Authors: John Marco
The Eyes of God (87 page)
“I’m sick of this,” he hissed. “I’m sick of being out here in the middle of nowhere, and I’m sick of all this bloody noise!”
The men around him making camp shot him nervous glances. Embarrassed, Akeela took a deep breath. Very carefully, Leal started to replace the pieces Akeela had toppled.
“We could start a new game, my lord,” he suggested.
“What, and surrender? Forget it, boy. We continue.”
“As you wish, my lord. It’s your move.”
As always, the arrangement of the pieces favored Leal. Akeela wasn’t sure there was any point in continuing, but he was determined not to let talk of Nith throw his game. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, the little principality had made his vaunted army nervous. Even Trager had been hounding him to go around Nith rather than through it, a detour that would have wasted precious days. As he considered the board and his dismal options, Akeela remembered Trager’s warning.
“Bloody brigands,” he muttered.
“My lord?”
Akeela looked up at Leal, suddenly realizing he was talking to himself. “Nothing. I was just . . . thinking.”
He tried returning his attention to the game, but was disturbed by a peculiar call out in the distance. Both he and Leal turned to see riders approaching from the south. They were his heralds, returning from Nith. Behind them rode a small band bearing the blue-and-gold standard of Nith. Akeela grinned. General Trager saw the riders approaching, then glanced across the field at him.
“I knew they’d come.” Akeela waved the general over to him. “You see, Leal? I know how rulers like Daralor think.”
Lieutenant Leal got to his feet as his general approached. Trager gave him a sour smile.
“Having a good time, Lieutenant?” asked Trager sarcastically.
“At ease, General,” said Akeela. “He’s only doing as I’ve asked.”
Trager gestured to the coming horsemen. “Looks like you got your wish, Akeela. That’s Daralor himself.”
“Is it?” asked Akeela. He got to his feet and stared out over the field. Besides his heralds, there were seven men approaching from the valley. The one in the lead wore a bright green cape and a golden crown on his head.
“There, you see, Will?” he said happily. “I told you they’d come to talk, and here’s the prince himself.”
“Don’t congratulate yourself yet, Akeela,” warned Trager. “Daralor might just be coming out to spit in our faces.”
Prince Daralor rode quickly once he saw Akeela’s pavilion, which was larger than the rest and topped with the blue flag of Liiria. The Liirian heralds now rode at his sides, their silver armor brilliant in the sun. Daralor himself wore no armor, but instead dressed in a fine red tunic and brown breeches. His emerald cape billowed behind him. He looked stunning on his white horse, the very picture of royalty. From across the plain he smiled warmly. Akeela’s fears instantly vanished. Like all the other kings and princes, he knew Daralor would yield.
The heralds rode up to Akeela and dismounted. They bowed first to Trager, then greeted Akeela.
“Prince Daralor, my lord, as you asked.”
Daralor brought his horse to a stop ten paces away. His armored knights fell in behind him. When he dismounted, his men did the same. But they did not approach Akeela as the prince did. Daralor went alone to greet Akeela. When he was almost in Akeela’s shadow, he fell to one knee and hung his head.
“Your Grace, welcome to Nith. I am Prince Daralor.”
He had a voice like music and a handsome, hairless face. It was hard to imagine him a military hero, yet legend held he had freed Nith from Marn. Seeing him reminded Akeela of all his own past glories, and how so many of them had fallen to ashes.
“Thank you, Prince Daralor,” said Akeela. “Arise, please.”
Daralor rose then quickly gestured to one of his men, who stepped forward bearing a small wooden box. The prince took the box and, smiling, presented it to Akeela.
“For you, Your Grace. A gift from the people of Nith.”
Akeela beamed. “A gift?” He turned to Trager. “Well, what do you think of that, Will?”
Trager scowled but said nothing. Akeela happily opened the box, finding inside it a brilliant gold ring with a giant, sparkling diamond.
“A small token of our esteem, Your Grace,” said Daralor. “When your heralds told me you had come, I knew I had to greet you myself.”
“You honor me, Prince Daralor,” said Akeela. “Thank you.” He took the ring from the box and admired it. The flawless facets of the diamond twinkled in the sunlight.
“Your Grace is pleased?” asked Daralor.
“Very,” said Akeela. “It’s beautiful. And it’s very welcome, Prince. Some of my men were worried you would turn us away. I’m gladdened to know you welcome us.”
“Your Grace comes with a great army,” said the prince. “Word of it reached us some days ago. We have prepared for your coming.”
Something in the statement made Trager bristle. “Prepared, Prince? What exactly does that mean?”
Akeela said quickly, “This is my general, Will Trager. I’m afraid he doesn’t trust you, Prince Daralor.”
“Your Grace has our best wishes and kindest thoughts,” said Daralor, “but there is truth in your general’s counsel.”
Akeela’s face fell. “Oh?”
“The Principality of Nith is very small, Your Grace, very easily gone around.” The Prince smiled. “Would it not be simple for your army to skirt our valley?”
Trager gestured angrily at Daralor. “You see, Akeela? I told you this would be his way.”
“Shut up, Will,” snapped Akeela. He returned Daralor’s unnerving grin. “Prince Daralor, I’m not sure you understand the importance of my journey. I’m hunting the man who killed my wife. Time is of the essence. I cannot waste any time taking my army around Nith.”
Daralor refused to be shaken. “Your Grace is wise, and I feel for your loss. We in Nith know of your queen’s death and are saddened. But we have a history of our own to protect. There have been no foreign soldiers on Nithin soil since the war with Marn. I’m afraid we cannot allow it.”
“We come in peace, Prince Daralor, I assure you,” said Trager. “We want nothing from Nith but a quick route to Ganjor.”
“I understand,” said the prince. “But how long could it possibly take you to go around our valley? A day? Two, perhaps? You have already traveled many weeks from Koth. What could two more days mean?”
“We have indeed traveled many weeks, Prince,” said Akeela, “and we’re very tired of the journey. And any time wasted is time for my quarry to escape me, time for him to enjoy freedom he doesn’t deserve. I thank you for your gift, but I must ask you to reconsider. After all, other countries have allowed us to pass.”
“They have allowed it because they fear you, Your Grace.”
“And what about you?” asked Trager pointedly. “Don’t you fear us?”
Prince Daralor frowned. “We are Nithins. We fought and defeated Marn. We fear nothing.”
There was challenge in Daralor’s tone. Behind him, his armored knights stood erect. The arrogance of their expressions made Akeela’s insides clench. He took a small step forward, held the diamond ring out daintily in two fingers, then let it drop to Daralor’s feet.
“I don’t like your argument, Prince,” he said. “And I don’t like anyone standing in my way. You have seen my army. You know that we can best you easily. Will you yield?”
“No, Your Grace, we will not,” replied the prince. “What you ask is impossible, and I can’t allow it.”
“Tomorrow morning we break camp,” said Akeela. He pointed southward. “We’re going that way, right through your valley. It’s the quickest route to Ganjor, and we won’t be dissuaded.”
“Then we will defend what is ours, Your Grace,” said Daralor. “We will not let our sovereignty be trampled.”
“You’ll be crushed,” warned Trager. “Prince Daralor, reconsider.”
“Go around,” said Daralor.
“We won’t,” said Akeela.
The two rulers locked eyes. It infuriated Akeela to know Daralor thought them equal. At last the prince stooped and picked up the ring he had presented Akeela, dusting the dirt from its diamond.
“I will wear this on the battlefield,” he told Akeela. “And if you still want it, you will have to take it from me.”
Then he turned to go, quickly mounting his horse. His knights did the same. Before riding off Daralor gave Akeela a final, disdainful glare. As the Nithins rode away, Trager shook a frustrated fist.
“Now that was brilliant,” he spat. “Fate above, Akeela, what were you thinking? Now we’ll have to go around, and hope they don’t ambush us.”
Akeela looked at Trager as if he’d heard the highest treason. “No, General, we won’t be going around. We’re not going to waste another blasted minute. Lukien is in Jador, waiting for us. He’s living free, while Cassandra rots in her grave. So we’re going straight through this damnable country. At dawn, with swords drawn. And if anyone tries to stop us, they will die.”
He sat back down at the table and once again considered the game pieces. Trager and Leal hovered over the board, staring at him.
“I suggest you prepare your men for battle, Will,” said Akeela. “And Leal, sit down and finish this damn game.”
At dawn they broke camp. Doing so had become a common ritual for the traveling army, and they did it with their usual efficiency. Within an hour they were on their way to Nith. The green valley gently sloped down into a blanket of morning mist, obscuring the distance and the tall, ancient elm trees. Despite the noise of the wagons and horses, it was an eerily quiet morning. Akeela, riding at the head of his army, listened to the drone of insects. At his side rode Trager, nervously scanning the fog and trees. He was sure an ambush was coming, and had warned his men to expect it. Throughout the night he had pleaded with Akeela to reconsider his decision. Akeela sat high in his saddle as he rode, daring an assassin to kill him. Unlike Trager he feared no ambush, secure in the knowledge that Daralor would never stoop to such tactics. There had been too much pride in the young ruler’s eyes.
“Stop looking around, Will,” said Akeela. “The men will see you’re frightened.”
“I’m not frightened,” growled Trager. “Just wary.”
“Don’t be. Daralor will meet us out in the open, proudly and stupidly.” He glanced over to his left, where Lieutenant Leal was riding behind Colonel Tark, Trager’s second-in-command. “Leal, are you afraid? Or do you trust me?”
Leal hesitated before answering. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, my lord.”
Trager laughed. “Ha! You hear that? He’s watched you play crusade.”
“No faith,” sighed Akeela. “But you’ll see. Just keep your eyes forward.”
But the seasoned companies Trager had chosen were too convinced of an ambush to relax. As the men and horses weaved through the fog, they kept a wary watch on the trees. The stray sounds of the surrounding forests made the ears of the horses twitch. Akeela took it all in stride. He knew that Prince Daralor wouldn’t run and hide, but he wouldn’t ambush them, either. There would be a battle, very soon. Oddly, Akeela didn’t mind. Trager had honed his men to a razor’s sharpness; there was simply no way the Nithins could best them. That they were foolish enough to try simply wasn’t Akeela’s fault, and so he felt no remorse.
A few minutes later, the ground flattened into a wide field. The trees on either side thinned, and the morning mist parted in a breeze, revealing a line of mounted silhouettes in the distance.
“There,” pronounced Akeela. He stopped his horse and let the various companies slowly fall in behind him. Trager peered through the fog at the stand of knights. It was hard to make out their numbers, but they could see at least a hundred men in the front rank, all mounted and armed with lances.
“You were right,” said the general, sounding relieved. A small smile crept onto his face. “They’ve come to face us.”
“They will try again to talk before fighting,” Akeela predicted. “Bring up some bowmen.”
Trager passed the order down to Colonel Tark, who called for archers. Two men quickly dismounted and came to stand beside Akeela. They had bows in their hands and quivers on their backs. Without being asked they nocked arrows in their bowstrings.
“Don’t fire unless I order it,” Akeela ordered.
The men nodded and kept their arrows pointed downward. Trager pulled his horse a little closer to Akeela’s, waiting for the inevitable heralds to arrive. Next to them, Lieutenant Leal shifted uneasily in his saddle. Colonel Tark was still as stone. Soon a figure broke from the fog, riding out of the ranks. Another followed him, bearing the standard of Nith. The herald rode purposefully forward, the feathered comb of his helmet bouncing in the breeze. He wore Nithin armor and a gold breastplate that reminded Akeela of Lukien’s. The standard bearer rode a full pace behind him. Akeela’s army closed ranks as the herald approached, the noise of their movements echoing through the morning like the rolling surf. In the distance and obscured by fog, Prince Daralor sat defiantly atop his white stallion, easily recognizable in his splendid cape and silver armor. When the herald was only five yards away, he removed his helmet and placed it in the crux of his arm. Carefully he surveyed the army, coming to a slow stop before Akeela. The archers raised their bows and drew back their strings, taking aim. Remarkably, the herald barely glanced at them.
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