.”
Another nod. “One of which is to set up camp, and ring that camp with the best spies and scouts we have. Barrax will be sending feelers north. We must see that none succeed—though even failure to return will tell him something.”
Tryffon motioned to a young man in his entourage and muttered a few words to him, whereupon he left at a run. “You should have a roof over your head in less than a hand. There’s a ruined hold on one horn of the gap, which overlooks the vale, but it would take some work—”
“The tent will more than suffice,” Gynn replied frankly. “But have someone assess the hold, just in case—it would be a more comfortable place in which to plan.”
“My thinking exactly, Majesty.”
A noise in the ranks proved to be the herald Gynn had noted earlier, jostling his way into the royal presence. His horse was lathered and his face flushed. Gynn hoped the lad was not the bearer of bad news.
“Vallyn syn Morvall,” the youth panted, “with word from Tir-Eron.”
“Word for good or ill?” Gynn demanded formally.
“Mostly good. Mostly from the Council of Chiefs.”
“Give me the gist now,” Gynn said. “You can give your full report at tonight’s council.” And he would, too: every word anyone said, with descriptions of body language at need. Unfortunately, he’d only be able to do it once.
“There was only one significant item of Council business,” Vallyn began, “which is to inform you that the Priests of Fate and the Chiefs of Lore have agreed that this spring’s Fateing can be altered as you asked.”
“Exactly as asked?” Tryffon inserted.
Another nod. “Everyone entering the Fateing for the first time must list War-Hold as his or her first choice. The rest are encouraged to do the same, and those with only one choice remaining, and that not War, will be given four free choices—if we survive this thing. Those with two choices remaining will be given three for free, and so on. The result will be chaos for a while. But if we fail … it won’t matter.”
Gynn grinned his satisfaction. “Exactly as I’d hoped. These new levies should begin arriving soon, then?”
The herald looked uneasy. “That was one thing to which the Council would not agree—Priest-Clan, more precisely. The Fateing will fall as the Law demands.”
The grin became a scowl. “Which is still within the eighth, though I’d hoped to have them sooner. And another eight days for the first to arrive …” Gynn turned to Tryffon. “That is how long we have to hold them.”
“It can be done.”
“Are you certain?”
Tryffon gestured at the sky. “Nothing, my King, is certain.”
Gynn rose to go, but the herald once more cleared his throat. “Majesty, there is one final item it was thought you might need to hear, though it will not make you happy.”
“And that is?”
“Lord Eellon syn Argen-a, Clan-Chief of Argen, is ill. His head and heart have troubled him since Avall’s return, though it is said he tried to hide it. Since then—”
“He’s pushed himself relentlessly,” Gynn spat. “And tried to hide that. Dammit, why couldn’t he have taken better care of himself? I knew he couldn’t travel down here with the army, but I was relying on him to keep the Council in line—to keep Priest-Clan in line, in any event. If he dies—”
“The next eldest member of that clan is old Fallora, who was in North Gorge, last we heard,” Preedor muttered.
“Which would mean the ranking subchief in Tir-Eron would have to take over—who is, I’m afraid, from Argen-yr.”
“If Tyrill doesn’t try to seize control herself. It would be just like her.”
Gynn shuddered, and not from the wind. “She’s still loyal—to the land. But if we survive this and Eellon doesn’t … I don’t want to think.”
“The trek from Gem-Winter has arrived,” the herald murmured, almost as an afterthought. “Tyrill says to tell you she has the shield.”
“Good for her,” Gynn growled. “I hope it doesn’t adorn my tomb.”
CHAPTER XXIII:
ARRIVALS
(ERON: TIR-ERON-NEAR SPRING: DAY XL-LATE AFTERNOON)
Remember the eyes …
Eyes reveal all …
Avall was trying desperately to keep those admonitions in mind as another pair of dark blue eyes met his from behind the eyeslots of a plain war helm. Breath hissed loud within his own steel equivalent; sweat ran in torrents down his spine. His arms were numb from throwing blows and deflecting them. His palms throbbed from impacts against his blade. Endlessly.
He saw an opening, and twisted slightly, drawing his opponent out, then feinted beneath his foe’s arm, only to launch a true blow at the helm. Metal clanged satisfyingly loud. An edge scraped down the back of his helm as well, sliding off padding worn above mail.
His foe crumpled with a grunt and a jingle of armor.
Avall bent to offer a hand up. “I knew I could take you if I made you wait long enough,” he told Lykkon, as the younger man thrust his practice sword into its scabbard before reaching for hi
s chin strap. “Merryn said you were good for exactly a hand, and then impatience intercedes. She was right, too.”
Lykkon had his helm off by then. His hair—cut short in anticipation of combat—was plastered to his forehead in a fringe of points. “I was distracted,” he panted, with a disarming grin.
Avall glared at him as he removed his own helmet. “That grin won’t save you,” he warned. “And distraction can cost you—”
“If you’re going to lecture, at least do it over wine,” Lykkon chuckled, as he strode past Avall to the darkest part of the arcade that surrounded the Citadel’s war court.
Avall had no choice but to follow, helm in one hand, the other wiping his brow with the tail of his surcoat. Lykkon was already filling goblets when Avall reached the small table. He snared a stool and absently watched a dozen other sets of young men and women honing their combat skills.
Lykkon nodded toward them. “You really think it’ll come to this? Folks that young, I mean?”
“Folks as young as you, you mean?” Avall snorted, scowling at his drink, as though it contained something foul. “No one’s going to make you fight but you, Lyk. Not on the front, anyway. But if Barrax and his friends come pounding on your gate, I doubt anyone will ask your age before he runs you through.”
Lykkon wiped his face on a sleeve and sprawled backward, absently fumbling with laces and ties. “I’m not afraid to fight, ’Vall. But you’ve said yourself, some things simply aren’t real until they make themselves real. Like battle—or sex. No amount of simulation can prepare you for the genuine article.”
“Speaking of …” Avall smirked. “Have you …?”
Lykkon turned redder than his surcoat. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re like I was at your age: not with a woman since your Manning, and only then with an unclanned courtesan, which really is not the same at all.”
Lykkon studied his wine in turn. “Unfortunately, I’m not into casual liaisons. But more unfortunately, there’s no woman I love, and I don’t have a bond-brother. Plus, I’m not important enough politically for what happened to you to be repeated.”
