The Broken Blade (26 page)

“I will not ride,” Tramist answered coolly.

“No?” Arlaith enquired. “You disappoint me, Lord Tramist!”

Tramist fixed Arlaith with a withering glare. “I have not ridden to war since before you joined the Gauntlet, Lord Arlaith,” he answered, “and I do not ride. Perhaps, in your absences, you forgot this?”

“No indeed,” Arlaith replied firmly. Tramist's glare grew suddenly wide. Eamon saw the South Quarter Hand look once to him and then back to Arlaith in surprise. It left Eamon feeling very uncomfortable, but when both Hands looked to him again they met his gaze unfalteringly.

“So, the Hands are two hundred and six,” he said, trying to cover a disconcerting presentiment.

“Can they be relied upon to keep back the Serpent's forces while our deployment is still feeding out of the Blind Gate?” Waite asked.

“As long as there are no teary farewells at the city walls,” Arlaith replied caustically.

“Gentlemen, we have a great number of men to filter out of the
gates when we go to battle,” Eamon told them. His head began to ache. “Let us arrange how they will go.”

 

The meeting did, as Arlaith had predicted, go on for the rest of the day. Eamon watched as they arranged which Gauntlet group was to line up in which road. The Coll would not be long enough to hold every man who would march out to battle, and almost every side street would need to be employed to contain and feed the deployment out of the city gates.

The afternoon wore on into the early evening. Eamon's brain was saturated with nothing but talk of banners and divisions and denominations of the plains before the city where those men would go. The map on the table soon became a board filled with an army of tokens.

At last they drew to the end of their council. Eamon was about to sit back in his chair and breathe a sigh of relief when the doors to the chamber opened. They all looked up and then rose instantly to their feet before bowing deeply.

It was the Master who entered. He was followed closely by his secretary.

“Your glory, Master,” spoke the council as one voice.

The Master looked down at the table and there was a long moment of silence, in which the Lord of Dunthruik seemed somehow to absorb every facet of every word that had been spoken in the room that day.

“Son of Eben,” he said. The voice was terrifyingly loud in Eamon's ears, and for a moment he feared that he was undone.

“Your glory, Master.”

“All is prepared?”

The Master could see their plan well enough. “Yes, Master. We will fight.”

“Good,” the Master smiled. He looked once to his secretary, who stepped forward with a long, golden canister. The roll bore the throned's emblem at its head and was beautifully made.

The secretary handed this to Eamon; it was heavy in his hands. He looked at it for a moment then looked up, an unasked question on his lips.

“Within are writ my terms for the Serpent's surrender,” the throned said. “You will take two Hands and a standard bearer of your choice. You will deliver these terms to him tonight, son of Eben.”

Eamon's heart froze. “Yes, Master.”

“Why offer him terms, Master?” Tramist asked, mouth pulled in disgust.

“Because he will reject them,” the Master smiled, “and then he will fight.”

The Master left. As the echoes of “your glory” died in the room Eamon blinked hard.

“You have leave to go, gentlemen,” he said.

The council dispersed to their duties. Aware of Arlaith and Tramist speaking together behind him, Eamon concentrated hard on thanking each of the generals for their time.

Soon the generals left. Eamon gazed down at the map and its speckled layers of counters and divisions. Each counter marked a number of men. How many of them would die in battle against the King? He did not know.

“An enjoyable manner in which to pass the day, wouldn't you say, Lord Goodman?” asked a voice from his side: Arlaith's.

“I am not sure I would choose that word,” Eamon answered. He felt tired, and the roll of terms felt cumbersome in his hands. “I will take Heathlode and Lonnam from the East Quarter as my Hands tonight,” he said. Since the matter of Arlaith's list, Eamon had kept an eye on the East Quarter's Hands. He knew that Heathlode and Lonnam were capable men and knew also that they both held him in good regard. “Have them meet me in the Ashen at dusk.” That would leave him two hours to prepare himself.

“Of course, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith answered. “And for the third man?”

Eamon paused. He would have chosen Manners, but he could not. “I will take Mr Bellis as my standard bearer.”

“I am sure there will be no objection, but perhaps you should speak to Captain Anderas on the matter,” Arlaith told him.

“I will,” Eamon answered.

 

It was early evening as Eamon came heavily away from the conference. He felt burdened and not a little afraid. Dunthruik was prepared: it had a plan of attack and a way of striking the Serpent. Did Hughan have as much?

Why had no one spoken against a Right Hand who carried the King's grace?

He went quietly to the Ashen and on to the college. It was refreshing to have air in his face that had not been trapped for hours in the same room, breathed in and out by the lungs of enemies.

The college was eerily quiet. The preparations for deployment would not happen until after the parley. Until then the whole city hung in a state of prolonged suspense.

He was admitted to Anderas's office at once. The captain was there, his hands filled with papers which Eamon knew had come straight from the aides at the council.

“Good evening, captain,” Eamon said.

Anderas looked up, then rose and bowed. “Lord Goodman,” he breathed, his voice strained. He glanced again at the papers and then back to Eamon. “You have had a tiring day, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“How may I serve you?” Anderas asked.

“I am taking terms to the Serpent,” Eamon answered quietly. “I need a standard bearer. I would like to take Wilhelm, if he is recovered.”

“His injury was slight; I will happily let him go.”

“Have him meet me in the Ashen at dusk,” Eamon replied. “Lonnam and Heathlode will also be there.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They stood in silence. Eamon's thoughts turned to all the young
men in the East Quarter. He remembered the marks on the map that had shown where those men would go. All those men would be in danger, and so would the man before him. He looked to Anderas.

“Captain,” he began.

The captain met his gaze. “I will go to the battle and to my assigned place in it, my lord. That is my duty.” He paused. “And you?”

“I will go,” Eamon answered. His heart grew cold. “I will declare my colours, Anderas,” he said quietly, “and I will go to battle.”

“As will I,” Anderas answered. “I will bring as many as I can with me.”

Eamon stared. “How can you?”

Anderas smiled. “I have not been idle in these days, my lord.”

Eamon nodded dumbly. “You will send Wilhelm?”

“Yes.” Anderas glanced at the papers, then gathered a few. “I have a meeting I must attend.”

“The busy life of a captain?” Eamon asked with a smile.

“Well, I do enjoy excuses to leave the college,” Anderas replied. “Lord Arlaith asked me to deliver some vital papers to the South. I would send Mr Lancer, but he has been very busy since we lost Draybant Greenwood.” He drew a deep breath. “By your leave, Lord Goodman.”

“Of course,” Eamon answered.

 

They left the college together and rode to the Four Quarters. There, Anderas turned his horse to the south and disappeared into the greying light. Eamon watched him go and then returned to the palace. His thoughts were dour.

He was exhausted and afraid. Should it not be of comfort to him that he would see the King that night? But it made his stomach lurch: the end was coming. Had he done everything he could to prepare the way for Hughan?

As soon as he reached his own quarters, he called for Cartwright. He asked him to lay out his most formal attire. As he waited, he saw
the heavy roll, the golden canister for the terms, lying nearby. An idea came into his head.

He asked a servant to summon Fletcher for him. His lieutenant came almost at once and bowed. “Lord Goodman?” he said.

“There are copies of the Overbrook Dunthruik map?”

“There are several, my lord,” Fletcher answered.

“I want one delivered to me now. There are aspects of the deployment that I want to review tonight.”

Fletcher went away. Eamon dressed. He drew his thick travelling cloak over himself, ready against the cold. There was a knock at the door.

“Mr Fletcher has brought you the map you required, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mr Cartwright. Have him leave it in my study.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Eamon finished adjusting his cloak, then took up the roll of terms and crossed to his study.

The map was there. Eamon marvelled again at its detail. He traced his fingers over the roads and streets, over buildings and places that he knew and stones that he had walked for many months.

He took the map and carefully folded it. This done, he placed it deep inside his shirt, far from prying eyes.

He emerged from his study; Iulus and Fletcher waited for him.

“Is my horse ready?”

“Yes, my lord,” Fletcher answered. Carefully Eamon slung the roll over his shoulders; it rested like a quiver on his back, its cargo as keen as arrows, its strap pressing the feel of the map under his shirt against his breast.

“Then I go to meet the Serpent.”

 

He rode to the Ashen in silence and alone. There in the hanging dark he saw a small group of figures. Two were mounted Hands. The third was Wilhelm Bellis.

Wilhelm's red uniform stood in contrast to the black that surrounded him. The young man held himself well in the saddle,
one hand on the standard that he would carry. The banner hung limp in the air, a red token bearing a black eagle whose beak was bent to rend the neck of a serpent. It was the emblem not of the Right Hand, but of the Master.

Eamon was to be the Master's voice.

“Lord Goodman,” said Lonnam, bowing his head where he sat. The others followed suit. “We serve the glory of the Master.”

“Perhaps you have gathered, or have been told, where we go,” Eamon answered. He could see Wilhelm's careful eyes watching the roll at his shoulders as it glinted in the light. “I have been charged with delivering terms to the Serpent.”

He saw a strange look go over Wilhelm's face. “We are emissaries of the Master,” Eamon added, “and we will conduct ourselves according to the rules of war. None of you will incite or deliver any form of violence to any that we meet, and you will not respond to any similar provocation. You will answer to me if you do. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Lord Goodman,” came the unified response.

“Then come with me.”

He turned his horse and led it to Coronet Rise. His companions followed him.

Theirs was a solemn procession as they reached the Coll and the Blind Gate. In the lanterned streets faces watched them, a reflection of worried eyes in the darkness. Though no proclamation had been made, his duty was clear – the banner Wilhelm bore and the golden canister on the back of the Right Hand rendered it thus.

Ensigns from the East Quarter guarded the gate that night. The shapes of watchmen on the high walls paused to look down at Eamon and those who rode with him.

One of the East's officers came from the gatehouse.

“Lord Goodman,” he said with a bow. He was corpse-pale.

“Open the gate,” Eamon told him gently.

Moments later the gate yawned open to reveal a looming field of falling darkness. The ghostly shapes of trees and road gazed back.
Eamon stared out at the plain, a vast expanse of uncertainty. A low wind whistled through the darkness towards them.

“Torches,” he said quietly.

Several ensigns hurried forward and gave blazing torches to the two Hands. Heat billowed off them, causing strange shadows to shift on the banner.

“Lord Goodman?”

Eamon looked down at the officer's grim face. “Lieutenant?”

“The city goes with you, my lord.”

Eamon let out a slow breath. How well he knew it. “Thank you.”

Then he gathered the reins into his hand and rode out into the near dark.

The plain was still and silent. As the city and its lights receded, Edelred's heralds became inky figures that moved between the standing groves and whistling grass. The breeze came down from the north, blowing along the plain in whispers of mountain passes beneath starry skies. Eamon saw the watchful moon nestled behind the distant peaks, shedding an eerie light down on the plain as it rose.

Their horses' hooves were steady thumps on the turf, like that of a beating heart. The soft crackle of the torch-flames and the flutter of the Master's banner were the only other noises. Eamon felt the stir of the wind on his face, the roll of terms over his back, and the map of Dunthruik at his breast. Away to the south he saw the River, and beyond it lights in the dells and woodland of the West Bank. The Easters' bridge boldly straddled the water, a feat of engineering that was as miraculous as it was threatening.

It was towards the bridge that Eamon turned his horse. The others followed him, unquestioning and silent. Each man was hostage to the preying thoughts that circled him in the gathering dusk.

They drew closer to the bridge and Eamon nodded once to Wilhelm. His standard bearer went before them.

None opposed them as they rode. Indeed none could be seen until they were a few hundred yards from the bridge. Then Eamon saw a group of men – presumably some of Hughan's hobilars – by the bridge posts. They were dressed in dark hues. As Eamon grew accustomed to the changing light, he realized that more men, hitherto unseen, had drawn up to flank Edelred's term-bearers at a distance on each side.

He gestured slowly for his companions to halt; the bridge was but a hundred yards away. The men standing at it did not move and did not speak. Eamon saw more men in the darkness and guessed them to be archers.

“I am Eamon Goodman, Right Hand to the Lord of Dunthruik.”

“State your business, Right Hand of Edelred,” called a voice. Eamon realized with a start that it was known to him: Leon's.

“I come as Right Hand and as herald,” Eamon replied, “to present the benevolent terms of my glorious Master to your Serpent for his surrender. I will speak to him, and to him alone.”

“Come you in good faith, Right Hand,” Leon asked, “agreeing to be bound by such rules as there are for parleys in war?”

Eamon sensed the Hands behind him shuffling uncomfortably. “I come in good faith.”

“Then both you and your escort will dismount and surrender your swords to me,” Leon told him, “giving your word for your faith. If you or they play treacherously, you will each pay with your lives.”

Wilhelm paled, sweat beading his young face. Eamon looked firmly back to Leon. “These men answer to me and have pledged to abide by such rules as I have given them.”

“Then, again, I ask for your sword, Right Hand.”

Eamon dismounted and carefully unbuckled his sword from his belt. He also ungirt Eben's dagger and laid it, with the scabbarded sword, in Leon's hands. The man watched him with little trace of emotion and Eamon could not help but wonder whether Leon had forgiven him for their last encounter.

After Eamon, the Hands also dismounted, giving both torch and sword to Leon's men. Wilhelm did likewise but bore the Master's standard down from the saddle. It moved overhead as Eamon met Leon's gaze once again.

“We have given both pledge and blade,” he said. “Lead us to the Serpent.”

“Your horses will remain here,” Leon told them. “You will find them upon your return.”

“Very well.”

Leon nodded once and then turned to the bridge. As they began to move, a small group of hobilars formed up about them. Eamon caught sight of Wilhelm's hands; they trembled about the banner. “Courage, Mr Bellis,” he said quietly.

Wilhelm nodded.

They crossed the last stretch of grass to the River's bank and the awesome bridge that spanned the running water. Eamon had heard reports from the South Quarter that the Easters had brought the bridge to the River by land and water in parts and that, with the aid of men on each bank and holks on the water, they had completed their pontoon within a day of the attack on Dunthruik's port.

They set foot on the bridge. It had been lined to either side with two rows of tall stakes, about which the rushing water flowed out to the sea. Eamon could not help but smile grimly. The stakes were to keep flotsam and jetsam, natural or otherwise, from striking and destroying the bridge.

Against the sheer expanse of the River and the breadth of the bridge, the torches borne by their escort cast the dimmest of lights. As they crossed, the broad grey waters rushed by beneath them, with starlight caught between the churning currents. For a moment, Eamon felt as though he were caught on a bridge over a sea of stars, unable to see either the bank from which he had come or the bank to which he went.

They stepped down onto the far bank, and Eamon began to distinguish some of the ghostly shapes he had seen as distant lights from the plain. Coming down among them was like coming into another world. Fires dotted the bank for the warmth and comfort of man and beast. Gathered a little way back from the River were what seemed hundreds of tents and groups of guarded wagons. Banners showing stars and suns fluttered in the breeze, and from every side murmurs grew as men emerged to look upon the Right Hand of the Lord of Dunthruik alighting on the West Bank.

Fearing a chorus of jeers or curses, Eamon did not meet the watching eyes. But neither curse nor jeer met him. The men simply stared: the Master's eagle had reached their camp.

Leon led them firmly through the camp to a clearing. The sound of the River roared behind them. The breeze carried snatches of song. The wayfarers were in good spirits.

The clearing to which they went was filled with a long row of tents. Each was grander than those that stood near the River and they bore a host of different banners and flags. At the far end of that long line of pavilions hung a banner that showed the sword and star, and by it another, bearing a unicorn. The pavilion that they marked was made from great folds of blue fabric. As he looked up at it, Eamon's blood ran hot. The King was there.

They crossed the field swiftly. In the fallen dark Eamon could see the figures of men standing between the tents. More men stood on guard at the pavilion's entrance. One of them gave a start and stared at him in astonishment. As he passed by, Eamon realized the man was Giles.

Leon took them quietly inside, and the guards held open the entrance to the pavilion so that Wilhelm and his banner could pass unimpeded. As they entered, Eamon had to blink to adjust his eyes to the torchlight.

“The Right Hand of Edelred,” Leon announced. As he did so Eamon gazed about himself in astonishment.

The whole tent was blue. Silver facings lined its edges. There was a table to one side and various trunks about it, each covered with blue cloth. It filled Eamon's eyes with the sting of tears. After so many long months of unending red and black and gold, the gentle touch of the King's blue was like waves of water coursing through a shrivelled land. The colour washed into his heart to cleanse him from weariness and toil.

Others were in the tent – men that he knew and who knew him. They stood together by the table. Eamon was overjoyed to see them, but he caught sight of Wilhelm and the red reminded him who he had to be and what he had to do.

“Greetings to you, Right Hand,” said a voice – a trumpet of homecoming to his long benighted heart. “And greetings also to your escort.”

“You would greet us?” spat Heathlode in surprise.

“Lord Heathlode,” Eamon reprimanded sternly.

The Hand pressed his lips together and stared defiantly back at the one who had greeted them. That man smiled.

“Men of Dunthruik are always welcome here,” he said.

Heathlode's jaw fell open and he turned to Eamon as though to speak again.

But Eamon did not meet his gaze. Instead he looked up and inclined his head formally towards the speaker.

“For your greetings we exchange our own, Serpent,” he answered.

Hughan nodded graciously. Eamon felt a flood of joy pass through him as their gazes met.

“Lord Goodman brings terms from the throned,” Leon told them.

“Indeed!” snorted Anastasius. The Easter lord stood near Hughan and wore an amused expression.

“We will hear the terms, Lord Goodman,” Hughan said.

Eamon drew the roll from off his back and opened it. There was a thick scroll inside, and this he withdrew, handing the empty canister to Lonnam. As he unrolled the scroll, his eyes were met first by the great eagle which spanned the crown of the paper and then by the words, each pristinely but ornately scribed.

His blood chilled: how could he read what lay in his hand to Hughan? How much he wished that he could hurl the thing away! They were vile words and he could not lay them against the one he served.

He looked up and saw that Hughan watched him. The King knew his doubt. “Do as you came to do, Lord Goodman,” he said. “I am listening.”

Eamon drew a deep breath. The eagle peered at him, crying to him of his broken faith, as he read:

Eamon finished reading; his throat felt dry and he fought to keep his hands from shaking. The Master's seal was at the foot of the page, and Eamon shuddered to touch it. Some terrible power seemed bound up in both that mark and the words, which filled the tent with silence.

Scarcely daring to breathe, he looked to Hughan. Of all the faces in the pavilion the King's alone remained calm and determined.

“I will discuss these terms with Edelred's Right Hand,” he said. “Lord Anastasius, Lord Ithel, and Leon, I would have you remain also. Leon, please have Giles lead the Right Hand's escort to a place where they may wait. Then send Lord Feltumadas to me.”

Leon bowed at once and stepped outside the doorway. Eamon looked back to the Hands and cadet. Lonnam looked pale, and Wilhelm bit his lip. Heathlode simply set his jaw. Eamon met each of their gazes in turn.

“Remember my words,” he cautioned.

“Yes, Lord Goodman,” they replied.

Leon and Giles returned, the latter leading a group of men. Hughan looked to Eamon's escort. “You will not be harmed.” Then the King nodded to Giles, who led Hands, cadet, and banner away.

Eamon felt the weight of the terms as he looked back to the watching Easter lords and King. The King looked at him and smiled.

“Well met, First Knight,” he said at last, “and well come.”

Overwhelmed, Eamon sank down to one knee and bowed his head. No words came to him, but the one to whom he knelt crossed the distance between them and lifted him to his feet. Eamon tried to meet the King's loving gaze but his heart was both awed and shamed to be its object.

“How can you greet me thus,” he whispered, “after what I have brought to you?” His tongue burnt with the names he had been forced to lay against the King; his heart churned with betrayal. The throned had known that he would read them. It filled him with bile.

Hughan watched him for a moment. “I know you,” he answered, “and I have known you since long before you walked in Dunthruik.” He looked down at the parchment in Eamon's hands. “There was no shame in your reading this to me, and I am not sorry that you brought it.”

Eamon stared, bereft of words. Tears touched his eyes and he shook. To come, after long weeks of walking in Edelred's palace, into the star-wrapped pavilion of the King, and to be loved and welcomed by that man, was more than he could comprehend.

It was then that Hughan smiled, reached forward, and embraced him. “Eamon!” he said, and laughed.

Eamon had never known such relief as in that moment.

Hughan stepped back from him and pressed his shoulder encouragingly. Almost in a daze, Eamon became aware once more of the Easter lords.