Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

Thirsts for blood and glory ruled the young King. He refused to go. He meant to spend the night in the camp of the defeated. He thought Haband would be too frightened to come out of Peque ande Sales.

But Haband came. Though hardly fresh after a six-mile forced march, his men were less exhausted than the Castaurigans. Fugitives from the Raffle added weight to Haband’s force, professing eagerness to redeem their earlier cowardice.

Haband’s men were inexperienced. Most were the useless sort of night crawler who concealed natural-born cowardice by hiding inside the Church and Society. They could be terribly fierce with an enemy already caught and disarmed, but with an armed and angry knight, not so much.

For a while it seemed there would be an afternoon of epic slaughter in sequel to the morning’s butchery, with the same result. The faint of heart from earlier had found no additional courage. Most ran away again.

Then a fighting bishop, quite by accident, knocked King Jaime off his exhausted mount. The youngster ended up in the midst of a wild tangle of men on foot.

Responsibility, later, would be claimed by every bishop who survived. Haband himself would lay claim, though scores of witnesses put him miles away already, with companions who believed they were too valuable to die in that cruel valley.

Credit mattered not. It might even have been a stray Castaurigan blade that delivered the first wound, unintentionally.

The Castaurigans lost their stomach. They backed out of the fight. Jaime’s brother Palo, just sixteen, tried to rally them. He wanted to recover Jaime’s body. No one would join the effort. His advisers insisted that he ransom it later. So bullied, he led the survivors south.

In fact, no one had seen the King actually die. But no one expressed any doubt that he was dead.

They did remain professional in retreat. They ambushed those who pursued them, and killed all the Arnhanders they encountered along the way.

Brother Candle had been shaking his head for hours. It had become a tic. He could not control it. Like every Khaurenese and Direcian still breathing he could not believe that the militia had remained paralyzed all day. Any idiot could see what needed doing. The old man began talking to himself. He had been mad to leave Sant Peyre de Mileage. He should go back to Navaya Medien before the insanity here twisted round to where the crusaders were on the inside, with the Seekers and true Khaurenese driven out.

The world now imposed itself. His muttering faded as he realized that all those who had shared the ramparts with him had disappeared. He conjured vague recollections of Raulet and Kedle trying to get him to go. Fear must have forced them to abandon him.

Still he stared. This disaster, likely to echo through the centuries, had happened only because his oldest friend could never make a decision. Though, to be fair, today’s Tormond had all he could do to stay upright and breathe.

“Master!” The voice was impatient. It had been trying to get his attention for some time.

Brother Candle turned. “Hodier! Why aren’t you out there with the Duke?”

“Because Isabeth made me stay here to deal with you.”

“There’s no dealing to do. The thing is done. Count Raymone has the tokens and instruments.”

“I know.” Tormond’s herald stepped forward, separating himself from his escort, Direcians all. “Yet there might be cause to delay the transition.” Hodier pointed. “Out there. King Peter didn’t apply his genius because he has so little to gain. Tormond still breathes but can’t do anything. The magnates won’t do anything because they dread losing Tormond in battle. The consuls are hiding under their beds.”

Hodier rambled on, a soliloquy for his mother city. The old man listened in silence. Succession complications. They plagued all lands, all the time, and caused endless dislocation, confusion, and misery. There had to be a better way.

He did not expect to see it in his lifetime.

Every plan, every scheme, every social experiment broke down as soon as people became involved.

“Arrest me, Hodier. Take me away if you must. You’re wasting your time. And mine. What little I have left. These days I’m nothing but a spectator.” He moved half a step so he could lean on a merlon. Nearer the gate carpenters had started putting up hoardings.

Hodier appropriated a nearby merlon. “Tormond was aware. He hardly slept last night. He wishes he had done things differently. Once his mind and body started going he decided he wanted to ride out on a day like this so he could leave Khaurene remembering the Great Vacillator defending his city. He could go out a hero. Then a more confident, savage hero, Count Raymone, could come avenge him. He built that whole legend in his mind.”

“But?”

“But Peter of Navaya. Peter wants to be the great champion of the Chaldarean world. Bigger than the Grail Emperors. As big as the emperors of the Old Empire. Despite his successes he hasn’t become that to anyone outside Direcia. And he’s convinced that if he doesn’t add the Connec to his diadem he’ll never get to be what he wants to be.”

“He needs to work that out with Count Raymone.” It could be done. Count Raymone Garete had a big ego. He was the product of his class. But he was a fierce patriot, too, capable of swearing fealty to the kings of Navaya if that would save his motherland.

Hodier said, “I believe that to be in line with what the Queen hopes to accomplish.”

“The Queen?”

“Isabeth. She sent me. I told you. She sees a way past the dilemma. I imagine she wants you to take her message to Count Raymone.”

“Oh, for Aaron’s sake! Look at me! In another week I’ll turn sixty-seven. Everybody older than me is already dead. I’m not likely to survive another journey across the Connec.”

“That may be. It’s not for me to decide. My job is to bring you to Isabeth. You can quibble with her.”

Brother Candle stared out at that fraction of the fighting visible from his vantage. What he saw was still mostly chaos. And looked like it could come out favorably if only the Khaurenese militia would do something.

Those with Duke Tormond, pretending he was in charge, finally made a decision. The militia would return to the city. At the moment when a few Connecten knights finally began to appear.

When battered driblets from the Raffle and Peque and Sales began to arrive Count Alplicova ordered his Navayans to follow the Khaurenese. He remained unaware how few the Arnhander reinforcements would be. He had had no news from the Castaurigans, who were retreating past the city to the west.

It would be determined later that four thousand Arnhanders and allies perished in the day’s fighting. More died later from wounds. Navayan, Castaurigan, and allied losses amounted to fourteen hundred, more than a hundred of those being men taken prisoner.

Tormond IV’s Khaurenese militia suffered twenty-three casualties, six due to enemy action.

Brother Candle joined a grim, angry Isabeth. She had just dismissed men covered with filth and sweat and blood. The Perfect guessed their news had not been good. Finally, she said, “They think Peter is dead.”

The sun was low in the west. Its light poured in through high, arched windows, splashing the audience with gold. Not appropriate, Brother Candle thought.

Isabeth added, “Jaime is dead, too. The Castaurigans are withdrawing. They say they left the Arnhanders badly weakened. They killed a lot of fugitives from the fighting here.”

Brother Candle sighed, focused on the afternoon light. An omen of darkness to come. Turnabout on the old saw about darkest before the dawn.

A runner announced that the Khaurenese magnates had made up Tormond’s mind. They were on the move, back into the city, with never a blow struck.