The duke nodded, but could not match Sludig's excitement. As he stood with the elite of Josua's forces, what was now being called the prince's household guard-a curious phrase Isgrimnur thought, considering the prince had no house-the duke only wanted the fighting to end. He was tired of war.

As he stared out across the narrowing valley, he was struck by how the ridged hills on both sides resembled a cage of ribs, the Anitullean Road its breastbone. When Prester John had fought his way through to victory in this same Frasilis Valley more than fifty years before, it was said that so many had died that the bodies were not all buried for months. The pa.s.s and the open land to the north of the valley had been littered with bones, the sky black with carrion birds for days.

And to what purpose? Isgrimnur wondered. Isgrimnur wondered. Less than a man's lifetime has pa.s.sed and here we are again, making more feasts for the vultures. Over and over and over. I am sick with it. Less than a man's lifetime has pa.s.sed and here we are again, making more feasts for the vultures. Over and over and over. I am sick with it.

He sat uncomfortably in the saddle, looking down the length of the pa.s.s. Below him stood the waiting ranks of the prince's newest allies, their house banners bright in the noon sun, an aviary of Goose, Pheasant, Tern, and Grouse. Seriddan's neighboring barons had not been slow to follow his lead: none seemed happy with Duke Benigaris, and the resurrected Camaris was difficult to ignore.

Isgrimnur was struck by the circularity of the situation. Josua's forces were led by a man thought long-dead, and they were fighting a crucial battle in the very place where Prester John, Josua's father and Camaris' closest friend, had won his greatest triumph. It should have been a good omen, Isgrimnur thought ... but instead he felt the past reaching up to squeeze the life out of the present, as though History was some great and jealous monster that wished to force all that followed after into unhappy mimicry.

This is no life for an old man. The duke sighed. Sludig, watching raptly as the battle developed, was oblivious. The duke sighed. Sludig, watching raptly as the battle developed, was oblivious. To fight a war, you must believe it can accomplish something. We fight this one to save John's kingdom, or perhaps even to save all of mankind To fight a war, you must believe it can accomplish something. We fight this one to save John's kingdom, or perhaps even to save all of mankind... but isn't that what we always think? That all wars are useless but isn't that what we always think? That all wars are useless-except the one we're fighting now?

He fingered his reins. His back was stiff, sore already, and he had not even put it to any hard work. Kvalnir hung sheathed at his side, untouched since he had sharpened it and polished it in the sleepless hours last night.

I'm just tired, he thought. he thought. I want Elvritshalla back. I want to see my grandchildren. I want to walk with my wife by the Gratuvask when the ice is breaking up. But I can have none of those things until this d.a.m.nable fighting is over. I want Elvritshalla back. I want to see my grandchildren. I want to walk with my wife by the Gratuvask when the ice is breaking up. But I can have none of those things until this d.a.m.nable fighting is over.

And that is why we do it, he decided. Because we hope it will bring us peace. But it never, never does....

Sludig cried out. Isgrimnur looked up, startled, but his carl's shout had been one of glee.

"Look! Camaris and the hors.e.m.e.n are coming down on them!"

When it had become clear that bowshot would not dislodge Seriddan's Metessan shield wall from the center of the pa.s.s, Varellan of Nabban had ordered another charge by his knights. Now that Varellan's forces had committed themselves to pushing the prince's troops back down the valley, Camaris and Hotvig's Thrithings-men had come down from the hillroads and thrown themselves into the side of Varellan's larger force.

"Where is Camaris?" Sludig said. "Ah! There! I see his helm!"

Isgrimnur could see it, too. The sea-dragon was little more than a flaming smear of gold from this distance, but its wearer stood tall in his stirrups, a visible circle of dismay spreading around him as the Nabbanai knights struggled to stay out of Thorn's black reach.

Prince Josua, who had been watching the battle from a point about a hundred cubits downslope from Isgrimnur and Sludig, now turned Vinyafod toward them. "Sludig!" he called. "Tell Freosel I want his troop to wait until he counts his fingers ten times after I give the sign for the rest of us to charge."

"Yes, Highness." Sludig wheeled his steed around and jogged toward where Freosel and the rest of Josua's household troop stood in fretting antic.i.p.ation.

The prince continued upslope until he was at Isgrimnur's side. "Varellan's youth is finally beginning to show. He has proved himself overeager."

"There are worse faults in a commander," Isgrimnur replied, "but you're right. He should have been content to hold the mouth of the pa.s.s."

"But he thought he saw a weakness when he threw us back yesterday." Josua squinted up at the sky. "Now he is committed to pushing us back. We are lucky. Benigaris, for all his rashness in other matters, would never have taken such a risk."

"Then why did he take the chance of sending little brother in the first place?"

Josua shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps he underestimated us. Remember also that Benigaris does not rule alone in Nabban."

Isgrimnur grunted. "Poor Leobardis. What did he do to deserve such a wife and son?"

"Again, who knows? But perhaps there is some end that we cannot see to all this."

The duke shrugged.

The prince was watching the flow of the battle critically, eyes shadowed in the depths of his helm. He had drawn Naidel, which lay across his saddle and knee. "Almost time," he said. "Almost time."

"They are still many more than us, Josua." Isgrimnur pulled Kvalnir from its sheath. There remained a momentary pleasure in this: the blade had stood him well in many a contest, witnessed by the fact that he was still here, still alive, with aching back and chafing armor and doubts and all.

"But we have Camaris-and you, old friend." Josua grinned tightly. "We can ask for no better odds." His gaze had not left the neck of the pa.s.s. "May Usires the Ransomer preserve us." The prince solemnly made the sign of the Tree on his breast, then lifted his hand. Naidel caught the sunlight, and for a moment Isgrimnur found it hard to breathe. "To me, men!" Josua cried.

A horn sounded on the slopes above him. From the narrows of the pa.s.s, Cellian blared back an answer.

As the prince's troops and the rebel barons and their men charged up the road, Isgrimnur could not help marveling. They had become a real army at last, several thousand strong. When he remembered how it had begun, Josua and a dozen other bedraggled survivors slipping out of Naglimund through a back door, he felt heartened. Surely G.o.d the Merciful could not bring them so far only to dash their hopes!

The Metessans had held firm. Josua and his army swirled around and past them; the pikemen, freed from their deadly ch.o.r.e, dragged their wounded back down the road. The prince's forces flung themselves on Varellan's knights, whose superior numbers and heavy armor had been overwhelming even the ferocity of Camaris and the Thrithings-men.

Isgrimnur held back at first, lending aid where he could, but unwilling to throw himself into the thick, where lives seemed to be measured in instants. He spotted one of Hotvig's men unhorsed, standing over his dying steed and warding off the pike of a mounted knight. Isgrimnur rode forward, bellowing a challenge; when the Nabbanai knight heard him and turned, the Thrithings-man leapt forward and shoved his sword in beneath the man's arm where there was no shielding metal on his leather coat. As the knight toppled, bleeding, Isgrimnur felt a twitch of fury at his ally's dishonorable tactic, but when the rescued man shouted his thanks and legged down the slope, back into the heart of the struggle, the duke did not know any longer what to think. Should the Thrithings-man have died to preserve the lie that war could be honorable? But did another man deserve death because he believed that lie?

Slowly, as the afternoon turned, Isgrimnur found himself drawn deeper into the b.l.o.o.d.y conflict, slaying one man and driving several others back, bloodily wounded. He sustained only minor hurts himself, but only because luck was with him. He had stumbled once, and his opponent's swinging two-handed sword blow had glanced off the top of his helm; had he not fallen, it would likely have separated head from neck. Isgrimnur fought with none of his old battle rage, but fear brought out a strength he had forgotten he had. It was like the ghant nest all over again: everywhere he turned there were hard-sh.e.l.led things that wanted to kill him.

Upslope, Josua and his knights had pushed Varellan's force back almost to the outer lip of the pa.s.s. Surely, thought Isgrimnur, some of those who fought in the front line must be able to see the broad valley below, green in the sunlight-except that to look at anything except the man in front of you and his weapon was to court swift death.

The knights of Nabban bent, but did not give. If they had made a mistake in trying to push their earlier advantage, they would make no mistake now. Whatever Prince Josua wanted, it was clear that he and his army would have to take it with their own hands.

As the sun began to dip down toward the horizon, Isgrimnur momentarily found himself in a backwater of the fighting, a spot in which the struggle had ended for a time; all around the bodies of murdered men lay sprawled like the leavings of a receding tide.

Just down the hill Isgrimnur saw a gleam of gold: it was Camaris. The duke watched him in amazement. Hours since the battle had begun, and although his movements seemed a little slower, still the old knight fought on with undiminished purpose. Camaris sat upright in his saddle, his movements as regular and unexcited as those of a farmer at work in his field. The battle horn swung at his side. Thorn whistled through the air like a black scythe, and where it touched, headless bodies fell like harvested wheat.

He's not as fierce as he ever was, Isgrimnur marveled, Isgrimnur marveled, he's fiercer. He fights like a d.a.m.ned soul. What is in that man's head? What gnaws at his heart? he's fiercer. He fights like a d.a.m.ned soul. What is in that man's head? What gnaws at his heart?

Isgrimnur suddenly felt shame that he stood watching as Camaris, twenty years his senior, fought and bled. The most important battle, perhaps, that had ever been fought, and it still hung in the balance, unclaimed. He was needed. Old and tired of war he might be, but he was still an experienced blade.

He lightly dug his spurs into his mount's side, heading toward the place where Sir Camaris now kept three foot soldiers at bay. It was a spot blocked from view by a web of low trees. Even though he had little doubt that Camaris could hold out until others reached him, it might be some while before they spotted him ... and in any case, Camaris in the saddle was an inspiration to the rest of Josua's troops that would be a shame to waste behind concealing shrubbery.

Before he had gone more than a dozen cubits, Isgrimnur saw an arrow suddenly sprout from his horse's chest, just before his leg; the horse reared, shrilling with agony. Isgrimnur felt a burning pain in his own side, then a moment later he was tumbling free of his saddle. The ground rose up and hit him like a club. His horse, struggling for balance on the rocky slope, wavered above him with front legs flailing, then its shadow descended.

The last thing Isgrimnur saw and felt was a tremendous concussion of light, as though the sun had dropped from the sky to land on top of him.

14.

Empires of Dust

It was maddening. Simon was parched, his mouth dry as bone dust, and all around him echoed the sound of dripping water ... but there was no water to be found. It was as though some demon had looked into his thoughts, then plucked out his fondest desire and turned it into a cruel trick. Simon was parched, his mouth dry as bone dust, and all around him echoed the sound of dripping water ... but there was no water to be found. It was as though some demon had looked into his thoughts, then plucked out his fondest desire and turned it into a cruel trick.

He stopped, peering into the darkness. The tunnel had widened, but still led downward, and there had been no place to turn, no crossing corridors. Whatever made that dripping was now behind him, as though he had pa.s.sed it somehow in the featureless shadows.

But that can't be! The sound was before me, and now it's behind me-but it was never beside beside me. me. Simon fought to keep down his fear, which felt like a living thing inside him, all tiny clicking scales and scrabbling claws. Simon fought to keep down his fear, which felt like a living thing inside him, all tiny clicking scales and scrabbling claws.

He might be lost beneath the ground, he told himself, but he was not dead. He had been trapped in tunnels like these before and had come out into the sun again. And now he was older; he had seen things that few others had seen. Somehow, he would survive. And if he didn't? Then he would face the end without shame.

Brave words, mooncalf, an inner voice mocked him. an inner voice mocked him. Brave words now. But when a sunless day and a moonless night pa.s.s with no water? When the torch burns out? Brave words now. But when a sunless day and a moonless night pa.s.s with no water? When the torch burns out?

Be quiet, he told the inner voice. he told the inner voice.

"King John went down the darksome hole,"

Simon sang quietly. His throat hurt, but he was growing tired of the monotony of his bootheels clumping against the stone. Not to mention the miserable, lonely way the sound made him feel.

"To seek the fiery beast below, Through caveish haunt of toad and troll, Where none but he had dared to go ..." ..."

Simon frowned. If only this were the haunt of trolls. He would have given anything for Binabik's companionship-not to mention a skin full of water followed by a healthy swallow of kangkang. kangkang. And if Prester John had brought nothing but a sword down into the earth-which he hadn't, come to think of it: wasn't that what the Hernystirman Eolair had come to Sesuad'ra to tell them? That John had found Minneyar somewhere down in the ground?-then what had he done for light? Simon had one torch, and its flame was beginning to look a little thin around the edges. It was all very well to go thumping and b.u.mping about looking for dragons, but the songs never said much about food and water and trying to make fires. And if Prester John had brought nothing but a sword down into the earth-which he hadn't, come to think of it: wasn't that what the Hernystirman Eolair had come to Sesuad'ra to tell them? That John had found Minneyar somewhere down in the ground?-then what had he done for light? Simon had one torch, and its flame was beginning to look a little thin around the edges. It was all very well to go thumping and b.u.mping about looking for dragons, but the songs never said much about food and water and trying to make fires.

Old cradle songs and missing swords and tunnels in the dark, fetid earth. How had his life ever come to revolve around such things? When Simon had prayed for knightly adventures, he had hoped for more n.o.ble things-battle-fields and gleamingly polished armor, deeds of bravery, the love of the mult.i.tudes. He had found those, more or less, but they had not been what he had expected. And time and time again he was drawn back into this madness of swords and tunnels, as though he were being forced to play some childhood game long past the point where he had tired of it....

His shoulder b.u.mped against the wall and he almost fell. The torch dropped from his grasp and lay on the tunnel floor. Simon stared at it stupidly for a moment before suddenly regaining his senses. He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and held it tightly, as though the torch itself had tried to escape.

Mooncalf.

He sat down heavily. He was tired of walking, tired of empty nothingness and solitude. The tunnel had become a winding hole through irregular slabs of rock, which likely meant he was now deep among the bones of Swertclif; he seemed to be bound for the center of the earth.

Something in his pocket chafed against his leg, catching his attention. What was he carrying? He had been stumbling down these pa.s.sageways for what seemed like hours, and he had not even bothered to see what oddments he had brought with him when he fell through the crumbling earth.

Emptying out the pockets st.i.tched on his breeches, wincing and making soft sounds at the stinging of his abraded fingers, he discovered that he had not missed much by postponing his inventory. There was a stone, a round smooth one that he had picked up because he liked the heft of it, and the almost featureless belt buckle, which he had thought he discarded. He decided to keep it, thinking vaguely that it could be used for scratching or digging.

The only significant find was a bit of dried meat from yesterday's mid-afternoon meal. He looked longingly at the wrinkled strip, which was about the length and width of his finger, then put it aside. He had a feeling that he would want it more later than he did even now.

That accounted for his pockets. The gold ring Morgenes had sent to him was still on his finger, almost invisible under a layer of dirt, but whatever use or significance it might have in the world of sunlight was meaningless here: he could not eat it, and it would not frighten an enemy. His Qanuc knife was still in the sheath tied to his leg. Other than that and the torch, he was truly defenseless. His sword was somewhere above the ground-with Binabik and Miriamele, if they had escaped the diggers-along with his White Arrow, his cloak, his armor, and the rest of his meager possessions. He was nearly as empty-handed as when he had fled the castle almost a year before. And he was back in the black earth again. In the smothering earth ...

Stop it, he ordered himself. he ordered himself. What was it Morgenes said? "Not what's in your hands, but what's in your head What was it Morgenes said? "Not what's in your hands, but what's in your head." That's something, anyway. I have a lot more in my head than I did then.

But what good will it do me if I die of thirst?

He struggled to his feet and began walking again. He had no idea where the tunnel might lead, but it must lead somewhere. It must. The possibility that this direction might finish as the other end had, in an impenetrable wall of fallen dirt or stone, was not something he could afford to consider.

"Down pitch-black pit went young King John."

Simon sang again, quieter than before, "Where Fire-Drake lurked on h.o.a.rd of gold, And no one knew that he had gone.

For not a person had he told ..." ..."

It was strange. Simon did not feel mad, but he was hearing things that were not truly there. The sound of splashing water had returned, louder and more forceful than before, but now it seemed to come from all sides, as though he walked through the curtain of a waterfall. Mixed with it, just barely separable from the hiss and spatter, was the murmur of speech.

Voices! Perhaps there are cross-tunnels somewhere nearby. Perhaps they lead to people. To real, living people ...

The voices and the water-sounds stayed with him for a time without revealing their source, then faded away, leaving him again with the noise of his footsteps as his only company.

Confused and weary, frightened by what the phantom sounds might mean, he almost stepped into a hole in the tunnel floor. He tripped and then caught himself, braced his hand against the wall, and stared down. The light of another torch seemed to gleam in the depths below, and for a moment he thought his heart would stop.

"Who ... Who's th ..." As he leaned down, the light below him seemed to rise.

A reflection. Water. Water.

Simon dropped to his knees and pushed his face toward the tiny pool, then stopped as its smell came up to him, oily and unpleasant. He dipped his fingers in and brought them out. The water seemed oddly slippery on his skin. He brought the torch forward for a better look. A sheet of flame leapt up and slapped hotly against his face; he shouted in pain and surprise as he tumbled backward. For a moment it seemed the whole world had caught fire.

Sitting splay-legged on the ground, he lifted his hand to his cheek and felt gingerly across his features. The skin was as tender as if he had been too long in the sun, and he could feel the hairs of his beard turned crisp and curled, but everything seemed to be in its proper place. He looked down to see a flame dancing in the hole in the tunnel floor.

Usires Aedon! he cursed silently. he cursed silently. Mooncalf's luck. I find water and it's the kind that burns Mooncalf's luck. I find water and it's the kind that burns-whatever that is.

A tear coursed down his hot cheek.

Whatever was in the pool was burning merrily. Simon stared at it, so disappointed to find his drinking water undrinkable that he could not for a long time make sense of what he was seeing. At last, something Morgenes had once said came back to him.

Perdruinese Fire-that's what it is. The doctor said it's found in caves. The Perdruin-folk used to make catapult b.a.l.l.s of it and throw it at their enemies and burn them to cracklings. That was the kind of history lesson that Simon had paid close attention to-the sort where interesting things happened. That was the kind of history lesson that Simon had paid close attention to-the sort where interesting things happened. If I had more sticks and more rags, I could use it to make torches. If I had more sticks and more rags, I could use it to make torches.

Shaking his head, he clambered to his feet and started down the tunnel once more. After a few paces he stopped and shook his head again.

Mooncalf. Stupid mooncalf.

He returned to the burning pool and sat down, then took off his shirt and began to tear strips of cloth from the hem. The Perdruinese Fire was pleasantly warm.

Rachel would skin me if she saw me ruining a perfectly good shirt. He giggled too loudly. The echoes rolled down the corridor into empty darkness. He giggled too loudly. The echoes rolled down the corridor into empty darkness. It would be good to see Rachel again, It would be good to see Rachel again, he realized. The idea seemed strange but indisputable. he realized. The idea seemed strange but indisputable.

When he had a dozen strips-his shirt now ended not far beneath his armpits-he sat and stared at the flames for a moment, trying to decide how to dip the cloth without burning the skin off his hands. He considered using the torch but decided against it. He had no idea how deep this hole in the tunnel ran and he was afraid he might drop the brand. Then the only light he possessed would be one he could not move.

At last, after long moments of thought, he set the torch to one side, then began shoveling loose dirt from the cracks between slabs of stone into the hole. After he had poured in a score of handfuls, the flame flickered and died. He waited a little longer, having no idea of how long it might take to cool, then shoveled the sticky dirt away until there was an open s.p.a.ce into which he could dip the rags. When he had soaked all the strips of cloth, he put one aside and then rolled each of the others tightly and set them all side by side on the last and largest piece he had torn from his shirt. He bundled up this makeshift sack and hung it on his belt. The remaining strip he carefully wrapped around the torch just below the flame, then turned the brand until the cloth soaked in Perdruinese Fire caught. It burned brightly, and Simon nodded. He still needed food and water, but if he managed carefully, he would not have to worry about losing his light for some while yet. Lost and alone he might be, but he was not just Simon Mooncalf-he was the fabled Seoman Snowlock as well.

But he would much rather have been just Simon, and free to walk upon the green world with his friends.

Choices, he thought unhappily, could be both a blessing and a curse.

Simon had already slept once, curled in a ball on the hard tunnel floor with a fresh rag of Perdruinese Fire wrapped around his torch. When he awakened from a panicky dream in which all light was gone and he crawled through muddy blackness, the torch's flame was still burning steadily.

Since then, he had walked for what seemed like several more hours. His thirst had grown greater and greater until every step seemed to leach moisture from his body, until he could think of almost nothing but finding water. The strip of meat was still in his pocket-just the thought of eating the dry, salty thing made his head ache, despite a hunger almost as great as his thirst.

Now, suddenly, the monotonous stone and earth walls of the tunnel had been breached. A cross tunnel, a ragged but substantial hole that was clearly not natural, opened out on either side. After a near-infinity of choiceless plodding, he had a decision to make: should he go forward, right, or left?