In the Eye of Heaven (64 page)

"Aye," said Ouen. "Looks like a busted collarbone. Maybe some ribs. You say he took it when?"

"When was Hallow Down? Summertide, anyway. When Ragnal rode into the Heithan Marches. And I'd say a man would need to mash his backbone to end up that pinched over."

"But he's here now," Ouen said. "And I don't like the look of him. Maybe we can arrange for someone else to face him." Berchard grinned. "Maybe."

Battle could be like the
Solan
on the waves. Decide what you liked, but battle had its tides. He would have to watch and read the thing. In the end, Moryn must win and Yrlac must not, but nothing else mattered. For all the blackthorn stakes and wise women, no one knew his doom. Durand jabbed his boot in the stirrup iron, and made to swing up.

But fingers caught his elbow.

Agryn faced him, alone in the shadows between two great animals. "Durand."

"We are about to ride."

Agryn jerked Durand's arm. "Listen to me. When I began, I set out to serve the king, and I told you that I turned away at the last, and long years have passed since," he said. "Longer than most would believe."

Durand felt the lines around them forming up. Everyone was in the saddle. The knight's grip tightened on his arm.

"We know what happened. Berchard, Ouen, and I."

Durand wavered.

"1 know what it took to ride back. To see what must be done and turn us all back to this place. We know...." Agryn hesitated. "We know he has not treated the girl as well as he might. And he will not know. He will hear nothing from any of us. We give your secret back to you."

Staggered, Durand made to ask—something, anything. But a practiced twist propelled Agryn high in his saddle. Durand saw him for an instant, gold against the sky.

"Come on," Coensar was saying. "The stands are full."

Now, Durand climbed up. Ouen, Berchard, and Agryn waited at his sides. Not looking his way particularly.

"Here we go," Ouen said.

The white figure of Kandemar, the ageless Herald of Errest, stalked onto the turf below the king's box. Nodding horses half-obscured the man for an instant, and then he opened his statue's gash of a mouth.

"Hear me, you who have gathered on this rock." His voice, unheard except when the king commanded, croaked deep and dry in their ears. "For His Majesty, Ragnal, and His Highness Biedin, I bid you welcome." The Herald bowed slow to the onlookers and each rank of combatants, a man who had walked the Halls of Heaven.

Durand knotted his stuffed cap tight under his chin, and hauled the iron hood over. His hands shook as he lifted Cerlac's helmet from the saddlebow.

The Herald moved like a slow dancer.

"We come to this ground to honor the dead and pay homage to the living blood. Here, long years past, calamity fell. In the seventeenth year of Einred's reign, while the Crusade raged beyond the Sea of Darkness, two royal princes fell, valorous but beset by many foes. Since tidings of that day first touched these shores, the Sons of Atthi have shed their blood and proven their valor. On this very height of land they have done this."

The pale Herald lifted his chin a fraction; his water blue eyes flashed.

'Those who fight affirm that valor still lives in the hearts of Errest the Old. Here, where a third son became heir and grief first set foot on the soil of Errest, you men rebuke the vile Host Below and confirm that the blood of kings endures."

Now he raised the chased horn, holding it like a rod over the companies.

"Each man who fights here this day, I charge you: Remember the valor of your house and the honor of your name. Cast defiance in the face of cowardice, despair, and treachery."

The Herald stared over them all as the wind tugged at his garments.

He lowered the horn.

As he turned, the nodding heads of the horses entirely obscured him from view. Durand crunched his helm down and yanked the last flap of mail tight under his jaw. A hundred horses in the long trappers of a hundred families hunkered down across the yard, muzzle after muzzle snorting and nodding in anticipation. A hundred knights stared through masks—a long gleaming row of slot-eyed iron. In the heart of the Southern line, Radomor pitched his helm down. Durand's eye flicked to Prince Biedin. His Highness stood, alone now of all those in the reviewing stands. His arm was raised. The man wore black. Every man and beast quivered like a bolt on the bow-cord. Biedin's hand twitched an inch higher, then, with a slashing down stroke—

They were thunder.

Two hundred heavy horses launched themselves under the walls of Tern Gyre. Durand rode at the crest of the thundering wave, hunting the juddering line of the South for a target Radomor was out of reach, but one slot-eyed iron face twitched his way: a man in black checkers. Durand saw eyes glint. Rivets. Stubble. And there was hardly time to wrench the point down.

His lance struck first of the two hundred on the field. He was three lengths ahead.

The lance-head bit hard, shoving Durand in a fierce twist even as the enemy's lance caromed off shield and shoulder and mailed jaw. Durand felt the dry detonation of a hundred lances behind him, while the checkered knight tumbled from his saddle. Men cartwheeled. Durand could hear whoops and roars among the knights over screaming horses. The others caught him. Already, Coensar and the other captains were howling: "Hold ranks! Hold ranks!"

Durand felt blood slick in his ear. Under his boots, the shield-bearers and serving men of the Southern camp looked up. As a courtesy, the shield-bearers rushed lances to the extended hands of men whose weapons were shattered. It seemed strange.

"Durand!" Coensar barked. "Watch yourself. It's no horserace. Now, boys, take what these lads will give you. If you want your own, you'll have to get past Radomor and his company."

Twice more, the two companies cantered across the yard to exchange passing blows at midfield. Durand rode the third one nearly twisted backward, incredulous at his own line. Men shouted laughing jeers at each other. Finally, the two lines linked together and began a taunting kind of melee.

For an hour, Durand ducked through the rush and shudder of this mock battle. When he could snatch his eyes away from the laughing swings of the knights around him, he hunted for a chance at Radomor or one of his men, but the green knot around the duke bristled with dark lances. Yrlac made no move.

Baffled, Durand | fought on as the Eye of Heaven rose, straining to stay alert, while the knights around him kept up their jeers and laughter as though this was nothing more dire than a country dance. Knights trotted off the field when their crests came loose. One man surrendered rather than fighting on when his shield straps tore. There were village ball games bloodier.

He felt like the only sane man in Creation. Most of the riders on the field had no idea that, behind the day's sport, a narrow vote and the ancient crown of Errest hung in the scales.

Radomor would make his move.

As
noontide emptied
the lists, Durand followed Lamoric from the field—close enough to hear the scornful chuckles of the other knights. He scowled.

Lamoric's men formed a grim pocket in the Northern Company. As the young lord climbed down among his retainers, Durand finally saw what the crowd must have seen: There hadn't been time to send for Lamoric's proper gear; he had no coin for new. And so Lamoric of Gireth rode that day in the panoply of the Red Knight. His red shield bore no Acconel Bull; his trapper, surcoat, and pennons flapped in empty crimson. Plain for all to see was the game that Lamoric had played, that he'd lost, and that he'd slunk back with his father's name to protect him.

He was a laughingstock.

Even as Durand dropped from the saddle, Badan was on him, sneering and jabbing with two fingers.

"All right then, Durand. If this fight's so bloody desperate, why're we the only ones who know it? These greenies? They don't even want to play. I don't think they've hauled one man down yet. Where's your bloody war gone?"

Badan eyed a snickering passerby.

"I cannot say," Durand confessed. With all the signs he'd followed, he could not believe he'd made a mistake.

"We'll be famous for this trick," Badan spat. "Here we've got the prince and the herald and the king himself looking on. All the best men of the kingdom snickering in their fists, with their tongues wagging over everything we do."

He made to swing for Durand's jaw, but a couple of the others caught him. Durand was conscious of the crowd around, watching them. Outsiders laughed; those nearby were sullen.

Badan shrugged his warders off, tugging his surcoat down over iron links. "The Red Knight'll be red all right," he muttered. "They'll be singing this one till next Traveler's Night."

"All right, Badan," Coensar growled.

Every knight felt the needle glint of the captain's eyes. Any who looked saw that he had yet to put old Keening away. The mob around was still watching, and Badan shut his mouth.

"Well," said Berchard with a conversational air, "anyone get close enough to hear these greenies? I reckon Radomor's gone and bought himself a lot of Southerners."

Ouen nodded. "I rode near enough to hear one swearing. Sounded like a Mankyrian, I thought. You know, like a dog barking? They're all wearing Northern gear though."

"Wherever he's got them," grumbled Badan, "they've got no ballocks if they go about in his colors. You wouldn't catch me letting my lord throw his colors over my back like I was his damned horse. The lot of them should be whipped bloody."

Ouen shook his head. "I'd have wagered heavy that Yrlac wasn't sticking his neck on the block just for a bit of fun."

For a moment, none of them spoke. Durand felt blood burning in his face but paid it no heed.

Sullen Badan twitched a sneer. "Maybe he's heard these same wild tales our Durand has, and he's thumbing his nose at the lot of us just to teach folk not to wag their tongues. Maybe it's a game to him."

Agryn shook his head. "If it is a game at all, it is another sort."

"You see shadows everywhere, monk. If fight bothered him, he'd be winning it" The wolf turned on Durand. 'This boy's led us back here for nothing, and now here we are: a pack of fools."

It was Coensar who answered. "Radomor is here. He's taken his father's titles. Maybe killed him. I don't call that joking." The captain looked across the field where Radomor sat among his men like a wild leopard among the pigeons. "Look at him. Think on where he is now, and what he's likely done. His father dead. His wife. This man must make his move in earnest, or the king will throw him down."

Durand had nearly
gone the whole day without taking a serious injury, when a sudden shadow flickered up and he was blind. It was all he could do to ride from the lists.

"Lance shaft," Guthred said, as Durand slid down from his saddle, blinking and gulping for air. From the pain he'd have expected to find a bolt between his eyes, but he knew a broken nose for what it was.

His eyes were full of water.

"It's a mess," said Guthred. "The boys're bringing yarrow, a hammer, and a pair of pliers. Everybody's in playing with tack and gear and—"

"Thumbs'll
do a broken nose," Durand protested.

"Sit down. You bent your bloody helmet. I'll have to twist the nasal back if you're going to get it on. Ah, hold still." He was getting up. "I've got Berchard
and
Badan to deal with as well."

Durand groped for the battered helmet, and found the thing swinging at the nape of his neck, tangled by its straps. The blow had knocked it clean off his head.

I
n the hours since noon, the mele
e had loosened up as tired men lingered beyond the lists, taking longer and longer to find their way back to the hard work on the inside. At the far camp, even Radomor loitered on the sidelines, out of reach. Moryn led his scattered company from the front.

Durand only needed to stop the bleeding and stuff his helmet back on. If he could breathe, he could fight. He tried to untangle the helmet, thinking he could likely stamp it straight with his heel.

Armor jingled behind him—someone dropping from a horse. Durand blinked his eyes clear enough to recognize the captain's sweating face.

"Where's Guthred?" the man demanded.

"Badan and Berchard came off again with—"

The captain grabbed a fistful Durand's surcoat. "Get them back on the field."

"What do you want me to—"

Coensar pointed. Across the lists, green knights were cinching up their mail coats and snugging their battle helms.