The Hero and the Crown (30 page)

because it seemed to break the Northerners’ clumsy movements into arcs whose

sweep she could judge so precisely that as they tried to escape her she knew just

where to let Gonturan fall across them. She did not think of how many she killed

or maimed; she thought of them only as obstacles that must be overcome that

she might rejoin her own people. Merely to let them part before Talat’s trampling

hoofs, as they showed a great willingness to do, was not enough, for they might

then close in again behind her; and so Gonturan fell, and rose and fell again, and

Aerin’s blue-brightened eyes watched and followed, and looked ahead to where

the Damarians were making their last stand. She had one landmark to guide her,

one of the tall standing stones that marked the last uphill stretch of the king’s way

into the City; the one of the four stones that did still stand. But she could no

longer see Tor or Arlbeth. Nor did she often dare raise her eyes to look; for there

were those who stood to oppose her, who as they tried to step out of her way still

showed the glint of metal, to disembowel Talat if they could, or hurl a poisoned

throwing knife at her from behind; she could not spare her vigilance. Her army

kept pace with her; a swathe they were cutting through the Northerners;

occasionally she saw, from the corners of her eyes, a cat body, or a lean dog

shape, fling itself on the twisted helm or misshapen body of a Northerner; but

then at once she had to aim Gonturan for another blow. There was a high-pitched

hum in her ears, though she could still hear the hoarse shouts of the Northerners,

and the harsh ugly sound of the words of their language in those shouts.

The white horse neighed with war fury, and the yerig bayed, and the folstza

cried their harsh hunting cries, and nearer and nearer the rushing blue army

came; and the Damarians, some of them, found themselves fearing this unlooked-

for succor, and wondered what the white rider planned for them when he had cut

his way so far; for there was no doubt that he drew near them, as if their City’s

gates were his destination; nor was there any doubt that he would succeed in

arriving there.

But there was a muffled exclamation from Tor. “To me! Quickly!” He urged his

tired Dgeth forward, and his excitement gave her new strength. “Follow me! It’s

Aerin!”

Only a few followed him; but whether this was for weariness or deafness, or

fear of the blue thing, or fear that the blue thing was or was not Aerin-sol, it was

impossible to say; but one of those who followed close on Dgeth’s heels was the

messenger who had once brought news of Maur’s terrible waking to the king.

Aerin knew her arm was tired, but it did not seem to matter; Gonturan found

the necks and vitals of the Northerners with her own keen edge and merely drew

Aerin’s arm with her. Then Aerin heard her name called, and she shook her head,

for she was imagining things; but she heard it again. It occurred to her that it

sounded like Tor’s voice, and that perhaps she was not imagining things, and she

looked up, and there was Tor indeed. Heavy ranks of Northerners separated them

yet, and even as their eyes met, a riding beast, mottled yellow and with forked

hoofs and the ears of a cat, reared up between them, and Aerin saw the one-eyed

queen hanging from its throat, and two of her followers leaping for purchase at its

flanks. Hamstrung, it fell kicking, and the queen pulled the rider down, and Aerin

watched no further; and then Talat kicked and leaped sideways, and there was

work for Gonturan again; and for a moment she lost Tor.

She called his name, this time, and at last she heard him answer; he was to one

side of her now, but when she turned Talat that way the battle seemed only to

drag him farther away. Then the Crown, which had clung to her shoulder all this

time as if by its own volition, shook loose and ran down her arm, and struck

Gonturan’s hilt with a clang.

“Tor!” she cried again; and as his face turned to her, she tossed the Crown over

the hilt, to the tip of the sword, swept the blade upright, and—flung the Hero’s

Crown across the evil sea that churned between them.

Gonturan blazed up like a falling star as the Crown ran her length, and as it

wheeled into the air it in its turn burst into flame, red as the sun at noon, red as a

mage’s hair; and Tor, dumbly, raised his own sword as if in salute, and the Crown

caught its edge, swung, hissing, round the tip, and fell to circle his wrist. Any

Northerner might have killed him then, for he dropped his shield, and his sword

arm was stretched out immobile as he stared at the glowing red thing hanging

from his arm. But the Northerners were afraid of it too; they had seen enough of

strange Lights, and the blue one they already knew to be fatal. And the white

rider had thrown this thing from the wicked Blue Sword.

Tor looked up again; Aerin was quite near now, and then she was beside him,

banging her calf painfully against his stirrup as Talat pranced and pretended to be

taller. She yanked his arm down, pried his fingers loose from his sword hilt, shook

the Crown free; pulled his head down toward her and jammed the Crown over his

temples.

AFTER THAT THE DAY belonged to the Damarians, for between the White Rider

and the Scarlet there was no hope for the Northerners. But it was nonetheless a

long and bitter day for the victors, and they lost many more of their people before

it was over, including many simple folk who had never held weapons in their lives

before, but who preferred the deadly risk of the battlefield to the terrible passive

waiting to hear the final news. The Northerners, too, were slow to acknowledge

defeat, even after they knew there was no chance left of their winning. In this war

no captives were taken, for a captive demon is a danger to his jailer. It was not till

evening drew near, and Talat was limping heavily with weariness, and Aerin held

on to her saddle with her shieldless hand, that the remaining Damarians began to

be able to gather at the foot of the king’s way before the City gates, and lay down

their arms, and think about rest. The Northerners were fleeing at last, fleeing as

best they might, on three legs, or four, or five; some crawled. What Damarians

had yet the strength pursued the slowest and gave them the last blow of mercy,

but as darkness fell they left their treacherous enemies to the shadows, and

crowded around the fire that had been built near the last standing monolith.

There was little rejoicing, for all were weary, bone-weary, death-weary; and

they had had so little hope that morning that now in the evening they had not yet

truly begun to believe they had won after all. And there were the wounded to

attend to; and all those still left on their legs helped, for there were few enough

of them. Many of them were children, for even the healers had taken sword or

knife by the end and gone into battle. But the youngest children could at least

carry bandages, and collect sticks for the fire, and carry small skins of water to fill

the great pot hung over the fire; and as there was no child who had not lost a

father or mother or elder brother or sister, the work was the best comfort the

weary remaining Damarians could give them.

Aerin and Tor were among those still whole, and they helped as they could. No

one noticed particularly at the time, but later it was remembered that most of

those who had felt the hands of the first sol, her blue sword still hanging at her

side, or of the first sola, the Hero’s Crown still set over his forehead, its dull grey

still shadowed with red, recovered, however grave their wounds. At the time all

those fortunate enough to feel those hands noticed was that their touch brought

unexpected surcease of pain; and at the time that was all any could think of or

appreciate.

Perlith had died on the battlefield. He had led his company of cavalry tirelessly

through the last endless weeks, and his men had followed him loyally, with

respect if not with love; for they trusted his coolness in battle, and learned to

trust his courage; and because even as he grew worn and haggard as the siege

progressed, his tongue never lost its cleverness or its cutting edge. He died on the

very last day, having come unscathed so far, and his horse came back without him

after darkness had fallen, and the saddle still on its back was bloody.

Galanna was holding a bowl of water for a healer when Perlith’s horse came

back, and someone whispered the news to her where she knelt. She looked up at

the messenger, who was too weary himself to have any gentleness left for the

breaking of bad news, and said only, “Thank you for telling me.” She lowered her

eyes to the pink-tinted water again and did not move. The healer, who had known

her well in better days, looked at her anxiously, but she showed no sign of distress

or of temper; and the healer too was weary beyond gentleness, and thought no

more about it. Galanna was conscious that her hair needed washing, that her

gown was torn and soiled—that her hands would be trembling were it not for the

weight of the bowl she carried; that someone had just told her that Perlith was

dead, that his horse had returned with a blood-stained saddle. She tried to think

about this, but her mind would revert to her hair, for her scalp itched; and then

she thought, I will not see my husband again, it does not matter if my hair is clean

or not. I do not care if my hair is ever clean again. And she stared dry-eyed into

the bowl she held.

“Up behind me,” said Aerin; “I will carry you back to the gates, and they will

find you another horse”; but Arlbeth shook his head. “Come,” Aerin said

feverishly.

“I cannot,” said Arlbeth, and turned that his daughter might see the blood that

matted his tunic and breeches to his right leg. “I cannot scramble up behind you

with only one leg—in your saddle without stirrups.”

“Gods,” said Aerin, and flung herself out of the saddle, and knelt down before

her father. “Get up, then.” Arlbeth, with horrible slowness, clambered to Aerin’s

shoulders, while she bit her lips over the clumsy cruel weight of him, and while

her folstza and yerig kept a little space cleared around the three of them, and he

got into Talat’s saddle, and slumped forward on his old horse’s neck.

“Gods,” said Aerin again, and her voice broke. “Well, go on, then,” she said to

Talat; “take him home.” But Talat only stood, and looked bewildered, and

shivered; and she thumped him on the flank with her closed fist. “Go on! How

long can they hold them off for us? Go!” But Talat only swerved away from her

and came back, and would not leave, and Arlbeth sank lower and lower across his

withers.

“Help me,” whispered Aerin, but there was no one to hear; Tor and the rest of

them were hard pressed and too far away; and so she raised Gonturan again, and

ran forward on foot, and speared the first Northerner she found beyond the little

ring of wild dog and cat; and Talat followed her, humbly carrying his burden and

keeping close on his lady’s heels. And so they brought Arlbeth to the gates of his

City, and two old men too crippled to fight helped his daughter pull him down

from Talat’s saddle. He seemed to come a little awake then, and he smiled at

Aerin.

“Can you walk a little?” she said, the tears pouring down her face. “A little,” he

whispered, and she pulled his arm around her shoulders, and staggered off with

him; and the two old men stumbled on before her, and shouted for blankets, and

three children came from the shadows, and looked at their bloody king and his

daughter with wide panicky eyes. But they brought blankets and cloaks, and

Arlbeth was laid down on them by the shadow of one of the fallen monoliths at

his City’s gates.

“Go on,” murmured Arlbeth. “There’s no good you can do me.” But Aerin

stayed by him, weeping, and held his hands in her own; and from her touch a little

warmth strayed into the king’s cold hands, and the warmth penetrated to his

brain. He opened his eyes a little wider. He muttered something she could not

hear, and as she bent lower over him he jerked his hands out of hers and said,

“Don’t waste it on me; I’m too old and too tired. Save Damar for yourself and for

Tor. Save Damar.” His eyes closed, and Aerin cried, “Father! Father—I brought the

Crown back with me.” Arlbeth smiled a little, she thought, but did not open his

eyes again.

Aerin stood up and ran downhill to where Talat waited, and scrambled onto

him and surged back into the battle, and the battle heat took her over at last, and

she need think no more, but was become only an extension of a blue sword that

she held in her hand; and so she went on, till the battle was over.

Arlbeth was dead when she returned to him. Tor was there already, crouched

down beside him, tear marks making muddy stains on his face. And there, facing

each other over the king’s body, they talked a little, for the first time since Aerin

had ridden off in the night to seek Luthe, and her life.

“We’ve been besieged barely a month,” Tor said; “but it seems centuries. But

we’ve been fighting—always retreating, always coming back to the City, riding out