Fallowblade (27 page)

She ducked, smote, and fell back. Detachedly, as if she viewed the battle from a distance, she wondered why no stain of gore besmirched her. It was as if the eldritch knights did not bleed, or their blood was a colourless fluid that instantly vaporised. Remotely, too, as she wielded the enchanted blade she was aware that the mortal armies seemed to move with a curious, graceful slowness, as if they were struggling underwater. The goblin knights had ample opportunity to toy with the soldiers of Tir before ending their lives.

Like red-hot brands the cries of dying men seared into the flesh of the night. The battle was going badly for the defenders; many hundreds had fallen, and the mortal battalions were being driven back. Asr
ă
thiel heard a clarion blast; the signal for the troops of Slievmordhu to rally to their captains. Shortly thereafter the horns of Ashqalêth blared a retreat, followed by the bass-voiced conches of Grïmnørsland, and the sweet-throated trumpets of Narngalis. Then she was flooded with dread, knowing for certain that all was lost.

The last battle for humankind was being waged on pathless moors beneath a glittering sky. Without the aid of the Councillors of Ellenhall, who might have slammed the foe with lightning and pelted them with ceaseless barrages of golden hail, the human race was doomed. The unseelie horde was fully capable of genocide, and seemed bent on it. In the hearts of leaders and troops alike, frustration and fury fused with despair. Loudly they railed against the Fates, cursing Lord Doom and his axe, Lord Luck and his vain talismans, Destiny’s sharp shears, Ill-Fortune’s malice. Knowing they must soon perish even if they surrendered, even if they fled, even if they tried to hide, men vowed anew that they would bid for glory and die fighting. Now remained only the postponement of the inevitable, the final hours between living and dying.

Refusing to surrender to her sense of futility, Asr
ă
thiel struggled back to the embankment where King Warwick and his chivalric bodyguard were making their last stand. She had not glimpsed William since the battle began, and did not know whether he still lived, and burned passionately to have news of him, there at the doorstep of humanity’s end. When at length she spied him in the midst of a company of Narngalish knights, blood-spattered but hale, a fleeting gladness shot through her; but her eyes continued to rove the moors, for it was another that she was seeking, without comprehending her own desires.

Until her gaze rested upon her unconscious objective, and she knew.

A terrible excitement gripped her when she looked again upon the goblin king. With effortless grace he rode the daemon horse that was the colour of despair, and he was utterly breathtaking. Blacker than wickedness, his hair swirled about his shoulders like a cloak of shadow. Presently he seemed to glance in the direction of King Warwick, whereupon he held up his pale, long-fingered hand, commanding his legions to desist. The unseelie knights left off the assault. They drew back. The hubbub of battle waned, and a rift opened between mortal and immortal armies.

Into that gap rode the handsome goblin king, with a kobold striding at his knee and the licentious knight advancing alongside him like his second-in-command. The latter was clad in closefitting garments of interlocking scales, like lizard skin; a jewelled codpiece, and a horned helmet of strange design adorned with fantastic winglike patterns. His fur-lined demi-cloak, worn over one shoulder only, was tied with a heavy cord, and the cuffs of his gloves flared like the spathes of black arum lilies.

The garments of the goblin king, on the other hand, were the plainest, the most austere, of all his kin. A sleeveless thigh-length doublet of black suede or leather clothed him, the pliable material being embossed with intricate designs, black on black. This was overlaid by a loose-knit asymmetrical hauberk of silvery chain mail that resembled several webs of filigree haphazardly knotted together by demented spiders.

The doublet was cinched around the middle by a belt of thicker leather, also embossed, and clasped with a buckle that was cast in the shape of a pair of unfurled wings, upswept at a narrow angle; silver-white metal plumage inlaid with palest blue vanes and swirls. His trousers were leather, the colour of midnight. About his neck hung a fine silver chain that dipped beneath the high collar of his black linen undershirt. Full and generous were the shirt sleeves, leaving plenty of room for movement when fencing or sparring. He rode with grace and dexterity. His daemon horse pranced proudly, exhibiting its points and paces like a mortal steed directed by the skill of a superb equestrian.

Some of the soldiers muttered, ‘Mayhap that Prince of Death is going to challenge one of our champions to single combat to decide the outcome of this contest!’

Others shook their heads. ‘That one has no reason to parley or make covenants with us. He has the advantage. We are doomed for sure. In any case, what champion of Tir could stand against the likes of the Lord of Wickedness? Not even Two-Swords Gearnach would be a match.’

They did not for a moment consider mentioning Asr
ă
thiel: to send a girl unaided against such a foe was contrary to their every instinct, despite the fact that they had witnessed her prowess amongst them in the field.

Two hundred yards distant the pair of unseelie riders stopped short. The goblin king remained silent, while his deputy commenced to speak. The voice of the second-in-command rang out with amazing clarity, although his accent was foreign and his tone corrosive.

Into the battlefield hush he said, ‘Know that you stand defeated, human
brouteraght
.’ His smile was a sneer. ‘You, who believe you are so special, so free-willed! You, in your ignorance that like all things your lives are governed by numbers, that the same mathematics that describe the fractal patterns of a fern leaf or a spiral seashell dictate the very code by which your bodies are fashioned. Learn that you are as slavish as a leaf that must fall from the tree. Learn that you have no importance. You are nothing. You shall become less than nothing.’

His voice carried across the entirety of the Wuthering Moors, whether projected by some spell or by some talent of his species. All those assembled could hear every word.

‘Know me as Zauberin,’ the goblin officer continued, ‘
aachionard
, first lieutenant of the Argenkindë. Defeated you are, but not yet extinct. My liege commander will offer you terms.’

A murmur of astonishment rippled through the ranks of the human listeners. Beyond all imagining a glimmer, perhaps, of hope? Something to postpone the end? More likely an eldritch trick . . .

It was King Warwick who, guiding his horse to the forefront of his troops, responded. Again, perhaps by some bewitchment, there was not one amongst those many thousands of soldiers, weary or wounded, hale or dying, young or old, who failed to catch his declaration.

‘I, Warwick Wyverstone, King of Narngalis, take it upon myself to speak on behalf of the Four Kingdoms of Tir, for the nonce, whether it be my part or no. We await your terms.’

The king’s voice was strong, yet Asr
ă
thiel, with her acute vision, perceived that his hands were shaking. She too was shivering, but whether from shock, or anxiety, or sorrow, or something else entirely, she could not be sure.

‘The Argenkindë will withdraw and leave your sties unmolested,’ said the comely, malevolent knight Zauberin, ‘if you’ll comply.’

‘Do you mean to assert you will leave the Four Kingdoms of Tir in peace?’

‘Assuredly.’

The crowds gasped at the enormity of this declaration, and another murmur ran through their ranks, on this occasion louder, and on a rising note.

‘It is some hateful prank,’ several listeners whispered. ‘They make sport of us. When they have victory in the palms of their hands, why should they offer us our heart’s desire?’

‘What would you have of us in return?’ Warwick asked guardedly. Asr
ă
thiel surmised that he was playing for time. Whatever the goblins demanded would certainly be too high a price; she could tell Warwick believed it was pointless even to enquire, but every moment of delay was another breath of life for humankind and, as the saying went, where life is, hope is. The king was gambling on the infinitesimal chance of a miracle.

‘I demand,’ said Zauberin, ‘certain ransoms or hostages on behalf of Zaravaz, King and Knight-Commander of the Argenkindë.’

‘So it is indeed he!’ muttered Avalloc, leaning on a bronze-tipped oaken staff and shaking his head in wonderment. During the dialogue between mortal and immortal, two knights of the Cup had conducted the elderly weathermage to Asr
ă
thiel’s side. ‘Against all odds, that cruel tyrant has returned!’

It was the damsel’s wish to ask her grandfather what he knew of this goblin king, but she kept silent so that all might hear the words of the unseelie lieutenant.

‘If they are handed over without argument or haggling,’ said Zauberin, ‘we will depart without striking another blow, unless humankind strike first.’

Asr
ă
thiel guessed at once the names of those who would be claimed as prisoners, and she knew also, with a sinking feeling, that if the goblin knights made that demand it would never be granted.

‘They will claim our monarchs and commanders, and maybe the pick of our princes also,’ murmured the Narngalish officers nearby, echoing her thoughts. ‘The most generous-spirited of our dignitaries will agree to be sacrificed for the salvation of the people, but there is no doubt they would be taken away to be humiliated and excruciated. In which case it is Tir’s duty to refuse this offer of covenant. We simply cannot allow the best of us to suffer such a doom, no matter what the cost.’

‘Whom would you take prisoner?’ enquired Warwick calmly and boldly.

To Asr
ă
thiel, Avalloc said in an undertone, ‘Our sovereign knows that we have no choice but to comply with their demands, for now. If they named Uabhar, he would deserve whatever fate they had in store for him, but I’ll warrant Warwick has no intention of handing over anyone of good renown.’

‘Indeed,’ Asr
ă
thiel agreed. ‘He is playing for time.’

‘Time!’ her grandfather muttered. ‘Every extra breath is sweet!’ They glanced up as the goblin king’s premier lieutenant spoke again.

‘First,’ he said, ‘bring us the two kings of men that languish in the prison of the Obelisk.’

The tremendous sigh of relief that swept through the masses was like a loud-whispering breeze. Their abatement of anxiety was short-lived, nonetheless, for as soon as people recalled that Chohrab Shechem II lay in his sepulchre beneath his sculpted effigy, they uneasily began to wonder who the wights would call for to replace him. Further, they were in dread as to who else would be named as human tributes, and what their number would be.

‘Given that the enemy seems to know so much about the affairs of men,’ Avalloc said in Asr
ă
thiel’s ear, ‘I am surprised they were not aware of Ashqalêth’s passing.’

‘Perhaps they
did
know,’ his granddaughter replied, ‘and this is part of some abstruse game of theirs—for they toy with us like cats with mice.’

‘King Chohrab is dead,’ replied Warwick, ‘and Uabhar is imprisoned within Essington Tower.’

‘Oh! That pile still stands after all these years?’ said the disdainful Zauberin. He tilted his head towards his liege lord to receive instructions inaudible to the human listeners, then proclaimed, ‘Bring the living man here.’

‘Do you pledge your word you will not harm him?’

The goblin first lieutenant laughed loudly, offering no other reply.

Then a clamorous chorus broke out on all sides, and a clashing of weapons beating against shields. The armies of Tir were calling for the blood of Uabhar, to pay for their lives. Prince Ronin’s vehement protests were drowned out.

‘It will take at least three days to fetch him,’ Warwick said coolly. ‘I ask that you give us time.’

Zauberin turned aside and again consulted with his sovereign, employing the harshly musical language of the goblins. Presently he readdressed the mortal king with as much discourtesy as before. ‘
Slane vie
,’ he said, apparently careless whether or not his words were understood. ‘Send away your clockwork battalions and vow that Calaldor, that you call
Tir
, will prosecute war against us no more. Unless,’ he added snidely, ‘you would like to provide us with a little sport to while away the decades. No? Then Zaravaz of the Argenkindë will give you time, and you will deem him magnanimous. Meet us again at this place, not in three days but three
weeks
. You must bring with you the living king from Essington Tower and every human spawn of consequence in Calaldor: the druids, the weathermasters, every member of every royal family, every carlin. Bring no gold!’

‘What? Would you take all of us away?’ cried Warwick disbelievingly. ‘All the notables in the four kingdoms?’

‘No. Merely, we will make a selection.’

‘How many—’

Zauberin cut him short. ‘If you value your short and inconsequential lives you will obey. Do not disappoint us. Should you fail to act precisely as we describe, your breed’s extinction will be unavoidable, for we do not love your race. And we will know if anyone is missing from the gathering—oh yes, we will know.’

The goblin king softly spoke into the knight’s ear.

‘Yet in the end there is one we shall except,’ said Zauberin. ‘The wife of the Storm Lord’s son slumbers wakelessly in the Mountain Ring and can be of no use to us. Other than Jewel Maelstronnar, none are granted exemption. Scheme not to hide anyone from us,
cloie yn ommidan
.’