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(for John Kaiine)
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Rosemary Hawley Jarman was born in Worcester, England and came to fame in 1971 with her novel, We Speak No Treason. Reprinted many times, the book’s hero is the much maligned King Richard III. It sold 30,000 copies in its first week of publication, and gained her the prestigious Author’s Club Silver Quill for best first novel, while in the US she was nominated as a Daughter of Mark Twain. Further equally successful novels followed, also an illustrated account of the Battle of Agincourt. She is the author of many short stories, and her first fantasy novel, The Captain’s Witch—soon to be re-issued by Norilana Books—is set in the mythical realm of Taratamia, the Opal Kingdom. She lives in an antique stone cottage between sea and mountain in West Wales, where she is working on a sequel.
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If unfulfilled love can sustain contentment, then I was as contented as any man could be. For yearning brings in its train a tormented ecstasy, and in dreams everything is possible.
I had nothing to grumble about, certainly. I was twenty-five, in superb health, surrounded by good friends, and I had lately been promoted in the élite guard of the royal house of Taratamia. Admiring my new uniform in my private quarters, I was, I confess, full of myself. I struck a pose and addressed the tall looking glass formally.
“Good evening, sir. Are you not Captain Rudek Palzani, of the seventh Rose detachment of the Red Royals cavaliers? What a splendid fellow! I approve the moustache.”
I admit it was very lustrous, honey gold, its ends subtly tipped skyward. “Excellent eyes, too, sir,” my alter ego fulsomely continued. “Richly blue, and you are tall and spare, and toned of muscle; that opal ring you wear for the royal house becomes the elegant, dangerous hand of a courtier, swordsman and warrior....”
You conceited, idiotic and shamelessly egotistic young man! thought I, all these things you may be, but I only hope she still thinks so as well....
There was pride in my clowning, and yet always a touch of the self who had been told often by father and brothers: “You will never amount to anything.” My inexcusable bragging was rooted in the long past.
But the manner in which she had looked at me! She had found something in me to warm her, and far more than that. I swear it, in the name of the Lion.
I was stationed in Tam, the royal capital of glorious Taratamia, the Opal Kingdom. Tam was judged the loveliest city in the universe, with its marble streets and the river Milesa flowing under seven bridges west, to a millrace and Avatal Bay. The royal palace was pitched high among floral plateaux, overlooked by the gigantic Lion of Stone, effigy of our godhead.
I turned from the mirror and my image of scarlet coat, gold lacings and glassy boots. Respectfully I buckled on my captain’s sword, a fine honed weapon decorated with lion-masks. All the while her face, her name, glowed in my mind. Incomparable Michalla, and, I feared, out of my reach. My first real love, a craving love from first glance. Yes, they all say that, but in my case it was true.
At first I thought she was a slim youth, for I saw her in the Great Court of Arms where only the élite swordsmen are allowed to practise. Michalla was nobly born, obliquely linked to the royal house; my family too had the right connections, but whatever my estate it could have altered nothing of how I felt.
The Great Court has a fresco of suns and the Lion round the walls, and a long chequered floor. Within this male preserve, Michalla was dueling with a fiery wiry man called Maxith with twenty years of bladework behind him. And by the gods! She was good. She was exceptionally—I might say supernaturally gifted: I saw her use her filigree-pommelled rapier like a hornet’s sting, with a pirouette of a parry then a nasty thrust to Maxith’s quilted breast which stumbled him toe over toe in his fighting slippers. The bout must have been nearing its end; he saluted her with his weapon then bowed deeply. “The final concession, Madame, once again. Congratulations.”
My Michalla laughed, and flung back her head, and the silver net over her coal-black hair floated loose. A shining tumult unfurled. “Yes, enough for today,” she said, removing her face guard. Maxith bowed again and left, handing their dainty lethal weapons to the sword cutler’s servant.
She turned and looked straight at me. She was a small woman, the top of her head would come level with my collarbone. Her flawless face, shaped like an ivy leaf, had a pearl flush from the duel. Huge grey-green eyes she had, and a full mouth red as a battle-flag. She wore tight breeches, lilac silk over slender muscled thighs. Her jacket was shaped to a waist my hands could cup, and her small bold breasts were framed by a foam of lace.
My heart was pounding, my face was hot. Yet she liked what she saw, for she came forward smiling, pushing back a vagrant black tress from her cheek. And my voice burst out louder than intended.
“You were marvellous,” I said, then hastily: “with the blade, I mean.”
And she, teasing me: “Is that all? Am I, myself, not marvellous?”
My wits almost deserted me. “What?” I managed. “Madame, you are more than marvellous. Never in my life have I seen—”
She cut in quickly. “Why haven’t we met? What is your name?” She was charmingly, innocently direct.
I told her my name. She came dizzyingly nearer, and her skin was as perfect as a baby’s, her eyes as clear as green glass. And I found myself dumb, as she placed one hand like a white star, on my sleeve. And all at once I wanted to draw that small lithe body against me, arms crushing out her breath, take her—in fact, openly take her there and then on the lozenged floor of the Great Court, while another part of me longed to kneel and praise her feet with kisses.
I know she felt similarly moved. For she said “Rudek” softly, stood on tiptoe still holding my sleeve and raised her face to look deep into my eyes. There was more to this. She knew my past and perhaps my future. She knew me to my bones.
Then into this time of recognition a rude intrusion: a gruff, angry cough.
Ah. Here was Daddy, and he had a moustache to frighten children.
Father was not pleased. He had come to take her home, out of danger from such as I. The carriage waited outside, the horses clattered their hooves; the moment was lost and broken.
“Miclushka. Who is this young man?”
I bowed as humbly as possible, while she reassured him. The vast grey crescents about Father’s mouth bristled, as I described my unblemished character (true), my abstemious nature (not quite so true) and the moustache finally settled into an unwilling serenity. We sparred in formal courteous phrases. Michalla gazed at me, dare I say tenderly, then back at her father almost as fondly, and finally the longed-for words came from the stern old man.
“This is my only daughter, sir. I suppose you wish, like many others, for permission to call.”
“I should be deeply honoured, sir.”
I noticed Michalla’s little foot tapping impatiently, while she frowned. The frown made her more adorable. Father’s next words were uncomforting.
“I shall have to give the matter my full consideration. I must consult the Almanac for your pedigree.”
I was rather annoyed.
“I assure you it will not disappoint, sir. I am an honourable man. The Regiment would vouch for that.”
He growled, and frowned. In his case, the frown did not improve him. He said, “We shall see. We shall be going to the lakes shortly for my wife’s health. A month, or maybe longer. Your visit may not be possible before we leave. I promise nothing. Now we will bid you good day. Come, daughter.”
And that was it. Unbelievably, eyes locked on mine, she was as bereft as I.
Now, however, I was going out with friends, one of whom was a prince of the blood. I would have traded it all for that entrée into my beloved’s house.
I had to shelve my yearning. Prince Lepo always insisted we should be happy. I ran downstairs into the street, where the setting sun poured shadows on the barracks square.
As soon as I arrived I guessed it was to be a Girl Night. A whimsical game, a Prince Leporet diversion. Lord Carne unbolted the door of the princely apartment. No servants, no guard. Tonight we were the prince’s security.
“You’re a mite late, Rudek. Highness is about to robe.”
In Lepo’s chamber, the monumental bed wore silk and wolfskins, with a score of crested satin pillows. At least a hundred beauties had been between these sheets, and not one bore a grudge when her tour of duty was done, for everyone loved Lepo. He was ridiculously generous, kind, funny and wild. An older prince was the royal heir; Lepo was the royal clown.
On tables loaded with silver and crystal, fizz was overrunning the necks of slim jade bottles.
“Rudek!” he cried jubilantly. “Felicitations on your promotion. Well done, laddie.” He waved his goblet in salute. Bare-chested, he sat before a glass, while one of his friends struggled to drape him in startling mustard silk trimmed with magenta feathers.
“Can you lift your butt, Highness? You’re sitting on the top of the gown.”
“I’ll do his makeup,” said Carne.
“No, Rudek does it best. You fix my hair.”
Carne opened a coffer. A profusion of wigs in terrifying colours burst forth. They were built up like cumulus clouds, foaming like fountains. Ice blonde, purple, carnelian, and a glorious fall of ink-black hair, probably a peasant girl’s one treasure, yet a poignant reminder of my love. And then my riotous imagination saw her naked. There would be a soft ebony heart between her slender thighs...now my body betrays me. Obviously!
The prince missed nothing. He let out a loud guffaw.
“By the Lion’s holy tail, I’ve given Rudek a hard-on! And I haven’t even got my bosoms up yet. Come on, Carne! Sort them out.”
Carne began stuffing wads of swansdown inside the prince’s bodice.
“That’s not right,” said a laconic voice. Captain Tallis— now there was a warrior—sat on a chest, swinging his booted legs. “The right one’s higher than the left. And it’s fatter.”
He came off the chest and jabbed his hand inside the bodice, pushing Carne aside. “There.”
“You’re so rough, Tallis,” complained Lepo. “Apologise.”
Tallis shook his head, smiling. He was an austere, enigmatic man, a fabled leader. He owned a Lionsword, reputed to be so ancient it was imbued with enchantments. I was sceptical about such matters.
“Hairpiece now, Carne,” ordered the prince.
He became a stunning redhead with a band of stars across his brow. His dilated eyes were rimmed with soot and pearl. I applied a subtle rouge. “Don’t make me look like a whore,” he murmured.
Jewelled, he swayed from the room between his escort, an overgrown lily in a field of mustard and valerian.
“The Old Town, first.”
It was dangerous after dusk. Once leaving the marble precincts of the palace quarter, it was a chain of branched cobbled ways. The upper walls crouched inward, stifling light. A sharp corner plunged us into the main alley. There was only room for us to walk in line across the street, keeping Lepo in our midst. We must be mad, I thought, my hand on my sword-hilt. We could be bringing him home on a hurdle.
Yobs and yokels squeezed themselves against walls. Eyes bulged like poached eggs.
“Pardon, princess, pardon, my lords.”
“Outta the way, Jack Tanner, quality comin’ through.” At the Thirsty Toad, an amphibian was displayed on the inn sign. Within, they were carousing on benches, setting terriers to fight for money, and drinking with dedication. In a sudden silence, Lepo gloriously came among them, and we arrayed him on a settle. Rough wine was sped to our table.
We raised smeary mugs. “Madame, your health.”
He loved this charade. His ardour for women was undeviating, so there was only one explanation. Silk on the body, red lips, high heels. He was curious to know the mystery of women in the eyes of men.
The next tavern stood in an alley which forked right and left at its end. The roofs closed in on the blackness of oblivion. The sight of this pit seemed to breed a small frenzy in Lepo, and Tallis and I restrained him. We were becoming edgy. In the inn, there were a few riotous songs, someone snored like a hog behind a sideboard, and a couple of Red Royals lieutenants saluted us. Whispers: “Who is she? What a peach, looks familiar.”
We were all drinking sparingly. But our prince was throwing them back. We’d come upon good wine, an import from Karlinkis in the Pearl Realm down south. After a small measure, the world seemed slightly to shift....
Men were gazing at Lepo. Bored, he turned with uninterest from their hunger. We moved on.
We were almost at the black junction of the ways. Lepo drew away from us.
“You’re not going down there, Highness.”
“Nothing’s happening,” said the prince petulantly. “Last time I had six proposals, one was of marriage. Just stay right behind me.”
Next instant he’d gone, into the pitchy way where not even a star shone.
There were sounds, Lepo’s wild laughter, then a man’s deep voice, cursing vilely, and silence. We brought the man out in short order, his lust pathetically quelled. More stunned than angry, now.
“A man,” he said. “A great big man in a frock.”
Lepo howled, happy tears ruining his maquillage.
The man wrenched free of us and fled up towards the lighted tavern. Lepo, still laughing, sat down on the cobbles. “I’m tired now. Dear friends, take me home.”
As we left the alley behind, something—I know not what—caught my attention and I glanced back into the black maw. A figure was there, motionless. A slim man, even taller than the prince, with long hair and a sheathed sword at his waist. The pommel gave off one sparkle, like a turned gem. And the man stood within his own light. He had come from darkness. He was a piece of lit silence.
His gaze was unerringly fixed on me, with a deep and determined concentration. In that impossible light, I could even see his eyes. Ripe, olivine, but with red in the depths as if a torch burned at the bottom of a pure well.
I turned to Carne. “Who’s that?’ I said.
We both looked back at the empty spot where the figure had been.
~o0o~
There had always been bandits in the High Tiranian mountains south of the city. For generations, they had come down over Knife Pass to raid the villages on the yellow plain. They rode rough ponies and stole good horses and young women. It had become a part of military training to hunt them, but the mountains made them elusive. Their sporadic forays were looked on as something as inevitable as the weather.
Lord Carne and I had seen the prince to bed. We walked back to the barracks under a blazing white moon floating among the giant lilac and linderella trees and shimmering on pale stone walls. We crossed the seventh bridge. Below, the river sparkled with points of light as it rushed down to the millrace.
Carne, leaning to look over the parapet, said, “Some news came in today. They’re becoming ambitious. They’ve a big leader called Bearfoot, fancies himself bandit king. The General thinks retribution is due. There’s to be a nice serious scrap. They’ll need a useful captain.” His eyes gleamed at me. I thought suddenly of those other eyes, that turned out not to be there at all.
“Well, it won’t be me,” I said. “I’ve only been out there twice.”
“You never know,” said Carne. “Damned good warrior, you are.”
We walked on. The moon was nearly day-bright, and on the blossom-hung walls, black shadows danced. To my left, one suddenly loomed tall, flickered and sprang. Up above something bent the frail branches. The shadow slid down the wall, steadying into a cruciform shape, as if a sword had been plunged point first into the ground. Without warning, the misery of wanting Michalla gripped me.
“I’m in love,” I said. “As never before.”
Carne said: “The Great Court’s free most evenings. Will you practise tomorrow?”
“With pleasure. At the seventh hour.”
“Don’t be late.”
I dreamed of her. She led me smiling to her bedchamber. I was making love to her, yet some sadness halted the act before it had begun. I dreamed of lying between her thighs, kissing the soft black heart of fur that she had threaded with diamonds, but it changed into a cluster of dark dead leaves blown away by the wind.
I had the foul taste of hopelessness in my mouth. I knew now I should never have her, the dream had told me. Lord Moustache would never let me near her. My father’s words came again: “The boy will never amount to anything.”
I looked forward to crossing blades with Carne, sweating out my melancholy in the Great Court.
After the seventh hour, Carne had not arrived. The evening had turned to the purplish warning of storm. I walked the length of the Court, marking the lozenges on the floor. I leaned my brow against the far wall. A sharp thunder split my nerves like a knife. That was the moment when I turned and saw him again.
Beautiful he was.
The radiance seen in the pitch black alley was muted, yet it still lifted the thunderous gloom and limned every feature, so that I saw him in his sublime perfection. Very tall, slender, almost fragile, with rich gold hair, the red gold seen in the most ancient coin of the East; it dressed his shoulders, covering his neck and back like folded wings.
Slowly he began to come to me, treading the tiles on his long light feet, and again I saw the eyes of dark olive with the tiny warming fire in the deep cold well. Eyes of a saint, a lover, a victim of love.
I stood against the wall, where his eyes had nailed me.
His voice seemed to come from someplace apart, although his lips moved gracefully. He came walking on, deliberate, almost soundless, and stopped.
“My name is Luce,” the lips said, though the voice was thrown back from whence he had come.
And now I could smell him. Fresh, hot, musk-sweet man smell, and even semen, as evanescent as a blown feather...yes. I sniffed, and the faint, bitterly exciting odour was in my nostrils, my brain. His eyes endured on mine.
My bones became wax, under that gaze.
“How I love you,” he said.
His hand, long delicate lily, moved to his groin.
Fear of the foreign grabbed me. He was unbuckling; his
eyes shone dark red, they left mine and I could look down. He had freed his sword from its belt; that was all.
It was a fair weapon indeed, not like the sabre or the rapier or even the epée, but something perhaps hammered in an angelic forge, so frail and clever was its character. There was a fine diamond set into the hilt.
“Show me your sword, Captain,” he said, softly and tenderly. “Let us compare.”
His scent grew stronger; it was now like the almond scent of the gorse blossom. My eyes closed as if a hand pressed on the lids. I saw blackness.
He had made us naked together. I felt his slim taut body, his hard silky member risen against me, and my essence burst forth like a haemorrhage.
I opened my eyes. He had not moved. He stood, still clothed, a fair distance away. But inside my garment was the evidence: a slick of wasted seed, and I was trembling.
“Give yourself to me,” he whispered.
I shook my head.
“I would never hurt you.”
In all these moments I had been unable to utter a word. He said: “Believe me. It is not so different from what you know. Only far, far sweeter.”
Oh, he was a seducer.
Tears in eyes, now. Beautiful eyes, wet olives, the fire unquenched.
He was also a phantasm, and I knew I must be ill.
Yet again, he was real. His burning flesh had been sweet as cream.
“Meet me,” he said. “Meet me on the third bridge. I will take you to my home. It is not far. I will take you to paradise. I will fill you with honey. You will taste of my gold. You will weep with joy in my embrace. Tomorrow.”
“No,” I said. “Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
“In three days then.” The soft voice was fading away. “I will love you like no other could. I will be on the third bridge, at the tenth hour.”
Oh, he was a seducer.
I did not even remember seeing him leave the Court, only some of the light went out of it, and a storm broke with great ferocity. Carne never came, which was as well.
On the third bridge, at the tenth hour. In three days’ time, he had said.
I should never see Michalla again.
And what harm, from such beauty? He could not force me into any activity without my consent. And I wanted above all to examine the strange frail sword, the thin strong blade with the jewel.
Then came something terrible.
I was riding back to quarters at the head of my suite, in the rear of a mounted detachment from another of the Red companies. We had had much rainfall after the storm, and the river Milesa was in full spate. We were approaching the last of the seven bridges before turning for the barracks. Behind me, the cadets were on foot and the mounted detachment had gone ahead. No one else noticed what I saw in the water.
At first I thought it was an animal, then realised it was a struggling boy, about six years old. He was holding on desperately to a stone projection under one pier of the bridge. His hair was plastered to his face, his eyes forced shut by the water. Now and then, he sank and thrashed about and surfaced, each time a little weaker. The river roiled about him, but he continued doggedly to grip the stonework. Someone was leaning far over the parapet above, a long pole in hand, a saviour come to hook the child out like a fish. I recognised beautiful Luce, red-gold hair streaming down, slender fluent body hanging low in an effort to reach the child. Then, while our company trotted swiftly by, I saw the horrifying truth.
The tall man was using the point of the pole to strike at the boy’s hand, prodding and jabbing until the water turned bloody, and the fingers began to weaken. The boy’s face sank beneath the flood and rose with a noiseless cry. The point of the pole stabbed viciously; the hand let go at last. The current sucked at the child and spat him out. He whirled and vanished and the millrace had him.
Beautiful Luce stood up on the bridge. He was laughing without a sound, mouth stretched wide, as at the best joke in the world. He convulsed, clasping himself, bending double with mirth. Then our company turned the corner and he was lost to my sight.
I am certain he did not know I had witnessed this. He had been far too absorbed in a cruelty that was as casual as that of a man drowning kittens. I felt deep sorrow, and guilt, as if somehow I had been a party to his awful act.
I could tell no one about it. Even when Carne came, bright with a message, my joy was tempered. “I told you so,” he said, helping himself from my decanter. “The General’s sending word today. They’re saying some damn good things about you. Just the man to whip Bearfoot, and so on.”
There was to be a war council, and then a crack detachment of Red Rose Royals would hunt the bandit chieftain down. Under my command.
“You’ll doubtless get a medal afterwards,” said Carne. Eventually my spirits began to lift at the prospect of major action. I had seven days in which to bring my people up to peak performance. I knew just how to do it.
They were good men; the cavalry rode like demons and the foot soldiers would charge through flame on command. After three days of intensive training. I was so confident I dismissed the troops well before dusk. I intended to fulfill the assignation of the tenth hour.
It would have been easy to break the appointment, but I wanted to show my honour, to let Luce see that his ways were, in the most moral sense, not mine. This summer night, there was not a soul abroad. As I approached the third bridge, I thought for a moment he had not come. And then he morphed out of the fading sunset, enhancing it with his own radiance. He seemed to be on fire. When he saw me coming his face flamed with joy. He held out his arms.
I halted at what I hoped was a safe distance.
“My beloved,” he said, in the soft voice like an echo. The sweet man-smell of him came again to permeate my skin.
“Let us not delay, not a moment longer,” he said. “There is so much I want to teach you, my beloved.”
He came nearer, and I stepped back off the bridge on to the road. He towered above me on the curve of the bridge, one long pale hand on his sword-hilt, which I now saw was hung with tassels like braids of filamented gold.
I was a professional warrior, an officer, yet he made me tremble.
I said: “I am afraid I cannot see you again. Ever.”
I was looking down at the road. Above my head, I heard him laugh gently. He said: “Of course you can. Why else are you here?”
“I was curious to see your sword. That is all.”
He laughed again. A darker, knowing laugh.
“Oh, you shall see my sword. I promise you. You shall see everything. Now, let us go to my home before night comes.” His smile glittered.
I could command men. I could command this.
“No, I have told you. I shall not meet you again. That is all.”
His smile vanished. Large tears began to gather in his eyes, the fiery little spark in their darkness moved, flames under dark water.
“You are angry with me, beloved.”
His tears threw me into chaos. And even now I was so shaken by his crime that I couldn’t speak of it. The mere mention would defile me.
“It is,” I said clearly, that he might understand, “more in sorrow than in anger.”
He came down off the bridge and without even seeming to move, placed himself behind me, barring my path. I whirled to face him. He looked down at me musingly.
“My love,” he said, hand caressing the sword’s jewelled pommel. “My fine soldier. You look so pretty in your new uniform. Sweet boy.”
This was mockery, experienced. I suddenly knew he was, awesomely, far older than I had thought him. I watched his hand, alert.
“No,” he said. “I would not draw a weapon on you. You already know that I need only touch you with my mind.”
Night was coming down, fast. I put up my hand at him and he stepped aside. I walked away quickly. I did not turn round, but I heard his voice, fading under the sound of the racing river.
“Little Rudek,” he said. “My darling. Now you are dead.”
~o0o~
Once again, my mind was refreshed by the oath I had taken to fight for the Opal Kingdom. Even if the fight was to be against some inbred tribe with pretensions, it was a day to seize. I was excited by my first real command, proud of my turnout, and my horse, a swift fighting bay, was the best. A clear day for our shining, tough company: flowing Lion-banners, pennoncelles undulating as if they swam in air, mounts and men and archers in top order. Seasoned sergeants in charge of my flanks. And all as quiet as any disciplined army can move, coming down over Knife Pass on to the yellow plain.
I had sent out scouts and knew what Bearfoot was doing. They had recently despoiled a village and were celebrating. Drunk, they were dangerous, but off guard. They still had hideous weaponry; cutlasses, spiked maces, stone clubs and crossbows. For their revels they were using the old gold mine workings, but Bearfoot’s main camp where he lived with his warriors was a little way west up the pass, and it was there he would be returning. I had a keen young lieutenant riding with me. After our stealthy descent to the plain I was certain Bearfoot had no inkling of our presence.
“When d’you think they’ll move out, Captain?”
I said: “He’ll want to get back to his manor before dusk. As soon as we see him appear we charge and cut him off before the pass. Any stragglers can be taken by our flanks in a pincer. All of you only have to wait for my signal.”
I had spread us out among the rock outcrops and barrows of the ancient plateau. The archers had longbows, the spears were wielded by hill-men on fast ponies. There was my proud cavalry troop. I had assessed this manoeuvre with precision.
I nodded encouragingly to the boy bugler, who lobbed a preparatory wad of spit at the ground. My heart began to beat a fraction faster. Had I known that the General was following my campaign from one of the higher canyons I might have been more nervous, especially as with him, acting as an observer, was the legendary Captain Tallis, with a contingent of Red Royals.
I whispered to the lieutenant: “Pass the word. Nothing moves before my signal. Not one horse or man.”
The orders went down the line. They looked so good, my men.
The sun was westering, building shadows under the big rocks but it was still quiet. The horses’ jingling and snorting was muted on the little dry wind.
I might be killed. A hero!
I shared a drop of water from the lieutenant’s canteen. The minutes went on. I had no idea how long this attrition was lasting, but it seemed now like a dream, where everything has been taken care of long ago. Within the next half hour, I thought, it will all be over. Don’t be too confident, said a strange voice in my head, and then, alarmingly: “The boy will never amount to anything.”
From the foot of the mountain arose a great jubilant roar, almost inhuman. Following came bursts of laughter, not like the merriment of Lepo and his friends, but so crude and raucous it could have carried its own smell—of bad drink and carcasses and blood and the wounded viscera of the raped. Bearfoot’s people had had their party. This was confirmed when a scout, wriggling like a serpent through dry yellow grasses caught my stirrup and whispered.
“He’s coming out. And others after him.”
The lieutenant’s leg nudged mine. “Soon now?” he whispered. The little bugler clenched his fist round silver. I had my men deployed, static as chess pieces. I gazed towards the cave and saw Bearfoot.
He’s more a troll than anything. Enormous, his head grazes the cave roof. He fills the opening. He was roaring, belching some foulness at others of his kind who shoved past him to get to the air, and he lurched, cursing them as they emerged in droves. He wore a bearskin, totem of the tribe, and thongs on his massive legs. His filthy hair streamed to his waist, and in his hand the skull of some unfortunate foe served as a drinking cup.
Now. This for Taratamia. Bearfoot begins to waddle west where I know the pincer movement waits on my command. The sergeants will not stir without it.
This is my day.
The lieutenant was waiting. The bugler’s eyes rolled, the horn an inch from his lips. Now. The moment has come.
I could not move. I could not speak.
I could not lift my sword.
I could not lift a finger.
My horse shifted under me, distressed.
The lieutenant began harshly, urgently whispering at my side.
Bearfoot grinned and pranced at the heel of the mountain.
“Sir! Will you give the order! Sir!”
I could not stir one molecule, one atom, one cell, one eyelash. My blood was stilled. I was without form, and void.
I was breathing, but only that. Dead, I breathed.
~o0o~
From the high barred window, I could see the cadets drilling in the square below. I stood against the wall. At first, it had been difficult for me to lie down on the cot; I had forgotten how to bend my legs. My servant came in and out. He fussed around, changing my clothes, showing me how to wash when I had forgotten. Day had rolled over into night more than once.
“The adjutant will be visiting you soon, sir.”
I could not answer. I dared not try.
I was in civilian clothes. The prison was very quiet; jackdaws rattled about on the windowsill outside, and distantly I heard prisoners shouting for their lawyers, or to be let out.
There were vast blanks in my recall. It was not like being drunk, the aftermath of which I had known and recovered from quickly. This was more like an amnesia of the soul.
Gradually I became able to speak and hear and almost understand.
I drank water, but did not touch the food they brought me. I was beginning to know that something terrible had occurred, something that would rebound not only on my own honour, but on the whole of my beloved homeland. When I closed my eyes, the hideous troll-face of Bearfoot came close, as if he were in the cell with me and with it a rush of garbled memory, and I began to talk. I did more than talk, I raved for hours and in the end they sent two of the medical corps, who said I could be heard in the square. Their potions gave me sleep—and awful dreams of being trapped in a cave with Bearfoot who was preparing a pot to roast me in, and I woke, in a state.
“You were shouting again, sir.”
They brought sugar rolls, fruit and coffee. My clothes were hanging on me. I took a small piece of food. I cannot describe the disgusting taste—troll excrement might come close to it. I have seldom wept, but now the griefs of my life whirled out of me, like the drowning child in the river.
I wept because I had worked for my promotion; I wept for my arrogance, and for the men who had doubtless met death through my failed leadership. If I were to be court martialled and hanged, it would be just. Better that, than to be invalided out for some mental aberration. I was no coward, and yet I wept for the cowardice that was making me weep.
Was it treason?
Did they count it cowardice?
Did I have a seizure of some kind? Something not unknown in the field, even among great commanders?
The debates were going on, out of my knowledge, away from my sight.
I asked how long I had been imprisoned. There were more uncomfortable places in which to die. My cell was for officers and had comfort of a sort.
“How long?”
“Days, sir. You’ve been rather ill. The adjutant is on his way. He is busy with all the celebrations.”
“Celebrations?”
“Why yes, sir. Bearfoot has been tried, and hanged. His tribe is finished. The General is very satisfied.”
“I don’t understand.”
There was a step on the stair, and laughter. I knew that laugh. Next moment the servant was bowing, nose almost on the floor.
“Highness. Excuse me.” In came a tall grinning man, coat sparkling with orders and ribbons, face full of fun. He hauled me up to embrace and slap me. It took me a moment to remember his name.
“Highness. Lepo.”
“Young Rudek. Congratulations! You are recovered. You are reprieved. You are released. By the Lion! You look rough.”
Behind him, Lord Carne, also grinning.
“Rudek, my friend. The top men only just realised. They weren’t sure whether or not you’d pulled off the most cunning strategy. And of course,” with a glance at Lepo, “the fact that you have some exalted friends helped them decide.”
I said again: “I don’t understand. Please explain.”
“The enemy thought it was a trick! When he saw you and your troops lined up and you didn’t advance, Bearfoot was completely wrong-footed. He and his mob just wandered up the slope, slap into the arms of Tallis’s men. He wiped them out, and mopped them up.”
The legendary Captain Tallis. Oh yes. Another medal? “I’m not due for a court martial?”
Lepo guffawed, “You’re a sort of hero. Clever ploy, I must say, but a bit dangerous to pull off. Let’s get you out of here.”
I was undeservingly grateful. Not joyful. Not relieved. I breathed, and I was dead. And still dead, even with that which should have delighted me beyond my dearest dreams.
In the visitors’ antechamber, Michalla waited for me. She, who I had longed for with my soul. That, I did remember.
She was smiling, until she saw me. Then came that sweet, wise frown.
“You are very sick,” she murmured. She touched my cheek with one finger.
Through cold lips, I said: “Why are you here, Michalla? Your father will be so angry with you.”
She took my ice-cold hand in her warm one.
“My father is a human being. And you, sweet Rudek, give up too easily.”
She smiled, her heart-face a diamond among the black hair. Then she did two things. She walked a complete circle round me, brushing me with her body. And I felt nothing. I had scarcely a heartbeat. She then stood tall, and taking my face between her hands, kissed my frozen lips with her rich scarlet mouth. I felt not a flicker. Her face grew thoughtful. She stared away as if searching for the invisible.
“Ah,” she said at last. “You have no idea, my Rudek, what you have tangled with. I know swords. They are demons, who come and go, who pierce their way through into the world of humankind. They do harm and have their way with beautiful people like yourself. They come disguised in light, bright sun-of-the-morning, but they are raised and strengthened in darkness. One such fell from heaven long ago. One touch, and you are theirs, unless someone who has the knowledge comes to defend you. I was given this wisdom by the one who schooled me to fight. I know your pure heart, Rudek, and I love you. I am wise. In my ancestry there is also a sword, but one that was wielded by a saint—hence my name. Now, let me be sure how much damage has been done to you.”
She opened four emerald clasps on her bodice and I saw the roundest, whitest breasts, sweeter than roses, sheer founts of desire. And I was utterly unmoved, and still.
I began to cry silently. Fastening her dress, she turned to leave. “It is not your fault,” she said, and she was gone.
They brought me my clean uniform, and let me out. Dreary and bereft, I went to my quarters. Nothing was real, or ever would be. I sat on until late afternoon, then I went into the city. I would go to the place where I had been happiest, where I might recover my life, or perhaps end my troubles there. Or have them ended...
The whole city was in festival mood. I thrust through crowds, and someone shouted. “Hero!” at me, which I saw as irony. There was a small man in a smart livery who for a while I thought was following me.
The Great Court of Arms was empty. Through the high windows the day’s light gleamed its last. I walked the length of the hall, counting out the lozenges.
On this spot had I first seen her. Beauty.
On that spot had I first seen him. Cruelty.
I reached the far wall and leaned my brow, and heard a voice like whispers from a tomb.
“So you have returned, little Rudek!”
I moved from the wall to look at Luce, and he started towards me, with his seducer’s smile. The sunset shivered a glowing nimbus about him, and his eyes were flames.
I asked: “Do you come here to hurt me?”
“I have already hurt you.” In falling dusk he seemed to shine brighter, as if he had himself drunk the sun. “Now, after all that, will you come to me?”
I answered, “Never. Not for the world.” It seemed a great effort. I felt a blackness advance out of his red and gold, as if an entity detached itself. The tempest of his anger began to engulf me.
“I do not brook a second rebuff, little Captain. This time, you will not recover.”
The soft voice had altered, had become a thunder of murderous rage. Its fury rolled around the vast hall. Soon, it would swallow the world.
The big door opened with violence, crashing back against the wall.
Michalla was here in the Great Court. She had sent her servant to tail me, for she knew, as my protector, that harm was due to befall me. She came in running, in her fighting suit with her black hair in a tight matador’s pigtail, and with her rapier in her hand. She had heard the raging voice of Luce, and I knew from some buried instinct that they were ancient enemies.
She halted between us. Then with the tip of her sword she drew a complete circle around me where I stood. I heard her say:
“I have touched him, and he is mine.”
Luce looked at her with unmistakable horror. Without haste, she aimed her blade at his breast.
He made no effort to draw on her his diamond-headed sword. Instead, his whole body began to grow upwards, taller and thinner each instant, and his shoulders to broaden and straighten out, quickly assuming the nature of gold, not flesh. His form continually elongated. He became the sword, shining bright as fire. The place around his heart was the very last to remain flesh, and to this Michalla set her weapon’s point. Then smoothly, almost lovingly, she pushed it in.
The blade penetrated to its whole length. He did not bleed. He did not fall, but crumbled into a pollen-like gold, while all the light in him was extinguished, leaving only his essence. Slender, tall and beautiful. Fragile and deadly. Becoming dust, that dust lasting only instants, while from the disintegrating hilt the gilded tassels curled and blackened as if cast into a furnace. The diamond rolled down to hit the floor, swiftly carbonising back to its source. A brisk wind arose, and whirled the black and gold dust away.
Then it was that my heart began to pound. It thundered in my chest, as if suddenly woken from a deep sleep. It shook my whole body. It danced for joy.
I was more alive than I had ever been. More man, more warrior, more lover. Engorged with love, I stepped from the circle she had drawn, saying, “Thank you, my darling, dearest, my love,” and took Michalla in my arms. She sighed a deep luxurious sigh, and wound her arms around me. I kissed her mouth, I tasted the honey of her lips, her eyes, her throat. I loosened her lovely hair and buried my face in it.
I bared her breasts so I could kiss and suckle their fair white goblets, while she shivered and held me closely. And then, clutching her to me, I kneeled to open her breeches and find what I had dreamed was there. The velvety black heart, its cleft sweeter than roses under my mouth, and already dewed with the diamonds of desire.
