The Broken Blade (37 page)

Hughan seemed to sense it, too. They both paused for a moment in the corridor and then the King stepped forward. Eamon followed him. They passed the throned's breakfast room on the right.

Then they came to the throned's chambers. Eamon knew the dark doorway; it filled his whole body with fear.

A group of the throned's guards and servants stood before the door. On seeing Hughan emerge from the shadows of the hall they froze. For a moment Eamon thought they would attack, but as Hughan stepped into the light, they only gazed at him in awe. The King seemed to be crowned with silver in the dim corridor.

“If you would live, lay down your arms,” Hughan told them.

The guards looked at him for a long moment, then in absolute silence they set their weapons down on the floor.

“Go with these men of mine,” Hughan said. “You will not be harmed.”

The guards came away from the door and went to stand in the custody of Hughan's men. But the servants, who had had no arms to lay down, remained rooted by the threshold.

Eamon stepped forward. The servants were the men and women who had served him breakfast in the throned's own hall. One of them was the man who had brought him wine after he had endured the Master's fury, on the day that he had delivered the Nightholt to Edelred.

It was to that man that Eamon went. He could not remember the gesture Edelred used to dismiss his servants. Even had he been able to, he would not have wanted to mimic it.

Slowly, he reached out and took the servant's hand. The man gazed at him in astonishment and flinched. Eamon earnestly met the man's gaze.

“Please,” he whispered, and pointed back at the King's men. “Go with them.”

The servant searched his face before tilting his head towards Hughan's men. Pressing his hand once more, Eamon nodded.

The servant turned to those with him and made a couple of quick gestures. The other servants replied with movements of their own – one of them gestured wildly towards the Master's door – but the servant to whom Eamon had spoken shook his head. He turned his hand fluidly in Eamon's direction before gesturing to Hughan's men.

A moment later the King's men watched in silence as the servants stepped away from Edelred's door. Eamon lightly touched the leading servant's arm as he passed. Having attracted the man's attention, Eamon laid his right hand over his heart.

“Thank you.”

The man bowed.

The guards and servants were escorted away by the King's men. As they disappeared into the dark, Eamon looked back to the throned's door. It stood before them, dark, unguarded, forbidding. The very silence of it crept into Eamon's blood.

In striking bound, Eben's son…

Hughan handed his shield to the man to his left. “Wait for me here.”

“Yes, sire.”

Hughan looked back to the door. Eamon felt ashamed. Was he to remain with the surviving bodyguard and accompanying King's men while the King fought against the throned? Yet why should he think himself worthy of going to that battle with the King? He was nothing but an encumbrance. If he went into that room
with the King, he would fall, and the King would fall with him; they would both end in begging mercy from the Master while he tormented them.

Do you think yourself worthy, son of Eben, of begging before me? Do you believe that discarded colours loose you from me? A fool you remain.

Eamon swallowed in a parched throat. He had to be a fool if he thought that he could ever be the King's second in anything but name. He knew the voice was a liar's, but surely it was right now: Eben's blood was in his veins and Eben's son he remained, the traitor's heir, fit only for exile and works of blood…

“First Knight.”

Hughan watched him. As he met the King's gaze, Eamon's dark thoughts passed from him, driven back by the King's clear eyes.

Eamon looked at him in awe. “My King,” he breathed.

Hughan touched Eamon's shoulder. “Our houses will stand or fall this day. But they will stand or fall together.” He touched Eamon's shoulder and smiled. Both gestures were as bright calls to courage and to hope.

“Come, Eamon Goodman. Stand with me.”

Wordlessly, Eamon nodded.

So it was, in the heart of Dunthruik on a day of blood and smoke, the heir of Ede and the heir of Eben set their hands against a darkened door and passed together over the threshold of the throned.

Eamon stood in the Star's wake as they passed through the doorway into a vale of shadow and flame. The darkness clawed at Eamon's skin and drove at his heart; fire stirred maliciously at his brow. It poured fear into his veins like poison.

But the King was there. The living shadows fell back before him.

Eamon knew the room into which they went. It was broad and high, built of red stones woven together like flame-threads. The May light fled from the shattered windows, as though even it dared not go where the King trod. The angled, unknown letters from the Nightholt glinted in the floor, casting back their glowers in a sea of shifting embers. Before them was a wide, dark table. The letters there moved in the wood like worms. Upon that table lay a tome darker than the blackened night; behind it stood its Master and Lord Arlaith, his last Hand. Edelred's grey eyes glinted. Eamon shuddered. They were eyes that had so often seen into his soul.

Despoiler of Allera and usurper of the River Realm, the Master smiled.

“And so the Serpent is led before me.” Edelred's voice was thick with pleasure. “You have done well, my son.”

Eamon recoiled.

Hughan strode through the darkness; it fell apart before him.

“Hear me, Edelred,” he said. “This man is no son of yours, and I break any bond that you have laid on him by saying it.”

Edelred regarded Hughan. He looked the King up and down with an amused glance before throwing back his head in a pounding laugh.

“Who are you, Serpent, to come into my hall and speak of loosing bonds? The man whom you so proudly bring by your side is mine.” His gaze became eviscerating. “He knows it. Eben's son has been mine since before his days were writ.”

Eamon trembled. His mind was filled with the hundred times he had knelt before the Master and received his kiss. Surely he could never be more than the Master's thrall?

The King stood, undaunted, before the throned. The sight called Eamon on to courage.

As sudden strength flooded him, Eamon met the gaze of the glowering man who had tormented him for so long.

“My father's name was Elior,” he said fearlessly. “I am his son, and he was no man of yours.”

For the briefest moment Edelred's face became so dire that it might have bansheed the very darkness.

“Miserable snake!” Edelred hissed. The words cut like knives. Then suddenly the long smile returned. “Never shall you be more than a worthless puppet.”

“Edelred.” Hughan spoke the name with such authority that a grey trace of fear passed across the throned's face. “You have harried my First Knight too long. You will no more.”

Edelred laughed. “You cannot command me, Serpent!”

“Your tongue is false, as are the words you utter,” Hughan answered. “No serpent am I: I am Hughan Brenuin, true beam of that house.”

“What grand titles you take unto yourself, little upstart princeling,” Edelred sneered. He leaned forward across the table, a grim light in his eyes. “Tell me,
Serpent
, what true beam is it that hails from the womb of a mere woman? Where is the kingliness, the authority of your line? In a woman?” Edelred laughed sharply. “Your line's authority lies crushed in the dust at Edesfield – never did you inherit it!” The throned looked at Hughan as though at an erring boy. “True beam! Nay, child of forked blood; the star of your house fell and died when Eben and I plunged our swords into Ede's heart.”

Eamon gaped in horror. Hughan was not of Ede's line but of Elaina's. His ancient sire not a King but a duke. His heart quailed. How could he not have thought it before? Being but the son of a duke, how could Hughan's blood run pure?

The throned watched Hughan fiercely, with smile and gaze so condemning that Eamon wondered how Hughan could meet it. But the King met it without a trace of fear.

“Elaina's blood was no weaker than her brother's.” Hughan grew in brightness as he spoke. “Through it many things will be undone.

“Aras, son of Amar, who named yourself Edelred,” the King pronounced, “you have wrongfully striven in plots and wars against my house and against this land, turning fathers against their sons and daughters against their mothers. You cast down the high places of this city and realm, and laid your own in their stead, calling yourself Master and taking a hall which was never yours to claim. By your hands and your schemes this land has been filled with toil and blood, with shattered oaths and broken houses, with tear-strewn fields and brittle hearts. You have sown your power in a pestilence of violence and of hatred.” Hughan's eyes never once left the throned's face. “I have come, Aras,” he said, “to call you to account for all that you have done.”

Edelred raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. “You are but a child, Serpent,” he hissed. “You think to bring judgment on me? You may know my name, but I will not answer to you.”

“You will answer. You will cede your wrongful hold over this land and you will render the Nightholt to me. Do so, and I will be merciful to you.”

“What mercy would you give to me, Serpent?” Edelred sneered.

“I cannot offer you your life, for by that you must answer for your deeds. But you will have my pardon,” Hughan added gently, and as he spoke the gaze with which he beheld the throned showed pity and kindness, “and the peace of my house.”

Eamon's breath stole from him. Even after all that Edelred had done, Hughan was willing to forgive him.

Arlaith's face was a picture of astonishment. The Hand had not spoken a word. It was as if he and Eamon could do nothing but witness the words and deeds of the ones they served.

Edelred held Hughan's gaze in silence for a long time.

“I see that you took thought, Serpent, as to how you would defeat my Gauntlet in my realm and take my city. Even to the Source you went,” he laughed, “and that was bold of you. In these matters you have been fortunate. I see also that you have pondered long, filling your mind with words too great for you, so that you might bring yourself before me in a manner suited to the lofty cause you claim.”

Slowly Edelred came round the table to stand before the King. His armour glinted. Power shifted in the ground. The light in the dark letters eagerly moved to follow the wake of their Master. The throned's grey eyes passed over Eamon; they terrified him.

Edelred spoke again. “But, Serpent,” he breathed, his voice thunderous in the hanging dark, “did you ever think what you would do should I refuse your spurious, ill-attempted grandiloquence?”

“Yes,” Hughan answered evenly.

“And what then?” Edelred's face broke in a crushing laugh. “What then, Brenuin! What when you lose your life to me? What of your precious land and promise then, Serpent?”

Hughan remained silent. Eamon quivered. He wondered how long the King had grappled, in the countless long nights since he had learned of the right of his house, with the very fear that the throned now named.

Edelred peered at Hughan. “Have you no answer? Did it not come to you that, by your death, you would irrevocably commit all that is already mine to me?” Edelred laughed. “You have no heir, Serpent. You have no house, and without heir or house, this city and this land will have no other help. They will be mine.” He fixed Hughan with a penetrating stare. “Will you risk that, Star of Brenuin?”

For a moment Eamon nearly warned Hughan against the folly, for confronting the throned was surely just that. His trembling
lips parted to speak, but before he could, Hughan met his gaze. It stilled him.

The King's look, as he turned back to the throned, spoke of courage beyond measure.

“If you believe, Edelred, that this land's promise is ended when my house falls,” he said, “then you know nothing.”

Edelred was unperturbed. “Then leave with your scales, Serpent, and let another bear it.”

“I will not.”

Suddenly there was light about Edelred's palms. The same light flowed through him like blood. It pulsed crimson. As it grew, the walls and floors of the room flared with it until all was alight and the Nightholt blazed with wrath. All this fire Edelred raised into his hands and he looked hard at Hughan.

“Your blood will answer for your insolence.”

With a gesture that seemed enough to strike down a mountain, Edelred cast the fire from his hands. It cracked and lurched toward Hughan with monstrous speed, blinding in its intensity.

In that terrible moment Eamon thought that all was lost; in that moment he did not remember how the King's voice had commanded Edelred's to depart, nor how the King had stood before the palace artillery. In his fear he remembered nothing of the King until he saw Hughan lift his left hand. The blue light danced forth from it.

The flames in the air and in Edelred's hands died at once, collapsed and dissipated in unearthly hisses and howls. Edelred flinched back with an angry cry.

As the light about Hughan grew, the floor of the room shook and the letters carved in it writhed and churned. The blue light washed over them and drove into them, binding them and breaking them until they fell still, never to glint more. The light ran on towards the Nightholt and engulfed it, dousing the hellish fire that lived on its pages.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the blue light faded away.
Eamon's breath returned to him. He felt that something terrible had been forced from the room.

In the silence that followed, Edelred glared balefully at Hughan; even Arlaith's face was agog. The King stood calmly and lowered his hand.

“Edelred, once more I ask you,” Hughan said. Eamon heard a patient earnestness in his voice that he had never before known. It was then that he understood that the King truly sought the throned's surrender. “Turn from your works and receive my mercy.”

But the throned did not answer. Instead Edelred reached to his neck and unfastened his great cloak. He cast it aside with a grand gesture, revealing the glinting, gold-hued plate beneath. Then Edelred drew his sword. The blade was long and broad, riven with letters such as the Nightholt bore, and the weapon's gilded hilt was bejewelled and finely wrought. As Eamon looked at it the blade glistened red, as though it were already stained crimson by Hughan's blood.

Silently Hughan drew his own blade. The swordsong as it came from its scabbard was unlike anything Eamon had ever heard, filling his heart with wonder. The King's cross-guard had on it two unicorns, and a long shining snake had been crafted about the hilt. The blade itself shone like living silver.

The throned laughed. “Your light will not save you. Your blood will go down into the dust, Serpent,” he snarled.

Suddenly Edelred turned the blade in his hands and stabbed for Hughan's face. The King parried the piercing blow at once, turned Edelred's sword away, and returned with a strike of his own. The throned blocked.

The two stepped back from each other. Edelred smiled softly as he prowled about the King, flexing his fingers on the hilt of his blade. Hughan moved with him, watching him carefully.

As the King and the throned clashed again, Eamon saw movement from the corner of his eye. He turned.

Now that his Master and the King fought, Arlaith seemed to have been loosed from whatever had held him still and silent so
long. Eamon noticed that the Hand had dispensed with the yellow-trimmed cloak he had borne into battle, and his cloak now showed the red trim of the Right Hand.

For a moment Eamon felt a stab of envy, but it did not last. Arlaith took a step closer to the table. Though his face was turned to the duel between King and throned, Arlaith's eyes glanced every now and then to where the Nightholt lay.

Hating to take his eyes from the King, Eamon firmed his grip on his sword and swiftly stepped to the table. In his distraction, Arlaith did not see him coming until Eamon had reached his side. Hughan's First Knight halted there and turned the point of his sharp blade towards Edelred's Right Hand. Seeing the glint of the sword Arlaith looked at him, first in surprise and then in hatred. The Nightholt was but a hand away.

“Don't touch it,” Eamon commanded grimly.

Arlaith fell back a pace from the table. Eamon glanced back at the King; he and the throned engaged in a series of feints, testing each other's skill. Neither man had yet been hit, though both came perilously close to receiving crippling wounds. Despite his armour and the fatigue of the morning's battle, Hughan moved agilely. Edelred seemed almost twice the King's strength but still he landed no blow – but neither did the King.

Trying to keep half an eye on Arlaith, Eamon watched the two opponents fall apart again. The hall rang with the sound of their swords.

Suddenly Edelred put all his force into a hacking blow aimed at Hughan's throat. The King quickly turned his own blade, blocking the blow with the flat of it. As he did so, Edelred tore back his sword and pivoted it round with terrifying speed and equal force to strike against the other side of the King's neck.

As the sword came round, Hughan brought his left arm up. There was a shrill ringing as Edelred's sword jarred against the King's gauntlet. The judder ran through Hughan's hand. A look of enraged surprise flashed across Edelred's face.

In that moment of surprise Hughan brought his sword down in a powerful stab towards Edelred's stomach. The throned twisted back and left with a furious cry, escaping the blow. But the motion forced him to withdraw his blade. As Edelred prepared to re-enter the fight, Hughan raised his sword from the stab, drawing the blade thickly across the throned's abdomen.

Edelred howled as tabard and flesh split before the blade, and blood issued from the wound. It ran in great gushes down the throned's side. Edelred drove his left hand over the gash.

Hughan returned with another blow. With a cry of humiliated rage, Edelred blocked it. He stepped back a pace. Hughan turned the blade in his hands and brought his sword back for another attack. He stabbed it across Edelred's left arm where the gilded vambrace ended.