The Shadow Within (60 page)
“It wants me, too,” Carissa said softly, heading him off. “Likely you, as well. When it wakes it will come for me. Even if we are protected, the village will suffer. Plus, if you spend your time getting me safe, you will not get far enough yourself to elude it. And we have no idea on whose side the weather will be tomorrow.” She hesitated. “The beast doesn’t like pure daylight or rain, as I said, but if the rain stops and the clouds stay . . . the overcast will shield it enough to travel. And I think the closer it gets to Abramm, the more compelled it becomes.”
Cooper continued to frown, Elayne regarding him soberly.
“Besides,” Carissa added, averting her eyes to stare at her interlaced fingers, “Eidon has told me I have something Abramm needs.”
And he has something
I want
.
“Something
Abramm
needs? What?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps my knowledge of the ways of this morwhol. I have lived with it for almost two weeks now, listened to its conversations with Rhiad. . . .” She paused, struck by that last horrible memory of the pair of them. “It absorbed him, Coop. Sucked him into its body as if he were nothing more than water. I think that’s made it stronger still. We don’t have time to waste.”
Cooper glowered at her for a moment, but finally he relented. “Very well. I don’t like it, but your arguments are persuasive. Unfortunately, Heron’s gone lame. You’ll have to ride double with me. It will be a miserable time for you, my lady.”
“And you think misery is an unfamiliar companion to me?” Carissa asked wryly. “Whatever happens, it will be far better than what I’ve been through these last weeks, believe me.”
Simon sat his horse at Abramm’s side in the middle of the Valley of the Seven Peaks, the rain drumming on their oiled canvas slickers as they watched for the first sign of movement in the mist-cloaked mouth of the Eberline Gap. Scouts had come at the noon meal with the news that the first of Gillard’s forces would arrive within two hours, so Abramm had mustered his men and ridden out to meet them.
He now sat atop Warbanner on a small rise, nothing but the horse and the coat of arms draped over the animal’s rump to reveal him as the king. Even Warbanner stood quietly, subdued by the rain. Abramm’s lords and generals ranged around him—Simon, Foxton, Whitethorne, Laramor, and even Everitt Kesrin—while below and before them stood a long front of archers. The rest of his soldiers were spread out in ranks at their backs. At first there’d been great excitement at the prospect of doing battle. If Gillard refused Abramm’s challenge, Abramm meant to attack him then and there, while his forces were yet strung out and his men exhausted from their long march. But time and boredom and the steady, gray rain had transformed the wait into a dreary restless vigil. Many sat huddled now beneath their woolen cloaks, uncomfortable, to be sure, but warmed by their own inner tension.
Simon thought the not-knowing was worse than merely waiting for the inevitable, and thus in his own mind had nerved himself for fighting. Though the scouts and harassment parties were confident Abramm’s plan to wear down the enemy had worked, no one could predict Gillard’s actions when he was challenged. In fact, Abramm’s lords were evenly divided as to whether he’d accept it or refuse.
At Simon’s side, Abramm shifted in the saddle. “Here they come,” he murmured, pulling his telescope from under the slicker and putting it to his eye. Below him, the commander of the bowmen called out his own alert. Up and down the line voices echoed the call as a great rustling stirred in the multitude behind them all.
In the gap ahead, across the puddled, ruin-dotted field, forms emerged from the mist. Simon brought up his own scope and fixed it on the men straggling into view. They walked wearily, their faces downcast, their clothing wet and mud-stained. The singles became clusters, and the clusters, bands as more and more of them arrived, devoid of all semblance of military order. They stopped along the field’s margin where the slope flattened and the ever- greens gave way to grassland, and there formed into groups, presumably the squadrons they belonged to. Gradually a frontline took shape and began to advance across the field toward Abramm’s waiting army. Behind them several lopsided wagons trundled into view, their wheels mismatched and many of the spokes splinted and bound or missing altogether. Though the sight of the enemy before them and the shouts of their commanders roused some of the men to new vigor, straightening their shoulders, putting new energy in their strides, most looked grim and flat-eyed.
Abramm had earlier designated as a reference point a red-leaved bush growing up out of the crumbled remains of an ancient Tuk-Rhaalan wall. As the line of men neared it now, he nodded to the commander of his bowmen. The man bawled the order to “present and draw,” and a hundred bows emerged from beneath their oiled slickers, each already nocked with an arrow. The longbows flipped to vertical and flexed back as strings were drawn to noses and a hundred arrow tips pointed at the sky above the oncoming army.
The commander had his eyes on Abramm as Abramm watched the advancing men. Past the red bush and on to the clump of withered holly. He nodded again, the command went out and a hundred arrows flashed through the air, silver streaks sailing through the rain. By design, they fell just short of the nearest of Gillard’s men, for Abramm remained adamant about preserving the lives of a force he still considered his own. But it worked. As the arrows rained down upon the field, the line of men stopped, and Simon saw fear take them, borne on wings of exhaustion made worse by the constant harrying they’d endured getting here. Some were already shouting and turning away. Angry bellowing ordered them to hold the line. Men grabbed each other, struggled, broke free as more and more turned tail, and the line dissolved entirely.
“See,” Abramm said with quiet satisfaction. “Already they fear us.”
“It would be easy to take them now,” Simon murmured.
“We’ll wait.”
The panicked flight didn’t last long—the men had nowhere to go but back up the gap and into their fellows, who were not about to let them flee. Before long the crisis passed and the enemy troops spread out along their line.
“They’re humiliated,” Simon said. “They will be angry now.”
Abramm smiled grimly. “More important—
Gillard
will be angry. Although I haven’t seen him out there yet, have you?”
“No, sir.” The scouts had said Gillard was riding with the first column, though, so he’d be here before long. Already his underlings—Harrady, Matheson, Prittleman, and several of Prittleman’s Gadrielite lieutenants—had gathered front and center of the camp. And here came Moorcock to join them.
As another wave of men marched out of the gap, Abramm turned toward Simon. “It’s time,” he said quietly. “You may proceed.”
Simon glanced back at the men who would accompany him, then gathered up the reins and led down the rise. Together they trotted slowly across the wide strip that served as buffer between the two armies, the rain finally letting up a bit. In the camp ahead, all the bustling activity had ceased near the front line, men turning to watch them, the small knot of their leaders pulling out telescopes and holding them to their eyes.
A surprising number of the rank and file were cloaked in Gadrielite gray— new converts, most likely, pressed into service by emotion or impulse, or the compulsion of others. Many more wore the standard wool and armor of the Kiriathan army, their tabards still bearing Gillard’s coat of arms. A little over halfway between the two lines, Simon pulled his horse to a stop, cast back the hood of his slicker, and waited as his escort caught up, letting the men ahead get a good look at him. He could see the wave of startlement sweep through the camp as he was recognized and word spread. Head after head turned his way as each pair of eyes confirmed the truth. So far Simon’s siding with Abramm had been only rumor for most of these men, discounted as one more lie come to dishearten them. Now, for the first time, they saw the rumor was true.
Simon could see with his bare eyes the open mouths of Harrady and Matheson and others—men he’d worked and served with for years, men of honor and determination who, convinced of the rightness of their cause, would not be deterred by hardship and fatigue. Nor even by the sight of their once-revered ally, Simon Kalladorne, publicly showing his allegiance to Abramm. The men they led, however, were another matter. Coming on top of all they had so far endured, seeing Simon serving as Abramm’s herald struck a mighty blow to their morale. He saw it in the eyes of those closest, and in the shock that wilted the bodies of those farther. Hearing the challenge Simon was about to make would strike an even greater blow.
By now he had everyone’s attention and the rain was hissing away to only a few errant sprinkles. Drawing a deep breath, he bawled out Abramm’s challenge in his best battlefield roar: “I am Simon Kalladorne, son of Galbrath, brother of Meren, Uncle of Abramm, Grand Marshall of the royal armies of Kiriath, and I speak for His Majesty, King Abramm, rightful ruler of the land, to his brother, Gillard, Crown Prince and heir to the throne. Thus says the king:
“‘This battle is between you and me, brother. Why spill other men’s blood when we can settle it one on one, in the manner of our ancestors? I propose a meeting between us tomorrow at noon, on this very field, to decide in a trial by combat who shall wear the crown of Kiriath. What say you, Gillard, to this challenge? Will you accept?”’
Simon’s words echoed into silence, broken only by the small movements of the men and horses around him, the jingle of tack, and dripping of the water off them. Harrady and Prittleman watched him like statues, paralyzed by the shock. Then Harrady spoke, and behind him, a runner dashed back through the camp, presumably to find Gillard, who still had not appeared.
Simon waited. Gradually the soldiers began to stir, their chatter rising on the silence as the news spread. Prittleman and Harrady seemed to be arguing, and Simon smiled to himself. No question the men Gillard had brought here would favor this turn of events. Not only would they not have to risk their own lives, but many were no doubt convinced their leader could easily best “Little Abramm” in a one-on-one confrontation, Abramm’s demonstrations at the ball and the royal stables notwithstanding. Prittleman, of course, had felt the touch of Abramm’s blade on his own flesh, but Simon suspected that had only made the man more desirous of seeing Gillard best him.
And finally here was Gillard himself, mounted on the intractable Nightsprol. His white-blond hair frothed about his shoulders, gleaming as bright as his gold and silver breastplate. He rode his fidgeting mount to the edge of the gathering and stopped there, staring at Simon and army ranged behind him. After a moment he signaled the horseman at his side, who advanced a few lengths into the field and shouted back Gillard’s answer.
“His Majesty, King Gillard of Kiriath, accepts the challenge of the Pretender who seeks to steal his crown. He will be here on this field tomorrow at midday, where he looks forward to driving his blade through the Usurper’s heart and so ending this question of who will wear the crown of Kiriath.”
As Simon’s had before him, his words echoed into silence. They sat regarding one another for a long moment, then Simon nodded, and simultaneously the two parties reined their mounts around and returned each to their own side of the field.
As he returned, Simon saw that Abramm had pushed back the hood of his slicker, sitting Warbanner bareheaded and wearing the simple circlet of rule on his brow, so that all might see and know his presence. He was looking at something beyond the returning party of his herald, and when Simon glanced back he was not surprised to find Gillard still there, returning Abramm’s gaze grimly. Abramm broke it off as Simon drew up to him, favored him with a nod and a quiet thank-you, and then they all turned to head back to Stormcroft for the night.
As they did, Simon noted the rank and file of Abramm’s forces had spontaneously formed themselves into a long gauntlet through the camp. A gauntlet not of curiosity, but of honor and respect. For they all knew what Abramm would risk for their sakes on this field tomorrow. Simon stole a glance at his nephew, riding tall beside him, the slicker still cast back. He did not look at the men as he passed them, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere, fixed perhaps on the task that lay before him, but Simon knew the transfer of loyalties had been completed. His own presence no longer mattered. Abramm had won the hearts of his men with his courage and willingness to sacrifice. More importantly, he’d won the hearts of many who were encamped on Gillard’s side of the field, as well.
It had been long indeed since Kiriath had had a king like this.
Everything was going precisely as Abramm had planned, yet the sense of oppression remained. He had returned from giving his challenge to Gillard, changed into dry clothing, eaten at the long table with his generals, and then attended the Terstmeet Kesrin had conducted in the Great Hall. He had been doing so every night since they’d arrived, and the room was more packed tonight than ever. While he supposed he should give thanks that so many were being exposed to the truth of the Words, he knew many of them came for reasons other than their interest in Eidon: fear, curiosity, the desire to please their king, the desire to be seen as united with their king. . . . Kesrin told him not to worry about it, that it would eventually sort itself out. But it only brought into the light one more complication of being king.
After the meeting, the room more or less cleared, and Abramm’s generals gathered by the fire to discuss today’s events and predict tomorrow’s. Weary of all the speculation and fighting a deep, unrelenting dread, Abramm donned his woolen cloak again and sought the solitude of the keep’s eastern tower. Trap went with him and stayed on guard at the bottom of the steep spiral stair—even here he feared assassins and spies, and given Gillard’s history, rightly so.
Abramm conjured a kelistar and held it before him as he climbed the narrow stair, musty walls brushing his shoulders as he spiraled to the right. The sound of rain drumming on a wooden roof increased as he climbed, becoming a loud rush as he emerged onto the stone-floored turret at the top. Flicking out the orb, he strode to one of the narrow embrasures opening in the turret wall and leaned against the stone ledge. The valley stretched before him, cluttered with tents and picket lines and glowing campfires around the occasional angular forms of a wall, or a gateway, or a portion of the old aqueduct.