Connal has reached Gallodel and demanded an audience with King Orthen. Now he comes face to face with the tyrant who demanded his people’s fealty.

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Chapter Five

Twelve Oaths

THE AUDITORIUM WAS a world apart. Where before Connal had stood in the light of the afternoon, here it was neither night nor day, a world illuminated by stained-glass windows and burning rushes. And while the air had been warm and wet outside, here it was dry and cool. All about, higher than the tallest Cuarr, the windows stood, depicting scenes of saintly piety and martial glory. In some, a holy man or woman, wreathed in hallowed light, witnessed to the multitudes, fed the hungry, healed the sick. In others, the Worthies writhed in postures of agony, on flaming pyres and wheeling racks, while about them a throng of heathens clamored for their blood. Here were mailed knights at war with dragons, piercing their scaly hides with lance and sword. And armies, mounted and on foot, locked in gruesome melee, stretching infinitely into the horizon, while, in the foreground, the severed heads of the fallen looked up bloodied and aghast.

Higher still, the ceiling bore the semblance of sky, of blue heavens teeming with mighty Caurim and fallen Bardor, warring with spear and bow, their chariots wheeling from cloud to cloud. The stars gleamed in one corner, black with night, while in the center shone a painted sun. The planets ranged here, bright and glowing, in hues as various as those which adorned the windows.

Under Connal’s feet, the marvels continued: the world, as the cartographers conceived it. He trod upon lands of green and brown, whole kingdoms reduced to mere tiles, islands surrounded by grey-blue oceans. His eyes wandered high and low, left and right, dazed by the panoply of art, wonders in every direction.

Up above, a balcony ran along the rounded hall. Common people, much like those who had gaped at them on their way in, gathered there, looking down on the proceedings below.

Beneath this balcony, raised just above the ground, stood the tables, arranged in a C-shape and draped in white silk. Around them, lords and ladies sat, dressed in rich tunics and dresses of material as glorious as that which covered the table. And there at the center, upon a throne of wine-dark mahogany, sat the king. There was no mistaking him—even with his lean, boyish face—even if he were not wearing the crown that sat on his head of long, thin hair, Connal would know him. For in his eyes there was neither weakness nor youth. Orthen watched him with burning coals, his look impenetrable, mysterious.

Along the wall behind the king, banners hung, depicting the trappings of Eburnean heraldry: lions and leopards, dragons and eagles. Many, Connal suspected, were of Orthen’s own vassals, others taken through bloody conquest. And in the very corner he saw the one he sought—sullied and tattered, the banner green with two crossed white swords. The Rigsról.

A gaily-dressed herald broke the silence. His voice boomed. “Welcome, visitors, to Gallodel, to the court of his Royal Grace, Orthen I, High King of Eburneum, Lord of Logren and of Norick, Ruler of the Western Isles. Orthen, the favored of Aonel, scourge of the heathen, and cleanser of iniquities. State your name and your purpose.”

Connal cast a brief glance at his companions and wondered idly if he should also have a herald, to show he was as much a prince as this Orthen. But a look at their blank faces disabused him of the idea. No, he thought. Such is not for me. The Ellani kings have a voice of their own.

“I am Connal of Cregeirann, son of King Craedon of Ellthiar. And,” he added hastily, “I am the Beastmaster of Iarlir.”

The hall awoke with a sound of murmuring, as Gallodel’s lords and peasants conjectured loudly about him.

That was better. It seemed these names had power yet, whatever the arrogant Baldren might have insinuated.

“And I have come,” Connal added, shouting over the din, “for justice!”

At this, the murmuring grew to an indistinct wall of noise. A chill ran down his spine. But Connal did not look at the lords of Eburneum, nor at the commons; his eyes locked only on the young king, studying his impassive face for the trace of a response. But there was none, only that inscrutable, studious gaze.

“Connal of Cregann,” the herald mispronounced in his snooty Eburnean accent, “you have called upon the king’s sacred justice. What is it you would ask for?”

“The Rigsról.” He pointed to where it hung from the stone wall, left of the throne, the green cloth frayed and blood-spattered. “It is mine, as a lord of the Iron Rock and the next King of the Ellani. And I will have it before I leave.”

The crowd grew ever louder, shouting excitedly and pointing, all eyes falling to the king. But still, Orthen said nothing, only watching with dark and hooded eyes.

“That is impossible, Lord Connal,” the herald said. “Your father forfeited that banner when he took up arms against his Grace, in support of the usurper Daras. Here it shall stay, a token of your defeat, an assurance of fealty to your rightful liege lord.”

“Gallaig take your tokens!” Connal growled. “And Drog your bloody liege lord!”

“An oath of fealty was sworn,” the herald replied testily, raising his voice. “By twelve Ellani lords. After his Grace showed mercy.”

“Damn your oaths! And damn your mercy!” Connal took a step forward and saw the courtier flinch. “I swore no such oath. And it is to me the Rigsról belongs. Not this half-grown bastard with a herald and a crown.”

“Silence!” the herald gasped. “Your request has been weighed upon the perfect scales of the king’s justice. And you are denied. Accept the consequences of defeat.”

“Then a pox on your king’s justice!” Connal spat, the wet gob landing in the midst of the East Sea at his feet. “You have another custom also, I have heard. One that suits me better. For the scale’s balance may be tilted by the sword.” He held aloft the weapon in its sheath. “I challenge you, Orthen of Gallodel. Face me in open swordplay, or let one of your thralls defend you!”

He stared into the boy-king’s eyes and at last saw them flicker, the ghost of a smile passing over his youthful features. Orthen raised his hand and all went silent. At last, he spoke, his voice surprisingly “Twelve oaths were sworn, Lord Connal. One fight alone cannot dissolve them all.”

“Then let twelve come! One by one, I will overcome them. Who among you is first?”

Baldren was first to leap from his seat. Before the throne he knelt, striking his right fist against his heart. “My liege,” he said, “if it please you, let this fight be mine. This savage has given insult, not only to your royal person, but to the whole of Eburneum. I will teach him manners—his stiff knees will bend before your throne when I have finished with him.”

The king nodded, his eyes lit by a strange glow. “I grant it, Sir Baldren. Be our champion.”

Sir Baldren bowed and rose quickly as squires rushed to him, dressing him in padded cloth and gleaming mail. The knight regarded Connal with a look of haughty contempt.

“Hail, Sir Baldren,” the herald sang out. “The Knight of Splinters, undefeated with lance or sword.”

Connal laughed. He reveled in anticipation of the fight, the certainty of victory. He tossed back his head, and his ruddy locks shook with his joy. “At last,” he said, “we will see what mettle your knights possess!” He drew his sword and tossed aside the scabbard, gripping with both hands. “Behold, Glámaire! The sword of Craedon. See how it hungers—how it sings for blood. Are you ready to feed it, splinter knight?”

Baldren did not flinch nor cower at his boast, but held the warrior still with icy disdain. He was armed now with sword and a long kite shield, on which was depicted a falling knight under splintering lance. His head was guarded by a mail coif and flat-topped nasal helm.

“You boast,” Baldren said, “but the sword did Craedon little good when he fell in the siege of Gallodel. And it will fail you too!”

Connal roared, goaded by these words. He pulled up his mail hood, slammed the steel cap over his head, feeling the cold bite of the nose-guard on his skin. The others—Kierran, Veruc, Fionn, and Roras—withdrew to the corner of the room, giving the warriors space to fight. Along the dais, the courtiers leaned forward in their seats, while above them the balcony swelled with common folk.

“Lords,” the herald called. “Are you ready?”

They both nodded. Connal was more than ready. The rage of Gallos was upon him—his veins coursed with the war-god’s power.

“Begin!”

Connal flew at his opponent, cutting at the knight with a wide, sweeping arc. Baldren deftly parried his stroke, but Connal gave him no time to counter. On and on, he drove him back, with blows heavy and quick, hammering his shield like a blacksmith his anvil.

Baldren wheeled and pivoted, trying desperately to evade him, to catch a moment’s pause. But wherever he turned, the long sword found him, cutting off his escape, the force and shock of each blow preventing any offensive maneuver of his own. Connal herded him into the corner with well placed strikes, pinning him against the white silk dais. He saw the king’s champion stoop a little, knew that beneath the iron he panted. It was time to end it.

Connal swung high and Baldren raised his shield, catching the blow that would have sundered helm and skull. He stumbled against the table board, slow to regain his guard. And Connal gave him no quarter. He crouched and brought Glámaire low, sweeping Baldren’s legs from under him. The knight cried and fell gracelessly to his back, his shield and helmet clattering against the tiled floor like a stack of cooking pots.

Connal placed a foot on the fallen man’s chest, and let the tip of his sword rest on Baldren’s throat.

“What say you, Knight of Splinters?” He squeezed the words between deep breaths. “Shall I cut your miserable throat?”

Baldren breathed in fast, labored gasps. He looked into Connal’s eyes with hatred still, but where contempt had been, now there was fear. And awe too, Connal thought.

“I yield,” Baldren said at last.

“Good.” Connal lifted his sword and his foot from his conquered foe and walked slowly back to the center of the room, conscious of all eyes upon him. Some were silent, and many booed, but behind him, he heard his comrades’ raucous cheers.

He grinned. But this was only the beginning.

Connal stretched out his arms and held Glámaire aloft, again facing down the Eburnean king. But in Orthen’s face he saw neither anger nor fear, just that same ghostly sliver of a smile.

Damn him.

“Is that all, my lords of Gallodel?” Connal roared. “Is this the might men sing of? This the vaunted courage? I had hoped for greater showing than this!”

Galled by his words, more than a dozen Eburneans sprang forward, begging the honor of defending the throne. Orthen nodded and smiled, and another was armed. Sir Tyban, as the herald named him, lord of Berenstead, a decorated veteran and tournament champion.

“Your luck has run out, barbarian,” Tyban sneered, twirling his blade to resounding applause. “You’ll see presently there’s more to swordsmanship than waving your weapon about like an oaf with a cudgel.”

In less than a minute, Tyban was down, groaning pathetically, his head lolling against the Auronian isles. Connal had lunged for him the moment the herald gave the signal, beating down his guard in a succession of deadly strokes. The final blow landed squarely on Tyban’s chest, denting iron links and cracking ribs. The proud knight would find breathing, let alone boasting, a painful activity for months to come.

Still more knights awaited, armed and outraged, eager to redress the savage Ellan’s insult. Connal watched them and grinned. Let them come. Urient was with him, the martial saint blessing his every stroke. Let them come.

“Fine work, Connal,” Kierran approached and spoke beneath his breath. “Rest now. I’ll fight this next one.”

“No,” Connal growled. “This battle is mine. I alone must right this wrong. And avenge my father’s fall.”

Kierran began to object, but Connal cut him off, turning again to face the dais. “Who is next?”

One by one they came, boasting and posturing, knights with fine titles and finer armor. And one by one, he cast them down, flinging them aside like a child’s doll. There was Sir Olar the Brave who squealed like a piglet as Connal felled him. And Valin and Vala, brothers from Eorland, sons of the late Lord Vanor. Both brought dishonor to their father’s name, for neither landed a single blow before yielding to Connal.

At first, the crowd, its numbers growing as the contest wore on, booed him, calling out encouragement to the Eburnean knights and hurling insults at the Ellani. But as Connal struck down his sixth assailant, the hardy Sir Cambras, a heavy, depressive silence fell over them all. Indeed, they were as silent as Cambras himself, his large unconscious body dragged away ignominiously by two laboring squires. In the fights that followed, only the clanging of steel on steel and the groans of the injured disturbed the deathly hush.

Sir Imbran fell next, caught beneath his great helm by Glámaire’s crossguard. It was a skillful move, straight from the teachings of Manimo the exile, fencing master of Piliano. Two years the lean, grey-haired Auronian had spent at Craedon’s hall, teaching Connal what he could of the swordsman’s art.

“Not is the blade only the part of the sword to strike,” Manimo had said in his thickly accented Eburnean, training sword resting casually upon his shoulder. In all his time at Cregeirann, he never learned more than a few phrases of the Ellani tongue. “Nor is the crossguard only for the protecting of your hand. You come close, a quickly strike—WHAM! He finish.”

Imbran did look finished. Connal grinned as his opponent fell sputtering to the tiled floor with mailed hands clutching at his neck. He paused to revel in the glory of the move, this artful exemplar of Pilianese tradition. By Gallos, but it was well executed! If only Manimo were there to see it. Imbran, choking and groaning, was in no position to appreciate much of anything. And the ranks of silent lords and commons offered nothing but sullen resentment.

Yet Orthen sat still and watched with rapt attention, leaning forward on his mahogany throne. The humiliation of his seven knights had not wiped away his smile. If anything, it had made it deepen.

“You enjoying this?” Connal shouted, his anger growing with each bout. “Then send me another!”

Sir Esgar was next, a knight who favored the warhammer, a grisly weapon meant, not for the chivalry of the lists, but the blood and grime of battle. Unlike the others, he did not wait for Connal’s attack, choosing instead to take the fight to the wild warrior himself. He landed a strike on Connal’s hip—a good blow. A painful blow. But while Esgar paused to roar and the crowd resumed its cheering, given at last some hope to cling to, Connal limped through the searing pain, landing the knight such a buffet that he reeled, stunned, unable to protect himself from the shower of strikes that followed. Then he too was down.

“A mighty stroke, Connal!” Fionn cheered.

“Water,” King Orthen called, waving his hand. “Bring the brave lord water.”

Connal nodded. “I’d rather something stronger,” he grunted, though he drank it all the same, great long draughts to cool his thirst. Then he wiped a sweaty hand across his mouth, and took up his father’s sword once more.

“Another!” he cried.

The next knight came with none of his comrades’ assurance, walking like a man destined for the gallows. Sir Peron, he was called, another fool whose land and title made him knight. Connal snarled and the poor fellow started. This would be easy.

Yet before Connal could knock him to the ground, the hapless Peron managed to land several clean blows, striking the sealord’s chest and head. Connal brought him down at last, but he knew he was slowing. The pain in his hip grew worse, throbbing even when he stood still. And now his head swam, his ears ringing with the echoes of clanging steel.

The tenth knight took even longer to defeat. Sir Riddard, learning from Peron’s marginal success, danced about like a maiden at a feast, keeping always just beyond the long sword’s reach. Connal’s wild swings wasted strength and breath, his sword cutting the air where the prancing Riddard had been. Yet such a dance alone could not bring a warrior down, and Riddard was forced at times to draw closer, probing Connal’s guard with quick thrusts and rapid counters. Many landed—the great sword grew slow and heavy in Connal’s hands and blood streamed beneath his bruised and battered mail. But the warrior gritted his teeth and willed his weakening legs to hold, keeping his sword aloft and his mind from the pain that wracked his every limb.

Riddard, then, as if sensing his opponent’s exhaustion, grew bolder. Lengthening the time he spent within Connal’s reach, he chanced two or three strikes where before he’d dared but one. In he stepped, slashing one, two, three, four times, throwing the full weight of his body into the attack. Connal took them on the blade, the guard, the arm, ignored the eruption of fiery pain running up his left shoulder. When the fourth slash opened his armor and flesh, he stepped forward, gritting his teeth against the flood of pain, lashing out in a wide arc. There was no escaping that attack, no place the knight could dance that Glámaire would not find him. It caught Riddard across his chest, caving metal rings like a wicker basket, lifting the knight off his feet. Riddard flew through the air and smashed against the dais. Then came the scream, the groaning in shock’s wake. He would dance no more before Ellani prince.

Yet Connal too would find it hard to carry on this dance of blood and iron. He leaned his arm wearily over the sword’s crossguard, its point digging into the mortar between tiles that depicted the desert lands of Al-Qartan. He gasped for air with rapid, shallow breaths, his heart pounding like a Cuarr’s drum. His long hair, slick with sweat, hung over his face in disheveled locks. Sweat ran down every inch of his skin, mixing here and there with blood. He was beyond strength, a panting shadow of the man who strode into Orthen’s hall. Even his rage had subsided, drowned by a tide of pain and exhaustion.

But there were three more to defeat before he could claim the Rigsról. Three more Eburneans to cast from lofty pride, three more to humble. Could he do it? The question was useless. He must.

Straightening, he looked into Orthen’s eyes, saw the boy king smiling no more. That’s it then, he thought. The humiliation of his knights has finally wounded his wretched vanity.

Connal gritted his teeth, too weak to taunt or boast, too tired to pretend the fight still held any thrill.

Another knight stepped before Orthen’s throne. “Sire,” he said, “pray let the honor of this fight be mine.” He spoke no other words, added no boast. It seemed the Eburneans, too, grew weary of this contest.

“No, Sir Farras,” the king said, holding up his hand. He rose from his throne, and every man and woman fell to their knees before him. Orthen’s look was kind as he bid them sit.

“Lord Connal,” he said, fixing the sealord with his piercing eyes. “You have fought well, like nothing this court has ever seen. Is it not so, my lords and commons?” He swept the balcony with his hand, drawing meager applause.

“Oh come now, good Eburneans.” Orthen laughed, revealing a set of perfect teeth. “Let us not be stingy with our praise. The sealord has fought like a man possessed, like a hero of song. Do not begrudge him the honor he has earned because he is an Ellan.”

At this the commoners in the gallery cheered a little louder, though the lords and ladies round the tables sat with folded arms and dour frowns.

“Your majesty,” the herald intervened hesitantly. “The ordeal is not yet over. The island lord has defeated but nine of the twelve he is to face.”

“I think we have suffered quite enough humiliation at the Ellan’s hands.” Orthen chuckled. “Don’t you? No, I make my judgement now, the word no man shall defy.” His smile vanished, and his voice grew hard. “Connal, son of the late King Craedon, Beastmaster of Cregeirann, take now the banner of your fathers. I see now that this can belong only to you, possessed of such valor as you are.”

He clapped his hands, and two attendants hurried to take down the Rigsról. They rolled it carefully, then brought it to Connal. He took it with a disbelieving hand. A cheer went up among the four Ellani, though it filled the echoing room as if from a crowd of hundreds. In the midst of his celebration, Connal caught Orthen’s eye, and the young king shot him a knowing look.

“Fine work, lord,” Roras said.

“Herriah’s bones,” Kierran muttered. “You did it, you mad bastard.”

Old Veruc beamed at him. “There’ll be songs aplenty of this day, lord.”

“Aye!” Fionn swung an arm around Connal’s shoulders, nearly knocking him off his tired feet. “And songs of mourning in Gallodel.” He cackled madly as he clapped Connal’s back.

“That’s it then,” Kierran said. “We’ve got what we came for. Let us leave this place.”

Connal nodded. What else was here for them now? Yet he did not feel the satisfaction he had expected. The fire of vengeance had burned to ashes, yet in its place a vast and hollow chasm gaped.

But as they turned to go, he heard Orthen’s voice call out to him. “A moment, Lord Connal?”

Connal turned slowly, consious of a dawning tremor in his legs.

“You have acquainted yourself with two of our customs: the scale and the sword. Yet, lest you think us a cruel and stone-hearted people, I would have you taste a third. Perhaps you will find it more to your liking. Will you stay and break bread with me? Tomorrow, you can return to your ship and sail home, after you have eaten, drunk, and slept, taking full advantage of our hospitality. What say you?”

“Don’t trust them, Connal,” Kierran muttered. “‘Treachery lies beneath an Eburnean smile.’ It’s not a proverb for nothing. Let us leave now. This place holds only enemies.”

Quickly, the others added their agreement to Kierran’s warning.

Connal looked again in the young king’s face. And again he felt the stirrings of fate, compelled by a power beyond himself. Was this too woven in the fabric of his life, the destiny he could no more outrun than death itself?

“We will stay, Eburnean king,” he said, the words springing as if from some other source.

Behind him he heard the others curse. Orthen smiled again and clapped his hands.

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