Yesterday's Kings (41 page)

Lofantyl gaped, for a moment stunned. The shaft protruded from under the cheekpieces of his brother’s helmet, the fletchings set firm against the neck, the bloody tip jutting from the jointure of Afranydyr’s spine and skull. Streamers of blood flooded from his nostrils as he fell to his knees. He clutched the arrow and snapped the shaft, then tugged it clear.

“I’m slain,” he mumbled through the flooding of his mouth. And then fell down on his face and lay still.

Lofantyl turned. The archer was dismounted, nocking
a fresh shaft. Lofantyl raised his shield and charged. An arrow hit the shield, driving through hide and wood, the tip protruding through the inner side. He ignored it, slamming the shield into the bowman’s face as the archer snatched at his narrow sword.

He had no time to draw the blade, for Lofantyl was caught up in the battle madness. He smashed the archer down and plunged his blade into the man’s chest, twisting it as his victim screamed, then hacking at the writhing body. “For Afranydyr!”

“T
HIS IS MADNESS.
” Eben watched Per Fendur bring his black horse down the slope. “Why do you do this?”

He knew the answer: power; dominion; conquest. All the stupid, pointless ambitions of petty men. And all of them delivering other men to death.

Am I any better? he wondered, and then dismissed the question: I know that I must oppose him, because I believe he is evil, and it becomes his belief against mine. So I have no choice save to hold my own beliefs and oppose what I believe is wrong.

So he faced the priest.

Behind them the fighting slowed—too many dead, sword arms weary, archers’ fingers sore from the plucking of the bows, arrows used up; men on tired horses that panted for want of water finding their lances heavy. The morning stank of blood and burning. Armored men—Durrym and Kandarian—rested on their swords as a great stillness filled the valley.

And Per Fendur rode toward Eben.

C
ULLYN WATCHED
afraid as Per Fendur brought his black horse down the bloodied slope to where Eben stood. Bodies lay about him and the air stank of blood and dying, and the foul aftermath of Fendur’s magic. He squinted as he saw a brightness shimmer about the priest—as if the man were girded in mirage-light. He was suddenly aware of Lyandra at his side, and the tremendous relief he felt that she was alive; nor less when Laurens joined them.

“What now?” he asked. “Is there not an archer can put a shaft into that black crow?”

“It’s between Eben and him,” Laurens said. “I think it’s what Eben wants.”

“And if Eben is slain?”

“Then I’ll face the priest.” There was honest loathing in Laurens’s answer.

“Or I, were that possible. Save it’s not.”

Cullyn realized that Pyris had joined them, and Isydrian, who said: “And if not you, then me. I believe that man deserves to die. But it’s as Pyris says.”

“Surely he cannot face us all?” Cullyn asked. “What of your magic?”

“Useless against this priest.” Pyris shook his head.

Cullyn frowned, frustrated and afraid for Eben. “What do you say?”

“His magic is of a different kind,” Isydrian explained. “Ours is of wood and stone, the animals.” He grimaced. “Could I aid my son, I would. But …” He shook his head helplessly.

“Give me a bow,” Laurens suggested, “and I’ll put a shaft into the bastard.”

“He protects himself too well,” Isydrian returned. “He’s shielded against harm. Do you not see?”

Laurens cursed and Cullyn narrowed his eyes again, and saw the shimmering brightness that enveloped Per Fendur extend farther as he approached Eben. The priest dismounted and waved his black horse away as he faced the older man. It seemed that they stood contained within a faint, flickering globe that simultaneously absorbed and reflected the bright morning sunlight. It was as if silvered gnats darted about them, holding them within a dancing sphere that somehow defied entry.

“Is there nothing we can do?” Cullyn gripped the hilt of his bloodied sword, urgent to fight, to aid his friend. Then felt Lyandra’s hand gripped hard on his arm, urging him to remain still.

“I sense it now.” Isydrian looked to Pyris. “You?”

Pyris nodded. “He owns even more power than I’d thought.” He turned to Cullyn. “Only one blood-bonded with the priest can approach him now. A blood relative, or one whose blood he’s shared or shed.”

“He tortured me,” Lofantyl said, sword ready in his hand.

“But did he cut you?” asked his father.

“No. Only stretched me.”

“Then you’d die,” Isydrian said. “It must be blood. Only blood can break that protection.”

They watched helplessly as the two men faced one another, priest and wizard, one in the prime of his power, the other old. Drawn to different callings, youth and rampant ambition confronting age and wisdom.

“I’d not thought my son so brave,” Isydrian said thoughtfully. “Afranydyr, yes.” For a moment his eyes misted. “Lofantyl, perhaps. But Eben?”

“He has no less courage.” Pyris clutched his sword’s hilt as if he’d draw and charge.

Indeed, the blade came partway from the scabbard. Then he sighed as Isydrian touched his arm and said, “It’s between them, my friend.”

“And all our fates dependent on it.” Pyris let the long sword slip back into the scabbard.

“Pray that my son wins. The gods know, but I’ve lost enough already.”

“And found new friends.”

“Yes,” Isydrian said.

“Then let us pray together for Eben’s success.”

“S
O WE COME TOGETHER.
” Per Fendur swept his cloak back, exposing his black armor. “A final settlement, eh?”

Eben stood before him, his hair scorched so that strands of discolored silver flared about his aged head. He looked a tattered figure, his robe all burned by Fendur’s magic, his beard ragged from the burning. “You can go
back,” he said. “Take your folk back to Kandar. We want no war here.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You and I, old man. And after, all of Coim’na Drhu.”

“I cannot agree to that.”

“So die!”

Per Fendur raised his hands, his strength returned, summoning magic again.

Eben smiled sadly and brought up his own hands as they mouthed incantations, calling on what powers they had.

Those watching could not tell what forces they summoned, only watch, for there were no gusts of flame and fire, no great demonstrations of magic; only two men facing one another, their hands outthrust, their eyes bulging, their lips drawn back from clenched teeth, spittle falling from their lips. They were like two bulls, or large-horned stags contesting mastery.

A stillness filled the valley. Across the river the women watched, warded by Mallandra and Abra. Wounded men sat up, ignoring the ashes that filled the air from the smoldering pavilions. Kandarians and Durrym, who not long before had fought one another, watched.

It was as if a great decision filled up all the world, and that the world awaited its fate.

“Y
OU ARE OLD
,” Fendur grunted. “Too old to defeat me.”

“And you are too young to know wisdom,” Eben answered.

“I am stronger than you!”

Eben staggered back.

Fendur laughed, and then was halted as Eben sent another spell against him.

“Not so much stronger, boy. Age brings wisdom, and you’ve none of that. Only foolish ambition.”

C
ULLYN WATCHED
a man rise from the slope above the battleground. He had no idea who it might be, only that the armored figure rose up and came tottering down the ridge with a drawn sword that he used as much for a crutch as a weapon. Whoever it was staggered as if sorely hurt. He supposed it was some early-wounded Kandarian come to join, too late, the battle.

L
ORD
B
ARTRAM SAW
the black-clad figure of Per Fendur before him, facing an old, silver-haired man in tattered robes, and a group below, watching. He wondered what transpired here—beyond the thoughtless slaughter of his men—and wove his way down the slope.