Beyond the Hanging Wall

  A cold smile playing across his face, Cavor raised a gloved hand high in the air. “Then—”

  “I countermand both your order and your judgement, Cavor,” said a clear voice from several paces back in the crowd, “and I challenge your right to wear those robes and that crown in the first instance.”

  The crowd parted and a man dressed in the rough clothes of a woodsman stepped forth.

  Cavor, his hand still suspended above his head, his horse skittering nervously underneath him, stared unbelievingly into the face of Maximilian Persimius.

  As the soldiers had seized Garth and Joseph, Ravenna had apologised silently to Drava for their intrusion, then spirited Maximilian and Vorstus into the dream world, expending more power in the extremity of her fear than she’d ever done previously.

  As the mists closed about them Maximilian had rounded on her furiously. “What have you done? They need my help!”

  Too exhausted to reply herself, Ravenna had let Vorstus speak. “And what would you do against sixty men, Prince? You don’t even have the ceremonial sword with you.”

  Maximilian had turned on him with equal fury.

  “I—”

  Vorstus did not let him finish. “They would take you too, Maximilian, and this time Cavor would make sure that you were condemned to such a darkness that it would be impossible to escape from. We must trust that Egalion will not harm either of the Baxtors until he gets them to Ruen. And from there…well, perhaps from there we will have a chance.”

  Grieving for the capture of the Baxtors, but accepting Vorstus’ reasoning, Maximilian had allowed Ravenna to lead them through the paths of the dream world until, with some direction from Vorstus, they eventually emerged into a mystical underground chamber of the Ruen headquarters of the Order of Persimius the same day that Egalion had delivered Garth and Joseph to Cavor.

  There, with as many of the order as were in Ruen, together with Alaine and several of his closest and most trusted confidantes, they had planned.

  Deep into the night before Garth and Joseph’s trial, Maximilian had raised his face and stared at those about the room. “I am ready,” he said quietly.

  “But—”

  Maximilian had turned his deep blue eyes on Vorstus. “I will never be ready enough to suit your caution, Vorstus, but I will never again have the chance that tomorrow’s spectacle provides. If I cannot succeed tomorrow, then I will never succeed, anywhere.”

  Cavor, his face pale with shock, slowly lowered his hand. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest, but somehow the actual sight of the man who threatened to tear down all he had built over the past seventeen years managed to calm and focus his mind.

  His nemesis was here, and all he had to do was to confront it.

  “Seize him,” he ordered Egalion.

  Maximilian turned his head and looked steadily at Egalion.

  His mind suddenly very clear, Egalion’s eyes flickered to Cavor, then back to Maximilian. “Perhaps you might like to state your business,” he said to Maximilian, and Cavor’s face twitched in shock at the man’s insubordination.

  “I ordered you to—” he began, his voice tight with anger, but Maximilian interrupted.

  “My business?” He raised his head, aware that every eye and every ear was strained his way. The square was stunningly quiet. He looked Cavor directly in the eye. “My name is Maximilian Persimius, Prince of Escator…and rightful king.”

  His voice was clear and true, and the crowd took a single, gasping breath of shock.

  “My business?” Maximilian said again, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Behind him two cloaked figures moved quietly out of the crowd to stand at his back. “I am here to challenge you for the throne, Cavor, and to accuse you of my kidnap and wrongful incarceration. If you claimed and sat the throne, Cavor, then you did so through lies and deceptions.” He paused. “Will you stand aside for me, Cavor? Will you vacate what you have so deceitfully claimed?”

  Garth, watching from the block and with a clear view of both Maximilian and Cavor, had to admire the king’s reaction.

  Cavor leaned back in the saddle and laughed, the sound apparently genuine and unforced. “Vacate the throne for you, Prince-of-wishing? I admire your determination, but I deplore your misguided sense of justice and truth.” Again he stood high in the saddle and addressed the crowd; now, as far as Garth could determine, so tense that a single shout could have sent them into a black riot.

  But in whose favour, Garth could not tell.

  “Hear me,” Cavor called, his voice as calm and as true as Maximilian’s had been. “Before me stands a man who claims to be Maximilian Persimius, son of the late king and queen. See, he even appears to have the Persimius’ darkness of hair and blueness of eyes. But, my people,” Cavor’s voice assumed an inexpressible sadness, “it hurts me to have to relate to you the truth. The dead queen, may the gods have mercy on her fragile femininity, could not bear an heir, and the single fruit of her womb slipped dead from her body. In despair—for what else could have prompted her actions?—she swapped the dead babe for the newborn son of a blacksmith who, despite his low birth, had the visage and colouring that could fool even the most discriminating of observers. Then—”

  “I am true-born and blooded, Cavor,” Maximilian shouted, “and these good people do not have to listen to any more of your lies. Let the gods decide between us! Come, will you accept my challenge?”

  Garth could see that Cavor’s words had affected many in the crowd, but Maximilian, even in his woodsman’s clothes, stood proud and straight before Cavor. No doubt showed in his face—and who could doubt, staring into that face, its noble ancestry?

  Cavor dropped his eyes from the crowd. “A duel to the death, pretender? Is that what you wish?”

  Maximilian smiled, the movement cold and thin. “I am not afraid of you, Cavor.”

  “I think you should know, Cavor,” and one of the figures behind Maximilian cast aside his cloak, “that the Order of Persimius stands behind Maximilian on this issue.”

  Cavor hissed, momentarily nonplussed. Vorstus stood before him, now clad in his robes of office as Grand Abbot of the Order of Persimius. Cavor sneered. “What has the Pretender offered you, Vorstus, that you desert the truth so readily? You backed my claim, you marked my arm. Why turn against me now?”

  “Because now Maximilian Persimius has returned from his unnatural grave, Cavor and, unlike the majority of the good people in this square, I know who put him there!”

  Cavor stared at Vorstus a moment longer, then turned withering eyes back to Maximilian. “I can see that a duel to the death is what it will take to consign your lies forever to the grave, pretender,” Cavor said very low, but clearly enough so that most could hear him in the preternatural silence. “Come, stand forth.”

  “Oh,” an indescribably sad voice said, drifting over the crowd, “I’m not so sure about that.”

  For the first time fear rippled swiftly across Cavor’s face, and was just as swiftly concealed again. He had known that Maximilian had made his claim in the Pavilion, had felt him trace through the mark, and he should have by rights expected this. But the actual appearance of the Manteceros unnerved him as nothing else had.

  This was going to go to an ordeal, and suddenly Cavor was very, very afraid. Just for a moment he thought he heard ghostly echoes of the fourteen-year-old Maximilian’s screams reverberate about this square as they had once rung about the forest glade.

  The Manteceros had appeared in the very centre of the crowd, although how he had displaced none in his sudden appearance no-one knew.

  The crowd rippled and murmured in startlement, if not surprise. This had been a day when beliefs and loyalties had been turned on their heads, and the appearance of the legendary Manteceros only underscored the feeling of unreality and enchantment hanging over the square. As the ungainly blue beast stepped forward, the crowd parted before it.

  Cavor bowed low in his saddle as the Manteceros approached. “I greet you well
, Manteceros, if in some surprise. Has this pretender deceived you as well?”

  The Manteceros came to a halt, its mournful face resolute. “He has claimed, Cavor, and that I must respect. Now he has challenged your right to the throne. That also I must respect. I might wish he had done neither, but his claim might be justified, and so I judge neither right nor left until the ordeal has been decided.”

  “And the ordeal?” Cavor asked, his voice tight with nervous anticipation. “What form will it take? Will you administer it to the victor of the challenge, or to us both?”

  The Manteceros sighed. “No, no, Cavor. I think you both misunderstand the nature of the challenge. Maximilian only needed to speak the challenge for me to appear and administer the ordeal—and that in itself will threaten no-one’s health. There is no need for a clashing of swords and a spilling of blood.”

  Cavor’s lip curled—this ordeal sounded like a tame thing—and he looked back at Maximilian. “I see you have corrupted the Manteceros with your cowardly concerns, pretender. If you have no stomach for a challenge—a duel—then speak so now. I’m sure those here to witness will understand.”

  Maximilian risked a quick look at the faces about him. If he backed down now yet still won whatever kind of ordeal the Manteceros thought to administer then he would never gain their respect. They would always remember him as the man too cowardly to take on Cavor. Too afraid to risk trial by sword.

  “I had no other intent than to follow the speaking of my challenge with the sweep of my sword, Cavor. A duel to the death it is.”

  “Oh,” the Manteceros exclaimed, angered by the two men’s stubborn desire to settle this with swords rather than words. “I really don’t know about—”

  Maximilian looked at the Manteceros. “Don’t you see why I have to do this?” he asked softly. “I offered the challenge. I cannot back down now.”

  The Manteceros held Maximilian’s gaze, then acquiesced with a curt nod. “I cannot approve, but I do understand.” Its blue eyes flickered over both Cavor and Maximilian. “But so too must both the claimants understand that as they refuse to be persuaded from this duel, neither will I be persuaded from administering the ordeal. Do you understand?”

  Both men nodded, their actions as terse as the Manteceros’ voice.

  The other cloaked figure who had stepped out behind Maximilian now moved to the Manteceros and stroked its neck soothingly. The creature relaxed, and Cavor spared the figure a curious glance.

  But he had no time for an overlong look. “You challenged me,” he said to Maximilian, “and thus I hold the right to name the weapons.”

  Maximilian inclined his head.

  Cavor smiled. Maximilian had only been a boy when he was thrown into the Veins, and would have had only limited training before that. And seventeen years in which to lose what training he did have.

  “I name the long sword, wish-hunter.” Cavor grinned in triumph. The long sword not only took extraordinary strength, but also required finely honed and practised skills. Even if Maximilian could lift his weapon, he would not have the skill to survive Cavor’s first thrust.

  Maximilian accepted the decision, knowing why Cavor had chosen that weapon. “Then it rests to me to name the place,” he said, and Cavor nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes.”

  Maximilian smiled, as cold an effort as any managed by Cavor. “Then I name the Veins, Cavor. Beneath the hanging wall.”

  Silence.

  Silence, and then Cavor spoke, his voice as harsh as an arctic dust storm. “I name Egalion as my companion.”

  Startled, for Egalion knew that Cavor should have good reason to be enraged by his earlier refusal to seize Maximilian when ordered, the commander recovered quickly. Best he be there. He nodded.

  Maximilian thought, but he did not have to think long. He raised his head towards the platform and smiled with genuine sweetness, incongruous in this atmosphere. “Garth, will you stand at my back as companion?”

  Even more startled than Egalion, Garth similarly nodded. Then he laughed. “If I still have a head.”

  Before either Cavor or Maximilian could respond, the Manteceros stepped forward. “Cavor, you have tried and condemned these two men on the assumption Maximilian is merely a pretender. Until the issue is decided they must be released.”

  Cavor shot the two Baxtors a look of pure hatred, but he agreed with a brief nod of his head.

  “And you two,” the Manteceros continued. “If you are released, will you promise to submit to Cavor’s judgement if he wins through?”

  Joseph let himself relax fully for the first time in days. “Yes, Manteceros. We will.” Then he looked at his son and grinned; nothing could blunt the exuberance and sheer joy of life snatched back from the very edge of the executioner’s axe.

  “Well,” said the Manteceros to Cavor and Maximilian. “Don’t think you two will be going off without me. If I have to duck sword strokes to administer the ordeal, then so be it. Now,” and he turned to the cloaked figure by his side, “Ravenna, everyone else seems to have picked a companion for this nonsense, and so shall I. Will you accompany me?”

  “Gladly, sweet creature,” she said, and kissed the Manteceros’ nose, the hood falling back from her head as she did so. “Gladly.”

  It wasn’t until early evening, when the date for the duel had been set and well after the crowd had dispersed to discuss the day’s events about fires and ale jugs, that Cavor and Maximilian independently realised that neither yet had any idea what type of ordeal the Manteceros meant to administer.

  Cavor spent an hour frowning into the ashes of his fireplace; in his chair in the order’s headquarters, Maximilian turned his head aside…and smiled.

  TWENTY SIX

  A SAD, SAD TALE

  They had a week to prepare and travel to the Veins, and each man used that week as best he saw fit to ensure his triumph.

  Maximilian spent the nights sleeping soundly and long, while the days he spent on his knees in prayer or meditation, or speaking gently with Ravenna, whose conversation he enjoyed.

  Cavor spent time doing none of these things, but he did spend many hours closeted with Fennon Furst—who left for the Veins two days ahead of either Cavor or Maximilian—or in the palace courtyard at weapon practice, his long sword whispering viciously through the air.

  No-one saw the Manteceros, but no-one doubted that it would appear as needed.

  Four days after the aborted execution in City Square the two men made final preparations to travel (independently) to the Veins. Cavor left early one morning, escorted by the larger portion of Escator’s standing army.

  Maximilian left at noon, his escort consisting only of those who had believed in him enough to rescue him from beneath the hanging wall, while the majority of the Order of Persimius followed Maximilian’s party in several well-appointed wagons.

  Behind them, at a respectful distance of some two hundred paces, came the first in a column of almost fourteen thousand people from Ruen and surrounding districts. They could sense that not only would the duel in the Veins decide a throne, it would also birth a legend, and they wanted to be there to witness.

  And all this time laboured thousands of men in the Veins, their bodies glistening with sweat and gloam and despair, and they had no idea of the drama about to be played out in their midst.

  Along the coasts and in the underground caverns and chasms, throbbed the sea, watching, wanting, probing…seeking, seeking, seeking…

  Myrna was overflowing with people, loud conversation and whispered rumour. The dreary town had never felt so alive: Anya and her girls locked the front door—who could think of business when such events as these beckoned?—and leaned from windows thrown wide open, eyes and voices wondering, their bright smiles and scarves drifting in the breeze blowing in from the sea.

  The army lay encamped and encircled about Myrna and the Veins; beyond them sprawled the makeshift camps of the thousands who had walked from Ruen, their numbers swelled by further hundreds who??
?d come east and south from the northern countryside. When he arrived, Cavor and his immediate entourage accepted Fennon Furst’s hospitality; Maximilian, with the Baxtors, Ravenna and three or four of the Order of Persimius, made full use of the physicians’ quarters.

  On the second day after all had arrived, mediators from both groups made arrangements for the duel; on the third day Cavor and Maximilian prepared to go down the Veins.

  Cavor allowed Egalion to buckle on his weapon belt, then asked the man to wait for him outside. As Egalion left the room, Cavor made a show of checking the straps on the light armour he wore, then adjusted the weapon belt about his hips. The long sword felt satisfactorily weighty swinging against his left leg, and Cavor’s mouth curled in a tight smile. For almost forty years he’d trained with this weapon, and he’d never been fitter; since Maximilian had made his claim in the Pavilion the mark on his arm had healed completely. Cavor felt nothing but strength suffuse his body. Even if he would be fighting in the stinking cloyness of the Veins, he would prevail. His smile widened.

  From his shadowed corner Fennon Furst saw the smile and stepped forward. “You will win, sire.”

  Cavor’s face hardened. “In whatever manner I have to, Furst. Have you…?”

  Furst bowed slightly. “All is prepared, sire.”

  Cavor relaxed slightly. “Good. Then let us go and dispose of this wishful dreamer once and for all.”

  Maximilian prepared in much the same ritualistic manner that he’d made his claim. Attended only by Garth, he spent an hour in prayer after he rose, breakfasted lightly, then bathed and dressed in nothing but linen breeches. Even his feet he left bare.

  Garth eyed him with some concern. “Maximilian, er, Prince…” Garth had still not quite worked out what to call the prince.

  Maximilian paused from rubbing a light oil into his arms and shoulders. “Call me Maximilian, Garth,” he said with a grin. “You of all people owe me no title.”