Master and Fool (52 page)

"I'll come
with you," Jack said. He remembered the old woman rocking in her chair
from the night before, and he wanted to see if it was the same one who had
given Tawl the fish. He had a feeling it would be. How many old women could
there be on an island this size?

Getting up off the
ground caused all sorts of problems. Aches, pains, blurred vision, buckling
legs, and dizziness. In the end Tawl had to heave him up like a sack of grain.
Part of Jack wanted to laugh. He and Tawl must look quite a sight-like a pair
of wounded drunks.

They were, as far
as Jack could tell, somewhere in the cluster of shacks and lean-tos that lay
behind the temple. A roof stretched over their heads, supported by two walls,
not four. Ahead of them lay a similar structure, and beyond that there was
nothing except sky. Jack didn't remember getting here. But them, there were a
lot of things he didn't remember. A lot of things he didn't want to remember.

Tawl had a bad
limp, yet he still managed to lend his strength to Jack. Together they limped,
hobbled, and dragged their way toward the temple. Priests in brown cassocks
crossed themselves as they passed. Wild-eyed men stared at them, and grossly
disfigured women scuttled away like rats. No one challenged them.

The rain drizzled
softly. There was no wind. As Jack walked he became aware of the hollowness of
the place. There was nothing: no rhythm, no inner warmth. Larn was just an
empty shell.

It beat inside,
though.
Jack could feel it in his heart. He had been changed, his whole being now
beat in time with the ghost of the island. Faster and more urgent, it controlled
his heart, his blood, his lungs. His body wasn't used to it: it fought and
strained and sweated. Jack felt as if he was developing a feversweating,
shaking, aches-yet it wasn't quite the same. It was his body coming to terms
with being thrown out of kilter.

"Jack, are
you all right?"

"I'm fine.
Just feeling . . . " The words died on his tongue as he looked up at the
temple of Larn. It was in ruins. The entire east side had collapsed. Massive
granite slabs lay piled on top of each other like logs on a fire. Whole walls
had fallen in, leaving doorframes standing like gravestones. Jack shuddered. He
had dome this.

"The temple
was built around the cavern," said Tawl. "When that collapsed, it
brought everything down with it."

Jack shook his
head. He could think of nothing to say. Beneath the rubble, beneath the granite
blocks and the dust and the rock, the seers lay dead. Bound to their stones,
unable to save themselves, they had been crushed by the very temple they
served. It was an appalling way to die. The seers had been as helpless as
newborn lambs.

"Everything
comes with a price," whispered Jack"Everything."

"I know,
Jack. I know." Tawl's voice was soft, close to breaking. "All you can
do is learn to live with it."

Hearing the knight
speak, Jack knew he wasn't alone. He wasn't the only one who had a past filled
with regrets, uncertainty, and guilt.

"He! He!
He!"
A high, cackling voice broke the silence. "It's gone mow. No
coming back.
He! He! He!"

On the west side
of the temple, sitting on the bottom step, was an old woman. A basket by her
feet, a thin shawl around her shoulders, she slumped oddly to her right. Jack
moved toward her. It was the same woman who had shown them the way in last
night, perhaps even unlocked the door. As he drew nearer, he saw that the right
side of her face was slack. She was still laughing away, but only the left half
of her mouth opened and only her left eye blinked. Her right eye was closed.
Jack's gaze fell down to her lap, where her right hand emerged from the shawl.
Curled up in a fist, it was brown and shriveled like a corpse. The fingernails
were long and curved and dug into the dried-out flesh of her wrist.

The old woman
looked straight at Jack. "Did what she wanted, didn't you?"

"Who? Who
wanted me to do this?"

The old woman
rocked back and forth on the step. "She did."

Jack was
trembling. "Who's she?" The woman didn't answer. Jack ran to her. He
put his hands on her shoulders
"Who's she?"

The woman just
rocked and cackled.

Jack began to
shake her. She knew something. Something about him, about why he had to come
here, what it all meant. He had to know what she knew. He would shake the
answers out of her.

"Jack! Leave
her alone." It was Tawl, placing a restraining hand on his arm. "Come
away."

Jack stopped. He
was out of breath. The old woman looked frightened. He looked into her good
eye. It was a bright, watery gray. "Please,
please,
tell me what
you know. Why did you help us? Why did you show us the way?"

The old woman
began to rock back and forth again. Her gaze shifted out to sea, focusing far
away on the horizon. Realizing he would get no answers, Jack turned away from
her. "Let's get off this island," he said to Tawl. Together they
rounded what was left of the temple's back wall. Just as they fell under the
shadows of the west face, the woman's voice rang out one last time:

"He! He!
He!
The seers knew. They wanted to die. That's why they didn't tell.
He!
He! He!"

They found two
skiffs on the island's north beach. Tawl wanted to carry one of them overland
to the southern shore, but Jack just wanted to be off, even if it meant extra
rowing.

His mind was an
ants' nest of emotions, suspicions, and thoughts. Somewhere, somehow everything
was connected: the old woman, Lam, Captain Quain's story, the past, the
present, the future. He needed to find the thread that ran through them, the
one thing that joined him to the seers and Marod's prophecy. If only he didn't
feel so tired and heavyheaded. He needed sleep as much as answers.

Being on the skiff
didn't help. The water was calm, but even the slightest swell sent his stomach
reeling. The rain was good, though. Cool and fresh on his hot, shaking skin.

After a while,
Tawl took the oars from him and rowed on his own. He looked worried. Jack began
to drift in and out of consciousness. After a while, a thought occurred in his
bleary brain. "What about
The Fishy Few,
Tawl? What if they didn't
wait?"

"They'll be
there," said Tawl. "Unless the ship sank to the bottom of the ocean,
they'll be there."

Besik looked at
Maybor. "If we don't withdraw to the east now, they'll have us flanked
within the hour." Maybor was sweating. Blood pumped wildly in his ears.
Although Besik shouted, he could barely hear him. The sounds of battle were
deafening. Blades clashing, hooves pounding, drums beating, screaming-it was
enough drive a man insane. The sun had gone in and thick dark clouds had come
down from the mountains, bringing the sky that much nearer to the earth. Maybor
felt trapped: everything was closing in on them. He'd just come from leading a charge
on the east gate. It had hardly any effect on the blackhelms: they just kept
pouring out. Nothing could stop them. The Wall was outnumbered three to one.
Kylock's Royal Guard were converging upon them from the west, to the north were
Bren's mercenaries, and to the east the blackhelms were working to cut off
Highwall's only escape route. With the mountains behind them, they'd soon have
nowhere to go.

Maybor took a swig
of brandy from his flask. Looking down at the battlefield, it was easy to see
the maroon and silver of the Wall. A circle of black and blue was closing
around them. They'd be cut off within minutes. Despite what Besik said, Maybor
had a feeling it was already too late.

"They'll be
expecting us to make a run to the southeast." Besik nodded. "I know,
but we haven't got a choice. We can't go south. Look at those clouds gathering
in the west The winter storms are coming. We withdraw to the mountains and
we'll all be dead within three days."

"We won't
even make it to the east" Maybor was growing impatient. Time was running
out "Our men are tired. They've been fighting solidly for four hours. The
blackhelms are just getting started-they're fresh, eager, and they're the most
highly trained soldiers in the north. Why do you think Kylock is sending them
through the east gate, not the south or the west?" He answered his own
question. "Because they're there to slaughter us the moment we
withdraw."

"Don't you
think I know that, Maybor? Don't you think I've taken that into consideration?
To me it's a choice between the southern mountains or the blackhelms, and I'll
tell you now, I'll take dying from battle wounds over dying from exposure any
day of the week." Besik was shaking. Deep lines of tension creased across
his brows.

Maybor offered him
his flask. "You're a brave man, Besik."

Besik took the
flask. "This is what we'll do. I'll have Hamrin sound the retreat. Bowmen,
heavy cavalry, and two battalions of foot soldiers will clear a path to the
southeast. The light cavalry and the remaining foot soldiers will bring up the
rear. As they're pulling back, I'll have them flank out to the south. That way,
we won't risk being cut off from the mountains as well as the east."

It was a good
plan. A fair plan. Once again, Maybor found himself admiring Besik. he always
listened, always considered. Always gave his best. "I'll take the southern
forces."

"It's a
dangerous command. You'll be the last on the field."

"Don't you
think I know that, Besik?" said Maybor softly.

Besik smiled at
the irony. His once jet-black hair was shot with gray. He wore the same clothes
as his soldiers except for his one vanity of a beaten-silver belt. "The
south is yours. I'll lead the east."

The two men
clasped hands and minutes later the retreat was sounded.

Maybor rode down
onto the field. The noise at battlelevel was overpowering: it cut through
thought, making it impossible to concentrate. The ground had been churned to
mud. Red mud. Men and horses lay dead in it, their bodies missing limbs, hands,
even heads. Maybor knew better than to look at the corpses-he'd mastered
soldier's blindness in his youth. The living were what counted.

Already the
retreat had started. The maroon-and-silver were slowly edging back. The
kingdoms pressed against them from one side, the blackhelms from the other.
Only the middle of Bren's forces-made up of mercenaries, untrained, and
partially trained men-was weak. Maybor had to admit that Kylock was a clever
strategist: he had made the middle weak on purpose, to encourage the Wall
forces to come forward. The nearer they got to the city, the easier they were
to outflank.

Maybor began
barking out orders to the men. The foot soldiers would retreat ahead of the
cavalry, and he wanted to give them a good head start. Besik was over on the
east side of the field, claiming the majority of the men for the eastern
assault. It wasn't going to be a simple withdrawal; the commander of the
Highwall forces was going to have to blaze a path through the duke's guard.
Maybor wished him luck.

The minute the
foot soldiers withdrew from the front line, the Wall cavalry began to break up.
The blue-and-gold of the kingdoms was pressing hard from the west. They were
trying to force the Wall east. Maybor, sweating, tired, and feeling very old,
sent a silent prayer to Borc for protection. Not for himself, but for Besik: he
was leading two-thirds of the Highwall forces into territory marked for
slaughter.

Maybor could no
longer see what was going on in the east. Already the division between his
troops and Besik's troops had started. And already a company of blackhelms were
riding in from the north, intent on driving a wedge into the breach.

Looking to the
south, back over what little remained of the Highwall camp, and the foothills
and mountains that lay beyond, Maybor checked on the progress of the retreating
foot soldiers. The men were running for their lives. They had just reached the
first line of foothills beyond the camp. Good. It was time to give the order to
the cavalry. As Maybor swung back on his horse, he caught a glimpse of blue and
gold in the southwest. The kingdoms' forces were closing in.

Maybor gave the
order to the horn-blower. Three notes sounded: two high and short, one low and
long.

It was during the
last note that Maybor spotted his son. Midway down the western slope, high atop
a chestnut stallion, sat Kedrac directing his troops. His horse was decked in
blue and gold, but his colors were Maybor's own. Red and silver. The colors of
Maybor's coat of arms. The colors of the Eastlands.

Maybor felt a
terrible, crushing pain in his heart. Pride was mingled with the suffering. His
son was leader of the kingdoms' forces.

Kedrac looked
magnificent: young, determined, in controlA score of men surrounded him like
courtiers around a king. Then, as Maybor watched, Kedrac raised his hand.
Maybor went cold. His son was looking straight at him. The gesture was for him
alone. They stood perhaps a third of a league apart--the only two men on the
battlefield wearing red and silver-and stared at each other. Maybor felt his
heart would break. His son wasn't wearing the family colors out of pride, but
rather as a slap in the face. A cruel taunt to a father he considered a
traitor.

Maybor turned
away. He didn't need to look at Kedrac to know what his next order would be.

The final retreat
was underway. Bloody, mud-smeared chaos reigned. The Highwall cavalry were
pulling back fast, but Bren's mercenaries and the Royal Guard were coming after
them. Hundreds of men were going down, arrows and blades in their backs. The
air was filled with their screams. Maybor shook his head. The retreat losses
were going to be heavy. They'd lose hundreds more lives than they saved.

The entire
battlefield was moving to the south. All of Bren's forces were charging after
the Wall. Out of the corner of his eye, Maybor spotted a company of heavily
armed knights swiftly descending down Kedrar's command slope. He watched them
for a moment, his face grim. Then, spinning around, he waited until the first
line of Highwall cavalry drew abreast of him and kicked his horse into a
gallop.