Magician’s End (59 page)

In a very dark, cold place, the mind of a man was being pulled down into a void. It struggled to stay aware.

I am Tomas. Just a little while longer.

Hal knew he was overmatched by this bigger, fresher opponent. He had been riding desperately for days after a fight while Oliver had slept soundly in a pavilion. His only advantage was that he knew he was a far better swordsman than the Prince of Maladon and Simrick. Had Hal been fresh, the contest would already have been decided, but fatigue made him slower to react, and his blows were a tiny bit off as a result, and Oliver was experienced enough to understand what he had to do, which was to wear Hal down. Oliver knew he faced a superior swordsman, but he also knew that time was on his side, so he was content to wait for Hal to move first, counter and retreat. The boles of trees were additional allies, as he manoeuvred in such a way that when he dodged, he had a trunk between himself and Hal.

Hal could not see his opponent’s face, but he knew he must be smirking. That angered him enough that he could battle back exhaustion for a while longer. Even so, his sword-arm was growing tired, and he realized that because he knew what Oliver was doing, he was falling into a predictable attack. He would start an overhand, looping blow and Oliver would deflect it with his shield, then quickly bring his shield back against a combination attack, pause a moment, and move back a step.

Hal now realized what he had to do. He began his blow and Oliver’s shield came up slightly, but Hal pulled his swing and ducked. Oliver imagined an opening that wasn’t really there and stepped forward as Hal had wished. Hal threw all his weight behind his shield as he smashed into Oliver’s shield, causing his opponent’s sword blow to slice through the air. Oliver stumbled. Trying to step back, he caught his boot heel on the root of the tree he had planned to duck behind, and fell backwards, landing hard on his rump. Reflexively he put out his hands on either side to brace his fall and for a moment was exposed.

Hal didn’t attempt a sword blow. Instead, he kicked up at the exposed part of Oliver’s chin, under his helm, and was rewarded with a loud crack as his boot toe found its mark. Had he missed, he might be nursing a broken foot, or have Oliver’s sword point in his groin.

Oliver rolled sideways, disoriented, and came groggily to his feet. Hal charged again, bashing his shield hard against Oliver’s helm and took the big man down to his knees.

This was no fencing match in the Master’s Court, but a brawl without rules, and as tired as Hal was, he wasn’t about to let the bigger, stronger, and fresher man get any respite, even a moment, to gather his wits and fight back. He smashed again with his shield and spun Oliver half around, swung his sword sideways as hard as he could and took him in the side of the head with the flat of his blade. It was like striking an anvil or an ancient oak tree; the shock ran up Hal’s arm and was painful enough that it took all his willpower to keep his grip on the sword’s hilt. Oliver went sprawling and lay twitching slightly.

Hal knelt upon his chest and ripped Oliver’s helm from his head. Unfocused eyes stared upward as blood flowed from his left ear and both nostrils. Hal put down his sword and balled his mailed fist and struck Oliver on the jaw as hard as he could. He was rewarded with a loud cracking sound – if the boot to the jaw hadn’t broken it already, this time it was certainly broken. Oliver’s eyes rolled up into his head and he lost consciousness.

Hal sat there for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Satisfied that the Prince of Maladon and Simrick was indeed senseless, he staggered off to look for the horses. Given the hard collision, he wasn’t surprised they had run off.

Sighing in resignation, he returned to his prisoner, hauled him up by one arm, then let it drop. ‘No damned way I’m hauling you and all this armour back,’ he said aloud. He dropped to his knees and began unfastening the buckles on Oliver’s armour.

Hal walked slowly back towards the sounds of fighting, breathing heavily from the exertion of carrying the Prince of Maladon and Simrick over his shoulders. More than once he was grateful that his father had insisted he learn how to carry a stag out of the woods, or he was certain his back would have given out by now.

It had only been fifteen minutes since he had felled Oliver in the woods, but it felt like an hour, given the size of the man. Hal silently wondered why Oliver couldn’t have been a short, skinny fellow.

A squad of riders in Krondor blue approached at a canter, and reined in upon seeing Hal. ‘Your grace,’ said the rider in front, a sergeant. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

‘How goes the fight?’

‘The day is ours, my lord. Lord Bas-Tyra routed the centre after the Earl of LaMut turned their flanks; the enemy is fleeing in disarray. We’ve captured many nobles and officers.’

‘Add this one to the catch,’ said Hal.

‘Is that Prince Oliver?’ asked the sergeant. ‘In his small-clothes?’

‘My horse ran off, and I didn’t feel like lugging him and his armour.’

The men laughed. ‘We’ll see to him, my lord.’ The sergeant motioned to one of his men. ‘You ride double, and give the duke your horse.’ To another he said, ‘Drape that fellow across the rump of your horse and be gentle; he’s royalty.’

They laughed as they carried out their orders. Like all soldiers after a victory, they were buoyed by survival and success, and tired to their bones.

Hal took the reins of the horse given to him and mounted. ‘How fares Prince Edward?’

‘The chirurgeons tend him, but I have no news.’

‘Take me to him,’ ordered Hal.

He followed the sergeant at a gallop as the others brought Oliver along at a more sedate pace. As they rode past the battlefield, Hal could hardly credit his eyes at the mass of dead and dying covering the once-rich farmland of the Fields of Albalyn. Fully five or six thousand bodies, a few still moving, were now mired in mud made from soil and blood. A few of the boys from the baggage train helped find those who could be tended back to health, while men of cold resolve moved through with misericordes. These long, thin blades were inserted through the armpit into the heart of those too wounded to save, thus sparing them from a lingering death – the battlefield’s ‘Quick Mercy’.

Smoke blew across the field and a sense of order was slowly returning. Prisoners were being gathered and guarded, and men who could stand watch did, while others lay where they could, gasping for breath or merely silently thanking whichever gods they worshipped for their lives this day. Others wandered with shock on their faces, seeking something: a comrade, a lost weapon, or some unseen need yet unmet. The boys from the baggage would return and guide them back to where others could tend them, but until those with wounds of the body were treated, these lost souls would be left to wander a while longer.

Hal reached a massive spreading oak on the top of a hill located behind the hill where the prince’s and other pavilions and tents had been burned. Under a large canvas, perhaps a portion of unburned tent, lay Prince Edward. His entire lower body was covered in blood-drenched rags and he lay propped up against the bole of the tree, tended by two chirurgeons. Nearby waited the nobles loyal to him. Brendan stood beside the tree, obvious frustration on his face over his inability to protect his prince.

Hal glanced over at Charles of Bas-Tyra, who nodded a silent greeting, and Hal dismounted. A lackey took his horse and Hal came to kneel before Prince Edward. He looked at the chirurgeon on the prince’s right, who looked back and said, ‘His legs and pelvis are crushed, your grace. His horse went down and rolled over him. He was never a robust man, but he endures.’

‘Is there no healing priest?’ asked Hal.

It was Bas-Tyra who answered. ‘While you were catching Chadwick by the nose, some dozen healing priests of the orders of Sung, Dala, and La-timsa all vanished.’

‘Vanished?’ Hal looked confused.

Charles explained about the disappearance.

Hal could hardly contain his anger. ‘Our prince lies dying and there’s not one priest to be found? What of those who were with Oliver?’

Bas-Tyra’s expression was one of genuine regret. ‘As soon as Oliver fled and the day was ours, we began asking, but their priests disappeared before the fight, the same as ours.’

As Hal waited for any sign of consciousness from Edward, the Krondorian rider carrying Prince Oliver across the rump of his horse arrived and deposited their still-limp enemy inelegantly on the ground.

Charles said, ‘I’ve seen Oliver look better. And what happened to his armour?’

‘I was tired,’ was all Hal said.

Edward’s eyes opened and focused on Hal. ‘Duke Henry,’ he whispered.

‘I am here, highness,’ said Hal, leaning forward to hear better.

‘The battle …?’

‘The day is ours, highness. Oliver is taken.’

‘Where is Jim Dasher?’ asked the prince.

Out of the shadow of the tree stepped Jim Dasher and Lady Franciezka Sorboz. Hal stood and nodded greeting, wondering how he had not seen them before.

‘Is it done?’ asked Edward.

‘Yes, highness.’ Jim leaned over and whispered into the Prince of Krondor’s ear, then stood up.

‘Henry,’ said Prince Edward weakly, waving him over.

Hal again knelt beside him. Edward reached up and took his arm in his hand, squeezing it. ‘What I have done is for the good of the Kingdom. I need you to understand. Will you honour my decision?’

Hal had no idea what he meant, but simply said, ‘I am loyal to you, my prince, and whatever you choose to do, I will support.’

‘Swear,’ said Edward weakly.

‘I swear on my honour, highness.’

‘Then I am left with but one hope, my young friend. And that is that you will also forgive me.’ Edward closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. ‘I may never walk again,’ he said to the chirurgeon, ‘but I will survive to face the Congress of Lords. See to it.’

The chirurgeon nodded and said, ‘Find us shelter.’

The Duke of Bas-Tyra pointed to a large tent from the baggage-train being erected down the hill. ‘My pavilion stands. Bear him there.’

The chirurgeon oversaw four soldiers who gently lifted and carried the prince to Bas-Tyra’s pavilion.

Martin and Ty had found their way to where Hal and Brendan stood and they all embraced. Hal’s face was a mask, set in place by exhaustion and the sight of too much death. He looked at Jim Dasher. ‘So, we win the battle and lose the war?’

Jim said, ‘Plans were made. Prince Edward is gravely injured, but he lives, and today he was victorious.’ He smiled. ‘In no small part due to your actions, my young friend.’

Martin asked, ‘With Edward injured, what happens? Does Oliver reassert his claim?’

Lord Bas-Tyra snorted. ‘Hardly. He’s probably lucky if he remembers his name, given the thrashing your brother gave him.’

‘What will be done with Oliver?’ asked Brendan.

‘And Chadwick?’ added Hal.

Bas-Tyra tried not to smile, but failed. ‘Oliver will be a guest in Rillanon for a while, I think.’

‘Until Maladon and Simrick can scrape together enough gold to pay his ransom,’ added Jim. ‘Chadwick will linger a while longer, until Edward decides his fate.’

Charles came over to Hal and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. ‘We have missing lords among the dead, and quite a number in chains with Oliver. They will be … spoken to,’ he said again, glancing at Jim, ‘and all will be well, I assure you.’

‘You need to rest,’ said Jim to the brothers and Ty. ‘You’ve fought valiantly, and all here know that. But you’re not made of steel. It’s a long journey to Rillanon. Get some rest and we’ll leave at dawn.’

Hal looked at Jim, Franciezka, Bas-Tyra, then at Ty and his brothers. He then looked back down to the field of fallen men and said, ‘Sleep can wait. There are honourable dead to be tended,’ and he turned and walked down the hill to help carry the fallen to their burial pyres. His brothers and Ty were only a step behind him.

Charles came to stand next to Jim and said, ‘Edward was right. They are a different breed.’

Jim said, ‘I think we also have some work to share,’ and he followed the three brothers down to the field of battle.

•
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
•

Destruction

T
HE SKY WAS FILLED WITH DRAGONS.

Smoke billowed across mountaintops as an inferno spread throughout the Peaks of the Quor. Ashen-Shugar looked down as wave after wave of the dragon host flew low and bathed the creatures called Sven-ga’ri in dragon flame. Without remorse, he bade them do what would have been impossible for any other mortals: destroy entities whose very voices sang to the heart and mind.

The Valheru were merciless and Ashen-Shugar had endured where his brethren had fallen, for he cared nothing about the fate of others, only himself. He felt no pity or sense of loss at destroying the last of his kindred. The final destruction of Draken-Korin had brought him only a muted sense of triumph, for now he was undoubted ruler of the world.

Besides, the universe held secrets unrevealed and the day might come when he could find means to bring more of his own kind into being, should he feel the need. At this moment he was unconcerned with such considerations, but rather with the destruction of the wedge into this universe driven ages before by the Dread. For now his only interest was in ridding this planet of invaders, to subjugate all life on this world, and crush any who opposed his will. He ordered the dragon Rylan to circle so that he might better see the destruction he had willed.

The beings known as Quor were helpless against the overwhelming power of even a single dragon, let alone an army of them. The Elves of the Sun either resisted and died instantly or fled down the mountain, knowing their ages-long charge to protect the Quor as they protected the Sven-ga’ri was at an end.

Fools,
thought Ashen-Shugar.
We were fools to fear that which we did not understand.
Those feelings of love, compassion and mercy, those alien emotions he had learned about by sharing his mind with the human Tomas, were nothing to fear: such useless attachments to others were distracting, and by necessity must be destroyed.