The Summer's King (36 page)
Authors: Cherry; Wilder
Still the thunder rolled overhead, a magic storm, the voice of a mighty working, sounding through all the lands of Hylor. The thunder spoke in Mel'Nir, in Nightwood, where old Hagnild raised his head from his book, and on the High Plateau, last bastion of the Eilif lords. In Eildon the sound reached to the very throne of Ross, the Priest-King; the trees before the White Tower bent down their boughs and Princess Merigaun, upon her battlements, cried out to the wild sea waves.
The thunder spoke in Athron, where the Carach trees began to murmur; it rang through the green aisles of the great border forest, driving the Tulgai down from the trees. Far in the north, far from the ways of men, all the oaks of Ystamar began to move their branches and cast down their leaves; Zengor the white wolf howled. Yorath Duaring and his son turned to Gundril Chawn, the Owlwife. She whispered, “It is for the king. It is for Sharn Am Zor!”
In Chernak New Palace, Queen Lorn, sleepless and pale, came to an eastern window. The thunder spoke, and the children, Tanit and Gerd, came to their mother's side. A cloud had come down from the north, suddenly. All three saw the bright day fade before their eyes; they saw the sun go out.
Upon the plain, in the van of the army, with Zabrandor and Seyl and her husband Esher Am Chiel, Merilla saw the lightning strike the ground ahead. She called a halt; already the host stood still, tongues of fire glistening upon the points of their spears, their pennants all outstretched although there was no wind. The thunder sounded again, and it seemed to many of the soldiers that a horseman stood before them, under the lowering vault of heaven.
Further north the thunder spoke very loud; Queen Aidris Am Firn reined in her white mare; she rode in the midst of the northern tribes with Bajan and Ferrad Harka. They were not yet within sight of the rebel horde by Lake Oncardan. The sky overhead was black with cloud; a clear yellow storm light played upon the dark northern trees; a woman began to raise the keen. Aidris was cold, cold to the marrow of her bones; her old wound ached, the arrow wound in her left shoulder. She knew the approach of an unending sorrow.
In Achamar the thunder spoke to a dejected and frightened city. The air was rent over the palace of the Zor, and lightning played about all its cornices and gables and seemed to hang there so that the whole towering structure was outlined in fire. There was a soft pounding on the door of Hazard's house in the Old Market, and Taranelda opened it herself, for the servant girl had gone to seek for news. Buckrill came in, white-faced.
“The king . . .” he said, very low, looking about to see that Hazard was not present. “Nell, they say the king is dead!”
“Has word come?” asked Taranelda, looking towards the stairs. “It is a rumor! It must be!”
Buckrill shook his head.
“I was with Jalmar Raiz when this storm broke. He swore it was the sign of the king's passing and some great magical working besides. He has sent me to Rob, to question him.”
At that moment Hazard called from above in an altered voice.
“Nell? Nell? Could you come up?”
There was so much urgency in his call that they went tumbling up the stairs and burst into Hazard's study. The poet stood at the window with the curtains flung back and the shutters open. The Zor palace reared up against the grey sky burning with its unearthly light.
“What is it?” cried Taranelda. “Rob . . . sweetheart!”
“What has Raiz to say to all this, friend Buckrill?” asked Hazard without turning his head. “You have come from his house . . .”
“He says the king is dead,” said Buckrill, slow and hoarse.
Hazard turned to face them; he smiled, and his eyes were full of tears, which he dashed aside, the better to see them with. For it was plain that he could see again.
“Sharn is dead,” he whispered. “And, by the Goddess, so is Rosmer!”
There were no more wonders to be seen. The storm that centered on the long field worked even more terribly upon the rebels than it did upon the armies of the Daindru. Lord Inchevin never took the field; Tazlo Am Ahrosh rode down like a madman from the heights and called for the raising of the banners. Even before this was done, the army of the south was seen approaching and the northern tribes came within sight of the lake. Derda Am Inchevin stood forth from her birch lodge, but of the true prince there was no sign. Rugal of the Skivari had come down from the heights just as headlong, but his morale was better and he had a good position by the gorge of the Chind.
The wretched Aroshen bore the brunt of the attack; they fought with traditonal ferocity and paid dearly for the disputed land by the lake. They died for their high chieftain and their high chieftain's son, just as the followers of the Inchevin died for their mad lord and the Starry Maid. Within a day and a night, the Aroshen had been beaten back into their mountains, leaving hundreds slain; the Inchevin had fled back to the line of the Skivari. The way to the long field lay open; Captain-General Britt and the veterans of the escort went to seek their king.
The place was peaceful, unmarked by fire or storm; dead men lay unburied in the grass. The horses had been led away, and the tents, all except one green tent, had been torn up and hastily carried off. The ceremony of the long field was known: it was an old, cruel rite of the Dark Huntress, used against those possessed by demons. Ten men lay dead upon the field. Lord Inchevin lay shot to death, as if he had run onto the field into the path of the arrows. Not far from the fallen lord were two men of the Aroshen and four followers of Inchevin who had dismounted and gone to drag him to safety. The lightning had struck first one then the other; they were twisted together in their shirts of mail like the links of a chain. One man of the Skivari had been felled by a single arrow that had travelled clear across the field. Another warrior, one of Rugal's officers by his breastplate, had been struck down by lightning, together with his horse.
Sharn Am Zor lay where he had fallen, face down in the grass; he had run more than half the course and taken many arrows. In his right hand, lightly clenched, Britt found a leaf of the Skelow tree. It crumbled into dust before he could read the letters written upon it.
As the men stood with bared heads, they heard the sound of a drum. The shaman came from among the trees.
“The ground is hallowed,” he said. “The king must lie here forever.”
The king sleeps in the northeast above Lake Oncardan. Two young oaks have been planted by his grave, and further off a Skelow tree. Pilgrims climb up to the long field alone, whatever their estate. It is the custom among the northern tribes to speak with the dead and tell them all that has passed. There is much to tell the king. The Skivari have been beaten back. The northeast will be better governed. The lands are at peace. The harvest is good.
Young Inchevin died fighting with the Skivari. Tazlo Am Ahrosh fled to the south; he was killed by a grey bear on the banks of the Chind. Derda, the Starry Maid, rode off with Rugal to his tent city beyond the mountains. She became one of his lesser wives and died in childbirth.
Carel Am Zor has never been found. Even his horse Ayvid has not been found, though Redwing and the horses of Engist and Kogor were rounded up on the aftermath of battle. Merilla, searching still, regards this as a hopeful sign.
On winter nights the long field is very still and white; the moon hangs over the plateau; wolves howl in the distance. There are no ghosts on the long field. The restless spirit of the young king has been seen everywhere in the world: in Achamar, at Chernak New Palace, in Balufir. On summer nights in distant Eildon, the Archer Shennazar shoots with a golden bow before the Hall of the Kings. Here, in this quiet place where he lies, all these phantoms can be seen for what they are: a last tribute to the summer's king.
Hazard makes the long journey in summer, all alone. He climbs up wearily, full of protest, to the bright meadow, and stands at the grave, bereft of words. When at last he turns to go, he sees that a kedran is waiting at the top of the cliff path. As he comes closer, he sees that it is the queen herself, Aidris Am Firn. Far below a large escort with banners has drawn up next to Hazard's quiet grey mare. The poet bows his head.
“Majesty . . .”
The queen lays a hand on the poet's arm.
“Wait for me, Master Hazard. We will go down the hill together.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1986 by Cherry Wilder
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ISBN: 978-1-5040-2705-2
Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution
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