Chapter Ten
THE MAILED FIST
Ostendil looked at Swin dubiously, and well he might, the young man being imbrued with the blood of his enemies, his armour red save in those places where the sun had dried it to a lumpy glaze, with tints of coagulated brown or crimson-black. A bucket of water was brought to Swin, which he at once up-ended over his head, washing some of the gore out of his face and hair. His face was pale now, but his eyes had a feverish sparkle. He was fey.
‘See here, my lord Ostendil: the City must be mine within an hour. Though its walls are strong, the gates are foolishly weak, and most of those who would defend them have been dispersed. If I set my men to make a battering-ram, doubt not but that I shall be able to take the City by storm. But I shall be more inclined to restrain those who have fought for me if we are allowed to enter without resistance. If so, full mercy and full respect will be shown. But my main appeal to you, my lord, is founded neither on threat nor on promise, but on right.’
Ostendil glanced at him with sudden sharpness.
‘Hear me, lord, and hear me also, you men of Daelum and Enaderth and Thandor, and all you whom I see listening from the walls of the City! I am Eofor, your rightful King, son of Calessar, third son of Olostur the last true King of this realm! I am the slayer of the dragon! I am he who died, who was slain indeed and yet restored! Yet am I also a convert and true follower of Lord Dru Almighty and His chief servant, the Lord of your Temple! Now, Lord Ostendil, you are the chief of the guards, and the gatekeepers will doubtless obey you if you command them to open; and you are the Keeper of the Orb, close in blood and loyalty to my own ancient line; and you knew the King my grandsire. You have seen me before, but now look me in the face, and judge what likeness there may be to him you loved and served. Look well, my lord.’
With a few steps he came up to Ostendil, and then continued in a quieter voice: ‘You may command them to open, or not, having naught to fear from me; but I am sorry that I must keep you under guard for a while yet. I hope to hold further speech with you. You should know that I truly regret the death of your son, once my own best friend. Shall we go forward to the gate?’
Ostendil bowed. ‘As you wish,’ he said coldly.
‘Excellent! Thanks be to Dru! And here is Lord Lefnui. How is it with you, my lord? Will you come with us?’
Swin went on talking fast and loudly, allowing no interruption and hardly any response, for the next ten minutes, while his men came up to the City wall, with the wagon still in their midst. Many of his followers exchanged glances. His commands made good sense, showing indeed an impressive grasp of the complex demands of the moment; but they came pelting one after another with an almost delirious vehemence. ‘Captain Sarvad, you to the Palace,’ he concluded, ‘and let my Lord Lefnui, as I see that he can aid us still, be carried thither with all speed; and Prince Thoronhir. Two hundred Enaderthians will suffice you. The Queen must be taken alive and unharmed. Wencela! You with them. Captain Sarvad, you are personally responsible for escorting Miss Wencela in safety to the Palace. The Queen may be carrying some concealed weapon. Wencela, it’s for you to ensure, whatever disrespect to her person may be necessary, that she is completely disarmed. And then be her jailer till I come. Master Aldred, you ride with me. Sigehere and Oswine, you follow us with forty riders. Now, my lord?’
The standard halted just beyond bow-shot – bearing in mind the short range of the bows used at that time – of the walls. Ostendil continued forward, followed by his own standard-bearer. Swin’s party heard him call to the men beyond the tall wrought-iron gates:
‘Guards! It is Ostendil, your commander, who am speaking. Open the gates!’
Heads disappeared from the battlements. Then, slowly, the gates swung inward.
Swin leaped back into Colwine’s saddle, pulled Aldred up behind him and cantered forward. ‘Many thanks!’ he cried to Ostendil as they passed him.
‘But whither now, my good sir?’ asked Ostendil.
‘To the Temple!’
‘The Temple?’ asked Aldred, clinging to Swin uncomfortably, his arms around his middle. ‘What are you going to do there?’
‘I don’t know. I do not know.’
Colwine’s shoes struck sparks from the stones. The street was lined with people and faces looked down from every window. The sky was broad and blue. The boar-standard flashed and blazed between the shadows of the tall buildings.
‘You don’t know?’ asked Aldred stupidly, speaking into Swin’s back. ‘Then –’
He heard Swin answer from deep inside himself, almost as if the thought was unspoken: ‘I’ve had three commands from the Lady. I have disobeyed the first and the second. I may not fail her a third time...and yet the time has almost run out.’
‘But how is that?’
Aldred noticed, looking from side to side, that the faces of the townsfolk were hardly hostile at all. Sigehere and the escort were trotting along quite cheerfully. Aldred recollected that Swin was already a well-known, even a popular figure in Ruminas. Some small, well-aimed missile struck Swin harmlessly on the forehead. With a prompt reflex action he caught the thing. It was a rosebud.
‘Who threw that?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘The woman in that window – there! Didn’t you see?’
‘No. My eyes are going blind. That’s why we’re in a hurry.’
‘Well,’ said Aldred after a pause, ‘it wouldn’t do any harm to give them a few smiles and waves – now would it?’
So Swin broadcast smiles and waves; and many of the pretty faces smiled back. Despite being covered in drying blood, he kept all his old appeal. There was no shouting nor cheering, but more flowers and handkerchiefs drifted down; though many lay dead and wounded outside the walls, the City’s affection was evident, even though it might not yet dare to commit itself. Along the Elessarmen the crowds were packed thicker. ‘Of course,’ remarked Aldred, ‘they remember the prophecy, and they’ve heard the tales, and they already know you to some extent.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Swin, ‘this is a pleasant surprise. But it’s not the whole tale. These are the ones who happen to like me.’ Now close at hand loomed up the ominous bulk of the Erumar. The crowd closed in behind Sigehere’s troop, and followed them respectfully into the Temple precinct, which before they arrived had been quite deserted. From within the great building came the sound of a hymn being sung, full and loud by very many voices. The doors, however, were shut.
‘This is where they’ve taken refuge,’ said Aldred.
‘Right,’ said Swin. He swung his leg over the saddle and jumped lightly to the ground; then turned back to Aldred and lifted him down with a smile. A rider came forward to take Colwine’s reins. Swin shifted his grasp so that he was now holding Aldred’s shoulders. He bent to speak to him, and now Aldred himself saw the despair within those blue eyes, the passion, the torment and the encroaching darkness. ‘Stay behind me,’ he said. ‘As close as you can. Command the men. I may soon have need of you.’
Aldred nodded, and smiled a little weakly.
Swin turned to the shut door. He raised his fist and gave a heavy double knock. Nothing happened, but the singing went on inside, and now the words were audible:
Though Hell assail our doors
With strength and arméd force
We trust the power of Dru,
Our fortress strong and true...
Swin pondered for a few moments while this was going on. Then, under the eyes of Aldred, Sigehere, Oswine, the riders and the folk of the City, he began to prepare for a strange and mighty deed.
He carefully laid Dagoruth down on the flagstones. He took off his helmet and put that down also. Then – having called for assistance from a couple of men – he unfastened the armour that protected the upper half of his body.
He then took off his leather jerkin and the stained shirt he wore beneath it: so that he was nude from the waist upwards. The beauty of his nobly sculpted flesh was spoilt by the smears of blood that had seeped under his armour and clothes, and also by the scars of his dismemberment, which drew a horrified murmur from the crowd. The one round his neck was especially nasty, newly painted as it was, and resembling a spiked scarlet noose.
He picked up the helmet, replaced it on his head and did up the chin-strap.
His mailed gauntlets, the ones made for him by the Dwarves of Bridburg, he had thrust into his belt. He now took them both out. One he dropped next to the discarded armour: it fell with a musical jingle. The other he drew onto his right hand.
He flexed this hand several times.
He stood upright. He drew a long breath, and the spectators saw the great swell of his chest.
With his left hand, he took hold of one of the iron door-rings.
He drew back his gauntleted fist.
Crack!
He had punched through the door, right through two inches of solid old oak. A panel cracked inward and a black rivet skittered over the pavement; but the small dark hole that appeared when he withdrew his fist seemed like a rather ordinary bit of damage. Greater alarm and astonishment, not to speak of flying splinters, were no doubt felt by those inside.
Crack!
Crack!
CRASH!
There was now a black jagged opening that would have permitted him to enter, but not with dignity. Meanwhile the hymn had stopped. No sound came from within the Temple.
He thrust both hands in, then heaved outward with a convulsion of the sinewy flesh of his arms and back. There was a screeching and a rending of metal, a crashing of wood, a cracking and a falling of stone. Through a sudden cloud of dust, beyond the splintered beams and bars of the doors that now lay askew, the coloured pavement of the interior was visible.
Swin took a step back. He wiped his brow with his forearm; he picked up Dagoruth and entered the Temple. Aldred, mindful of the last words spoken, came forward also, following cautiously, and Oswine after him. Priests and acolytes had gathered round the doorway in a wide half-circle. As Swin advanced up the aisle they quailed in terror or fled. Swin disdained to heed them at all. The congregations shrank into the pews on either side, cowering from an invader almost as terrible as the head of Fëaruk. Off to the left, in one of the other Rays, Aldred had the impression of a bunch of robed characters doing an odd sort of dance, bowing and straightening and flinging out their hands. Melda was among them. They were trying (as was later known) to restrain him by the power of their Craft; but no spells could prevail against him now. Beyond the short central aisle stood the screen of the Kegyaina, its delicate wrought tracery allowing a clear view of the Ray of Blessing and the High Altar. Ar and Atan were up there with more priests and attendants. Swin hastened towards them. He had not the least idea as to what he should do or say, but they were obviously his quarry, the hierophants, dressed up in their white and gold and scarlet robes, amid tall burning candles, fumes of incense, bound green wreaths and piled basketfuls of beautiful harvest-produce. The gates of the Kegyaina luckily stood open, so Swin need not destroy that unique masterpiece.
‘Stop! Go back!’ One of the priests was coming down to meet him. This was a white-haired old man with a handsome, resolute face: none other than good old Canon Alrod. He held forward a golden eagle-image, extending it as a talisman, believing in its power: ‘Protection of the Almighty defend us, wings of the Almighty overshadow us: back, thou heathen, back, thou devil, back, thou slave of darkness –’
‘You’re a brave man,’ Swin interrupted him, speaking very distinctly as he hastened onward: ‘I honour you. Now get out of my way.’
‘Forces of darkness shall never prevail –’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Swin, and cut him in two, and looked back to the altar, which now presented a changed appearance. The priests had removed the candlesticks and the sacred vessels, and were running towards the arcades at the back of the Ray of Blessing. The two white-robed ones, Ar and Atan, seemed to have vanished. Then there were a couple of sounds, clicks like the snicking of bolts. Swin was thirty paces from the altar, the block of grey stone, dark with fire and the blood of sacrifice. His memory, he knew, held a clue to what had just happened – the change, the event he had missed seeing. With a desperate exertion he sifted through the whole record of his memories of the last twenty months. Faces of living and dead, journeys, meetings, fights, conversations, bouts of lovemaking – Brydda, Bryd, the ladies of the City, Melohtar, Gauriel, the Punchkins, Fortinbras, Aldred, Athelstan, Oresgal, Berma and Fuindis, Erum – Erum! Where was he now? Was he still alive? What were the words that had been said? Each of those thirty rapid paces seemed to last a long age; the figments of memory flickered and whirled about him like multi-coloured ripples or sparkles of light, with inconceivable swiftness; then, suddenly, there they were, Erum’s words, the ones Swin had been trying to recall: This is the exciting bit: the altar is swung over. There’s a hinge in the floor, and the whole thing can be opened up, and there’s a hole underneath with steps leading down.
Swin came to the stone table.
He walked around it once, looking at it carefully.
A second time, he put Dagoruth down on the floor.
Then he leaned over, found a lodgement for his fingers and just heaved the whole thing over. God knows how much it weighed, a thousand hundredweight at least, not to reckon the wrenching of steel bolts out of well-set sockets. The mass of rock tilted up, fell forward and shattered, with thunderous re-echoing, into large and smaller fragments. Many of them came skipping and bounding down the altar-steps. Swin stood swaying a little, and gasping for breath. Then he picked up his sword and went down the dark stairway that had been revealed. A few moments later Aldred followed him.
Continue to Part Ten, Chapter Eleven