The Faerion (20 page)

"What concern is that of yours? I am not welcome in your house."

"You are still a prince, and are still my son. It is not unthinkable that someday the throne may be yours. This dallying with a wood Wierlun shall be the undoing of you, Navir. Mark my words. I forbid you to see her again."

Navir made no answer, setting his jaw firm.

"Very well. You have chosen your lonely fate." He looked back at his son once more and spat on the ground.

The King of the Daerlan rode back to his palace at Evenlight, never looking back, his silhouette as stiff as the tall trees in which he vanished. Navir stood long, watching his father.

Several weeks later, Navir found himself walking through the forest, trying to avoid Aeli's woods but drawn there nonetheless. He sensed a presence in the trees ahead of him and slowed down, drawing his knife.

"Put that away, my Prince," said a voice.

"Meartan?"

"It is I."

Navir found one of his border Daerlan, crouched, reading a trail.

"What is it?"

"A party of seven or eight. Hunters."

"Men? Let us rid this land of them."

"Stay, Navir. I will speak plainly. These tracks are of Daerlan. Your brother and his friends."

"Aelan? Why would he be here? There's little for his hunting skill."

"I spoke with them when they passed. I have been trying to decide whether to seek you out."

"I don't understand."

"Your brother was commanded to hunt here."

"Why?" Suddenly, the horrible thought came to him. He grabbed Meartan by the shoulders. "Aeli?"

"I am sorry, Prince Navir. I am not reconciled to your situation, but I would spare you sorrow if I could. You have always been true to me."

"I must stop them!"

"As I knew you would. I cannot help, but may the speed of the wind push your feet."

Navir left Meartan without a word, running hard.

He heard the cries of a bird, perhaps a hawk, and he started to run, faster, faster, thinking of his own brother hunting Aeli. Aelan was the greatest archer in Arda. It was said he never missed a target. He ran and ran, finding a group of Daerlan armed with bows. His brother, Aelan, pulled back his bow, letting the arrow fly skyward. Navir shouted but it was too late. The arrow climbed upward seemingly too slowly, toward a dark shape gliding across the sky. Navir cried out again. A large reddish hawk fell to the earth, dead. Even the Daerlan cried out in wonder as the bird turned into the Wierlun. Navir leaped on his brother in a heartbeat, striking him, trying to find his heart with his dagger. Several hands grabbed him and finally pulled him off his bleeding but still living brother. Navir trashed in rage, finally giving way to sobs and Aelan ordered him left with the body of the Wierlun and the company of Daerlan departed.

"I feel for the grief in Navir's heart, but he has strayed from Daerlan ways. It could not have ended otherwise. Farewell, my brother. Know that this deed was commanded to me, and I would not willingly have injured you. Perhaps, someday there will be room in your heart for me again."

Navir did not answer. Aelan gazed long over his brother, turning to join his comrades, returning to Evenlight.

Navir cursed his father, knowing that Aelan, who was cool to Navir, nonetheless, would not have been hunting in that area if the king had not commanded it. He hugged the still form of Aeli, wishing his sister were there to comfort him. However, it was cold comfort he received. The forest was silent.

A small cairn of rocks marked Aeli's grave. Navir stayed by it for days, only leaving to see to her house. No one had been there, but he heard a small sound from inside. He opened the door slowly, peering into the gloom and saw a juvenile hawk on a perch. It looked similar to Aeli but it had grey eyes, not yellow like Aeli. Grey eyes. Grey eyes like Navir. There was a tightening in his stomach as he reached for the hawk, speaking softly. It came to him easily, watching his face.

"Wynne," he said. "I shall name you Wynne."

The hawk screeched and Navir cried, remembering Aeli and her wild ways.'

Blackthorne rose, tracing the slope of Wynne's shoulders as she cried. She reached up, pulling him down, hugging him in her anguish. Blackthorne patted her head, seeing the eyes from the house; the Tuors watching him. Berimar watched too, but Blackthorne could feel those eyes; he didn't need to see them. Wynne's sobs ceased as the light faded.

"Navir? I've known him all my life, why did he not tell me? Free me from your bonds, Blackthorne. I need to fly beyond the walls. I need to hunt!"

Swords crossed at first light the next day. The Wierland army spread out over the fields, a wave of pikes and swords, waiting silently for the knights and soldiers of Calendia. As the light of the dawn reached across the land, the sentries on the walls of Nantitet saw the host rise before them like a maiden out of the sea. They stood, mouths agape. Then their cries rang out rousting the defenders and bringing the knights and squires on a dead run. Shouts rang out as figures darted around like ants finding an unguarded kitchen. It seemed like moments until they mustered. At attention they stood, barely restraining the emotions rising in them as the prospect of battle hung over them like a mist soaking them to their skin. The grizzled veterans, carrying the scars of many encounters shouted to their comrades. There were confident faces, worried faces, and the youthful fear of the youngest men, new to battle and mixed in among the experienced fighters so an entire line wouldn't break at first contact. They would gather their strength from those around them.

Sir Crestan rode haughtily at the head of the Calendia army, his shield glistening in the reddish light of the new sun. He carried his lance high; the colors of Treteste draped over the end, flapping in the breeze. Treteste's army drew confidence from Sir Crestan, steadying themselves to meet the enemy. They advanced steadily without haste, fanning out as they moved to stretch to the limits of the Wierland army.

Crestan looked for the berserker of Wierland. Galen was the name. The tales of endless bloodlust reached Nantitet weeks before. At first the rumors were not believed, the details described were too horrible. Then more tales reached Nantitet as the invaders moved deeper into Calendia. Even Treteste found the gore excessive. Galen's name became a talisman by which children behaved themselves, retiring to bed without argument. The stories were horrid but less vivid than the actual event. Strongmen wept at the carnage left by the berserker. Vows were spoken among the army of Calendia. Galen would not reach their families.

Crestan spied a slight figure hobbled by age that he guessed was Duke Armas. Next to him stood a broad man, hair curly and wild, without a helm. His black shield lacked arms upon it. Galen. It had to be. However, he heard no stories of the man fighting without a helm. Insanity was the only answer. Rumor said Galen rushed into battle without caution, killing without thought, bloodied only by the lifeblood of his victims. Crestan could not fully believe the stories, but he could not take his eyes off the man.

Crestan raised his lance halting his army. He rode forward with his herald. Armas, Galen and their herald rode to meet them. He met their hard eyes, patiently waiting for them to speak. They made no sound. He cleared his throat.

"I am Sir Crestan, warlord of King Treteste. I will stop your army from advancing this day."

"I am Duke Armas. This is Sir Galen. Our country is starving and you have refused assistance. We cannot turn back; our fate is set. We shall advance until we conquer you or are destroyed ourselves. We ask no quarter and shall give none. Make your peace with your god. You shall meet him soon."

Sir Crestan saluted his opponents. "May Cothos give strength to the righteous and bring victory to those he deems worthy."

"So be it," said Armas. Crestan nodded to Galen, unnerved by the silence of the huge man. Galen was nearly the size of Kirkes and ten years younger. Crestan' cheek began to twitch involuntarily. Kirkes sat in the dungeon. There would be no help from Kirkes. Crestan had to deal with Galen himself. Crestan knew Galen would meet him on the field before the sun set that very day. He did not feel the nervousness from earlier in the week. Now he felt calm. Serene. He never felt this way before battle. He looked at the huge form of Galen riding back to the Wierland ranks.

Crestan rode back to his army even as the drums of the Wierland's began to thunder, rolling over the still green grass, heralding the bloody sea to come. Would it be prudent to retrieve Kirkes for this one battle? Treteste threw him out in Kirkes' place. He thought the king favored him, but now he was not so sure. What did Treteste do to him? How have I displeased the king?

The horns rang out sending the hordes of Wierland into the defenders. Galen's battle cry rose above the din, urging his army onward. The clash of metal rang. The mass of figures swarmed against itself, pulling one way, pushing another to the rhythm of the swords and arrows raining upon the warriors. The ground soon became soft from the carnage; boots sinking into the earth. Man against man, to the death.

The Wierland army drove a wedge into the Calendia lines nearly breaking through. Green soldiers retreated while the veterans proved their worth holding the line until Calendia regrouped matching strength versus strength. The battlefield roared with cries, shouts and exclamations as the true impact of war washed over the combatants. The east flank of Calendia succeeded in turning the Wierland advance toward the center, raising a shout spurring their comrades on to greater efforts. A great charge from the center of the Wierland line surged into the men and horses of Calendia.

The battle lasted long into mid-day, neither side giving quarter. However, the Wierlandians gradually gained the advantage, foot by foot. Galen's frenzied attacks energized his soldiers, pushing them beyond their endurance. The Calendia line nearly faltered and broke but Crestan led a countercharge halting the momentum from the south. Crestan called his soldiers to him for a brutal sortie.

Crestan held his ground while the soldiers and knights flowed around him. He could hear the laughter of Galen playing around the edges of his ears, taunting him to the rhythm of the drums pounding, pounding endlessly. Crestan stole a glance, finding the unprotected head of the berserker shaded under the broad blade of Galen's own sword as Galen raised it to deliver another killing stroke. Again and again Galen unleashed his weapon. Suddenly, Crestan realized how close Galen was now. He had been cutting his way through both armies to reach Crestan. His heart beat to a chilling rhythm. His voice rasped; he could not spit.

The heat on the battlefield stifled him. Crestan felt rivets of water slide down his body. He fought well, evading injury. He armor bore several dents, pressing into his skin but not impairing his movement. He felt the pressure come from the right, driving soldiers back into him. He held his position, shouting encouragement. Suddenly, a figure broke through the Calendia line. Galen paused, looked at Crestan, and then beheaded the nearest soldiers. He quickly dispatched two more and he stood before Crestan.

"Well met, Sir Crestan," said Galen. "It is time to determine the outcome of this skirmish." He swung his sword round and round over his head crying out to the Wierlandians. All noise on the battlefield slowly fell away.

Crestan exhaled slowly, knowing this battle would be his last.

Galen waited, breathing slow and easy, beads of sweat on his forehead. He brushed back his damp hair with his shield hand. Crestan lunged suddenly, sword reaching for Galen's abdomen. A flashing arc of silver crashed on Crestan' weapon, nearly dislodging it from his grasp. He stepped back, raising his shield. Galen rushed forward, and then skipped aside sending a backhanded blow partially blocked by Crestan who stumbled from the power of Galen. The berserker laughed, moving slowly toward his opponent. Crestan remembered some tactics of Kirkes. A quick flick of his sword caught the edge of Galen's knees surprising the berserker. Crestan struck again. Blood flowed from Galen's leg.

"Well struck, Sir Crestan. We shall see if you can do better." Galen felt the stiffness in his leg, knowing the encounter must end soon.

Again and again Galen crashed his sword on Crestan' shield staggered the knight. Crestan found strength inside himself to fight back. Each blow used his last energy but he dug deeper and deeper surprising himself. Kirkes flashed through his mind and he knew, finally, what the giant man meant about knighthood. A serenity filled Crestan despite the long odds. He prepared to die as a knight.

"Hail, Calendia!" Crestan shouted.

Crestan stepped forward into the quick rush of Galen. Galen swiped long against Crestan' shield then backhanded the edge of the shield pulling Crestan' arm wide. Galen drove his shield into Crestan' chest knocking him to the earth. He brought his sword down heavy on the knight's head. Crestan bled from his nose and mouth. He surged to his feet striking Galen across the brow sending a stream of blood into the berserker's eyes. Galen sliced Crestan' thigh and the knight stumbled. Galen allowed him to rise, and then delivered the killing blow, sending the warlord of Calendia spinning to the ground, dead. Galen beheaded Crestan, raising the head high and cried out in a loud voice.

"I have killed Crestan! The best Calendia can offer. Nantitet will soon be ours!"

Wierland voices roared and increased their frenzied attack on the collapsing Calendia line.

The Wierland army flowed like a wave over the Calendia defenses pushing them against the white walls of the city. Treteste railed at the sky, ordering the archers to rain arrows over the battlefield, heedless of their comrades below.

"Shoot! Shoot! Or it will be too late. We cannot aid those below. If the gate opens the Wierlandians will overrun us. Look! Even now it is too late."

The Wierlandians killed all who stood before them. Galen shouted to Treteste to come down and fight. The king shook his fist and turned away amidst the laughter of the Wierlandians. It would be a siege. Galen shouted orders. The woodcutting had begun.