John Betancourt - To Rule in Amber

As I rode past, they stood up in their stirrups, swords and lances held high, cheering.

“Keep the banners up!” I cried. “We will sweep them away before us!”

My stallion danced and fought for his head, but I wouldn't let him go. He wanted the coming battle almost as much as I did.

I felt the beginnings of Trump contact and answered. It was Conner.

“The first of them are entering the valley,” he said softly. “Prepare yourself, brother. Keep your eyes on the black highway!”

The spikard-ring on my finger pulsed briefly—not so much a warning, I thought, as an acknowledgment.

I raised my hands for silence, and the tens of thousands of men before me grew still. A low wind whistled. Here and there a horse snorted or neighed, or the wheels of a war-chariot creaked as its occupant shifted his weight.

Suddenly, just visible over the top of the hill before us, flashed volley after volley of my army's arrows. A cloud of dust rose. Faintly, far in the distance, came a rumble of noise… the mingled stampeding of hundreds of thousands of soldiers who fought to escape the death-trap in which they found themselves… the shrieks of the dying and wounded… the battle-cries of those who drew their weapons and sought to fight.

“Wait… wait…” I murmured.

I turned my horse to face the hills. We would hold our position until the archers had done their worst, or Swayvil's men topped the rise—whichever came first.

One, then another, then another hell-creature in black armor appeared on the road before us. They drew up short when they saw the lines of horsemen and chariots waiting scarcely a hundred yards away. But more and more creatures of Chaos swarmed behind them, fleeing the valley, pushing them forward.

“Now!” I screamed, spurring my horse and giving him his head.

Like a demon, he raced for the hell-creatures, his hooves drumming. Around and behind me, I heard the thunder of an all-out cavalry charge.

Screaming in fear, the hell-creatures tried to turn and flee back down their black highway. But it was too late. There could be no flight to safely now. None would escape my wrath.

A bloodlust came over me, terrible and strong. The ring on my finger burned. A roar of blood filled my ears. I rode into the hell-creatures' midst, swinging my sword like a scythe. Heads rolled. Bodies fell. My horse reared and struck with its hooves, crushing skulls, then leaping forward to bite and rend with its teeth.

Together we cut a swath through the onrushing soldiers of Chaos. Those who sought to run were trampled or struck from behind. Those who stood and fought were slashed, stabbed, disemboweled, or beheaded—sometimes all at once.

And still we fought. My horse went down, and I leaped from his back with a savage war-cry, tackling a group of hell-creatures. Their glowing red eyes showed nothing but terror at the blood-drenched monster I must have been. As they scrambled to get away, I laughed and roared and swung my sword like a whip through the air, and so many pieces of them fell to the red-stained grass.

Finally, panting, I drew to a halt, covered in sweat and gore. Around me the battle had begun to wind down. None of the hell-creatures still stood anywhere within fifty feet of me. Men, my men, moved among the bodies, stabbing them with swords, making sure they were truly dead. We did not want any survivors or surprises.

Then my ring pulsed once, quick and sharp—a warning? I whirled, scanning the bodies around me, looking for anything unusual or out of place.

Then I spotted a figure standing in the cover of a copse of trees on the next hill. I couldn't see his face, but he seemed to be staring directly at me. A shiver of alarm went through me. Swayvil?

And then the figure raised one arm… and waved. Aber.

I took a deep breath, glanced around at the mopping-up efforts of my men, and decided they didn't need me for the moment. I had personal business to take care of.

Then I waved back. Might as well put him off his guard, I decided. Let him think I had forgotten or forgiven…

I stripped the cloak from a dead hell-creature's back, wiped my face and sword clean, then calmly marched toward my brother's position. I kept my expression carefully neutral… showing neither hate nor anger nor the desire for revenge that burned within me.

As I grew near, he seemed to sense something of my intentions, for he suddenly turned and ran off into the trees. I followed, rushing through the tall oaks, catching a glimpse of him now and then.

“Don't run!” I shouted. “Aber! Make it easy for yourself!”

“Then promise you won't hurt me!” he shouted back.

“Do you take me for a fool?” I demanded.

“Yes,” he said with a light laugh. “But don't be offended. I'm smarter than everyone in the family. Even Dad, though he doesn't realize it.”

“Wait for me!”

We reached a small clearing, and I found him standing there with his arms crossed, a little smile on his lips.

I drew up. “I'm sick of games!” I told him. I raised my sword. I would make his death as quick and as painless as I could, for Freda's sake. “Why did you come here? What did you possibly think would happen?”

He sighed and shook his head. “Look behind you.”

“If I do, you'll disappear again.”

“If you don't, you'll be dead.” He shrugged. “It's my last warning for my favorite brother.”

Suddenly I had a very bad feeling inside. I glanced over my shoulder.

And just as suddenly I wished I hadn't.

I saw myself standing there. Or, rather, I saw my double. Face, hair, shape of chest, length of legs—I might have been looking in a mirror. And he even held a sword exactly like mine.

This had to be the man who kidnapped Fenn from Amber. We had all assumed Suhuy sent him. Apparently it had been King Swayvil… or Aber.

“Who are you?” I demanded of him.

“I am Oberon,” he said.

I snorted. “I don't think so.”

“I am and will be the rightful King of Amber,” he growled. “You stole my place. I will take it back.”

“You may have my face, but you aren't me ?”

He raised his sword. “I am. I will be .”

“Incredible,” Aber said. He looked from the double to me and back again wonderingly. “You really are identical. I didn't quite believe it.”

“The difference,” I said grimly, “is that I'm real. And after I've killed your creature—whatever it is—I'm going to kill you.”

“I think not,” he said.

“I'm real enough,” said the fake Oberon. “Look at me! I am you in every way…”

And, as I would have, he leaped without warning, hammering at me with a series of bone-jarring blows. I parried his first attacks, sending our swords ringing, then threw him back and riposted. Again our blades sang and danced, steel on steel, blurring with the speed of our every move. We each strained to throw the other one back. His muscles knotted like mine. His neck corded; his face grew red and veins bulged at his temples.

We both leaped back at the same time too, swords up, panting hard. He looked as winded as I felt.

Slowly, we circled each other, swords up, feeling each other out. Though I hated to admit it, we seemed equally matched.

“I think the Pattern copied you,” Aber said casually. I let my gaze flicker over to him for a second. He sat down under an oak tree and crossed his legs, relaxing. For all the care he showed, he might have been attending a picnic.

“Explain!” I said.

“I'm not sure I can.” He laced his fingers behind his head. “But, in a way, I think you're both Oberon.”

I leaped forward, a whirlwind of thrusting, lunging, slashing. My double gave way before me. Although I could have countered each such attack easily, he seemed to be having trouble keeping up. An advantage? Did he lack my stamina?