His final act of the ceremony, rejecting all these oaths, was very likely going to be his last. The bloodied warriors would not stand for such an insult. A hundred spears would flash in the sunlight, and Golbfish's blood would mingle with theirs on the steps. A hundred? There were close to a thousand of them out there, and it would only take one.
The heat might kill him first. He lacked the lifelong tan of the peasant. His skin was being fried by the sun. What penalty did the ancient rituals prescribe if the hordeleader himself were to faint during the ceremony?
Oh, goddess! The troopleader was scooping up his shield. Next village, then. Had that one been Rareby or Thoid'lby? For a moment Golbfish almost panicked. Then he decided it had been Rareby, and called for Thoid'lby. No one corrected him.
The Thoid'lby leader was older than most, an ugly, weathered man. A widower, likely. His look at Golbfish was openly contemptuous as he spat out the oath.
The bloodshed continued.
The temple shimmered in the hellish glare.
Only one more village to go! Death was moving in very close to Golbfish Hordeleader now. He could think of no way out. If he did not resign his command as ordered, he would be arrested and executed for mutiny. If he did, the warriors would riot and use him for target practice. And even if by some miracle they didn't, then Tarion would see that he did not remain around long as a rival claimant to the throne. Not one Nagian or Joalian would lift a finger to save him.
He was doomed.
Warrior followed warrior. Cut followed cut.
He wanted to shout out that they were going too fast. Life had become a blur.
Thoid'lby completed its ordeal, and its surly troopleader departed.
The last village! He worked his mouth until he could find enough spit to speak.
"I call on Her Majesty's loyal warriors from Sonalby!"
A murmur of surprise rustled through the temple. Golbfish's eyes snapped back into focus. The Sonalby contingent was not milling forward in a mob, as all the others had done. It was marching four abreast, with its spears on its shoulders in parallel rows like the teeth of combs. Every foot moved in perfect unison as if an invisible band were playing somewhere. The Joalian infantry drilled no better.
"Troop—halt!"
A hundred feet came down together. Their hundred partners joined them, and the warriors stood motionless at the base of the steps. Not a spear wavered. Another bark, the poles sprang to the vertical, then the butts struck the ground. Somebody cheered at the back of the temple and was hushed.
Kammaeman Battlemaster had laughed out loud at the idea of teaching proper drill to Nagians. Past experience showed that it would be a waste of time, he insisted. But Sonalby must have found a veteran leader, one who had at some time served in the Joalian army and learned the advantages of discipline. Somehow he had trained this band.
Who had worked that miracle?
This man?
The troopleader alone had continued. He came marching up the steps toward Golbfish.
Yet he was only a boy, although a very tall one. He bore only three merit marks. One was very recent, probably acquired when he was elected troopleader, but even the others were still red and therefore not more than a dozen or so fortnights old. As he came to a halt, Golbfish saw with astonishment that the youngster's eyes were brilliant blue, bluer than the blue of his face paint, a shade Golbfish could not recall ever seeing combined with hair so black.
For a moment the two stared at each other, and there was a significance in that steady gaze that startled Golbfish utterly. He could not place it. It was something he had never met before. He thought it mattered greatly.
Then, very slightly, the boy smiled.
Bewildered, Golbfish smiled back, and felt an inexplicable sense of relief.
With a couple of smart military movements, the young troopleader discarded his shield and spear. He spoke the words of the oath loudly and clearly, and if as he meant them. He had a faint, unfamiliar accent.
Never taking his eyes off Golbfish, he took up the knife and cut his chest. He salted the wound without a flinch, as if he were barely aware of what he was doing, and all the time that steady blue gaze was asking some impossible question.
He marched to his place at the far end of the altar, and swung around. Again he looked meaningfully at Golbfish. Who was this cryptic youngster? What message was he trying to pass? He seemed almost to be offering sympathy, as if he were aware of the terrible problem. That was impossible!
Then the first of his followers arrived to perform the ritual, and the young leader turned his attention on him.
One by one, a hundred men and boys came to shed their own blood before the goddess and their so-temporary hordeleader. But this time there was a curious difference. They did not look up at the goddess. They did not even seem to notice Golbfish. They watched their leader, and he watched them, and each time Golbfish detected a curious little smile of encouragement pass. The youngster's lips did not move, but his eyes brightened, and every man of the hundred seemed to appreciate that tiny signal, as if they drew inspiration from this juvenile soldier. I did it. It's not so terrible.
Then it was done. The last man marched smartly away.
The leader came over, picked up his arms, shouldered his spear. For a moment his eyes wandered past Golbfish and he frowned slightly, then smiled.
Golbfish looked around uneasily. There was no one there, only the bare rock of the cliff, radiating heat like a forge. He turned back to confront that same blue, quizzical stare. The barbaric face paint made the expression difficult to read. Now the boy would go and leave Golbfish alone, to meet his fate.
But he didn't. Instead he raised his eyebrows in a question. What? A suggestion? An invitation? He almost seemed to be offering to stay and help as if...
Merciful Goddess! Perhaps there was a way out!
Golbfish's knees began to tremble. Mindful of the phenomenal acoustics, he spoke in a tiny whisper. “Could you make me a warrior too?"
The boy smiled, pleased. He spoke as softly. “Only you can do that, sir. But I can show you how."
Golbfish nodded in bewilderment.
The boy marched back to the far end of the table, grounded his spear, and stood at attention—watching Golbfish! Again a mutter of surprise rustled through the crowd.
The prince glanced over to the queen's litter. A curtain had been raised so she could witness his coming resignation—and death. The monarchy had always mattered more to her than her disappointing son did. Golbfish was the product of a loveless, dynastic marriage. Tarion had been born of passion.
Tarion was a bastard in every sense of the word.
The shadows made Mother invisible. Kammaeman Battlemaster stood alongside her litter, tense and expectant. A glance to the cavalry at the other side of the temple showed Tarion—too far off for his gleeful smirk to be seen, although it could be imagined.
I shall cheat you all yet!
Golbfish took one last look at the boy from Sonalby, and received that same little smile of reassurance and encouragement that the others had.
At least one man was on his side!
He ignored the written speech. His voice burst out clear and strong, so suddenly that he hardly knew it was himself speaking. “Warriors of Nagland! I have accepted your oaths in the ways of our ancestors!” That was how the prepared text began, and it was a lie because he had not one drop of Nagian blood in his veins. Tarion did. Tarion was the son of a palace guard.
Golbfish sucked in another deep breath. “I shall be honored to fight at your side—but I am not a general. I am not worthy of your allegiance! I now command you all, in the first and last order I shall give you, to obey the noble Joalian battlemaster, who can lead us to victory in our righteous struggle against Thargian aggression."