Mordant's Need by Stephen R. Donaldson
Still her eyes showed no fear. She looked past him or through him as if she had gone blind.
Fiercely, he caught hold of her, closed his arms around her, sealed his mouth on hers. He meant to kiss her until she resisted – or melted—
But she was already limp. All her muscles had gone dead. Her lips felt cold, as if the blood in her heart had become ice.
He gripped her brutally, so furious at her for defying him this way that he wanted to break her back, punish her at once, absolutely. He was strong enough: he could do it. Crushing his forearms across her spine, he tried to find the place where she could still feel pain.
An unexpected movement caught the corner of his eye.
She turned her head toward it as if she knew what it meant.
Before he had time to think, he looked at the mirror.
The movement was there; but it wasn’t the movement of armies, it wasn’t in the Image. The Image itself was moving, modulating—
While he watched, the scene which the glass reflected became a large room with a bed and instruments of enjoyment; stone floors; sunshine.
At the center of the scene, facing Eremis, stood a tall, naked man with a nose that was too big, cheekbones that sloped too much toward his ears, a thatch of black hair too far back on his skull. Despite their usual intelligence and humor, the man’s eyes were wide, almost gaping.
His arms held an unattractively dressed woman. Her body sagged against him as if the last of her strength had faded away.
Her eyes, on the other hand—
They were no longer blank. She had gone so far down inside herself that she had reached a place of unexpected power. Darkness seemed to spill from her gaze like a void overflowing, a black emptiness reaching out to gather him in.
He was seeing himself, and her; that was his own Image echoed in the flat mirror. It had a luminous quality, a precise perfection, which startled him like a revelation, as if it were all he needed to know.
Let me show you what I can do.
The last thing he felt before his mind vanished into eternal translation was a sense of complete astonishment.
FIFTY-TWO
NO MORE FIGHTING
Terisa seemed to hang limp there in Master Eremis’ frozen embrace for a long time.
At one point, she thought she remembered a peculiar tremor under her feet, a trembling in the stone. It was gone before she noticed it, however, and her recollection of it was uncertain.
Nevertheless the effort of trying to think helped bring her back.
Now she remembered something else, something she couldn’t be mistaken about: the sound of horns.
She had heard them plainly, winding through her heart: the music of hunting, the bold summons of music; the call to risk and beauty. Even though mirrors couldn’t transmit sound, the horns had come to her while she watched King Joyse ride into battle; she had heard the horns as she had seen him fight. They had lifted her up—
The memory of them lifted her now, restored her to herself.
It was time to move.
She didn’t know what had happened to Artagel and Geraden, but she wasn’t afraid; not yet. Gart would have stopped Geraden if he could. And Master Gilbur would have attacked King Joyse by Imagery if he could. Since Gilbur had done nothing – except make the floor tremble? – Geraden and Artagel must still be alive. She wanted to see them, however, all three of the brothers. She wanted to feel Geraden’s arms around her and look at Artagel’s face and find out how Nyle was.
She took one last look at her Image, making sure of herself. Then she released her hold on the mirror, so that it could resume its natural reflection.
After that, she began to squirm out of Eremis’ grasp.
He was as hard as stone, still erect and rigid; every part of him was tight with unsatisfied ambition and striving. As a result, she found it difficult to get away from him. Nevertheless, because he couldn’t react to her movements, he couldn’t keep her.
After a moment, she was free.
He went on standing as though she were his forever – as if he had only turned his head momentarily from her best kiss to glance at the mirror before consummating their embrace.
Vaguely, she wondered if he might be in pain, if he had enough of himself left to feel outrage or loss. She doubted it.
Then Geraden and Artagel and Nyle entered the room.
Despite their obvious exhaustion, they had all come to fight for her. Artagel held his sword poised; Nyle swung his chains; Geraden’s face was full of threats. They all came forward to fling themselves at Master Eremis. But when they saw that he wasn’t moving, that he couldn’t move, and she was unharmed, Geraden gave a shout of joy, Artagel blinked in happy astonishment, and Nyle dropped his chains.
Oh, Geraden. Oh, love. Mute with relief and constricted weeping, she hugged him and hugged him while Artagel thumped her back boisterously and Nyle shed quiet tears of his own.
None of them asked any questions. They were all happy to wait a while to find out what had happened.
On the other hand, after a moment they all found themselves looking at the mirror.
Its focus had to be adjusted before they could see King Joyse. He had ridden so far down the valley, was so heavily engaged among the Cadwals, that he was momentarily out of view. When they located him, however, they saw almost at once that he might win this battle.
His forces and the High King’s still seemed roughly equal in numbers. But the Termigan and his men continued to block the left side of the valley; the soldiers Prince Kragen had left in place sealed the right side. As a result, High King Festten wasn’t receiving any reinforcements.
He needed reinforcements. The Cadwals simply weren’t fighting as well or as hard as their opponents. King Joyse and the Prince attacked them from two sides, and the Termigan cut at their rear, and the rampart wall and the slug-beast’s corpse hemmed them in: they had no room to maneuver, no avenue of escape. And the men of Alend and Mordant fought as if they couldn’t be beaten.
At the sight, Artagel’s face shone, and Geraden cheered, ‘Look at him! Didn’t I tell you he was worth serving?’ He had apparently forgotten that Nyle might have a different reaction. ‘Didn’t I?’
Terisa still needed to weep. At the same time, a fierce exultation rose in her. She had to struggle to make her throat work. ‘Something I want to do.’
Unable to explain, she waved Geraden and Artagel and Nyle back from the mirror. She moved it so that Master Eremis no longer blocked her way. Nearly in tears, nearly crowing, she adjusted the focus of the Image up to the rampart, to the last catapult.
The engine was ready to throw – and both King Joyse and Prince Kragen appeared to be within range.
Striking her only blow of the battle, Terisa translated a strut out of the catapult’s frame. The timber was under such pressure that it came through the glass like a shot and slammed against the far wall.
Without the strut, the engine wrenched itself apart.
This time, both Geraden and Artagel cheered. Some of the men in the valley looked like they might be cheering.
That helped; but she still couldn’t unknot her grief and joy. If she remained where she was, with Master Eremis like that in front of her, she might begin sobbing wildly.
‘Let’s go,’ she said.
Artagel nodded at once and turned to support Nyle. But Geraden looked at the erect Imager, and at the cloak on the floor, as if he were embarrassed by pity.
‘Shouldn’t we cover him?’
Terisa shook her head. ‘Leave him alone. He’s probably happy that way.’
In surprise and relief, Geraden gave a shout of laughter.
Artagel laughed, too, a loud, long hoot of mirth. Even Nyle managed a wan smile.
Suddenly, the knot inside Terisa loosened, and she started laughing as well.
Happy that way. Ready and capable and full of himself until he died. Giggling and chuckling, she and the Domne’s sons laughed all the way back to the Image-room.<
In the center of the damaged ring of mirrors, they found Adept Havelock. He sat on the bare stone as if he had appeared there by translation. His eyes were strangely focused, and his face wore lines of sorrow; he looked like a man who had lost an old friend.
His arms held the arch-Imager.
Vagel had what looked like a tree limb driven through his belly. He was covered with blood, obviously dead.
Havelock was singing to him softly.
‘I understand,’ the mad, old Imager crooned as if he were comforting a child. ‘I understand everything. Everything.’
Terisa felt a renewed desire to weep, but it didn’t last long.
The flat glass showed King Joyse surging through the press of Cadwals toward High King Festten. He wasn’t using his sword anymore: he didn’t seem to need it. His charge alone was enough to make the Cadwals give ground. They were being routed.
The destruction of the last catapult had struck them like an announcement from the stronghold that Master Eremis and Master Gilbur and the arch-Imager Vagel were defeated. And the forces of Mordant and Alend gave the Cadwals no space or time in which to rally. The High King appeared to be screaming furiously, but he couldn’t make the wall of men around him hold.
‘He’s going to do it,’ Artagel breathed happily. ‘He’s going to beat Festten.’
‘With Prince Kragen,’ Terisa said for Nyle’s benefit, pointing out the alliance between Mordant and Alend. ‘They’re doing it together.’
Nyle stared as if he couldn’t trust his eyes.
For a moment, Terisa thought that someone should talk to him. There was a great deal he didn’t know, a number of things he needed to hear. But she still didn’t have the heart for explanations; not yet.
‘Can we go there?’ she asked Geraden. ‘To the valley?’
The only man she could think of who might have the power to do Nyle some real good was King Joyse.
‘We don’t know where it is from here,’ Geraden replied thoughtfully. ‘And there have got to be guards around here somewhere. We’re bound to run into them, if we try to go on foot.’ His smile came to him easily. ‘Of course, we’ve got plenty of mirrors.’
Nyle looked apprehensive. In a tone of mock-boredom, Artagel said, ‘Don’t worry. There’s really nothing to this translation business, once you get used to it.’
Terisa found herself laughing again. Geraden laughed as well, and Artagel chuckled.
She feared that she wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if they didn’t go soon. The things she had endured and suffered in the past few days required some kind of outlet. But Geraden sobered when he looked at Adept Havelock. After a moment of uncertainty, he went to stand near the Adept.
‘Vagel is dead,’ he said carefully. ‘You finally beat him. We’re going to join King Joyse. Will you come with us?’
Havelock didn’t raise his head. Briefly, however, he stopped crooning. In a surprisingly lucid voice, he said, ‘You go ahead. I’ll stay here for a while. If things go badly at the last minute, I can use these mirrors to take care of Festten. That should guarantee Joyse’s victory.’
Almost at once, he added, ‘Not that he needs me to guarantee anything for him.’
Softly, he began singing again.
Geraden shrugged. With a bemused expression on his face, he returned to Terisa, Artagel, and Nyle.
He was becoming more familiar with his talent, more practiced. He needed only a few seconds to take one of the curved mirrors and shift it until its Image showed the hillside in the valley where King Joyse had set his pennon – the hillside where Myste and Elega, Master Barsonage and the Congery stood to watch the battle. When he was ready, he bowed sententiously to Terisa and his brothers, and gestured for one of them to go first.
Activity was a kind of outlet. Promptly, Terisa moved to face the glass.
Before she stepped into it, however, she met Geraden’s intent, glad gaze and said, ‘If you go wrong this time, you are really and truly going to owe me an apology.’
While he was still laughing, she accepted the translation.
As usual, she lost her footing when the quick, infinite passage was over. Ingloriously, she stumbled and fell to her knees in the slush of melting snow.
Myste and Elega cried out when she appeared; but Master Barsonage reached her first. Choking on solicitude, astonishment, and hope until he was completely unable to speak, he helped her to her feet.
She had time to see the fierce triumph on Elega’s features, the vindication and the dark loss in Myste’s eyes. Then Nyle and Artagel appeared beside her and had to be helped out of the muck.
At once, Artagel whipped out Gart’s sword and held it high. ‘The blade of the High King’s Monomach!’ he shouted.
The guards around the pennon started cheering.
To the accompaniment of hoarse cries, fervent applause, Geraden arrived. He fell flat on his face as if the slush were a pig wallow. This time, however, the lady Elega helped him regain his feet; she beamed at him. At last, she had learned how to ignore his minor mishaps.
For some reason, the chagrin in his smile seemed wonderful to Terisa. It seemed to suggest that he had come through his experiences with a whole heart.
Then other cheers echoed up from the valley foot. King Joyse had reached the High King; he had knocked Festten’s sword aside, pulled the Cadwal tyrant off his mount.
Frantically, the High King’s men began to surrender as fast as they could.
They had good cause: outside the valley, their reinforcements were scattering. Maybe the destruction of the last catapult had taken the resolve out of them. Or maybe Havelock had performed some other translation to frighten them. Whatever the explanation, thousands of men stopped trying to batter their way into the valley and headed instead for the maze of the hills.
Without reinforcements, the Cadwal position became hopeless. High King Festten’s men gave up to save their lives.
King Joyse had won what should have been an impossible victory.
Cheering spread up the valley, resounded from the ramparts into the clean sky. Abruptly, Master Barsonage let out an uncharacteristic yell, and the Imagers began congratulating each other delightedly. Elega’s eyes spilled happy tears; Artagel flourished Gart’s sword; Geraden hugged Terisa until she thought her ribs might crack. For a moment, the only unhappy people on the hillside were Myste, who had lost Darsint, and Nyle, who had helped bring King Joyse to the brink of defeat.
Almost at once, however, an unexpected silence followed the shouting up from the foot of the valley. Terisa and Geraden craned their necks without letting go of each other; for a moment, their view was blocked by the press of men. Fortuitously, a gap appeared just in time to let them see the slug-beast open its maw as if it had come back to life.
Struggling mightily, the champion forced open the monster’s evil teeth and staggered between them.
Immediately, he wrenched off his helmet and flung it aside. For a while, he stood gasping as if he had come close to suffocation. Then he pressed several studs down the sides of his armor, and all the metal folded away and fell to the ground, leaving him dressed in what may have been his underwear.
‘God-rotting suit,’ he panted harshly. ‘Ox-supply gave out. Like everything else.’
‘Do you mean,’ Artagel asked in amazement, ‘he actually let that thing eat him?’
Several of the guards nodded.
The cheering started again, louder this time.
Myste’s face seemed to flare with joy. She left the hillside at a run, racing to rejoin Darsint.
Gradually, the tumult gave way to a new kind of order. The surrendering Cadwals were organized and guarded, marched aside. High King Festten was put on another horse with his hands tied behind him. He had lost his golden helmet; without it, he appeared much smaller. Between King Joyse and Prince Kragen, with the Termigan beside them, he was brought up the valley to the hillside and the King’s pennon.
Terisa had never seen King Joyse seem
He brought his charger directly to Terisa and Geraden, did a curvet that nearly knocked them down; then he settled his mount. ‘You gave me good advice,’ he said loudly, so that everyone could hear the lord of Termigan approach as close as he was able to an apology. ‘I should have listened sooner.’
Geraden laughed again. ‘You listened soon enough, my lord Termigan.’
The lord’s flinty features almost grinned as he withdrew to let King Joyse and Prince Kragen speak.
The Prince didn’t seem particularly interested in speaking. He had already jumped off his horse to embrace Elega; he was too busy hugging her to think about anything else for a while.
From horseback, regally, King Joyse faced Terisa and Geraden, Artagel and Nyle.
‘You have a story,’ he said, ‘which I am eager to hear. For the moment, however, tell me only the result. What have you accomplished?’
‘My lord King,’ replied Artagel at once, ‘the High King’s Monomach is dead.’
‘And Master Gilbur is dead,’ Geraden said.
A moment later, he added, ‘Adept Havelock has killed the arch-Imager Vagel.’
Terisa cleared her throat. She wanted to say, What about Nyle? Can’t you see what happened to him? He needs help.
But the King’s blue gaze held her; the memory of horns held her. As well as she could, she said, ‘Master Eremis looked at his own Image in a flat mirror. I don’t think he’s going to bother you anymore.’
King Joyse’s smile was as bright and cleansing as the warm sunlight and the ineffable sky.
When he looked at Nyle, however, his smile went away.