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 more like a man who deserved horns. He wasn’t alone in his triumph, however. Prince Kragen had come through his personal doubts and risks to a look of achievement nearly as sharp-edged as the King’s. And the Termigan positively glowered with satisfaction. In fact, the battle and its outcome had done him so much good that he couldn’t contain himself. As soon as he and his companions reached the hillside, he ignored protocol and common sense by surging ahead of King Joyse and Prince Kragen.