ggk.asongforarbonne-第110节

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ng　of　Gorhaut　in　the　midst　of　the　roiling　tumult。
　　
　　Ademar　feels　as　if　he　might　actually　choke　in　the　heat　of　his　fury。　It　is　hard　to　breathe。　Even　with　the　chill　of　the　winter　afternoon　he　is　sweltering　in　his　armour　and　helm。　He　knows　it　is　rage　that　is　doing　this　to　him。　He　is　almost　dizzied　by　wrath。　First　the　Garsenc　betrayals：　it　has　always　been　the　de　Garsenc　who　have　balked　him；　he　thinks；　slashing　savagely　at　a　Miraval　foot…soldier；　almost　severing　the　man's　head　with　the　blow。　Swearing；　he　drags　his　sword　free。　He　cannot　believe；　he　cannot　believe；　that　with　victory　so　easy；　so　assured；　those　Garsenc　corans　have　been　mad　enough　to　turn　upon　their　own　ranks。　Surely　any　sane　man　with　a　sense　of　self…preservation　would　have　known　better　than　to　rally　to　that　doomed　pretender's　pennon！
　　That　was　before　he　realized　that　Fulk　de　Savaric…another　traitor；　another　man　who　ought　to　have　been　by　his　side！…had　somehow　managed　to　bring　his　pany　around　behind　him。　There　had　been　some　real　danger　there；　and　Ademar　was　snapping　urgent　mands　when　one　of　his　captains　pointed　triumphantly　upwards　to　the　west；　and　the　king　of　Gorhaut；　looking　there；　had　felt　his　choler　recede；　eased　and　cooled　by　something　near　to　joy。　He　had　never　been　afraid；　he　was　not　a　man　inclined　to　fears；　but　with　the　sight　of　the　Miraval　corans　on　that　ridge　beneath　the　banner　of　Gorhaut；　Ademar　laughed　aloud；　tasting　the　sweetness　to　e。
　　He　had　a　few　moments　to　think　that　way；　to　watch　the　well…trained　men　of　Duke　Urté　start　smoothly　down　the　slope；　gaining　speed；　bringing　the　end　of　this　war　with　them　and　the　final　exaltation　of　Gorhaut。
　　Then　it　all　went　wrong；　wildly；　desperately　wrong。
　　There　was　one　moment；　when　Urté　de　Miraval　whipped　his　warhorse　straight　past　the　corans　of　Savaric；　when　Ademar　did　know　fear…just　for　an　instant。　Then　he　felt　the　impact　of　those　thundering　Miraval　horsemen　as　they　smashed　into　the　rear　of　his　ranks；　driving　men　back　before　them　like　so　many　helpless　children。
　　Now；　buffeted　in　the　midst　of　a　nightmare　chaos；　rage　is　foaming　like　a　river　in　flood　through　the　king　of　Gorhaut。　Ademar　hears　his　High　Elder　trumpet　his　call　to　the　god　and　he　curses　in　his　heart　the　very　name　of　Galbert　de　Garsenc　who　has　brought　him　to　this；　who　persuaded　him　that　the　duke　of　Miraval；　whose　overtures　to　them　in　the　past　few　days　were　direct　and　explicit；　was　a　necessary　man　to　enlist　in　their　cause；　to　act　as　first　regent　of　Arbonne　after　their　conquest。
　　It　was　a　trap。　It　is　clear　now　that　everything　Urté　did　was　a　trap；　and　they　are　in　the　jaws　of　it；　between　the　corans　of　Talair　and　Miraval；　with　Fulk　de　Savaric　and　the　renegades　of　Garsenc　ing　hard　against　them。　Ademar　lashes　his　horse　westward；　screaming　in　fury；　and　as　men　fall　back　before　him　he　es　swiftly　up　to　the　man　he　needs　to　kill　now；　right　now；　immediately；　before　this　battle　turns　hopelessly　against　them。　He　is　aware；　vaguely；　that　his　own　corans　have　also　fallen　back；　that　a　ring　of　men　has　formed　around　the　two　of　them；　as　if　even　in　the　midst　of　war　there　is　a　sense　that　this　bat　must　take　place。　And　so　Ademar　of　Gorhaut　begins　his　second　single…challenge　of　this　day。
　　Wordlessly；　for　he　is　beyond　words　now　and　none　could　be　heard　in　any　case；　he　swings　his　sword　in　a　huge；　sweeping　arc　towards　the　helmeted　head　of　the　duke　of　Miraval。　He　misses；　as　Urté；　unexpectedly　quick　for　a　man　of　his　size　and　past　sixty　years　of　age；　ducks　beneath　the　blade。　A　second　later　Ademar　rocks　wildly　in　the　saddle　as　he　absorbs　a　colossal　blow　on　his　own　helm。　He　feels　the　world　go　momentarily　black。　His　helmet　has　been　knocked　askew；　he　cannot　see。　There　is　a　sticky；　warm　running　of　blood　down　the　side　of　his　face。
　　Roaring　like　a　man　beset　by　furies；　Ademar　hurls　away　his　shield　and　rips　his　helm　off　with　both　hands；　feeling　a　tearing　and　then　a　fierce　pain　at　his　left　ear。　He　throws　the　helmet　at　de　Miraval's　face　and　then　the　king　of　Gorhaut　follows　that　up　with　the　hardest　blow　with　a　sword　he　has　ever　delivered　in　all　his　days。
　　The　descending　blade　catches　the　armour　of　the　duke　just　where　it　shields　neck　and　shoulder　and　it　drives　straight　down　through　the　mesh；　biting　deeply　into　flesh。　Ademar　sees；　through　the　blurring　and　darkening　of　his　own　vision；　how　the　duke　of　Miraval　lurches　heavily　over　to　one　side　in　his　saddle；　and　knowing　the　cursed；　deceiving　old　man　is　falling；　is　as　good　as　dead　already；　he　rips　free　his　blade；　nonetheless；　to　blot　him　out　of　life。
　　The　king　of　Gorhaut　never　does　see　the　arrow　that　kills　him。
　　The　arrow　that　es　down　out　of　the　empty　heavens　above　to　take　him　in　the　eye…exactly　as　his　own　father　was　killed　two　years　ago　among　the　ice　and　the　piled　bodies　by　Iersen　Bridge。
　　The　king　of　Gorhaut；　dead　instantly；　never　does　see　that　the　shaft　of　that　arrow　is　a　deep　crimson　hue；　like　blood。　Nor　does　he　ever　realize；　as　others　do　soon　after；　ing　up　to　where　the　dead　king　lies　on　the　ground　beside　the　mortally　wounded　figure　of　Urté　de　Miraval；　that　the　feathers　with　which　that　arrow　has　been　fletched　are…a　thing　without　known　precedent…the　feathers　of　an　owl；　crimson…hued　as　well。
　　Men　see　these　things　and　cannot　understand　them；　nor　can　they　prehend　whence　that　terrifying；　death…dealing　arrow　might　have　been　loosed；　to　have　fallen；　as　it　truly　seems；　straight　down　upon　the　king　from　the　sky。　Corans　in　both　armies　can　be　seen　to　be　making　the　warding　sign　against　darkness　and　the　unknown。
　　The　king　of　Gorhaut　is　dead　of　a　crimson　arrow　fallen　from　the　heavens；　fletched　with　the　feathers　of　an　owl。　Even　the　warriors　of　Gorhaut　know　what　bird　is　sacred　to　Rian。　The　tale　of　an　immortal　goddess's　vengeance　for　her　servants　defiled　and　slain　begins　to　sweep　immediately　across　the　valley。　It　will　not　stop　there。　The　story　has　a　long　way　to　travel。　Such　tales；　of　the　deaths　of　kings；　always　do。
　　
　　After　that　it　became　easy；　in　fact。　Easier　than　it　ought　to　have　been；　Blaise　thought。　At　Iersen　Bridge；　King　Duergar　had　died　yet　Gorhaut　had　still　prevailed　on　a　bitter　field。　The　death　of　a　king　need　not　mean　utter　disarray　among　the　ranks　of　his　army。
　　That　afternoon；　though；　it　did。　Blaise　could　have　offered　many　reasons　why；　and　any　and　all　of　those　reasons　might　have　been　a　part　of　it；　but　the　truth…brilliantly　clear　in　the　afternoon　light…was　that　the　army　of　Gorhaut　was　undone　from　the　time　Urté　de　Miraval　appeared　against　them　and　that　red　arrow　came　down　to　kill　their　king。
　　Blaise；　battling　in　towards　Bertran；　began　to　recognize　individual　men　in　both　armies　nearer　to　the　centre　of　the　fighting。　Sunset；　he　had　said　to　Ademar。　He　had　been　denied　that　battle　after　all。　Looking　around；　he　remembered　that　there　was　someone　else　on　this　field　he　wanted　for　his　own。　Then　he　saw　that　man；　some　distance　away；　and　realized　that　this；　too；　was　going　to　be　denied　him。
　　Bertran　de　Talair　came　up　to　the　Portezzan；　Borsiard　d'Andoria；　on　a　tummock　of　grass　in　the　midst　of　the　sideslipping　centre　of　the　battle。　It　was　clear　that　words　were　exchanged；　but　Blaise　was　too　far　away　to　hear　them。　Then　he　watched　Bertran；　who　had　set　out　on　the　road　of　a　fighter　more　than　twenty　years　ago　after　Aelis　de　Miraval　had　died　in　her　husband's　castle；　dispatch　the　lord　of　Andoria　with　a　precision　that　almost　made　a　mockery　of　the　notion　of　single　bat。　Two　blows　on　the　forehand；　a　feint；　and　then；　slipping　past　the　parry；　a　straight…ahead　thrust　that　took　Borsiard　in　the　throat。　It　was　more　an　execution　than　a　duel；　and　when　it　was　over　Blaise's　first　thought　was　that　Lucianna　had　just　been　widowed　again。
　　His　second　thought；　as　he　saw　the　Andorians　begin；　predictably；　to　throw　down　their　weapons　and　hastily　submit　themselves　as　prisoners　to　the　nearest　of　Bertran's　men；　was　that　he　had　something　to　do　now　that　was　going　to　be　harder　than　any　bat　had　been。　He　looked　quickly　around　for　Rudel　and　realized　that　his　friend　was　no　longer　by　his　side。　He　had　no　time　to　wonder　about　that。　Even　as　he　watched；　the　battle　of　Lake　Dierne　was　being　a　slaughter。
　　And　he　had　to　stop　it。　Stop　it；　even　though　the　men　of　Arbonne　could　see　the　severed　heads　spitted　on　pikes　at　the　back　of　the　Gorhaut　ranks；　could　still　see　what　a　hideous　ruin　had　been　made　of　the　singer　named　Aurelian；　and　would　all　be　carrying　within　them　anguished　images　of　women　burning　through　the　north　of　their　land。　They　would　not　be　inclined　to　clemency　and　moderation　in　this　moment　when　certain　defeat　had　turned　into　victory。　Every　man　in　the　army　of　Arbonne　would　know　what　his　fate　and　that　of　his　family　would　have　been　had　Gorhaut　triumphed　here。
　　Bertran　was　going　to　be　no　help　to　him　now；　Blaise　saw。　The　duke　had　turned　from　his　ruthless　dispatching　of　Borsiard　and；　moving　straight　past　the　surrendering　Portezzans；　was　cutting　a　deadly　swath　through　the　nearest　men　of　Gorhaut。　Valery；　beside　him；　was　doing　exactly　the　same　thing。
　　Urging　his　horse　after　them；　Blaise　lifted　his　voice　over　the　screams　of　the　dying　and　the　fierce；　wild　shouts　of　the　corans　of　Arbonne：　〃Enough！〃　he　cried。　〃Bertran；　it　is　enough！〃
　　Valery　slowed；　and　turned。　The　duke　did　not　hear　him　or；　if　he　did；　paid　no　heed　at　all。　Over　to　his　left；　behind　the　Gor