The Broken Blade (28 page)

Eamon received the cloth. It was heavy, as though it held a weight of metal. “What is this?”

Hughan smiled. “Something that belongs to Edelred. He will not be enthused by my returning it to him.”

Eamon nodded. “I will take your message, sire,” he said, firming his hold on what Hughan had given him.

Together they went to the tent's doorway. Just outside it stood the Easter lords and wayfarer generals. They looked up as King and Right Hand exited – for Eamon was Right Hand once more.

“Well?” Feltumadas peered at them both.

“Our course was ever towards the gates of Dunthruik,” Hughan answered, “and so it remains.” Feltumadas nodded, pleased. “Leon,” Hughan continued, “please escort the Right Hand and his men back to the bridge, and let them return to the city.”

“Yes, sire.”

Hughan met Eamon's gaze once more. “Look for me on the field of battle,” he said.

“I will meet you there.”

 

Leon led him away from the pavilion and down the line of tents to one that was unmarked. By its posts stood several watchmen. They stiffened as Leon led Eamon into the torchlight.

“Bring out the escort of the Right Hand,” Leon commanded. One of the guards ducked inside the tent and a few moments later Wilhelm, Lonnam, and Heathlode emerged. Each of them searched Eamon's face, but he did not meet their gazes or speak any word to them.

Leon and the guards led them back to the bridge and over it to where, as had been promised, steeds and blades were returned to them.

“Ride straight to your city gates,” Leon told them. “If you turn right or left, or falter, my men will ensure that you do not do so again.”

Eamon looked to his escort. “Let us go.”

Silently they rode away from the camp until its noise and light were lost behind them. The city grew before them. At last Lonnam looked to him.

“What said the Serpent, my lord?” he asked. His eyes fell uncertainly upon the bundle cradled in Eamon's hand.

“His message is for the Master.”

“He rejected the terms?” Heathlode asked eagerly.

The Hand's enthusiasm was unsettling. “In every part,” Eamon told him.

Wilhelm said nothing.

The gates boomed open as they approached, flooding their faces with torchlight and making the plain behind them seem darker than before. Dozens of faces were at the gates and gatehouse, each looking to his and seeking to know the outcome of his meeting.

Eamon spoke to none of them. His escort rode with him to the Four Quarters where he dismissed the two Hands back to the East.

“Mr Bellis, ride with me to the palace.”

“Yes, my lord.”

They rode on in silence. Eamon watched the young man's face from the corner of his eye; it was pale and troubled.

“Are you well, Mr Bellis?” he asked. Wilhelm shifted the weight of the standard in his hands.

“Yes, my lord,” he answered at last.

“You may speak frankly, Mr Bellis,” he said. “Are you well?”

Wilhelm swallowed. “No, my lord. I have seen something terrible tonight.”

“What have you seen?” Eamon asked gently.

“The Serpent,” Wilhelm breathed. He shook his head as though to clear it.

“He is not what you expected?” Eamon guessed.

“No,” Wilhelm agreed. “That is what makes it terrible.”

Eamon looked at him for a moment. “Mr Bellis, this city is going to war.”

Wilhelm drew a deep breath and nodded firmly, as though to focus himself. “Yes, my lord.”

“When it does, will you ride with me and bear my standard?”

Wilhelm looked up in awe. “I, lord?”

“Yes.”

“To follow you into battle would have been great enough for me,” Wilhelm told him. “To go with you is more than I could ask.”

“I ask it of you.”

“I will do it gladly, my lord,” Wilhelm replied.

They reached the palace gates and were admitted into the Royal Plaza. Eamon alighted there and several of Edelred's own household came to retrieve the standard from Wilhelm. He seemed relieved to let it go. “Good night, Mr Bellis,” Eamon called.

“And to you, my lord,” Wilhelm replied. Then he bowed, turned, and left.

Eamon went straight to the Master.

 

The corridors leading to the throne room were curiously empty. His footsteps bounded ahead of him in echoes.

The doorkeeper was at the throne room door; he seemed to be waiting. As soon as he caught sight of Eamon he emerged from the shadows.

“Good evening, my lord.”

“I bring news for the Master.”

“He awaits you.” The doorkeeper bowed low and then cast the throne room door open before him. Nodding once to him, Eamon entered.

The Master sat in the silent hall alone. Eamon walked the long chamber of fiery stones to the dais, and knelt.

“Your glory, Master.”

“What news?” The throned's voice was impatient and eager. “Rise and speak.”

Eamon rose and matched the Master's gaze. “The Serpent sends this message: ‘The Star is constant, and does not yield. Neither will I.'”

A broad smile spread across the Master's delighted face. “He will have war.”

“Yes, Master,” Eamon replied. A tremor ran through him: all the comfort he had received from Hughan slipped away before that smile.

“Master, the Serpent bade me bring this to you,” he said, raising the bundle which the King had given him. “He says, ‘The Source is taken.'”

He did not know what the words meant, but as the bundle was taken from his hands, a grim flicker passed over the Master's face. As Edelred unwrapped the token, Eamon caught a glimpse of gold. It resembled part of an eagle's wing.

Edelred's face became one of dire wrath. “Dares he blithely send this to me to goad me?” he thundered. “And you would dare deliver it!”

Eamon looked from the golden fragment to the Master's face in uncomprehending alarm. The Master's wrath transfixed him and he trembled, for that gaze was filled with savagery.

“Master, I mean no deed of daring or offence. I do not even know what I have brought!”

The throned laughed derisively.

“You know but little, son of Eben,” he hissed, “and the Serpent is all the more witless.” He drew a violent breath. “But he will have war from me, son of Eben,” he snarled. “No harrowing or affliction that this land has yet seen will be like that which I shall render unto him. From its very source to its mouth, I will make the River run with his woe, his blood, and his lamentations.”

Eamon quivered.

Edelred stilled, looked upon him, and smiled. “The Serpent will have war from me,” he said, laying his hand upon Eamon's cheek. “He will have war from us.”

The fifteenth of May dawned clear and crisp. The whole of Dunthruik rose with it, and every man within the city walls awakened to the perpetual hum of preparations as blades were set to grindstones and hammers to nails.

Eamon spent most of the day in the North Quarter overseeing its preparations. He inspected each of the quarter's fifteen groups, offering words of encouragement. Officers, ensigns, and cadets found hope in his words, but Eamon left with a heavy heart. He knew too well that every man who looked to him to see the Master's splendour was a man he would soon betray.

There was so much movement in the city that the Coll was brought to a near standstill. Even the smaller side streets, the more secret ways of going from quarter to quarter known only to those who lived there, throbbed with traffic. The tension of the air webbed around Eamon and clung to him.

Towards the late afternoon, content with the preparations in the North, Eamon left the quarter. He rode to each of the other quarters to speak to their Hands and enquire after the day's work. Lord Febian greeted him nervously, but assisted as he was by Captain Farleigh, the Hand seemed to have most matters under control.

“Lord Goodman,” Febian said as Eamon prepared to leave, “I wish to ride with the main body of the Hands tomorrow.”

“You would have the West go Handless to the battle?” Eamon asked.

“I may be its keeper, Lord Goodman,” Febian replied, “but I cannot ride at the head of the West. I will serve the Master in better heart and fuller strength among the Hands.”

“Captain Farleigh is happy to assume command in your stead?”

“He is, my lord.”

“He is a highly capable man,” Eamon answered. “I will inform Lord Arlaith that you will ride with the Hands.”

Febian sighed with relief. “Thank you, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon went to the South, but Tramist was not available to see him. Tramist's captain nonetheless assured him that preparations had gone smoothly.

“Lord Tramist has always been particular about the proper arming of this quarter, my lord,” the captain told him. “He will be examining and testing the arms of every single man, quite possibly in person – at least that appeared to be his intention when we spoke last night. Shall I have him come to you when he returns, my lord?”

“Only if he is not content with the preparations,” Eamon answered. “Thank you, captain.”

He went last of all to the East. There the number of men in the streets was greater than anywhere else, for the Blind Gate was being assiduously prepared for the exodus it would witness the following morning.

As Eamon rode past he caught sight of Anderas in the crowd. The captain was speaking to another man, an officer from one of the many external divisions.

“Captain Anderas!” Eamon called.

Hearing his name, Anderas looked up, saw Eamon, excused himself, and threaded his way across the crowded road between them. He reached Eamon as swiftly as he could.

“My lord,” he greeted, bowing. He looked pale and sleepless.

“Are you well, captain?” Eamon asked quietly.

“Yes, Lord Goodman.”

“And is the East prepared?”

“I believe so,” Anderas returned. “You may wish to check my assessment with Lord Arlaith,” he added, seeming to shudder as he spoke.

“I mean to,” Eamon told him. It was then that he looked carefully at his friend. “You seem shaken, captain,” he said, and so Anderas did: there was a tremor to the man's hands and a haunted look to his shadowed eyes. “You are sure you are well?”

“I passed a difficult night,” Anderas answered at last.

“Would you speak of it?”

Anderas looked up at him gravely. “Not here, my lord.”

“Lord Goodman!”

Eamon looked up to see a black-clad figure upon the city wall. It was Arlaith.

“I will speak with Lord Arlaith,” Eamon said, glancing back to Anderas. “But may we speak of what has troubled you, when we find a moment?”

“Yes.”

Feeling disconcerted, Eamon dismounted. As he alighted, Anderas steadied him.

“I am firm to our purpose, my lord,” he whispered.

Eamon matched his gaze for a moment. It was indeed firm. “Thank you, captain.”

Leaving his horse he climbed the wall to Arlaith. The Hand stood observing the plain and the River. As Eamon reached his side, the Hand gestured to the bridge.

“Is it nearly as feeble-looking as it appears from here, Lord Goodman?” he asked.

“Hardly,” Eamon replied. He discerned an odd excitement in Arlaith's eyes as their gazes met.

“It will go down in flames, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith told him, then laughed. “
Flames
.”

Eamon repressed a shudder.

“How was the Serpent?” Arlaith added, with mock politeness.

“He rejected the terms,” Eamon replied.

Arlaith laughed. “That I know, Lord Goodman! How seemed he to you?”

Wary of the glint in the Hand's eye, Eamon carefully matched
his look. “What kind of answer would you have me make, Lord Arlaith?” he asked. “I delivered terms which he rejected. I am in no position to detail his state of mind to you.”

“My apologies, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith said and bowed gracefully. “I meant no disrespect to you.”

Eamon looked at him, feeling and then quelling a streak of suspicion. “Your eagerness is commendable,” he replied. Turning, he looked back over the city and stood for a moment, listening to its work.

“How stand the preparations?” Arlaith asked.

“Lord Febian wishes to ride with the Hands tomorrow,” Eamon answered. “I have said that he may.”

“He is not comfortable with so newly won an accolade at such a time,” Arlaith mused. “A quarter is not an easy burden to bear.”

“No. But he has prepared the West; Captain Farleigh will have charge of it. The North is prepared.”

“As is the East,” Arlaith nodded. “How is the South?”

“The captain advises me that all is ready.”

“You did not see Lord Tramist?” Arlaith asked curiously.

“No,” Eamon replied. “He was not there. The captain believes him to be out in the quarter, single-handedly inspecting every blade to be used on the field tomorrow.”

“Lord Tramist is very particular about such things,” Arlaith agreed. “I am led to understand that he was a fine soldier.”

“Yet he does not ride?” Eamon asked.

“To ride in a time of peace and in a time of war are, as I am sure you will appreciate, very different matters,” Arlaith replied. “Lord Tramist was also accomplished in the latter, in his youth, but I would not now force him to a bellicose saddle.”

“I will heed your advice.”

For a long moment Eamon was silent. As he stared across the plain at the pontoon bridge, Hughan's words suddenly rushed into his mind: “
She was held and tortured by the Right Hand
…”

His look snapped back to Arlaith. The Hand's smiling face was
also turned towards the south and the bridge, and perhaps his mind toyed with visions of it aflame.

“Do all the knights of Dunthruik ride out?” Eamon asked quietly. He had a sudden thought he wished to pursue.

“Yes.”

“Then I presume the knight Fleance will ride among them?”

Arlaith's brow furrowed. “Fleance… Fleance… The name does not seem familiar, but if he is a knight, he will be here with the others of course. How else, my lord, could he ride with the knights if he were not?” Arlaith asked with a small laugh.

“Surely you remember Fleance? The one for whom Lady Turnholt abandoned and betrayed me?”

Arlaith looked slowly at him. For a long moment he was silent. His face became utterly unreadable.

Eamon matched Arlaith's look. His own hardened.

“What would you say if I were to order Fleance to ride out at the fore of our armies where he would surely be slain by the enemy?”

Arlaith bit his lip. “I should not think it prudent, my lord.”

“Prudence has nothing to do with it,” Eamon snapped back. “It would be an act of revenge. Of spite, if you will, to take from her what she has taken from me.”

Arlaith paled slightly. “It would be your right, my lord, but I should not advise it.”

“Indeed? Then I shall give the order… unless, of course, you have other information concerning Lady Turnholt's circumstance?”

Arlaith wrung his hands and looked once more out across the plain.

“What happened to Lady Turnholt?” Eamon said bluntly. He fixed Arlaith with a piercing stare. “I will be answered.”

“It was a delicate matter, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith answered, “and one with which you should not trouble yourself.”

“Why should I not trouble myself, Lord Arlaith?” Eamon returned crisply. “This is the second time that I have asked; do not make me ask again.”

“With due reverence to you, I do not believe that you should ask, Lord Goodman,” Arlaith replied. “The eve of battle is not the best time for such questions.”

“You would defy me?” Eamon asked coldly.

Arlaith turned a sorrowful gaze upon him. “Please, Lord Goodman,” he said quietly. “Do not insist upon the matter.”

“She did not go with Fleance,” Eamon told him, his voice growing in anger as he spoke. “Her house was disbanded and I have learned that you held her. Another question I will ask, Lord Arlaith, and you will answer it. What did you do with her?”

Arlaith held his look uncomfortably for a moment. “When you left to seek the head of the Easter lord,” he said at last, “she was arrested for questioning; her loyalty had proven troublesome. She was allied to the enemy. At the Master's will I held her. Some information she gave up willingly, some had to be obtained from her…” Arlaith's voice trailed away and he lowered his gaze. “Lord Goodman,” he said quietly, looking up with a pleading look, “I have no wish to –”

“Answer me!” Eamon demanded.

“She hated the Master,” Arlaith told him, shaking his head at the recollection. “How she hated him! But her hatred of him, Lord Goodman, was as nothing compared to her hatred of you.”

Eamon recoiled. Alessia hated him… The knowledge of it fortified his anger.

“How great the bitterness and rage she bore against you!” Arlaith whispered. “I had never seen its like, and hope never to see it again.”

Eamon turned his gaze towards the plain. She had hated him, yet even now she was under the King's protection. He closed his eyes hard, to clear his thought. Hughan had forgiven her… How could Hughan have forgiven someone who so hated his First Knight?

He felt Arlaith's sharp gaze upon him.

“This lady wanted nothing more than to strike against you,” the Hand told him quietly. “I was too late to stop her, Lord Goodman, but I would have done, had it lain within my power.”

“To stop her from what?” he asked, turning to Arlaith at last.

Arlaith looked at him with deep pity. “She tore out of herself your unborn child, my lord.”

Eamon could not even gasp. Shock and witless horror froze his very being, fixing his eyes on Arlaith's sorry face. As he stared, he willed the Hand to smile, or laugh, or somehow prove that what he had spoken was untrue – but Arlaith's eyes remained upon his own, grieved by the news that he had delivered.

“You lie,” Eamon whispered. Why should he believe Arlaith? They had long been enemies. Suddenly his voice grew to a yell. “
You lie!
”

Arlaith did not speak. Eamon searched his face. “Admit that you lie!” But rather than the forceful command Eamon intended, his accusation emerged like the imploring whimper of a child.

Slowly, the Lord of the East Quarter shook his head.

“I speak truth.”

“Swear it!
Swear
that you speak true, or I'll throw you from these parapets myself,” Eamon hissed through clenched teeth.

Arlaith raised his hands in submission and took a step back. “What could I swear upon that you would believe…? The Nightholt, perhaps?” He lowered his left hand but kept his right raised. “I, Lord Arlaith, do solemnly swear upon the Nightholt that I speak truly. I would as soon lie to the Master himself as to you.”

Grief took hold of him, digging in its talons so deep he gripped his arms across his aching breast lest it should rupture.

Gently, Arlaith reached across and touched his shoulder. “I am sorry, Lord Goodman.”

Eamon rounded on him. “Had I a child? Had I a child, and she –?”

“She murdered it. She did so in cold blood, crying down curses and vengeance on you with her bloody tongue. How could I bring that news to you?” Arlaith asked, his face rent with pity. “How could I lay such sorrow upon you? Yet you commanded me, and as a faithful servant, I obeyed.”

Eamon barely heard him. Had Hughan known of this? Had Hughan known and not spoken of it? His mind filled with Alessia's face, her touch, and he shuddered with hatred and revulsion.

Arlaith reached across and took him firmly by the shoulders.

“Lord Goodman, you must bear it like a man.”

“Bear it?” Eamon howled, trying to tear away, but Arlaith held him. “How can I bear what she would not?” He drove his hands to his head, pressing them violently against his brow, but he could not still the terrifying thoughts that dwelt within him. “It was a child, Arlaith! A babe… and it was mine!”

Eamon began to sob.

Arlaith pressed his shoulders. “You will have a time for vengeance and for anger, Lord Goodman. But the eve of battle is no place for them.” Eamon felt Arlaith's grip on his shoulders growing as he shook, and tried to control his crippling tears.

“Take your hatred to the field tomorrow,” Arlaith continued, “and work out her treachery on those she loved. Pay back the blood she spilled, more precious than any other, in unnumbered bloody corpses on the field.”

Arlaith's words slunk into Eamon's flesh, stoking his anger.