Dark Lord of Derkholm (32 page)

The night before the battle Blade hardly slept. Everyone got up before dawn, and Blade felt sick, empty, and giddy with nerves as he watched other people arriving or getting ready. Kit was galloping from one end of the camp to the other, a huge speeding blackness, squawking orders. Barnabas was hurrying around in the near dark, chinking in black chain mail, putting the final touches to his battle spells on the soldiers.

“These spells won't last more than twelve hours,” Barnabas said repeatedly to Derk and Kit. “Make sure you call a retreat before they wear off, or I don't answer for the consequences.”

Around the camp half-seen people kept arriving. Blade saw a band of white-faced vampires, but most of the figures milling about him were entirely strange to him. Some of them had a demonic look.

“Not really. We're from ordinary villages,” one demonic person told him. “We agreed to look like this. It keeps you out of the way of the tourists.”

When it got lighter, Blade saw that quite a number of the new arrivals had the brown robes and leather satchels of healers. Derk grabbed one of them and told her to stay in the camp to look after Shona. “That girl needs a mind healer, not me!” the healer grumbled. “But I'll stay, anyway. I detest battles.” Blade wondered how anyone could.

Then came the marvelous moment when the sun came up and Barnabas opened the soldiers' dome. Drums beat. The soldiers came marching out in ranks with black banners overhead. A pipe played somewhere, and Derk wheeled Beauty to march at the head of his army. Derk was all in black silk. Blade's clothes were largely black, too, and he marched beside Beauty carrying a black banner with a strange device, invented by Kit. His job was to plant the banner by Derk and then act as a messenger, translocating with Kit's orders to wherever they were needed. As Kit had pointed out, someone who could be in another place as quick as thought was very useful indeed. “And I wish you weren't going to leave so soon,” Kit said repeatedly.

Don and Callette marched with Derk and Blade. Kit had made Don inky black with red eyes, but Callette had totally refused any alteration. “I want to stay beautiful,” she said.

“Well, you look quite black from underneath,” Kit said at last, forced to give in.

As all the people behind the soldiers got into motion, carts of ammunition creaking, horses protesting, feet rhythmically crunching, Blade gave himself over to the sheer excitement of marching with an army on a crisp autumn morning—it was cold enough that everyone's breath steamed in rolls above the march—to the sound of drums beating and pipes playing. When they reached the site of the battle, his excitement was boundless.

The place was one of a chain of valleys. “When we wear one valley out, we move on to the next,” Kit had explained. For the moment this first valley looked perfect, with its meadows below, through which wound the little river that had so bothered Kit, and its sides filled with green and gold trees. There, on the opposite wooded hill, the Forces of Good had gathered. They had colored flags, bright uniforms, and trumpets sounding. They looked resplendent. But Derk's forces were majestic in their own way, too, in their somber blacks, with the dark banners flapping and the drums solemnly beating. There were also at least twice as many of them, because of the tour rule that the Forces of Good should be heavily outnumbered but still win. Blade looked searchingly over at the bright ranks, trying to pick out the Pilgrim Parties. He knew that there should now be at least twenty-one parties embedded in that army, each kept carefully apart from the others by their Wizard Guides, but he simply could not pick them out.

Blade dithered with eagerness. The horses were being led away, and the various divisions of their army were taking up their correct stations. Derk on Beauty was the sole rider there. Derk was looking from side to side with a sort of weary calmness Blade just could not share, seeing that everything was ready. And seeing it was, Derk raised his arm in the signal.

A deep, deep horn bellowed. The soldiers in black began to advance, and as they moved, Kit rose into the air majestically from the rear. There was a gasp, even from his own side. Derk, in these battles, had cheerfully agreed to pretend to be one of his own minions. Kit was Dark Lord. He had made himself twice the size and worked hard on his power of illusion until he was able to make it look as if a huge shadowy figure were riding on his back. The size and power of the figure made the air dark. And Kit could also see everything that went on below in the battle.

“Blade”—his voice sounded more or less in Blade's ear; Kit had been working on this, too—“Blade, go and see why the Dark Elves aren't moving with the rest.”

Blade shot himself over to the left wing of the army, but as he got there, Prince Talithan hastily took up his position and the elves began to advance. Kit's voice said, “That's all right then. Go and tell the Good Dwarfs that they're supposed to stay back in the woods.” Blade whirled himself across the valley. While he was arguing with the dwarf captain, the two armies came together in the meadows below with a sound like a great metallic grunt, and thereafter Blade lost all sense of what was going on. He supposed that Kit, grandly circling above, must still know. He had to, because he kept sending Blade to different places. But down in the meadows it was just seething desperation, shouting, clanging, feet braced and sliding in the mud, faces that were resigned, or businesslike, or fierce, arms chopping and hacking, and always mud. Blade saw arrows arcing in the sky, but he did not know whose. The marvel of it was that it made no difference to the excitement. Blade was near screaming with the excitement. There was a place where people were charging forward with spears, and another—or maybe the same place—where spears were planted with points slanting and people seemed to be fighting a last stand. Everything he saw was muddled in the vast, dull, brangling din that filled the valley, and the oily smell of armor mixed with the smell of people sweating. His excitement got muddled in it, too. Down by the river there was a charge through the water, feet laboring and splashing in sheets of water. Blade saw someone slip over, by the far bank, and everybody else go running and climbing over the person's heaving, muddy body. Then it happened to someone else, as the charge came rushing and howling in the other direction.

In spite of the excitement, Blade wanted to shout at them to be careful.

There were rousing war cries, yells, and grunts, but not much blood or screaming at first. The screaming began when Don and Callette went winging across the valley to drop brown bundles on the Forces of Good. As each bundle hit, it went off with a
boom
and a ball of rich red flame. And screams. The screaming sounded so much in earnest that Blade found it hard to remember that Don and Callette were dropping the bundles where they would do least damage. He wanted to shout to them to be careful, too. Some of the trees caught fire, and the valley filled with smoke.

Kit sent Blade to Prince Talithan. Blade found him just at the moment when a bearded wizard carefully pushed a sweaty middle-aged man forward and nodded at Talithan. Prince Talithan said, “Forgive me. You are down as expendable.” He batted aside the man's waving sword and pushed his own sword neatly into the man's chest. The man thumped down onto the mud just by Blade's feet. Blade looked into his bluish, twisted face and thought, Funny. The first Pilgrim I've seen is a dead one. “Kit wants you to advance now,” he told Talithan, and then whisked away into the woods to tell the fanatics to join the battle.

Another funny thing, he thought as he whisked. I'm hating this battle quite as much as I'm enjoying it.

The fanatics were crouched among the trees, bent over their curved swords, polishing them while they waited. When Blade told them they could attack now, they sprang up with yells of fervor, lofting those swords, and rushed forward in a gaggle. “Anscher, Anscher, Anscher!” they screamed. Their eyes glowed staringly. Their faces were full of devout rage. Blade realized that they truly were fanatics, and the excitement of the battle nearly choked him. The excitement rose and rose as the black-robed crowd raced downhill with the curved swords flashing over their heads and exploded into horror as they entered the battle. The fanatics clearly did not care if they lived or died. They sliced everyone in their way. There was a lot of blood about from then on. Blade saw a line of legionaries trot forward in good order and go down like dominoes as the fanatics met them. He met King Luther wading grimly away from the front line, holding a dripping red cloth to one arm. He met increasing numbers of people who died just as he met them, just like the Pilgrim. None of them died peaceful. They were in undignified sprawls or curled up, and their faces showed the pain of their last moments. Blade hated it. But he also wanted to cheer the fanatics for killing them. He hated the heavy brangling din of the battle, and yet it still excited him enormously. Before long, he was thinking he was being pulled in two by these two different feelings. And he was ashamed of hating the battle almost as much as he was ashamed at being so excited by it.

After the fanatics charged in, it seemed impossible that the Forces of Good could win. But Kit had things well under control. Shortly he sent Blade to Derk, where Derk sat on Beauty at the head of the soldiers in black. Beauty was splashed with mud and blood and not at all happy. Derk was looking incredulous. “These men are survivor types,” he told Blade. “Tell Kit we've hardly lost one.”

“Kit says you can start retreating now,” Blade said.

“Oh, ghoodh!” said Beauty.

It took some time for Derk's men to disengage. By that time Blade felt that the noise and the double feelings were never going to stop. But when the afternoon light was slanting across the valley, there was a gap in the front line where the soldiers had been, and Kit had almost no need to send Blade to tell the various captains to pretend to flee. Most of them were hurriedly withdrawing, anyway, except for the fanatics, and there was almost none of them left. Bundles of dead black robes lay everywhere in the muddy floor of the valley.

Blade watched the Forces of Good gather triumphantly under the burned trees. Healers were coming quickly out of the surviving woods and hurrying to those of the people lying around who were still moving. A fresh, neat line of legionaries trotted out after them, carrying spades.

At that Blade could not stand any more and took himself away, back to the camp. Don was standing by the river with his head hanging, golden again, but draggled.

“I hated that!” he said to Blade. “The trouble was, I enjoyed it, too. What's wrong with me?”

“I felt just the same. I wish there wasn't another one next week,” Blade said.

They leaned together, exhausted. “And we've still got the geese and the Hunt again tonight!” Don groaned.

Shona came out of her tent. She walked down toward them in that strange way she had lately, as if the air were thicker for her than for other people and made walking an effort, but she looked rather better. “Both of you come to my tent,” she said. “The healer's got some brandy, and we're cooking steak.”

Don and Blade went gratefully—and quickly, because Kit and Callette were coming in to land and both of them looked almost unbearably cheerful.

After that Blade found he was dreading next week's battle. He buried himself in the work around the camp and forgot about it as much as he could. But he envied Kit and Callette for their uncomplicated feelings about it. They enjoyed battles, both of them. Then Blade found he envied Don, too. Don had managed to have a heart-to-heart talk with Derk, in which he told Derk all about the double way the battle made him feel, and Derk had said that in that case Don could take charge of the geese and the Wild Hunt and not go to any more of the battles. Blade tried to catch Derk then and say the same, but Derk had left. Prince Talithan had tried to sack a second city and found all the citizens missing from this city, too. Derk was hunting for them.

“Because they all have to be
somewhere,
” he kept saying.

“They're lying low,” Barnabas said. “They know there'll be trouble with Mr. Chesney.”

“Yes, but
where?
” said Derk. In the end, since it was time for the next battle, he sent the daylight owls to find Scales, each with a message tied to its leg asking Scales to look for the missing townsfolk.

The battle took place without Don, and Blade found it worse than the first. His excitement, and his hatred of it, seemed twice as strong, now he knew what to expect. It made him feel like two people in one body. He wondered, in the evening, when it was over at last, whether he could stand another time.

The next morning Derk was gone again. Barnabas came up to Blade after breakfast carrying a bundle of clothing with a cardboard folder balanced on top. “You've got three days to get yourself down to the coast,” he told Blade cheerfully. “Your Pilgrim Party starts the day after that. Here's your wizardly robes, and the list of your Pilgrims is in this folder. Got your black book? Map and pamphlets? You'll need those. And do remember there's bound to be someone who'll be reporting back to Mr. Chesney. Pilgrims pay a reduced fee if they do, so there's always someone. Make sure you always do exactly what's in the black book, won't you?”

It was a tremendous shock to Blade. He was thinking of his own tour as still in the distant future, and here it was, on top of him. It was almost equally a great relief. He did not need to stand another battle after all. Otherwise he felt rather frantic. He had not learned much of the black book, and what he had learned had gone all vague in his head. Kit had the map and the book and was not pleased.