The Summer's King Read online

  “For shame!” he said. “For shame, you lords of the Chameln lands!”

  He became aware of the cliff edge at his back and below the waters of the lake. A sudden, swift movement—poor Redwing would obey, would ride upon the air for his master. He would cheat these madmen and traitors. At this moment he saw the tents at the end of the field and colored markers on either side, among the trees. He saw the shape of the course that would be run and he clung to his life a little longer, thinking what might be done.

  Now the king was urged forward by his guards of the Inchevin and the Aroshen. He was brought face to face with Rugal. The Terror from the East had a fierce golden countenance; his slanted eyes and strong mouth, ornamented with the drooping threads of his moustache, reminded the king of no living man but of a demon mask in the museum at Balufir. Rugal, in his turn, beheld a pale, straight-featured man, taller than the tallest Skivari, with bright hair and wild eyes of a deep and brilliant blue. So each man looked upon a foreign devil.

  To the king’s surprise Rugal had the common speech; his voice was clear and light.

  “A king?” he asked, looking at his Chameln allies. “A king or a demon?”

  He indicated that he would speak to the prisoner alone; Tazlo Am Ahrosh and Lord Inchevin reluctantly gave way.

  Rugal said to the king, “King or demon, you are caught in a trap!”

  “How goes your arrow wound that I gave you by the town of Threll?” asked Sharn.

  Rugal smiled. “That proves you are a demon,” he said, “for I cannot be harmed by mortal men!”

  The king saw that he was joking. Rugal knew him for a mortal and did not share the madness of Lord Inchevin.

  Rugal said then, “The Skivari will have all these lands round about. He will come and come again until we get them. Grant me Vedan and the Inchevin lands, and I will save your life.”

  “Rugal,” said the king simply, “I would rather die!”

  The war lord bowed his head and rode off down the field. The king was brought after him to a tall green tent of the Skivari, standing apart from the rest of the camp. He was allowed to wash himself and was offered hot food, but he ate very sparingly and lay down to sleep.

  No one was supposed to enter or leave the camp on the long field, but during the hours of darkness one man of the Aroshen slipped away. He came down to the farther shore of the lake where the horde of the Aroshen were encamped and the followers of Lord Inchevin and, in wilder country towards the gorge of the Chind, the Skivari. He knew that they waited for the raising of the banners. He saw a splendid white birch lodge built by the Aroshen and hung with banners of the Inchevin and the Zor, in white and gold and sky blue. This was to house the “True Rulers,” the Starry Maid and the True Prince, but he could not tell if they were within. The man of the Aroshen passed quickly through the camp of his countrymen, stole a horse and made off into the lands of the Durgashen. The king was held on the plateau for a day and a night and another day. At midnight on the second night, the sound of a drum was heard in the camp by the long field. A shaman had come down from the hills.

  Esher Am Chiel rode out with ten kedran as soon as Yuri’s tale was told. He found the lodge empty and rode out upon the plain; a solitary vulture circled above the Valley of the Stones. When he saw the signs of a struggle and blood upon the table stone, Esher sent two kedran riding to North Hodd. He rode out to a certain point on the plain and lit three signal fires, then returned to the Valley of the Stones and continued to search. Under the table stone a kedran found the seal ring, with the double oak, together with a leather pouch of letters, hidden in the grass.

  In a grove of trees, just north of the valley, the bodies of Engist and Kogor were found in two marked graves. While Esher and his followers stood by these graves, old Réo, the hawkmaster, came out of the trees. He had placed the markers, he said, and prayed for his old companion Engist and for the king’s captain. He pointed out that one party of horsemen had ridden to the north and that a smaller party, perhaps only three riders, had forded the river. He had followed this trail, and it had led him to a large camp of armed men behind Bald Hill. They had a banner for the Inchevin. He had not been able to get close enough to see if the king or the prince were held there. He believed that he had seen Derda, the Starry Maid, at this camp. So Esher returned to Chiel Hall; riders were sent out, and the plain was red with signal fires.

  Princess Merilla could hardly take comfort from the letters telling of her mother’s recovery; half-mad with anxiety for her two brothers, she gathered together a rescue party. These were all the able-bodied men and kedran from Chiel Hall and the first lords and their followers who answered the call from the surrounding countryside. More than a hundred strong, they crossed the Chind and rode to the northeast, heading for the camp of the Inchevin at Bald Hill. Merilla urged them forward, unsleeping. She rode ahead like a battlemaid. Her standard-bearer carried an old silken banner for the Zor household, sky-blue, and it could be seen weaving in and out of the trees on the riverside, pressing on with frantic haste.

  On the second day of this wild ride, just at dawn, Merilla looked over the Chind and beheld the first vision or sending of the king, her brother. She saw him clad in hunting dress, mounted upon Redwing, just at a bend in the river. She uttered a cry and the vision faded before her eyes. Merilla thought of the early snowfall by Achamar; she had seen the king, and he had still lived.

  The camp behind Bald Hill was deserted except for one man-at-arms, terrified and in pain. He had broken a leg in a fall from his horse; his companions-in-arms had splinted his leg with branches and left him behind. They had ridden off when they saw the signal fires. The followers of the princess threatened the man, demanding to know the fate of the king and Prince Carel. Merilla went into his tent and sat with the man alone. He gasped out all that he knew, holding his life for lost at the hands of the Chiel if he did not die of wound fever.

  He had ridden out with a raiding party from Inchevin Keep, far to the east. The lord had ridden with them and the Starry Maid, the Heir of Inchevin, and the young lord. They had met with Count Ahrosh and a small troop of the Aroshen and made camp behind Bald Hill. There was some talk of riding south to make a raid on Chiel Hall. It was all in the service of the true prince, said the man, the true prince, who would wed the Starry Maid and claim the throne of the Zor. The king was an imposter who must be set aside. Lord Inchevin had spoken of a spirit who would bring him gold, heaps of gold; riches and honor would be given to all his followers. His lord was mad, the man said, but he and his fellows had argued among themselves that it was a heaven-sent madness. The power of the Goddess was in Lord Inchevin, and the Starry Maid was as fearless as she was beautiful.

  Just at the point in his story where he might have learned something of the fate of the king and his brother, the man had suffered his accident. In pain, in his tent, he had not learned much. All the leaders had ridden out, of that he was certain, and he believed there was a signal fire lit on the far side of Bald Hill. The Starry Maid and her brother returned, and there was one who rode with them, that was all he knew. No one had been held prisoner. The Starry Maid was displeased, had her body servants whipped and rode off with her brother and a small escort a day or so later. He could not swear that Derda had been headed for the muster point of the rebels, the ford of the Chind near Threll; he had some notion she was riding for Inchevin Keep. At any rate the troops behind Bald Hill were almost leaderless; they took fright when they saw the signal fires and headed for the muster point themselves.

  Merilla, when she heard all this, sent the wretched man in a litter to Chiel Hall to be healed. She had the countryside and the camp site searched many times. She searched in her dreams for a sign, even for a grave, and woke in terror of a search that might never end, all her life long. Surely Carel had been at this camp. Had he turned traitor? Had he been lured away by Tazlo and the two cruel young Inchevin? She joined Esher and the army of the south, gathering strength every day as they hurried north over
the plain.

  The weather had already broken in Achamar; signal fires were washed out. The news had come to Chernak New Palace; Queen Lorn had begun her long vigil; the guard had ridden out to North Hodd. Aidris Am Firn woke at night from another fearful dream, with thunder rolling overhead. She caught up her scrying stone, the rare carbuncle, and the star in its depths became the face of Sharn Am Zor, very pale. The queen cried out; Bajan woke at her side; her cry was echoed through the Palace of the Firn. The north court was alive with kedran of the guard. Messengers had come from Chernak New Palace: the Chiel had called the south and east to arms. The signal fires were always three-fold; this meant “Danger to the realm and to the Daindru.”

  “It is Rugal!” said Bajan. “The Skivari have come down. We must ride to the southeast.”

  “No,” said Aidris. “Trust me. We must ride to the north, I know it.”

  Aidris led out all the kedran of the guard and the garrison in great haste, and on the northern road they met riders from the Nureshen. The Aroshen were up in arms and had joined with the Skivari and Lord Inchevin. The rebel horde were massing round Lake Oncardan. The queen urged her kedran forward and sent a rousing call to all the loyal tribes in the north.

  “We may come too late!” she said.

  “The tribes will hold these rebels till we come, my queen!” said Jana Am Wetzerik.

  “These rebels have the king!” said Aidris Am Firn.

  So the queen and her kedran rode on into the lands of the Nureshen and then into the northeast. There came Messengers from Ferrad Harka, High Chieftain of the Durgashen; a deserter from the Aroshen had come into his camp with a strange tale. Lord Inchevin and Tazlo Am Ahrosh held the king prisoner upon the long field above Lake Oncardan, and Rugal of the Skivari was with these traitorous lords.

  The shaman entered the green tent where the king sat all alone. A bronze lantern hung overhead casting a feeble light. Sharn was wrapped in a silken robe from the Skivari, and he sat upon silken cushions; his hands and feet were bound with long chains. The shaman sat down close to the prisoner.

  “My King,” he said, “I cannot save you.”

  Sharn Am Zor saw that the shaman was a thin, tall, elderly man with black hair flowing in waves over his shoulders. He wore a mourning band around his head, and his hair was unplaited in token of mourning.

  “You have often served the Daindru,” said the king. “You wedded me to my dear wife.”

  The shaman bowed his head.

  “I wedded Queen Aidris to Count Bajan,” he said, “on the edge of the forest, by Vigrund. I have blessed the Dainmut and the Turmut.”

  He had left his drum outside the tent. Now he sounded a wooden rattle and prayed in the old speech. When he had done, the king asked for word of his brother. The shaman had no news of the prince. He told of the planned uprising, as much as he knew. The king was composed and serious; he sent word to Aidris, his co-ruler and gave the shaman an account of all that had passed at the Valley of the Stones.

  He sent tender messages to his wife Lorn, to his daughter and son and to his sister. He bade Tanit Am Zor hold to her right and heed the word of Queen Aidris, the true regent, until she came of age. He told the shaman the story of his mother Aravel, how she had been healed.

  “I have spoken with Yorath Duaring,” said the shaman. “I showed him a map in the camp of the Nureshen, before he went into the distant north.”

  “Where is he now?” asked the king.

  “He has found his refuge,” replied the shaman. “He dwells in lost Ystamar, the Vale of the Oak Trees.”

  Sharn Am Zor gave a sigh, and his eyes filled with tears. The shaman urged him to sleep a little, but the king drank some water and continued to speak. He sent word to his friends and torch-bearers: Seyl, Denwick, Barr and Zabrandor. He spoke of his friend Robillan Hazard. He went on to speak of many servants and retainers of the Zor household, naming them all by name, sending his blessing to them and their children.

  It was about the third hour of morning; there were sounds in the night. Thunder rolled about the mountains and made the horses restless. Armed men stood watch outside the tent.

  “I will not go alone,” said the king. “What do you know of a magic working that is called the Hunting of the Dark or the Ox-felling?”

  The shaman held up a hand.

  “My King,” he said, “you will be avenged a thousandfold. Inchevin and Count Ahrosh . . .”

  “I know it,” said the king. “They are doomed, and so are their poor benighted followers. I am a king and a brandhul!”

  “But this dire working, the Hunting of the Dark!”

  “I will bring it down upon another enemy,” said the king. “He has worked his evil too long. He has even had dealings with that madman, my Uncle Inchevin.”

  The shaman was silent.

  “Help me!” said the king. “It is a work of vengeance, but I will do it!”

  The shaman sighed and felt among the charms and amulets that hung at his girdle. He opened a flat wooden box and drew out a single black leaf. The king and the shaman spoke in whispers, and then the king lay down to sleep. The shaman continued to pray softly.

  The morning was very still and clear. It was the seventh day of the Thornmoon, the month of sacrifice. In the night a man of the Inchevin, the lord’s guard captain, who had awaited him at the long field, fell down raving and had to be bound up and left in his tent. There were six men of the Aroshen and five followers of Inchevin; there were twelve men of the Skivari. They all rode down the field when the sun was well up and took their places among the trees; they were all armed with the short bow. Before their tents stood Tazlo Am Ahrosh, Lord Inchevin and Rugal. The mad lord rode back and forth, then dismounted and went among the trees, saying he must hear the words of the spirit as he ran the course. Since the captain failed, Tazlo Am Ahrosh blew a note upon a hunting horn for the ceremony to begin.

  The prisoner was brought from the green tent by two of Rugal’s slaves, big, hairless men trained as executioners. His chains had been removed, and when they reached the starting place, one held his arms while the other stood near with a spear, iron-tipped and very sharp, to goad the prisoner if he would not run. Sharn Am Zor stood before the long green ride, edged with dark trees; the sky was blue, but a head of cloud, a thunderhead, was moving down from the mountains. At a word from his master, the slave released the king’s arms and stripped off his silken robe. He stood naked except for a loincloth, straight and tall and golden-haired, the image of a man and of a king.

  Sharn Am Zor held up his clenched fists; he cried out in the old speech; he began to run. His voice rang out unnaturally loud and was echoed by a peal of thunder and by the notes of the bow strings.

  Half a world away in the city of Balufir, King Kelen was rehearsing for his coronation. The day was cool and foggy with a fetid mist rising from the harbor. A crowd of men and women coming to the markets had collected near the Temple of Light, an old city mansion now dedicated to the service of the Lame God. It stood in the center of the city at the end of a broad avenue leading from the palace; carriages were bringing nobles and court officials to prepare for the great day. The crowd gave a desultory cheer for the Duke of Denwick; some fell down reverently at the entry of Jurgal, the Brother Harbinger, with his escorting priests.

  At the foot of the steps to the temple, behind the backs of the market women, stood two men dressed in frieze cloaks and hoods, like porters. The older man looked down into his hand where he held a small, shining stone.

  “Patience, lord,” he whispered. “This precious gift from Erinhall will show us if his guard is down!”

  “And if it is never down?” asked his young companion. “If he has magical protection forever?”

  “Hush!” said the other. “He is coming . . .”

  The crowd had fallen silent as the dark blue carriage rolled up. The king’s vizier had some way to walk before he reached the steps. Rosmer had no guards, he walked always by himself, clearing his own wa
y, in a protective circle of emptiness and silence. As he set his foot upon the lowest step, there came a rumble of distant thunder. The soft autumn air of Lien was cleft by a wave of sharp sound, the echo of a voice. Rosmer looked up, alarmed, and a voice near at hand cried out:

  “Strike now, by the Goddess!”

  Garvis of Grays leaped out of the crowd, flung himself upon his enemy and plunged a dagger into his breast. He struck and struck again and waved his bloodstained blade at the frightened crowd.

  “Justice!” he cried. “I avenge the house of Grays!”

  He sprang from the steps again into the crowd and made off into the alleys of Balufir unharmed, led by Hume the Harrier.

  Rosmer lay on the steps in his death agony. When Kelen of Lien came from the temple with lords and courtiers crowding after him, it was too late. Only one brother, said to be the house priest of a noble lady, had enough courage or enough charity to comfort the hated vizier. He heard his last words and told them to Kelen, the man Rosmer had made king. The dying man had uttered a name: Sharn! Sharn Am Zor! then, very low, he had murmured Darkness comes to us all. With Rosmer gone, there was no one to remind King Kelen that these words were from Robillan Hazard.

  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!”