Fallowblade (32 page)

‘There is no choice to be made,’ said Avalloc said wrathfully. ‘You shall not go. How could you make such a foolish declaration!’ It was the first time in her life Asr
ă
thiel had ever seen her grandfather angry with her.

‘There will be no talk of yielding to this demand,’ said King Warwick, scanning the battle-primed goblin ranks in a last-ditch effort to take measure of their strengths and weaknesses. ‘When we perish we will take as many of them with us as possible.’

Thorgild said darkly, ‘The day the House of Torkilsalven gives a girl to the lords of unseelie is the day the world is engulfed by the sun.’

Flourishing his sword high in the air, Conall Gearnach cried, ‘Let us put an end to these unscrupulous stealers of women, these ravishers!’ and Prince Ronin said, ‘Asr
ă
thiel, you are Storm Lady, heir to Rowan Green. What should we do without you?’ The reply that sprang to her tongue, although she did not utter it, was
Exist
.

‘I pledge my kingdom’s army to your protection,’ said Princess Shahzadeh, ‘should the goblins try to take you by force. Come, let us away from here, you and me! Let us find horses and ride for Ashqalêth!’

But Asr
ă
thiel shook her head. ‘That is a dream,’ she answered.

Cuiva Stillwater, White Lady of the Marsh, whispered, with tears in her eyes, ‘As you loved your mother, and love her still, Asr
ă
thiel, forbear from lunacy. Think of her lying in her glass bower amongst the roses. Would you abandon her? Would you abandon us all? Jewel would never have let you go.’ This, of all appeals, touched Asr
ă
thiel most, yet it could not blind her to circumstance.

‘With respect, Mistress Cuiva,’ she said presently, ‘I believe you are mistaken. My mother would wish me to do as I judge fit, and my father also.’

William Wyverstone gazed at the damsel, at the swan-curve of her waist and her eyes bluer than the distance. He was being eaten out with passion; consumed with the heartfelt desire to keep her secure. Taking her aside he said, ‘Asr
ă
thiel, I beg you not to even consider such an act of sacrifice.’

From afar came the ringing voice of Zaravaz: ‘Some time this century would be convenient.’

‘My lord is not to be kept waiting!’ warned Second Lieutenant Zerstör.

‘William,’ the damsel said gently, ‘I am invulnerable.’

‘Upon my life, Asr
ă
thiel, that hardly matters! There are a thousand atrocities they might devise for you!’

The goblin king stood watching, a little way off, leaning against the flank of his daemon horse as though afflicted with ennui. Asr
ă
thiel looked up at him and called out, ‘If I should go with you as your prisoner, will you work me harm or disgrace?’

‘If you ask us politely,’ he replied, giving a sarcastic bow.

The weathermage turned back to William, who muttered furiously, ‘What kind of answer is that? ’Tis, at best, prevarication, at worst a dire threat! You
know
how clever all wights are at equivocating, since they are incapable of lying!’

‘I believe they cannot seriously harm me, even if they try.’ There was no way to explain, even to herself, her unfounded and probably invalid premonition that the wights would not work ill upon her. ‘I am willing to take the risk.’

William took the damsel’s hand without speaking, and gazed at her mournfully. Shortly she added, choking on the words, ‘I must. For all that I hold dear.’

The prince kissed her fingers and released her.

‘No gold,’ cautioned Lieutenant Zauberin, and Asr
ă
thiel unclasped her sword belt, giving Fallowblade’s scabbard to her grandfather, along with a swift embrace. She moved to the forefront of the mortal crowds, where she addressed her people.

‘My decision is made,’ she cried loudly, so that as many as possible might hear. ‘If you respect me you will not hinder me. Sheath your weapons. You might grieve for me awhile, but then put aside sadness, for now begins the season to restore order to the four kingdoms. Mankind is saved. Rejoice. Farewell, friends. I go of my free will alongside Ó Maoldúin and Virosus.’

With that, and with the shouted entreaties and blessings and lamentations of the multitude filling her ears, the damsel turned and walked towards the unseelie hordes.

Bitter was the anguish of those she left behind. There was not a dry eye amongst them, and many called out her name, extending their arms as if to reach out and retrieve her. Prince William flamed with grief and wrath. Like many, he was unable to hold himself back as Asr
ă
thiel departed, and made to dash after her, and had to be forcibly restrained by his own men.

With a jolt of surprise Asr
ă
thiel felt herself being swung through the air as if she were a wisp of straw, and next moment she was seated sideways upon the back of a fluidly moving daemon horse, in the midst of a sea of fell riders as alluring as lovers. The swords of the goblin knights had been returned to their scabbards, their conditions for the cessation of hostilities having been fulfilled. The miserable captives Uabhar and Virosus had been hoisted on the shoulders of hefty kobold warriors. They were being unceremoniously carried pick-a-back, jolting up and down as their eldritch bearers trotted along on muscular legs. As the cavalry began to move northwards, the king’s lieutenant flung a last retort over his shoulder, ‘We depart, but we leave behind our watch to enforce the law.’ No one was quite sure what that meant, but it was too late to enquire.

Asr
ă
thiel fancied she spied something moving in the new-sprung herbage; a small figure, a wight maybe. Against reason she watched from the corner of her eye, half expecting the urisk Crowthistle to make some rash move to rescue her, from which she would, naturally, try to save him. But she saw him not.

Of course not! Anxiety and lack of sleep must have impaired her memory—she had despatched him with the golden sword.

She moved off with the eldritch chivalry, but her compliance was not to be the final interaction between humankind and goblinkind that night.

As the unseelie knights withdrew, a band of mortal warriors attacked them from the rear.

Even as Asr
ă
thiel had been speaking earnestly with William for the last time, Conall Gearnach was holding a separate discussion with Prince Cormac Ó Maoldúin, who had, after much inner striving, managed to find it in his heart to set aside his hatred of his brother’s slayer in the cause of military cooperation.

‘The Lady Asr
ă
thiel is immortal and invulnerable,’ said the warlord, his eyes sparking with anger, ‘but those unseelie libertines will not scruple to invade her honour with the most unbridled licence. I will die before I allow that to happen.’

‘I am of like mind with you,’ said the prince, somewhat aloofly, ‘but she has chosen. It is her will. What can we do?’

‘There is one chance left, sir. Mindful of wights’ skill with equivocation I have studied their words closely, and it dawned on me that while the wights indicated that if we met their king’s terms our race would be spared, they have never precisely stated that he would authorise genocide if we did not. It is a slim hope, but worth clinging to.’

‘Why should they not carry out their threat?’ Cormac asked.

Gearnach shrugged. ‘The reasoning of wights is as convolute as a nautilus shell and not readily laid out to the light, but I’ll vouchsafe they would be pleased to have a few human toys to trifle with during the idle hours of their immortality, and that they cannot do if we are all gone. If mankind’s death can be postponed, it might later, somehow, be avoided.’

‘What is your intention?’

‘I have committed a crime for which I have not yet compensated,’ Gearnach declared bleakly. ‘I have still to pay for my folly before the gate of Ironstone Keep.’

‘A crime of passion, yes,’ answered Cormac, ‘nonetheless the blood tax is already paid. You have served Slievmordhu like no other soldier in the annals of our realm.’ Magnanimously he appended, ‘Be at peace, Conall.’

‘It was an offence committed in haste and error,’ said the Knight of the Brand, ‘but with unbearable, unpardonable consequences. Kieran and Halvdan were as my own sons. No,’ Gearnach continued, ‘justice is not yet balanced, and I cannot live with debt overshadowing me. I cannot—live.’

Silence followed his words.

Said Cormac, comprehending Gearnach’s full meaning by the words he had
not
spoken, ‘I believe it is worth the attempt. Ronin would stop you if he knew.’

‘Of that I am certain,’ said Conall Gearnach. He added, ‘Yet Ronin will rule our country well. Better than he that went before.’

In painful understanding the two men gazed upon one another, and for an instant the warrior made as if to reach out his hand for the clasp of friendly parting, but let his arm drop by his side instead.

And that was how Gearnach came to lead the desperate charge against the departing goblin knights.

The delegates of Tir saw him running to the attack. It was all that the warlike ones amongst them required; for too long had they been keeping their rage in check. Without delay they rushed forward in his wake, brandishing their swords.

‘Madness!’ shrieked Queen Halfrida, wringing her hands. ‘They must be stopped ere they drag us all down to ruin!’

Yet it was too late to stop them.

‘At least Gearnach had the wisdom not to try to pick up Fallowblade,’ said Cuiva Featherfern sadly, peering at the streak of sunlight that lay on the heath under the stars.

Queen Saibh of Slievmordhu closed her eyes, so that she might not witness her three surviving sons plunging into this insane and unwinnable conflict.

‘Fall back! Fall back!’ courtiers were shouting in panic, and the queens, with their retinues, were shepherded to safety, away from the site of the skirmish. Men were turning on each other, some endeavouring to join Gearnach, others fighting to restrain their comrades from such recklessness. Furore held sway. They were armed, the dignitaries of Tir, and armed to the teeth. In preparation for their final encounter with the perfidious goblins, several had put on hauberks or brigandines beneath their outer garments. Accoutred were they, but their efforts were far from being coordinated. There was no military discipline. Furthermore, some were getting old, a few were not in the best of health, and many had led lives of indolence; they had not the strong thews of trained soldiers. Each fought his own battle.

The four royal leaders were all of the same purpose—to stem further bloodshed. Warwick, Thorgild, Ronin and Rahim hastened away from the field with their standard-bearers, gathering subjects and followers with their rallying cries, ‘To Narngalis!’ and ‘To the Brand!’.

Meanwhile the goblin king had again vaulted down from his trollhäst and was despatching adversaries with speed, skill and evident delight. He jumped, leaped and flung his body exuberantly through the air as if there were no such tyrant as gravity. By comparison, even the fittest of the human combatants moved as if wooden; laboured, laden, arthritic and ancient. Whirling, dodging and smiting with preternatural precision, his hair and cloak flying, Zaravaz once more showed himself to be as utterly ruthless as legend described. He even took the time to be sarcastic as he fought, mocking his opponents as he joyously spilled their life’s blood.

People were dashing hither and thither. ‘This time there can be no reprieve,’ someone shrieked. ‘The Wicked Ones swore to kill us all if we struck a blow against them! They will fulfil their oath! We are lost! We are lost!’

Asr
ă
thiel attempted to slide from her eldritch steed, but its hide became as sticky as the coat of a waterhorse, and it would not let her escape. She had, however, been careful not to place her hands upon the trollhäst, and in a limited way she was free to act. She watched in anguish as reckless Conall Gearnach doubled back on foot, eluding a swarm of ravening kobolds. A trio of goblin knights was in hot pursuit of him; amongst them Asr
ă
thiel recognised one of the lieutenants he had antagonised. The imps scattered before the onslaught of the eldritch warriors, and as the knights rushed at Gearnach he dodged, threw himself to the ground and rolled over. When he stood up, with one smooth movement, he was, after all, holding Fallowblade, which had been under him—but holding the sword awkwardly, like a man who has no control over a lightning bolt he suddenly discovers he has grasped. He sliced one adversary and slashed another, before the third closed with him. Together they fell, but Gearnach had managed to interpose the unruly weapon between himself and his opponent and, as they toppled, its double edges sawed them both to the spine.

Man and goblin perished in the same instant.

Shortly thereafter, three huge staghorn beetles lumberingly flew away with a heavy droning of wings, leaving the mortal soldier’s lifeless form prone on the heather, the golden sword lying athwart him, wrapped in a red mantle of blood.

So ended the deeds of Conall Gearnach, Commanderin-Chief of the Knights of the Brand, a valiant man, Slievmordhu’s foremost warrior.

When Asr
ă
thiel saw the sons of Tir hard-pressed by kobolds with pitchforks and knights with eldritch blades, she screamed aloud, to anyone that might hearken, ‘Avaunt! Stay thy hand!’ but she doubted whether anyone heard over the cacophony of battle.