Unhappily, from where he stood he could see clearly that reinforcements were still too far away. He could see that the Tor and Ribuld didn’t stand a chance.
The Tor went on fighting anyway, long after he had lost his strength and his balance and even his reason. A blow for his son. A blow for his Care. And now a blow for King Joyse. Then back to the beginning again. A blow for everyone he had ever loved, everyone who had ever died.
For some reason, there was a knife stuck in his leg. It was a big knife; really, quite a big knife. He couldn’t tell whether it hurt him or not, but it seemed to catch his leg in a way he couldn’t escape, so that he had no choice except to fall off his horse.
He dreaded that fall. It was a long way to the ground, and his swollen side couldn’t endure an impact like that. Luckily, however, he managed to land on the man who stuck him; that was one less Cadwal to worry about. Now all he had to do was roll onto his back. He knew he didn’t have the strength to stand again; but from the ground he would be able to cut at the legs of the men around him.
He rolled onto his back.
Unluckily, he had lost his sword. He didn’t have anything left to fight with.
Ribuld stood over him.
Gripping his own blade in both fists, the guard fought for both of them: blows on all sides; spurts and splashes of blood; chips of armor, iron sword-shards. Ribuld’s scar burned as if his life were on fire in his face, and his teeth snapped at the air.
Someone shouted, “My lord Tor! Watch out!”
The voice was familiar, but the old lord couldn’t place it. It was too recent: it belonged to someone he hadn’t known long enough to remember.
Then a swordpoint came right through the center of Ribuld’s chest, driven like a spear from behind.
Oh, well. The stars had granted the Tor his last wish. And King Joyse had said, You have not betrayed me. That was enough.
A moment later, someone slammed a rock down on his head and brought all his losses to an end.
But when Master Barsonage cried, “My lord Tor! Watch out!” the young Imager sprang to his feet as if he had been galvanized.
Like Ribuld’s, the young Master’s home was in the Care of Tor, in Marshalt. In fact, he was distantly related by marriage to the Tor himself. That familiar name – and the mediator’s alarm – wrenched him out of his stupor, brought him to his feet crying madly, “The Tor? The Tor? Oh, my lord!”
He had no idea what was going on: his eyes held nothing but exhaustion and distress. The broken part of him only made him urgent; it didn’t make him sane.
Sobbing, “Save the Tor!” he grabbed up his mirror.
Master Barsonage was too slow. He was watching the Tor, watching the reinforcements; he didn’t react in time.
The young Imager was hardly more than a boy, pushed past his limits. Facing his mirror in the general direction of the opposite glass, he began translating his chasm straight into the huge ridge of rock left by the avalanche; the rock which sealed the valley.
But of course the Master holding the other mirror didn’t know what was about to happen. In any case, the two mirrors were no longer properly aligned. There was nothing to stop the tremendous and convulsive tremor which split the ridge and the ground and went on until it hit the end of the other wall and tore apart all that old stone, reducing the opposite glass and everyone near it to rubble.
Under the circumstances, it was probably a good thing that the young Master didn’t live long. There was no way to tell how much damage his chasm might have done, if the translation had continued unchecked. And there was no way to tell how he would have endured the consequences of his action.
As matters fell out, however, he was saved by a particularly stubborn Cadwal, who already had his sword up to chop open Master Harpool’s oblivious face when an Alend arrow nailed him between the shoulder blades. Falling forward, his upraised arms hit the top of Harpool’s mirror. That impact made his fingers release his sword.
As if it had been thrown deliberately, the hilt of the blade snapped the young Master’s neck. He, in turn, fell forward onto his glass, shattering it completely.
Full of terrible defeat, Master Barsonage hardly noticed that Master Harpool had somehow contrived to keep his own mirror from being broken. And the mediator’s was undamaged. That was less than no consolation; it was almost an insult in the face of the general ruin. Every other glass which the Congery had prepared for this battle was destroyed.
He half expected another violent recoil as the chasm ceased to exist for the second time; but that didn’t happen. The previous convulsion had been caused by reversing the translation. This translation, on the other hand, was only stopped, not undone. Vast portions of the piled ridge were engulfed; most of the end-rock of the opposite wall disappeared into the new crevice. Then the rending and splitting of the earth was over.
As a result, the High King’s forces once again had access to the valley – a ragged and constricted access, treacherous to cross, like the spaces between rotting teeth, but access nonetheless.
When he saw that there were already men riding at full career in through one of the farther gaps, Master Barsonage covered his face with his hands.
FORTY-NINE: THE KING’S LAST HOPES
Standing near the King’s pennon with Terisa, Geraden, and her father, the lady Elega didn’t know where to look, or what to feel.
She could watch the struggle down at the end of the valley wall, off to her right, where the Tor had fallen, and where Castellan Norge and his men fought to save what they could of the Masters and their mirrors. Or she could watch the breach where the other Masters used to be, the gap which had been made in the piled ridge of the avalanche by translating the Congery’s chasm from only one side.
Riders were coming in through that gap, driving their horses hard. And Prince Kragen was there. From this distance, he appeared to be doing everything at once: rallying his men; finishing off the incursion of Cadwals; searching over the new jumble of rocks for survivors. To her eyes, each of his actions seemed as quick as a thrust, as decisive as a sword; the precision with which he used his men made Norge look like a blundering lout by comparison.
He was worthy – oh, he was worthy! Surely King Joyse could see that. Surely her father in this new manifestation could see and appreciate the qualities which made the Alend Contender precious to her. Prince Kragen deserved—
He deserved to be right.
Almost as an act of self-mortification, to humble herself so that she wouldn’t hope so hard, fear so much, Elega forced her eyes to stay on the right side of the valley foot, not the left.
The question of what to feel was more difficult. She couldn’t resolve it by an act of will.
Pride and panic: vindication and alarm. Suddenly, as much “out of nowhere” as if translation were involved, the King had proved himself. He had made real the interpretations of himself which until now had been only ideas – concepts put forward by people like Terisa and Geraden for reasons of their own. He had shown that he merited the risks she had taken in his name, arguing for him against reason, common sense; he had justified the forbearance she had won from Prince Kragen and the Alend Monarch. In the privacy of her own thoughts, she understood why he had found it necessary to use her like a hop-board piece in his plans, rather than to hazard the truth with her. She was proud of him, there beside his standard, blue eyes blazing; as ready as a hawk to strike or defend.
She was proud of him – and afraid that she had failed him.