The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex by Robert Holdstock
Authors: Robert Holdstock
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bull? Chariot wheels?
But to Urtha’s dismay, Vortingoros shook his head. “Your puzzles are with the Shadows of Heroes? With Ghostland?”
“Aren’t they always?”
“Then even if I could spare them, I doubt that they would want to enter your land. This is a frightened nation, Urtha. I’ve just made that plain enough, surely?”
“But if the threat against us is as great as our Speakers think it may turn out to be, then your territory is unsafe as well. You helped me once before, Vortingoros. The sight of a hundred of your horsemen bounding from the woods at the edge of the Plain of MaegCatha, as we struggled to take back Taurovinda from the occupying army, is a sight that has gone into many poems and songs within our walls. It was a heroic moment. My son here fought alongside your own champions.”
“I remember,” Vortingoros murmured with a fond glance at Kymon. “It was a good piece of chariot work. You kept control of the horses well. But things were different then.”
Kymon rose to his feet stiffly, resting his right hand on the ivory grip of the small iron sword hanging at his waist. His was the only sword that had been allowed into the king’s enclosure. Urtha caught the whiff of irritation in the boy, but the action was so swift, Kymon’s tongue loosed like an arrow, that he was helpless to silence the reckless lad.
“Maybe men were braver then. So if not the men to our assistance, then what about the boys? I could lead them.”
Now Urtha, too, rose to his feet, fuming and red-faced. He loosened the golden brooch that held his cloak at his shoulder and let the robe fall, a sign of apology to his host. He fixed his gaze on his son, who returned it coldly. “You will pay dearly for that remark. And the choice of debt will be at Vortingoros’s whim. Now leave the hall.”
Vortingoros said quickly, “Urtha, I would like him to stay. I am not insulted by his words. Discourtesy in a comment does not necessarily mean that the comment is untrue. Kymon is right. It isn’t just fear that afflicts us. It is a lack of courage. The forests are beginning to smell of dhiiv arrigi, the outcasts of generations coming back for vengeance. They seem to know that we are weak.”
“The dhiiv arrigi are becoming a nuisance in my land, too. It’s part of the puzzle.”
Vortingoros tugged at one of the long curls of his moustache. “The Dead are raising a new army?”
“I suspect so. The Wanderer is at the river even as we speak, assessing their strength. The Five Hostels have reappeared. We believe this signals a greater invasion than previously.”
“The Wanderer? That enchanter friend of yours?”
“Merlin, yes.”
“Well, that’s useful. He can cross the river and gain insight and farsight.”
Urtha shook his head. “His powers are curtailed once he crosses Nantosuelta. Besides, he shares his powers of enchantment like an old man shares his ale: grudgingly.”
“Unlike a king’s wife shares her favours,” Vortingoros sighed.
Urtha, startled by the unkingly indiscretion, noted the comment but showed no response. Aylamunda, his own wife, had been impeccable in her manners towards her husband before her death; Ullanna, his wild accomplice in the royal lodge, would kill any man who tried to touch her in an intimate way, or try to charm her.
Vortingoros seemed aware that he had overstepped the mark and with a quick cough returned to the subject. “The Five Hostels,” he repeated. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard talk of them. ” He turned slightly to his bard, Talienze, who leaned forward and whispered in his ear for a few moments. Talienze’s gaze never left Urtha’s as he spoke to his own king. Urtha was curious that Talienze should know of the Hostels, since he was from another country. But then: all bards had prodigious memories. It was almost certain that the ex-prisoner had absorbed the history of the land to which he had been brought, and of the kingdoms around.
“I
But to Urtha’s dismay, Vortingoros shook his head. “Your puzzles are with the Shadows of Heroes? With Ghostland?”
“Aren’t they always?”
“Then even if I could spare them, I doubt that they would want to enter your land. This is a frightened nation, Urtha. I’ve just made that plain enough, surely?”
“But if the threat against us is as great as our Speakers think it may turn out to be, then your territory is unsafe as well. You helped me once before, Vortingoros. The sight of a hundred of your horsemen bounding from the woods at the edge of the Plain of MaegCatha, as we struggled to take back Taurovinda from the occupying army, is a sight that has gone into many poems and songs within our walls. It was a heroic moment. My son here fought alongside your own champions.”
“I remember,” Vortingoros murmured with a fond glance at Kymon. “It was a good piece of chariot work. You kept control of the horses well. But things were different then.”
Kymon rose to his feet stiffly, resting his right hand on the ivory grip of the small iron sword hanging at his waist. His was the only sword that had been allowed into the king’s enclosure. Urtha caught the whiff of irritation in the boy, but the action was so swift, Kymon’s tongue loosed like an arrow, that he was helpless to silence the reckless lad.
“Maybe men were braver then. So if not the men to our assistance, then what about the boys? I could lead them.”
Now Urtha, too, rose to his feet, fuming and red-faced. He loosened the golden brooch that held his cloak at his shoulder and let the robe fall, a sign of apology to his host. He fixed his gaze on his son, who returned it coldly. “You will pay dearly for that remark. And the choice of debt will be at Vortingoros’s whim. Now leave the hall.”
Vortingoros said quickly, “Urtha, I would like him to stay. I am not insulted by his words. Discourtesy in a comment does not necessarily mean that the comment is untrue. Kymon is right. It isn’t just fear that afflicts us. It is a lack of courage. The forests are beginning to smell of dhiiv arrigi, the outcasts of generations coming back for vengeance. They seem to know that we are weak.”
“The dhiiv arrigi are becoming a nuisance in my land, too. It’s part of the puzzle.”
Vortingoros tugged at one of the long curls of his moustache. “The Dead are raising a new army?”
“I suspect so. The Wanderer is at the river even as we speak, assessing their strength. The Five Hostels have reappeared. We believe this signals a greater invasion than previously.”
“The Wanderer? That enchanter friend of yours?”
“Merlin, yes.”
“Well, that’s useful. He can cross the river and gain insight and farsight.”
Urtha shook his head. “His powers are curtailed once he crosses Nantosuelta. Besides, he shares his powers of enchantment like an old man shares his ale: grudgingly.”
“Unlike a king’s wife shares her favours,” Vortingoros sighed.
Urtha, startled by the unkingly indiscretion, noted the comment but showed no response. Aylamunda, his own wife, had been impeccable in her manners towards her husband before her death; Ullanna, his wild accomplice in the royal lodge, would kill any man who tried to touch her in an intimate way, or try to charm her.
Vortingoros seemed aware that he had overstepped the mark and with a quick cough returned to the subject. “The Five Hostels,” he repeated. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard talk of them. ” He turned slightly to his bard, Talienze, who leaned forward and whispered in his ear for a few moments. Talienze’s gaze never left Urtha’s as he spoke to his own king. Urtha was curious that Talienze should know of the Hostels, since he was from another country. But then: all bards had prodigious memories. It was almost certain that the ex-prisoner had absorbed the history of the land to which he had been brought, and of the kingdoms around.
“I
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