Yesterday's Kings

by Angus Wells

  “I’d not thought my son so brave,” Isydrian said thoughtfully. “Afranydyr, yes.” For a moment his eyes misted. “Lofantyl, perhaps. But Eben?”

  “He has no less courage.” Pyris clutched his sword’s hilt as if he’d draw and charge.

  Indeed, the blade came partway from the scabbard. Then he sighed as Isydrian touched his arm and said, “It’s between them, my friend.”

  “And all our fates dependent on it.” Pyris let the long sword slip back into the scabbard.

  “Pray that my son wins. The gods know, but I’ve lost enough already.”

  “And found new friends.”

  “Yes,” Isydrian said.

  “Then let us pray together for Eben’s success.”

  “SO WE COME TOGETHER.” Per Fendur swept his cloak back, exposing his black armor. “A final settlement, eh?”

  Eben stood before him, his hair scorched so that strands of discolored silver flared about his aged head. He looked a tattered figure, his robe all burned by Fendur’s magic, his beard ragged from the burning. “You can go back,” he said. “Take your folk back to Kandar. We want no war here.”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “You and I, old man. And after, all of Coim’na Drhu.”

  “I cannot agree to that.”

  “So die!”

  Per Fendur raised his hands, his strength returned, summoning magic again.

  Eben smiled sadly and brought up his own hands as they mouthed incantations, calling on what powers they had.

  Those watching could not tell what forces they summoned, only watch, for there were no gusts of flame and fire, no great demonstrations of magic; only two men facing one another, their hands outthrust, their eyes bulging, their lips drawn back from clenched teeth, spittle falling from their lips. They were like two bulls, or large-horned stags contesting mastery.

  A stillness filled the valley. Across the river the women watched, warded by Mallandra and Abra. Wounded men sat up, ignoring the ashes that filled the air from the smoldering pavilions. Kandarians and Durrym, who not long before had fought one another, watched.

  It was as if a great decision filled up all the world, and that the world awaited its fate.

  “YOU ARE OLD,” Fendur grunted. “Too old to defeat me.”

  “And you are too young to know wisdom,” Eben answered.

  “I am stronger than you!”

  Eben staggered back.

  Fendur laughed, and then was halted as Eben sent another spell against him.

  “Not so much stronger, boy. Age brings wisdom, and you’ve none of that. Only foolish ambition.”

  CULLYN WATCHED a man rise from the slope above the battleground. He had no idea who it might be, only that the armored figure rose up and came tottering down the ridge with a drawn sword that he used as much for a crutch as a weapon. Whoever it was staggered as if sorely hurt. He supposed it was some early-wounded Kandarian come to join, too late, the battle.

  LORD BARTRAM SAW the black-clad figure of Per Fendur before him, facing an old, silver-haired man in tattered robes, and a group below, watching. He wondered what transpired here—beyond the thoughtless slaughter of his men—and wove his way down the slope.

  “I’M STRONGER THAN YOU, old man.” Fendur flung such magic against Eben as sent his opponent staggering back. “I shall defeat you and destroy you, and you shall be nothing. Only dust.”

  Eben countered the spell. “Not yet; not ever. Not while I live.”

  Fendur laughed as he, in turn, countered Eben’s spell. “Old fool, who shall not be for long.”

  He flung fresh magic against Eben’s, watching and laughing as the older man was battered by the invisible storm. Eben tottered, his hands trembling as he angled gnarled fingers at Fendur. He braced his shoulders as if he stood against a terrible wind. His lips stretched back from gritted teeth and his breath came in short, panting gasps as his eyes narrowed with the effort of his casting.

  “Can we not help him at all?” Cullyn turned to Pyris and Isydrian.

  Pyris shook his head, his face a mask of frustration.

  “This is between them alone,” Isydrian said, “and likely our fates decided by the outcome.”

  Cullyn felt himself close to ignoring the Durrym lords’ advice. He could see Eben wavering inside the strange globe, and it pained him to stand helpless as his friend fought alone. He felt Lyandra’s hand, firm against his sword arm; Pyris clutched his shoulder.

  Then suddenly Laurens gasped, “That’s Lord Bartram!” and Cullyn recognized the armored figure moving ponderously toward the combatants.

  LORD BARTRAM FOUND IT HARD to get his breath. He could feel blood washing down his side and his left arm was numb, unlike his ribs—which hurt abominably. Anger motivated him as he stalked toward the two men facing one another with the Durrym looking on. He wondered why none moved to end the sorcerous combat. The sun was up now and heating the river valley that was, he noticed absently, a most pleasant place. It beat against his helm and set sweat to trickling down his face, so he unlatched his cheek straps and flung the helmet away. He wished he might do the same with his armor, which now felt dreadfully heavy. But no time for that: he was not sure how much longer he could stay on his feet, and there was a thing he’d do before he fell down.

  He wondered where Abra was as he drew closer. Safe, he hoped, and were it with her Durrym lover, then good luck to them. He recognized Fendur’s black armor, and saw it glinting behind some curious shield that seemed like a balloon of light that encompassed both men. He wondered who the other was. The renegade wizard Fendur had mentioned? What was his name … Effen, Evin, Elric, something like that. It didn’t matter: Bartram could feel the blood flowing from his wound and doubted he had much longer to live. But before he died, he was determined to make one last stroke.

  No one should endanger Abra.

  None moved to halt him as he staggered to where the sorcerors faced one another. Fendur stood triumphant, chuckling as he flung his invisible magic against his opponent. The old man was haggard, his face contorted with pain. Bartram thought the old man likely looked as sore hurt as he. Then he took a deep breath, knowing that this must cost him much effort, and forced his numbed arm to grip the sword’s hilt. He almost toppled then, but pride and outrage kept him on his feet as he raised the blade double-handed.

  And brought it down through the oddly shimmering light against Per Fendur’s back. It was not, perhaps, an honorable stroke, but all Lord Bartram wanted to do was slay the priest and end his power.

  The globe of light parted as easily as cut cloth. Fendur gasped, turning in time to see the sword descending and Bartram’s face behind the blade. He opened his mouth, but before any words could escape his lips the blade was buried in the jointure of neck and shoulder, cleaving bone and carving deep into organs, so that only a gargling scream escaped. Bartram twisted the blade and stabbed at Fendur’s ribs, driving the point in between the breastplate and the tasset, and turning it again that the wound be open and bloody. Then he fell down, exhausted.

  FENDUR’S MAGIC CEASED as his life bled out. He endeavored to fashion a final spell, but only blood came out of his mouth and he could not lift his right arm. Dimly, he saw Eben smiling grimly, and then the supine figure of Lord Bartram. And realized who had slain him.

  “You?”

  He struggled to lift up his left hand, struggled to fashion a destroying spell, hatred lending him unnatural strength. He rose awkwardly on his sundered arm, fashioning an incantation through blood-flecked lips.

  EBEN FELL TO HIS KNEES, then put his hands on the ground else he taste earth. He panted, sweating, not yet confident he lived. He felt horribly weakened and knew that his power was terribly depleted. Save for one last casting: that he’d make even if it killed him. He saw Per Fendur stretched bloody on the ground before him, and sensed the power the priest summoned. He mouthed his spell and white fire blazed from his fingertips.

  Per Fendur opened his mouth t
o scream, but the fire struck too fast. It consumed him—and in the blink of an eye he was gone. Only ashes drifted in the sunlit air, dispersing as the breeze blew them away.

  Eben gasped and stretched full length on the charred earth. Then folk were running toward him, lifting him up, and carrying him and his savior both back to what scorched remnants of the pavilions still existed.

  “Who was that?” he managed to ask. “Who put the sword into the priest?”

  “Lord Bartram,” Laurens answered. “A fine man.”

  “Indeed,” Eben grunted, “for he saved my life.”

  “I think perhaps,” Cullyn said, “that he saved us all.”

  “I’d have beaten him,” Eben declared obstinately. “Sooner or later.”

  “Better sooner,” Laurens said, “with Lord Bartram’s help. Eh, old man?”

  “Perhaps. He lives?”

  “As yet.” There was doubt in Laurens’s voice, and his eyes hovered anxiously on both men.

  THEY WERE LAID ON THE GROUND, settled on what bedding could be found from amidst the wreckage of the encampment. Pyris and Isydrian both called for healers as a crowd gathered, Durrym and Kandarian mingling in uneasy truce. Laurens knelt beside Lord Bartram, loosening his bloody armor.

  “The bastard priest defied my command,” Bartram grunted irritably, “then stuck a blade into me.”

  “As well he did,” Pyris said, “else you’d not have been able to touch him.”

  “What fey talk is that?” Bartram asked.

  “It was a bonding,” said Isydrian. “He shed your blood, and that—because you were not slain—bound him to you.”

  “So you could penetrate his defenses,” Pyris continued, “which we could not.”

  “I wondered why you stood watching when honest blades might have ended it.” Bartram sighed. “Still, no matter, eh?” Then he frowned. “He is dead?”

  The Durrym lords nodded. Laurens said, “Near clove in two. I’ve seldom seen such a blow. Then Eben sent him up in smoke.”

  “That’s fitting.” Bartram winced. As the healers came, examining his wound. “Abra’s safe?”

  “She comes to you now.” Laurens pointed across the river, which the women and old folk and children forded again. “Unharmed.”

  “Good.” Bartram smiled. “I only came to bring her back or see her happy. I’d no great wish for war.”

  “That was the priest’s idea?” Eben asked.

  “Indeed, he had a lust for it,” Bartram confirmed. He looked to Laurens. “Help me up, eh? I must speak with my folk.”

  “Wait,” Laurens urged. “Wait until the healers come.”

  “No time,” Bartram returned. “I’d not see battle break out again.”

  Cullyn followed the direction of his gaze and saw the truce uneasy. Durrym and Kandarians stood together, but all held weapons, hands firm on sword hilts and spears. It seemed to him that a fire had blazed and then faded, but still smoldered, threatening fresh flames. He quit Eben’s side and joined Laurens.

  “It shall be for the best.”

  “He’s right,” Eben declared. “They’re both right.”

  “It could kill him,” Laurens argued.

  “We all must die.” Bartram sat up, groaning as fresh spillings flooded over his side. “And I’d see my mistakes rectified before I go.” He tried to rise to his feet, but was too weak. He looked to Cullyn. “You, boy, help me, eh?”

  Cullyn set an arm around Lord Bartram’s back, feeling the blood settle sticky on his hand. Pyris and Isydrian joined him, then Laurens, so that Bartram was lifted to his feet. Then he shook them off.

  “I’ll stand alone.”

  They let go of him, but huddled close for fear he’d collapse as he faced the mingled crowd.

  “Hear me,” he shouted, “you soldiers of Lyth Keep, and you Durrym, also. There is no more war between us. We Kandarians came here falsely, deceived by the priest, Per Fendur, who is now slain. We are now at peace. I, Lord Bartram of Lyth Keep, declare that there shall be no more enmity.” He paused to wipe blood from his beard. “Do any of you disagree, go home. I believe our conquerors will allow that.”

  He swung his head to Pyris and Isydrian in turn, and they both nodded.

  “Those who’d remain, lay down your arms.”

  None left, even did they look askance at their newfound allies. They sheathed their blades and grounded their spears, unstrung their bows and looked to Bartram.

  Who said, “Good,” and then: “I feel somewhat weak,” and collapsed.

  Laurens caught him before he fell, and Pyris and Isydrian helped ease the wounded man to the ground.

  The healers applied their skills as Laurens fretted. “Hold on, my lord.”

  “I thought,” Bartram said slowly, through the bloody spittle that frothed from his mouth, “that you found other allegiances, now.”

  “Not against you,” Laurens declared. “Only against Amadis and the priest.”

  “And against Kandar?”

  “No.” Cullyn knelt beside them. “Now that Fendur’s slain, perhaps there can be peace.”

  “And who are you?”

  “He’s Cullyn,” Laurens said, “he’s syn’qui.”

  “A focal.” Eben rose onto his elbows. “A cursed or gifted man, but one who shapes worlds whether he likes it or not. A simple man, in many ways—”

  “Only a forester,” Cullyn interrupted.

  “Who brought about this battle,” Eben said. “Without which—”

  “I wish I’d not,” Cullyn announced.

  “Save had you not, there’d not be peace now.”

  “Is there?” Cullyn looked to Lord Bartram.

  “So far as I am concerned—though I cannot speak for King Khoros. This venture was all Per Fendur’s doing, and him aided by Amadis. I’d only see my daughter safe and happy.”

  “Which I promise,” Lofantyl said.

  “And you are?”

  “Lofantyl of Kash’ma Hall, son of Isydrian.” He paused, kneeling to touch Bartram’s hand. “By our laws and your daughter’s wish, I am Abra’s husband. I love her, and she loves me.”

  “The Durrym prisoner.” Bartram chuckled. “Forgive me, but my eyes grow dim. Abra chose this?”

  “She did.”

  Bartram glanced at Laurens, who nodded his confirmation. “Then I wish you happiness. But remember—do you fail her, you shall answer to me.”

  “I’ll not fail her,” Lofantyl declared. “Ever.”

  “Then we’re in accord.” Bartram looked to where Pyris and Isydrian waited. “And we, I think. I cannot speak for all Kandar, but this promise I make you—there shall be no more war between Lyth Keep and your halls. And do I live, I shall endeavor to broker peace between our lands.”

  The Durrym lords nodded solemnly, and took the hand of the wounded man in token of agreement.

  “Enough!” The healer spoke with authority. “No more talk—only leave us to tend these hurt friends.”

  “Indeed,” the second added no less sternly. “Have we not enough wounded to aid? Leave us.”

  They walked away—Cullyn and Lyandra, Laurens, Pyris and Isydrian, Lofantyl—all grave and fearing neither Bartram or Eben would survive. Then Abra came, all wet from the fording of the river; all fearful for her father. Lofantyl caught her in his arms and swung her round before she could run to Bartram.

  “Slowly, slowly. He’s sore hurt.”

  She struggled against his grip. “He dies?”

  “Healers tend him. And he gave us his blessing.”

  “I must go to him.”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Save see his face! Allow me that.”

  Isydrian said, “Let her,” and Lofantyl released her.

  “Is it not strange?” Isydrian turned a face on which Cullyn saw tears shining toward the ravaged encampment. “I’ve lost a son this day, but found another—and a daughter.”

  “And new friendships,” Pyris said.

  “That
, too.” Isydrian stared at Cullyn. “What have you brought me, syn’qui?”

  “Peace between Shahn and Zheit,” Pyris said. “Perhaps even between we Durrym and the Garm’kes Lyn. Perhaps hope for a brighter future.”

  Isydrian began to reply, but then Abra came racing toward them, her face lit by hope, announcing that the healers believed her father would live, and Eben. So Isydrian only said, “Which first? Afranydyr’s funeral or a celebratory feast?”

  “Can it not be both?” Cullyn asked, wondering at his audacity. “Perhaps Afranydyr was a sacrifice to a better future. Can we not mourn him and celebrate at the same time?”

  Isydrian thought a moment, then nodded. “Yes, you speak wisely.”

  “He’s syn’qui,” Lyandra said, holding tight on Cullyn’s arm. “Of course he does.”

  EPILOGUE

  TIME HEALS: scars form on wounds, broken bones mend, aches ease. Old hurts are forgotten, ancient enmities are appeased.

  Lord Bartram learned this as he lay in Kash’ma Hall, tended by Isydrian’s healers—more like an honored guest than any kind of captive. It was a wondrous place of wood that seemed to grow in accord with the Durrym’s wishes, as if the timber spun itself eagerly about the keep, entwining halls and chambers and corridors to shape walkways and windows, balconies and gardens where flowers grew and fountains played. Birds sang from amongst the bushes and the trees, and the sun shone from a cloud-scudded blue sky that was speckled with the darting shapes of swifts and swallows, and such other creatures as he’d not seen before entering Coim’na Drhu.

  He rested, and mended, and thought of Lyth Keep. There, he thought, the gray stone would still be cold, those chimneys he’d joked about with Abra all bundled up with blazing firewood. He wondered how his wife fared, and decided he did not miss her so much. He wondered what Ky’atha Hall was like, and looked forward to visiting there. Pyris had invited him, and he had taken the Durrym’s hand in friendship—no sense of deceit or entrapment, only honesty.