The Broken Blade (31 page)

As the Gauntlet marched on, the Easter cavalry and Hughan's infantry drew up behind the hobilars. The bridge had indeed allowed the wayfarers to deploy quickly. While they stood ready, Dunthruik's men still streamed from the Blind Gate. Yet it could easily be another excruciating hour, maybe two, before the battle began.

Some time later, Arlaith rode to Eamon's side. His face was flushed with exhilaration and his horse panted from the skirmishing work it had done.

“Lord Goodman,” he greeted.

“Lord Arlaith,” Eamon returned. “Good work, I trust?”

“Indeed!” Arlaith answered. “The bowmen are just going out.”

Eamon looked up to see groups of crossbowmen going forward from their lines; they were met at once by men from Hughan's lines, and both sets of bowmen began what seemed to be a fairly ineffectual exchange of shots. The Easters also loosed, but Eamon could not distinguish the many-shaded banners of green, yellow, and orange apart into separate houses.

For a long time he and Arlaith merely watched the exchange, their ears filled with the marching sound of the last groups of infantry deployed from the Blind Gate.

Eamon looked up to the sky; it had to be near the second hour already. He felt hot inside his armour and his nerves were frayed.

At any moment he would have to make his move: he would have to choose the banner under which he would stand.

You will not have the courage, son of Eben.

“I must return to the Hands,” Arlaith said. Eamon nodded. Arlaith watched him with a disturbingly keen gaze.

“Do so.”

Arlaith rode back to the regrouped Hands. Eamon breathed deep. There were knights to the north and countless lines of deployed Gauntlet behind him. The Master stood on the walls. Edelred, betrayer of the house of Goodman and usurper of the house of Brenuin, watched him. It was the moment when he had to turn, and turn truly, for Hughan.

Quietly he turned to Wilhelm. “Mr Bellis.”

“My lord?” Wilhelm was startled. Eamon realized it had probably been two whole hours since he had uttered a word to his standard bearer. Never had it been more important that he speak.

You will not speak, Eben's son. You will not turn from me. Your blood is mine.

Eamon shivered, shaking the voice from him. In the King's name he had come to Dunthruik; in the King's name he had served it, with his whole heart. He knew what he had to do.

He looked firmly, but kindly, to Wilhelm. “Give me the banner.”

Wilhelm passed him the great, billowing banner. The trumpeters and Hands glanced at him with curiosity. Eamon fixed his armoured fist about his standard, felt its weight. Then he looked deep into Wilhelm's eyes.

“If you would follow me,” he said quietly, “then follow.”

Wilhelm gazed at him uncomprehendingly but Eamon did not say more.

Setting spurs to his steed, Eamon rode out before the lines. Eyes and faces turned to him. He watched them all, measured them all. Those gazes and his armour and tabard were like strong bonds upon
him. But the courage of his heart was in him and neither voice nor gaze nor grief nor anger could keep him back from what he had come to do.

The banner was in his hand. He passed before the men in the lines, men from every part of the River Realm. Not all of them would hear him, for the lines were countless and immeasurable, and of those that heard him, not all would follow. He knew it well. But he would speak.

“Men of Dunthruik, hear me!” he cried. “This city is our home, these fields our patrimony, this River our lifeblood. They are written in my heart as deeply as they are in yours. For love of them we have given oaths and chosen to stand in war; for them we are prepared to sacrifice all that we are and all that we have.”

The lines gazed back at him, hundreds upon hundreds of faces casqued in helms and bound in uniforms of red. It touched him to his very core, for he loved them, and he loved the walls and city before which they stood. The sight pierced him with joy and pride, with hope and fear, and with sorrows keener than any he had yet borne.

“Dunthruik,” he called. “I have come this day ready to shed my blood and make the same sacrifice as every man of you. I have come to bring glory to my lord and hope to the city that I have always served and loved, with all my heart.”

He paused. The Gauntlet looked to him. Eamon felt anew the Master's binding will. The unyielding strength of the grey eyes watched him from the city walls. They were eyes that held him with crushing, choking, hideous love; eyes that demanded his body, his blood, and his blade. Eamon looked up and met them.

To the dissolving glower of fire upon the city walls had he sworn himself; knowing it, the Master watched. In a moment of crystal courage, Eamon broke from the ashen eyes and fiery countenance that sought him. With the fullness of his heart, he turned.

“But you have been deceived, men of Dunthruik. Edelred, the man who sits enthroned, is not the rightful lord of Dunthruik. Its true Master is the King of the house of Brenuin.”

A terrible silence assailed him. But he did not falter. There, before the gaze of the whole city, Eamon took Edelred's banner between his palms and inverted it, forcing down the eagle's wings so that they flapped limply against the sun-struck grass.

He tore his helmet from his head, letting his hair run free in the morning wind. Casting his helm upon the ground he looked up and met the staggered stares and mottled faces of the men before him.

“Dunthruik!” he cried. “I am a King's man! Follow him if you will!”

The plain was filled with the trappings and din of war: the clamour of marching men, the roar of beating drums and blast of strident trumpets, the thunder of distant cavalry, and, from every quarter, the baying of the men who drove on each sound.

Yet grim and stony silence dwelt before Dunthruik's gates, for there men of the city, and of the River Realm, beheld with awe the man who was Right Hand.

He could not know the tenor of those gazes, nor hope to judge between the awe, alarm, astonishment, and loathing which answered his words. He knew only that, as his words fell upon the city, the Lord of Dunthruik pierced him with a furious glare. He felt it upon him, just as he felt the wrathful tendrils of the Master's power snapping about his thoughts – but he would suffer neither.

The silence was suffocating. He alone dared to break it.

“The King is for you!” he cried. “If you would follow, follow!”

His words strove in the hanging air, seeking ears to hear them and hearts that would dare to answer.

Answer came.

“
Traitor!
”

“
Snake!
”

“
Wayfaring whore-son!
”

“
Debaucher!
”

“
Defiler!
”

“
Traitor!
”

For a moment, Eamon reeled. Dunthruik looked as though it would rend him to pieces given half a chance.

“
Kill him!
”

“
Gut him!
”

“
Death to the snake!
”

The Hands set arrows to their strings. The Gauntlet and militia alike turned their aim to him. Would they really break rank and mob him? It would spell disaster for the city's defence.

Someone else clearly thought the same. “Hold rank!” yelled a voice – was it Arlaith's? “
Hold!
”

The first arrow hissed past Sahu.

Eamon had no time to think. Seizing the reins, he wheeled Sahu about and clapped his spurs to the horse's flanks, urging it forward into a gallop.

“Traitor!” screeched a voice on his left.

Suddenly Heathlode was by him, his horse matching pace with Eamon's own. The Hand drew his sword. With a blood-curdling cry, both man and beast lurched towards him.

“Death to you, Goodman!”

Eamon drove his spurs harder against Sahu. He ducked down against the horse's neck as Heathlode's sword swung past him. The blade missed him by a hair.

A sudden clack rent the air behind him, followed by the gargling scream of a falling horse. He could not look back, but he knew that Heathlode's beast had been struck from behind – whether by city defenders or assailants, he did not know.

He realized that two others rode but a pace behind him; one was Wilhelm, the other Lonnam. Eamon could not tell their purpose. Fearing the worst, he pressed his horse even harder. He heard a cry of pain and guessed that an arrow must have struck one of the two. He did not dare to look back.

“
Hold!
”

The thud of the earth shuddered through Eamon's limbs and he urged Sahu to a neck-breaking gallop. Almost as soon as he reached the astonished lines of Dunthruik's militia, Sahu was past them, vaulting the fallen body of one of the militiamen as he went. Cries
of “traitor” pursued Eamon like a furious wind across the plain. The voices of the Gauntlet were lost in the distance behind him.

In what felt both a heartbeat and a year, Eamon careered across the plain. There were more archers before him, but these were Easters and hobilars. He hoped they knew his mission and held their fire long enough for him to pass. His grip on the reins grew steadily more uncertain. Still he charged at the King's lines. He did not have time to think what would happen if he or his horse were shot down; all he could do was ride. He pressed his head down and grimaced against the fierce wind. There were standards ahead. One, blue, bore the sword and star.

With a cry, Eamon angled the reins and made for it. He clasped his knees firmly against the saddle and flanks of his horse as it sped on.

Suddenly he was past the lines. Groups of wayfarers gaped as he charged towards the blue banner.

“
The Right Hand!
”

Armed men rushed him. Panting and breathless, he hurled himself from his saddle. He was dimly aware of a voice commanding the wayfarers to let him pass, but he could not tell whose it was. As he stumbled down, the ground still seemed to thud in a gallop beneath him.

“Stand down!” the voice commanded again. “He is a King's man, and First Knight!”

The man who spoke rode a white horse and was dressed in blue. Tabard and shield bore the sword and star, as did the cloak that was clasped over his shining armour. On his head he wore a bronzed helmet, crested with a starry crown of silver, whose nosepiece was shaped like a sword. The pennant of a rearing unicorn flew by him.

Eamon strode unsteadily forwards. He knelt before the feet of the one who rode beneath the blue. Only then did he look up and find the King's face with his wind-burnt eyes.

“Sire,” he breathed.

The heir to the house of Brenuin came down from his steed. With a smile, he raised Eamon to his feet.

“Welcome, First Knight!” he said, and Hughan embraced him.

The men about them gasped to see the King embrace the Right Hand, but the moment was short. Cries followed from behind. Eamon turned to see a group of wayfarers escorting the two riders who had followed him across the plain. The King's riders had deftly caught the followers' reins and tried to still the trembling horses.

Sense returned to him. With a cry, Eamon pressed forward. The wayfarers let him pass. Whether this was out of respect to him or to the King that went with him he did not know, and it did not matter to him. As he went forward his heart sank with grief.

The first rider was Lonnam. The Hand was slumped awkwardly over the neck of his horse. A long, red-feathered arrow pierced his thick cloak and his rigid hands were clasped unbreakably about his reins. The horse shifted nervously from foot to foot, resisting many attempts to calm it, for it knew the burden that it bore.

Lonnam was dead.

Eamon turned his eyes to the other rider: Wilhelm. The red-tabarded cadet was pale. As Eamon pressed forward he saw that the cadet had also been struck by a red-feathered arrow. The missile protruded from the young man's shoulder in an ugly fashion, and the cadet groaned with pain as he was brought down from his horse.

“I follow Lord Goodman,” he managed as he came staggering down from the saddle. “I follow Lord Goodman!”

Eamon moved towards the young man's side but Hughan was already there. The King smiled kindly at the cadet.

“You followed him well,” he said.

Eamon saw the young man's face grow wide with awe as he saw who spoke to him.

“Sire, is Lord Goodman safe?” Wilhelm asked at last. “I did not see him reach you –”

“I am safe,” Eamon told him, reaching his side. “And so are you.”

“Lord Goodman!” Wilhelm breathed, and smiled.

The King turned to some of the soldiers by him. “Take this cadet to the field hospital,” he commanded.

Wilhelm looked anxious, but as he clambered to his feet, Eamon touched his arm in encouragement.

“All will be well, Mr Bellis,” he said. “These men will take care of you.”

Slowly, Wilhelm nodded. “Yes… my lord,” he answered.

Eamon watched as the King's men led the cadet away. A moment later Lonnam's still form was brought down from his horse. Eamon watched the black-robed mass with a heavy heart. He knew it would not be the last death he would see that day. The reddened arrow protruding from deep in the dead man's flesh angered him.

“First Knight!”

Anastasius rode across to them. He wore a tabard and bore a shield, both of which carried the emblem of a green sun. A few other Easter lords followed him, each with their own colours.

“Welcome!” Ithel called.

“Thank you,” Eamon answered.

Hughan's horse was brought, and Hughan rose to the saddle. Still breathless, Eamon did likewise.

Hughan looked to his allies. “The throned's cavalry forms up,” he told them. “We must begin.”

With nods, the Easter lords bowed and each rode off at once to take their posts at various points along the line. The sprawl of the throned's cavalry was before them. As he saw the horses, Eamon remembered the countless mornings that he had spent on Dunthruik's plain with Anderas, charging and galloping until it no longer frightened him.

“You rode well,” Hughan told him.

Eamon let out a long breath. “Thank you.”

Eamon looked at last to the King's men – there were hundreds upon hundreds of them. To the north, Easters and hobilars were ready to go against Dunthruik's horsemen. He reasoned that there would be many more dotted throughout the groves, shallow hills, and orchards where the throned's cavalry would ride. To the south, as far as the River, a long line of wayfarer infantry waited. At the centre
of the line there was a great group of Easters. Easter and wayfarer were drawn up against the throned's infantry. The two lines stared grimly at each other across the plain while opposing bowmen fretted the other. Behind the wayfarer line, mounted knights formed up. Eamon realized that Hughan had kept his cavalry in reserve for now.

“This is real,” Eamon whispered, scarcely believing his words. He had spent so long waiting for battle that, standing upon its edge, it seemed like a dream.

“Yes.”

Eamon looked back to Hughan. For the first time he noticed that among the men who rode near the King, two dressed in dark blue went at either side of him. Bodyguards. It chilled him.

A trumpet call marred the air. Eamon looked up. He saw movement among the throned's cavalry in the northern lines. A great mass of mirrored sunlight blazoned the arms and armour of Rocell's knights as the first wave of banners began their advance towards the King's lines.

It was a spectacular sight. For a moment Eamon forgot everything else. The knights and hobilars engaged each other on the rolling terrain. The tall lances at front and rear fell. Eamon wondered what the knights would do when their steeds were cut from under them and the hobilars fell upon them with sword and dagger…

The throned's formation loosened. Eamon could not tell whether it was intended.

Not long later there was a second horn-call, this one much louder. The mounted Easters charged. The horse archers led, loosing arrows into the enemy and weakening his ranks. Eamon lost sight of all but the nearest part of the lines. Men and beasts clashed together.

He looked to the Gauntlet lines. They were perfectly, steadily formed. As Eamon gazed across the mass of red, he felt cold.

None had followed him.

Tears stung. He tried to brush them away, but his gauntlets impeded him. He became horribly aware of the armour he wore and the one who had bestowed it on him.

“Eamon?”

The King held Eamon gently in his gaze.

“Did none follow me?” Eamon asked. After all that he had done, and endured, it seemed the cruellest blow that could have been lain against him. What of Anderas, what of the East? What of the men who had always sung his praises in the city for the good that he had done? Did they not see? Had they not heard? How could they not now understand?

“First Knight,” Hughan told him quietly, “what you did was dangerous enough – and you had a horse and a position at the front of the lines. How many of them could have followed you in what you did, even were it the nearest desire to their heart?”

Eamon looked back to the red lines. He knew that the city's quarter units were in the reserve lines by the city walls, just as he knew that those lines had been littered with Hands. Shocked and shaken by the words of their Right Hand, how many would have dared the wrath of the throned's dark and powerful servants?

“None,” he answered.

In the silence that followed, Eamon imagined the officers and captains, the Hands – and Arlaith overall – prowling the Gauntlet lines with threat and fear and words to stand contrary to his own, bolstering morale, and quelling any streaks of rebellion in the men. How often did a Right Hand proclaim allegiance to the King? It must have been a terrifying thing to witness.

But had they seen him for what he was? Or had their heads and hearts been filled with the cries of “traitor” that had followed him?

“Courage, First Knight. They have seen the way prepared by you, and it lies open to them also.” Hughan reached across and touched his arm. “Do not let it trouble you; the day is long, and you will yet see who followed you in their heart when you rode to me. Until that time,” he added gently, “I need you to be with me here, in every part.”

Eamon drew a shuddering breath. “I am here, sire.”

To the north, the knights and Easters both pulled back. Eamon gave Hughan a worried look.

“What is happening?” he asked, wishing for not the first time that he had understood something about cavalry tactics.

“Another wave of banners comes,” Hughan answered. Eamon followed his gesture back to the lines and saw that a second wave of Dunthruik's knights, no less impressive than the first, rode across to engage the King's men and bolster the struggling first wave. It seemed strange to Eamon that so much should be happening in the north, and yet the lines of Gauntlet and King's men before him should hold still in the warm morning light.

He saw Hughan, who had, like him, been watching the clash of the northern lines, nod. He seemed satisfied with what he saw and looked to Eamon once more.

“Ride with me, First Knight.”

Though he felt oddly weighted in his armour, Eamon took a firm hold of his reins and followed the King as he turned to move down to the infantry lines in the south. The lines reached all the way to a sharp bend in the River, and Eamon remembered Waite's assertion that it would be a difficult place to stand. The banners all along the line shivered in the wind, mirrors of the blue River and the sun-struck sky.