by Tom Deitz
Avall dared not look at him, though he wondered how he had mouth and throat enough to manage so much screaming.
Thought as much long enough to call down more Overworld fire and end the man’s agony, at any rate.
There was little resistance as Avall waded farther into the foe. He had forces at his back now: Eronese warriors who took captives or harried those who lingered. He could hear horses galloping up, too: probably Royal Guard. They would, he realized grimly, have to choose a new High King.
Yet still he strode. Wondering what it would take to ensure Ixti’s surrender.
Wondering what Barrax was doing and where he was doing it.
Wondering …
On and on he walked, through snow and mud—and grass that was wet with melting snow and blood.
And, increasingly, through bodies. Some were burned and smelled of smoke, hot leather, and cooking meat. Others were the grisly legacy of the geens
But where was Barrax?
Where was Ixti’s thrice-cursed king?
Almost he found himself wishing, in that troublesome way that tended to take one to the object of desire, that the gems would take him to Barrax.
But it was Merryn who elbowed him in the ribs and pointed west, where a party in gleaming gold and black were advancing out of the chaos that had been Ixti’s army.
By their panoply, most particular the twin set of armored banner-bearers, Avall knew he faced the one he sought.
Unlike Gynn, however, who’d worn a half helm with intricate nasal and ear pieces, Barrax min Fortan wore a full helmet, through which his eyes alone were revealed. Which Avall thought strange, given that most of Ixti’s soldiers wore helms similar to his or Gynn’s. Yet this certainly was Barrax: the heraldry proclaimed it—and the weaponry, and the arrogant bearing.
He also rode horseback while Avall stood there on foot, weapon to the ready, wondering if this was an ambush. Wondering if he would have to kill a man in cold blood and reap the whirlwind that came after. Wondering …
Merryn stepped up beside him, fixed him with a stare that could’ve melted metal, her eyes glittering with a wild light even in the recesses of her helm, as though two coals banked there, eager to awaken new flame. “Brother,” she rasped, “I claim this man as mine.”
“Merryn …”
“I claim this man as mine,” Merryn repeated, louder, taking a step closer, which put her ahead of Avall. No longer addressing him, either. Her voice was calm, and she stood straight and so firmly planted on the earth it looked as though she’d grown there. The wind whipped her surcoat about her. Argen maroon, Avall noted for the first time. Not Ferr crimson.
Silence, save for the wind snapping Ixti’s banners.
“I claim this man’s life as mine,” Merryn amended. “I’ve no use for his body.”
Avall heard a low, nervous chuckle behind him—once, then amplified into tens and hundreds, as he realized that a good chunk of Eron’s army stood behind them, having forced their way through the slighted walls. Even Tryffon. Hopefully even Strynn and Rann and Lykkon and Div.
Silence … still …
Which maybe wasn’t good. And Merryn had never been one for patience.
Avall moved the sword ever so slightly: a brush of contact with that other place, withdrawn instantly. Thunder rumbled. Lightning sparked from the sword’s tip to the ground.
Murmurs filled Ixti’s ranks.
“Who are you to claim this?” Barrax called back, in accented Eronese, voice rendered muffled and tinny by his helm.
“One who has known your hospitality,” Merryn retorted. “One who would give as good as she received. Better, even, for whatever pain I cost you will be over very soon indeed.”
“While you spend the rest of your life recalling how you betrayed your people?” Barrax shot back, with a wicked chuckle. “How you traded love for indiscretion, and so sealed your country’s doom.”
“I see no doom,” Merryn snorted. “Now come, Barrax of Ixti. Fight me, or run away. My brother could slay you where you stand, if it pleased him. It pleases me to have him forgo that thing.”
“Where is your king?” Barrax spat. “I see only soldiers—and boys. And one too-forward woman.”
“There is our King,” someone yelled from the Eronese ranks. Someone with a very strong-voice. Tryffon, probably.
Avall turned to see who was meant, then understood. He reeled as the import of that phrase washed over him. And the trouble was, he couldn’t deny it. Not and save what must be saved. This was a game of feint and parry, as much with words, daring, and pride as with blades. And Merryn, so far, was winning.
“By the King’s leave,” Merryn continued. “I will fight this man. If I defeat him … well, somewhere in Eron the Heir to Fortan still lives.”
“Does he?” Barrax taunted.
Merryn raised her sword and pointed it straight at him. “If you have harmed him …”
“Enough,” Barrax roared. “I will fight you.”
“Here and now!” Merryn shot back.
“Here and now.”
“Afoot. With whatever weapons you name, so they be weapons.”
“As you say, foolish woman,” Barrax replied, already tugging at the clasp of his cloak.
Merryn could see the other commanders making their way through the ranks to gather round. Some stayed on horseback; most did not. She did not see Lord Lynnz, however, which was troubling.
Silence, then, throughout that multitude. War or peace rode on what happened next.
“Weapons,” Merryn prompted. “Unless you claim cloaks at four paces, which is as much as you’ve evinced so far.”
Barrax eyed her up and down, then reached—slowly—to his belt, until his hand rested on his geen-claw dagger. “Duels in Ixti are usually fought with these, but I doubt you are familiar with this weapon.”
Merryn shrugged. “A dagger is a dagger.”
Barrax surveyed those gathered around. “Will no one lend this woman suitable arms?”
There was rumbling and fumbling among the ranks, for the geen-claw dagger was a sign of highborn Ixtian’s manhood, and never lent to anyone. Someone coughed. A young man pushed his way through the ranks, already removing his dagger sheath. A final deep breath, and he passed the assembly to Merryn.
She smiled at him, for no clear reason. “Your name, most courtly man of Ixti?”
“Vrill.”
“Well, Vrill, you have my thanks if no one else’s.” She took the dagger one-handed, undid the peace-catch, and returned the scabbard to the soldier, who melted into the ranks of his countrymen.
Merryn tested the blade against a finger. And nodded. “It will do.” She looked up at Barrax. “To the death, I assume?”
Barrax nodded in turn, motioning the rest of the army—both armies—to back away. Standing very straight, he strode forward until he was no more than two spans before her. A stride more, and they were within range. He still hadn’t drawn his dagger, however; she could see it glittering beneath his hand.
Then, finally, he reached down to grasp the hilt.
Merryn paused, breathless.
Squinting in uncertainty within her helm.
And then tried very hard not to let her mouth pop open.
Barrax inclined his head. “When you are ready.”
Merryn flung her dagger to the ground.
A gasp filled the ranks, but her voice rose clear above it. First in Eronese, then in Ixtian. “You are not Barrax.”
The eyes in the opposing helm flashed. With danger, despair, or warning, she was unable to ascertain. “Barrax was missing part of his thumb. You have yours.” She said it loudly, this time in Ixtian first.
The man froze, then relaxed ever so slightly. Which still betrayed too much.
“Take off your gloves,” Merryn said coldly. “And your helm. Or taste my brother’s blade.”
Barrax hesitated the merest moment—until Avall shifted his hand again, and thunder once more crackled.
A
rumble of confusion flowed through Ixti’s ranks. Avall found himself following the gaze of everyone present. Barrax wore gauntlets. But, so Merryn had informed him, he’d sacrificed a thumb joint to mark the death of his son Azzli, who was also Kraxxi’s brother. Gauntlets could hide the lack overtly, but not the effect it would have on a grip. Merryn had noticed that; Avall had not. Seeing what he expected to see, he supposed. But what of the other soldiers? And what of Barrax?
Avall moved the sword again, and this time … whoever it was responded. With a vicious yank, he tore off his left gauntlet and flung it to the ground beside Merryn’s dagger. The right followed.
“He has all his fingers,” someone hissed, in Ixtian.
“The helm,” Merryn prompted, voice like ice. “And then you will tell me who you are, and where Barrax is, for it is on him I will work my vengeance.”
The Ixtian impostor didn’t move.
“We’ll know, whether you be live or dead,” someone called from Eron’s ranks. “It is for you to choose.”
Still the man hesitated, then slowly reached up, undid his chin strap, and with the warriors of two armies looking on, raised his helm.
Avall didn’t know the man to sight, any more than he knew Barrax. But he heard a name spread through the assembled ranks. “Lynnz.” “That’s Lord Lynnz.” “Barrax’s war commander.”
Weapons rustled, and not only among the Eronese.
“Where’s Barrax?” Merryn demanded.
Lynnz’s lips curled into an arrogant sneer that told Avall he’d rolled one die too many and was ready to accept whatever occurred, but would perish knowing he was the better man. His jaw tightened as prelude to speech—and then his eyes went wide.
Shouts followed, but what Avall heard was the swish of a crossbow bolt passing far too close to his right ear—to embed itself in Lynnz’s throat. Blood gushed from his mouth instead of explanation, and he toppled backward. Avall twisted around, to see one of the Ixtian defectors he’d met at Strynn’s tower—he thought her name was Elvix—lowering a crossbow she’d snatched from one of the less-attentive Ixtians. Her face was grim as death.
Avall raised a brow into the ensuing silence.
“He tortured my lover and my brother and my sister and our best friend,” she said simply. Then squatted in place, and, her eyes never leaving Avall’s, laid the bow on the ground before him.
He started to reply, but a growl of voices drew his attention back to Lynnz.
“The king,” Merryn was shouting. “Where is your Eight-damned king?”
“Dust in the ground and smoke in the wind,” came a voice in accented Eronese from one of the mounted men Avall had assumed was some kind of auxiliary commander.
“And we with him—soon,” the man beside him added.
They looked at each other briefly, then exchanged nods, whereupon the former spoke. “There is no king in Ixti now, and no war commander, and very soon no royal house, nor others empowered to wage war. It is therefore best that”—he paused, as though the words stuck in his throat, which they might well have—“I, Lord Morrill, who seem to be the ranking person here, surrender, and ask that we be allowed to return to our homes in peace.”
Silence followed. No one seemed willing to receive those words. Finally Tryffon, Craft-Chief of War, strode forward to stand beside Avall. “We have only slightly more King now than you,” he said. “But in the name of old Eron and new, Avall and I will accept your swords.”
“We hope you will accept our deaths as well,” Morrill replied, as he drew his weapon with a careful flourish and held it before him two-handed, before breaking it across the pommel of his saddle.
Avall cleared his throat, sick of all this killing. And while it might not be the wisest response at the moment, and him with no more authority than the moment conveyed, still he spoke. “And why your death? We have no desire to kill anyone who will leave this land in peace.”
Morrill was on the ground now, and striding forward, to drop the halves of his sword beside Lynnz’s body. “Because without the secret this one knew, every commander you see here is doomed to die of slow withdrawal from poison.”
“Maybe we can heal you,” Avall offered
“You’re welcome to try,” Morrill replied. “But as I understand it, we have about a day. By your leave, we will search Lynnz’s quarters. But we do not expect to find the antidote. Lynnz was far too subtle.”
Morrill turned then, and addressed what remained of the Ixtian army. “I have surrendered in the name of the only man of House Fortan who still lives: in the name of Prince Kraxxi. I would suggest you do as I have done, and likewise surrender your weapons.”
Avall blanched at the enormity of the request. But then the remaining commanders slowly dismounted and strode forward one at a time and unsheathed their swords and left them in a pile around Lynnz. Some spat upon his corpse. One dropped his blade so that it impaled Lynnz’s outstretched hand.
“Kraxxi!” Merryn dared, to anyone. “He—”
“Is prisoner within yon citadel,” Lord Morrill answered. “I imagine he will be offered the crown by noon.”
“But—”
Avall bent close to his sister. “Not now, Merry. We’ve won the roll of the dice. Or Fate has won it for us—or Luck. But Eron must come first. If Kraxxi lives, there’ll be time in which to conclude your business with him.”
“Maybe,” Merryn muttered, and slowly turned away, not stopping until she’d rejoined Strynn, who was one of a circle of mostly familiar faces who’d made their way to the forefront and now stood around the place where a proclaimed King stared down at one forever uncrowned.
Avall named them without looking. Merryn. Strynn. Rann. Div. Lykkon. Tryffon. Myx. Riff. Krynneth. Veen. Tozri, maybe; and bereaved Elvix. But his eyes, still, were fixed on Ixti’s army.
And then, by ones and twos, those troops dispersed. A hand later, there was nothing left of that massive invasion force but a field of swords, spears, and daggers stabbed into the earth and abandoned.
In grass and snow and blood.
There, at the balance point between winter and summer.
CHAPTER XXXIX:
OF CROWNS
(ERON: PRIEST-HOLD-SUMMER-HIGH SPRING: DAY XIII–LATE AFTERNOON)
It was good to be warm again, Avall thought. And indoors, in the company of good friends. And clean—of blood and sweat, if not of fear of responsibility.
Good to be—almost—his most basic self.
He was sprawling in the blue-tiled splendor of the steam room off the bath in what had been the Royal Suite in Priest-Hold-Summer. The suite to which they’d brought him much against his will and over his protests, after the morning’s events. He’d claimed two hands for himself. Two hands in which he intended to rest, maybe to eat, certainly to clean up. But otherwise to do nothing. No one was running Ixti at the moment. Tyrill was nominally running Eron. And that was sufficient.
Meanwhile, he hunched forward, elbows on his knees, studying the forms and faces of those who’d joined him. Rann and Lykkon. Strynn had gone to bathe with Div and Merryn. The rest, for this time and place, didn’t matter.
For now the only priority was letting the heat soak the morning’s distress from his limbs, most of which he didn’t recall acquiring. Some came from exertion or overexertion. Some from impacts he didn’t remember. Some from—
It didn’t matter, especially when Rann eased in behind him and began massaging his shoulders, good bond-brother that he was. It was hot and damp and close. Much like a womb, in fact. Like the place they’d sheltered in the birkits’ den all those eighths ago. Once again, Avall realized, he was about to be reborn into another phase of life.
But that was for later. Now it was enough to enjoy what Rann’s fingers were doing, finding hidden nodes of pain and tension beneath his shoulder blades.
“You should be watching this,” Rann murmured to Lykkon, who lolled placidly on the floor, save when now and then he plucked at a long gash in his arm he couldn’t d
ecide if he ought to have stitched up or not. He had a bruise on his forehead, too, and a black eye. “If you’re going to be Avall’s squire, you’ll need to know what he likes.”
“I’m not going to be King,” Avall muttered back. “I said there’d be no discussion of that in here. Besides which, I’ve got a headache. Those damned gems—”
“Merryn found your old one all trussed up like a present inside Lynnz’s armor,” Lykkon supplied. “No one from Ixti would touch it. Said it was bad luck.”
“For some,” Avall snorted. “Eddyn and Rrath, at any rate.”
Lykkon looked up. “Eddyn is dead, correct?”
“Very,” Avall assured him. “I expect he’ll warrant a hero’s funeral, too, in spite of everything.”
“Was that Avall talking, or the almost-King?”
Avall shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t care, actually. This is what I want. Comfort and friends.”
“Lean back,” Rann murmured into his hair. Avall did, scooting down on the stone slab until he could lay his head in Rann’s lap. Now and then he looked up at him. Blue eyes beneath dark hair looked back. Rann turned his attention to Avall’s temples. “A lot of the pain is from the gems, and I can’t help you there. But that from muscles and from squinting …”
“It’s enough,” Avall sighed. And, for a while, it was.
At some point Avall reciprocated Rann’s ministrations, before turning their efforts as a team to Lykkon, who hadn’t so much as whimpered for attention. Eventually, however, they could delay no longer. Having sweated away their fatigue, they entered an adjoining room for showers, then sauntered into the dressing room, pink, smooth, and clean-skinned as adolescent boys.
Only to find themselves face-to-face with Chiefs Preedor of Ferr and Tryffon of War, who were presently the most powerful men in the kingdom. Sitting side by side on a bench by the outer door, both men were dressed in full clan regalia, with their hoods up, signifying official purpose. Avall froze in place, with Rann and Lykkon flanking him a short way back. Since none of them had been expecting visitors, all three were bare. In spite of himself, Avall blushed. Especially as he felt the old men’s eyes inspecting him. “Turn around,” Tryffon barked. “Slowly.”
