Yesterday's Kings (39 page)

“With all youth’s problems?” Eben shook his head. “It’s hard enough to grow old and find there are still problems.”

“But we’re surely settled, no?” Laurens rose on an elbow, that he might see Eben’s eyes. “We remain with Cullyn in this handsome land, liege men to the syn’qui.”

“Save for the priest,” Eben replied. “I doubt he’ll give up his pursuit.”

“Across the Barrier? He’ll surely be confused.”

“He came across before.”

“And was driven back. I doubt he’ll attempt it again.”

“Perhaps, but keep your sword sharp.”

“H
ERE; WE CAN CROSS HERE.
”

Per Fendur indicated the ford and heeled his mount into the river.

The water was shallow, spraying up light sparkling waves beneath his mount’s hooves. Amadis followed
him, and then Lord Bartram, and the warriors of Lyth, lancers and swordsmen and archers, as great a force as had crossed the Barrier since the wars.

The priest halted on the farther bank and looked around, sniffing the air, then pointed and said, “This way,” and they rode into Coim’na Drhu. Across the Alagordar—the Barrier that was no longer a barrier to the priest’s magic.

Lord Bartram felt his skin prickle as Fendur brought the war band on into the deceiving woodlands across the river, into the forest beyond the banks, and then deeper, to where new and ancient trees grew together, willows and oaks and birches and hazels all combined in impossible gatherings, with meadows filled with grass between, and strange creatures watching them from the edge of the woods. But the priest rode on confidently, aware of the power rested in him. He could see the way. He knew, as does a scented hound, where the prey had gone. And he would track it down.

But that was for another day.

This night a thin moon hung over Coim’na Drhu, a judging sickle, and the air grew chill as a wind blew up from off the river, so they made camp, hacking down trees to make their fires, setting up their tents and settling for the night. They built their fires high, ignoring fear of Durrym magic to find protection against the creatures that surrounded them, which were unfamiliar and strange.

Lord Bartram sat before a blazing fire, listening to the rustle of odd wings that flapped across the starlit sky. He wondered if the shape he saw flitting past the sickle moon was a dragon, or some gigantic bat. Sometimes they hovered above the Kandarians’ fire, and he wondered if they carried messages back to the Durrym. Crows cawed from the trees, and faces showed from the under
growth and brushwood, horned and fanged, sometimes like vast bears, at others like enormous serpents that hissed a warning.

Go
back!

Per Fendur stalked the perimeter of the camp, voicing incantations about each watchfire, assuring the guards that all was well, that they were engaged in holy quest—to bring back Abra and defeat the Durrym.

“What do you think?” Bartram asked Amadis. Less from interest than want of conversation to fill the frightening darkness. “Shall we succeed?”

“I place my faith in the Church,” Amadis replied. But his eyes were fixed on the rustling night. “Per Fendur guides us.”

“To what?”

“To bringing your daughter back.”

“And should she not wish to come back?”

“What choice has she?”

“We all have choices.” Bartram faced his wife’s lover. “Abra, hers; you, yours; me, mine.”

“What do you say, my lord?”

“That there must be a deciding,” Bartram answered. “And soon. I cannot let this go on.”

“I do not understand,” Amadis said, protesting innocence.

Bartram returned, “You shall, soon enough.”

And then great wings flapped above them and great dark shapes filled the sky, so low that their passage gusted the fires into spiraling sparks that rose up and were then driven down by the slapping of the leathery wings.

Amadis crouched, brushing embers from his tunic. Bartram laughed and said, “I think they know we’re coming.”

And Per Fendur returned from his inspection and said, “Tomorrow, eh? They know we’re here, but do we
travel by night, below the trees where these beasts cannot find us, we shall find them and deliver them the Church’s justice.”

C
ULLYN WOKE
from contented sleep to the pounding of Lyandra’s fists. “What is it?” He rubbed lazily at his eyes.

“An alarm!” She shook his head. “Wake up!”

“What?”

“Can you not hear?”

He raised himself, preferring to put his arms around her again and go back to sleep.

“Get dressed! And quickly.”

He sat up and heard the muffled beating of great wings, a squealing in the sky. Lyandra was already tugging on her clothes. She flung him his.

“And wear that knife my father gave you, and a sword.”

“I don’t understand,” he muttered, even as he tugged on his breeches and buckled up his belt. The urgency of her tone disturbed him. “What is this?”

“A warning!” She was already dressed in the motley leathers he’d first seen her in, a blade at her side, her hair put up beneath that boyish cap. “Come, hurry.”

“I
MUST GO.
” Lofantyl kissed Abra and rose from their bed. “There’s peril coming for both of us.”

No less aware than Cullyn, she asked, “What peril?”

“I’ve not the time to explain,” he said. “Trust me, eh? And stay safe. Go across the river if you must, and I’ll find you later.”

And then, fastening his shirt, his sword belt flapping about his knees, he was gone.

O
VER THE RIVER VALLEY
where the water ran in satisfied confusion vast bats and winged serpents beat heavily against the moonlit sky. The trout ducked down, seeking refuge. The bats and dragons howled their warnings and winged away, their task done.

Cullyn came stumbling from his pavilion, still fixing his clothing, Lyandra at his side, and saw Pyris, armored, staring at the western ridge.

Isydrian came to them, and Afranydyr, both armored, and all their men with them in various states of disarray, some barely dressed, others in half their armor, some in full battle kit, others naked save for shields and swords, or lances or bows.

“What is it?” Isydrian asked.

“An attack,” Pyris answered.

“It’s the priest—Per Fendur.” Eben joined them, Laurens standing red-eyed with wine at his side, but still kitted with a blade in his right hand, and a Durrym shield in his left. “I told you he’d found a way past the Barrier, no?”

“I should have believed you,” Isydrian allowed.

“Matters past,” Pyris said. “We face a common enemy now. Do we stand together?”

Isydrian nodded. “Shahn and Zheit? There’s a first, eh?”

“A start,” Pyris said, smiling.

“So let’s order this rabble into battle lines.”

Isydrian set to yelling orders and Pyris joined him, their men shaping a defensive wall between the
wood-topped ridge and the encampment where the women—those not holding weapons and standing with their men—gathered in children and old folk.

It was close on dawn, the sky a pearly gray not yet decided between light and darkness. A good time to attack, when people slept, or woke lazy from the feasting. Birds sang now that the bats and dragons had gone, and to the east the sun began to stain the horizon a bloody red.

A
LINE OF HORSEMEN
came out from the trees, halting on Per Fendur’s command. The priest rode a little way forward and raised his hands. Lord Bartram shouted, “No! We’ll parley first,” but Fendur ignored him, pointing at the Durrym clustered below.

Bartram turned his horse toward the priest, but Amadis moved to block him, dancing his charger before Bartram’s so that his lord was held away from Fendur.

“You defy me?” Lord Bartram shouted, outraged.

“I obey the Church, my lord.”

“Damn you,” Bartram growled. “I’ll have an accounting for this betrayal.” He drew his sword.

Which Amadis knocked from his hand, settling his lance point against Bartram’s chest to topple the older man from his horse.

“Your day is done, old man. I follow Per Fendur now.”

Bartram landed on his back, winded. He struggled to rise, but his armor was too heavy and all he could do was shout for help as his men stared in confusion and looked about to see who commanded them. Drak began to dismount, but Amadis shouted that the soldier ignore his
fallen lord, and smiled from under his golden helmet as Per Fendur commenced the fashioning of his magic.

Lord Bartram lay like an overturned turtle, helpless and furious as the battle began.