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Two Kings in the courtyard fight,
Sword and dagger in the morning light.
Nigh is the prize: The throne of the land,
And victory goes to the swiftest hand.
Dark King moves with skillful sword,
Watching and matched by the Golden Lord;
Iron ringing of the parried blow;
Is musical measure as round they go.
-from ‘The Battle of the Kings’ Rorick of Avantir
Early the next morning, one of Phedron’s young swordsmen, a lithe and slender man, wakened Rorick. Though it had been freshly painted since the previous day, his shield had already seen much wear.
“The King wishes to speak with his leaders, Milord Guardian.”
If Rorick had doubted his Northland origin, his speech confirmed it.
“I shall be there presently.”
Rorick was the first to reach Conel, who was seated outside his tent, in deep thought. “What is it, friend? Our scouts report fresh armies of Hygerians?”
“No, rather the road west from Coerl is filled with Hygerians, men, women, and children, fleeing to someplace beyond our wrath.”
“So, why do we meet so early? The war—host cannot move today.”
“It is this that I wish to discuss. But let us wait for the rest.”
Already Phedron was striding up, looming as laree off a horse as he did on, with the lesser captains straggling behind him. Rorick noted that a full third of these had been seconds-in-command yesterday, near as many were newly promoted from the ranks since yesterday.
Conel looked around at them. “The scouts have said that the Hygerians are fleeing from the city of Coerl. I am minded to seat myself on the throne of my fathers as soon as may be; clearly, if we wait until tomorrow we will see no opposition, yet I would rather it were settled today. Tell me now, not what I wish to hear, but what is the truth? If march to Coerl today, how many could I bring with me?”
There were some moments of discussion amongst the captains, then Phedron finally reported. “There is no question of moving so many wounded in case of raid or attack on them, so they must be guarded; altogether, we could menace a force of about twenty—five hundred.”
“So. And again, with no smiling faces on frowning facts, can we march safely to Coerl with this many?”
This question was directed mostly at Rorick and Phedron, who requested first to be allowed to speak with the scouts who had come in since morning. It became clear questioning these that the Hygerian war—host had ceased to exist as a host, every man being concerned with the safe removal of his household and goods from within reach of the King’s host.
“Milord Prince, we feel they would fight us only if we forced it upon them, and even then, they are very disorganized to fight even the force we will bring.”
Conel bowed his head in thought. After a moment, he raised his head and spoke to them. “It may be that I am over—proud, or that I on jealous of my rights, but I have waited over—long since the death of my father to take place on the throne. Some have called me King, these many years, but we know all that am not truly King until I sit on the seat of Gunn, of Coerl, of Conel the Wild gather the men, bring no man who is not willing to march, we so as soon as you can be prepared. Rorick, will your Warriors serve as bodyguard for the both of us?”
“With the greatest of pleasure, Milord King.”
“Or at least, with the minimum of displeasure, if I know soldiers,” answered the King, his smile returning now that matters were settled.
Despite Conel’s desire for speed, night found them still some five miles from Coerl. A trifle impatiently, he agreed to camp for the night, but on the next morning was waiting for the rest of them with only slightly disguised irritation.
As they approached the city, they discovered that the great movement westward had not ceased. The road was covered with men, women, and children, carts piled high with goods and furniture. A squadron of cavalry, magnificently decked out in black leather adorned with gold, formed themselves in the path of the Asbalnian force, and waited.
Rorick and Conel attempted to parley, promising no harm to anyone if they would not force a fight. The commander made his slight frame seem imposing as he spoke to the two who faced him, casting a dark—eyed stare across his hawk—nose as he answered, “Where should we go, and in what place might we stay? For we are the men of the King of Hygeria, and Hygeria has no king this day. Be sure that we shall not hear men say, ‘They live, but their King is dead.’”
It was almost with regret that Conel led the skirmish which destroyed that force, nor was it an easy battle, for they fought bitterly and to the death.
On their entrance to the city, they found some degree of chaos ruling, for while the Hygerians strove to escape, certain Asbalnians, emboldened by the approach of their victorious Ring and his war—host, displayed a ferocity they had not shown before. They began to fall upon the fleeing families to plunder their belongings.
The first sight to greet Conel’s eyes inside the gates was a pair of overturned carts, with a family of five lying scattered around them. “This must be stopped,” the Prince declared. “Phedron, arrange patrols through the streets. The perpetrators of such deeds are to be warned once. If they do not heed, then use whatever force is necessary to stop them.”
With his small bodyguard, Conel continued through to the Palace. It stood out, with a large courtyard before it, and a flight of broad stone steps led up to the great doors. These doors, worked in wood, were produced by the Dwarf Siolbhan, at the request of Coerl. Dobghal, the brother of Siolbhan, bound the doors in bands of iron, with runes of protection upon them. On the inner faces of the buds, so that one must rend the doors in sunder to read them, he wrote in the Dwarfish runes. On the outer faces, the same things were written in the Elder Runes of Cymruthair, for the Dwarfs are loth to let their tongue be written for any to see, save their folk alone.
Yet such was the skill of their craftsmanship that no man looked upon those doors without being moved by the wonder of them, and the fairness and beauty which could be crafted into such common materials.
At the top of the stair stood a single man, but all eyes turned rather to the man at their foot. He was tail, slightly broader than Rorick, with glittering dark eyes and a beak of a nose. His right hand absently fingered his thick black beard. His attire was typically Hygerian; close—fitting black trousers, black cloak fastened at the right shoulder, a leaf—shaped golden brooch lying over a light red tunic. He wore a close—fitting iron cap for a helmet, and a long sword and dagger hung at his waist. He bore no shield. There was not a man among the Asbalnians but knew or guessed him to be Razak, late King of the Hygerians.
As the Asbalnian party drew to a halt before him, he looked up at Conel with a critical eye. “So this is the boy—king of Asbaln? Well, boy—king, you have defeated the hosts of Hygeria, but there is yet a thing to be done. Come now, and fight for your kingdom.”
Conel did not move immediately. “Aye, you do well to fear me,” declared the Hygerian, “but I care not if you wish to use your shield as well. I care not, so long as you will come to measure swords with me.”
The Prince turned to his men. “Let it be as he wishes; the two Kings shall here do battle, and let no men interfere, save at his peril.”
He dropped from his horse lightly, leaving his shield, and drew his sword and dagger. Razak came at him in a sudden leap, but Conel was not a slow man. Back and forth they moved, the sun gleaming silver on sword and helm, sparking off darting dagger—tips.
It was an even fight, for Conel was skilled in the use of the sword, with or without shield, and he knew the use of the dagger as well. On the other hand, the use of sword and dagger together was a time—honoured tradition in Hygeria; only Conel’s slightly greater speed saved him from Razak’s greater skill.
For a time, the fight went so, each attacking and warding in turn, then both circling to look for an opening. Finally, having fallen back about six feet from each other, they paused momentarily. In that moment, Razak’s dagger hand moved, and the dagger was a flash of silver in the air as it flew. Conel, dodging, was still wounded in the left arm, but at the same time he was bringing his sword up to ward off the following attack of the Hygerian.
A moment later, clutching at a gashed and bleeding left arm, he stood over the dead body of the greatest King of Hygeria.
Somewhat wearily, he saluted his fallen enemy, then turned to give orders. “Let him be given funeral honours after the manner of the King’s of Asbaln. He was a great man and a great leader, though I can only find myself grateful that he is dead. Now, do you who followed me in battle follow me to my throne?”
In this moment there was a pounding of hooves, and the chief magician came dashing up on a white horse to fling himself from the saddle and shout, “Milord King, do not go in there yet!”
“And why not?”
Flinging out a hand, the Old One pointed to the Palace stair. At its head, where the other Hygerian stood, there was a pillar of black smoke. The smoke disappeared suddenly, revealing the Hygerian once more as he made a downward motion with his hands. There was a momentary shimmering in the air, and he had disappeared.
“What does this mean, Old One?”
“A spell has been cast, Milord King. What evil this one has wrought, I cannot yet say, though I have my suspicions.”
He looked around, then picked up a javelin dropped in some Hygerian soldier’s hasty retreat. He chanted over it, in the tongue of the Arkh-bazd Whazar:
“Akh—dazar lepta fashish noh
Dagah mazadikh khosh ferdo
Kuzadh ligash danodh do
Hashgikh falghikh.
O Asbrodaho!”
Having done this, he cast it in the direction of the place stair; yet before it had come much more than half—way, there was a flash of brilliant light, and the spear disappeared. As the Asbalnians alternately rubbed their eyes and stared, Rorick and Conel approached the old magician.
“What has been done here, Old One?”
“A barrier, Lords. In the time that the two spells interacted, I could see much of what made it. It is a harsh spell, for twenty—seven men were killed to forge it. Thrice, thrice, three lives spent to gather the power for its making. It could be nullified by an equal number of lives, with a proper counter-spell, though such is not our way.
“The fastest way to remove it would be for someone to go in and slay he who stands on the inside. Other than that, it will require much work on the part of myself and my colleagues to clear this away, if we are indeed able.”
“If you are able?”
“It is a spell with which I am not familiar, but it may be that this spell will set itself finer with every day in which it is not broken. But it is strange, strange indeed, that this magician should lock himself within the barrier. I suspect it to be a trap, a means to draw someone within the barrier, and either slay or snare them there.”
“But such a careless trap. It might take anyone.”
“Not really, Milord King. Would you truly send someone else behind the barrier? Who else can say the same, save perhaps one of the Old One’s colleagues?”
“The Sword is a defence against many things, and I think it might be surer defence in this case than anything any of my colleagues might attempt. The danger is that the breaking of the barrier may rend space and time, and for one to find his way back here, some Power will be needed, a Power which will draw itself back. I think the Sword may well be that Power.”
With the Old One supporting Rorick, Conel yielded, though it went against his desire.