THE TEST
T.C. McCarthy
When the world has fallen and the old times have come again, who shall defend the realms of men if not the great lords and kings of that far future time? But the world is fallen, and what lords there are are petty, venal, and cruel. Who shall protect the people? Who but God?
A love for killing earned me a place at the front, next to our father as one lance among hundreds, each topped with a flapping pennant. My younger brother’s horse waited several rows behind us. His anger burned through the back of my armor, augmenting the sun’s afternoon heat and focusing it into a single white spot that felt as if it would melt through. He was a coward; this would have been fine except that my brother knew he was no warrior and over several years the knowledge had formed a pocket of poison, a bubble lodged deep inside his abdomen that had spread wisps of noxiousness to permanently contaminate his soul. So although an army of raiders waited on the field below us, behind me was a greater enemy—one of flesh and blood that, if given a chance, would slip a dagger into my back.
Father spoke to the priest next to him. “These are standard raiders, yes?”
“Unknown, sire. We suspect the monks will not be needed and that these raiders are mongrels, untrained. Even their watch has not yet detected your army’s presence and our strategists conclude their slaughter is almost guaranteed. But there is always the chance of dark arcana. If so, it will be hidden in the main tent—the longest one in camp center.”
“I hope for dark arcana; that is the last test my eldest has to face, after all. Have your monks ready in case they are needed.” He turned to look at me. “Are you drunk, boy?”
“No.”
“Did you bring your whore with you, Camden?”
“Sire, how would I do that?”
My father laughed and then spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “It appears that God does work miracles. Today my son is sober, and has opted to join us for his final test—that of combat against magic—rather than take his day at the brothels.”
I closed my eyes while the men around us laughed. The heads of great houses had gathered around my father and I, on all sides, their horses snorting and pawing hard ground in anticipation of our attack, their instincts so honed that even such mindless beasts sensed that bloodshed was to come. I opened my eyes again. The first rays of a rising sun glinted off the tips of our lances, but still no sound came from the camp below, its occupants likely sleeping off the previous night’s drinking. My father hated his villagers. But they were his and that meant nobody but he could touch them. Soon the raiders would feel his vengeance in a pitiless wave, one that would soak the fields in blood. Some of the raiders would fight and might even wound or kill the nobles and I would be there smiling as those who had just laughed at me expired under my approving grin.
It was easy to hate these men—nobles. The word no longer held meaning. At least the raiders had reasons for their actions: They needed to eat and so came down from the eastern mountains to steal crops, at the same time stealing women so they could procreate. Nobles had no such excuse for their self-serving actions, for the rape and slaughter of their own people, and they did these things any time it suited them or the king.
“There,” my father said. “Smoke from one of their tents. This filth begins to stir.”
“Shall we charge, sire?” one of the men asked.
“The deep winter approaches. Soon these fields will be encased in ice and snow, and the raiders will be confined to the eastern mountains.”
“Yes, my king.”
“Then we must move quickly. Charge.”
The same man raised his fist, after which trumpets erupted in calls up and down the line, the signal for the horses to advance. We moved off the ridge. Our horses picked their way down the steep slope never breaking the line, their training so ingrained as to have converted to instinct, while behind them came the king’s foot soldiers. Rocks and pockets of brush broke up their formations but the men soon reformed so that they resembled a living organism, an amoeba-like thing that crept across the landscape. Sprinkled within their ranks were our monks, their black robes flapping in the wind. Several of them carried rounded packs on their backs, a kind of ovoid tortoiseshell contraption that connected to rods the monks cradled in both arms via thick black hoses. At the rods’ ends, blue flames sputtered and hissed.
“The word of God,” said Robert, who rode at my right. He was my personal arms-man and bodyguard.
“Indeed. I have not seen it used.”
“It is a sight to behold. Only to be loosed upon the darkest of arcana.”
“Have you seen the dark arts used before?” I asked.
“In war?”
“Anywhere.”
“When you were still swaddled. I was sixteen and it was my first battle at your father’s side. The farthest eastern villages had all been wiped clean and at first we thought it was raiders; we were wrong.”
“What was it?”
“Monstrous creatures. Insect-like in appearance, massive things that stood as high as your knee and who emerged from cracks in the ground by the thousands, their high-pitched whines intense enough to split a man’s head open, after which they sucked the blood and internal organs out through the neck. Without the priesthood and their arcana, we would have all been lost.”
“And where are they now—these creatures?”
“A monk told me that they emerge only once every fifty years; a seasonal enemy, thank God.”
“Robert, was there dark arcana in the old times—before the deep winters?”
“Who knows, boy? And why would it matter, since the darkness is with us now and there’s no going back in time?”
“Indeed.”
The cavalry line reached the slope’s bottom and we trotted before shifting to a canter, the iron-shod hooves thundering across the plain and sending tremors up my legs. A chorus of clinking mail overwhelmed everything. Armor draped off my shoulders in a weight that made me feel protected and exhausted at the same time, a shirt of tightly interwoven metal links that—no matter how well oiled—always went light red with rust. Once we’d reached a point about a hundred yards from the outer ring of raider tents, our force broke into its final gallop and closed the distance.
Still, nothing emerged from the tents. By now the raiders must have heard the horses and should have sent up the alarm, but everything ahead of us remained calm.
“Something isn’t right!” Robert yelled.
The king held up a closed fist. At his signal the horns sounded again and we drew to a halt, just inside the outer encampment, so that a number of scouts could drop their lances and jump from horses with swords drawn; they moved to the closest tents and threw them open. One of them sprinted to my father, arriving almost breathless.
“Empty, sire.”
“What?”
“The outer tents, my king; they’re empty. The sleeping pallets are occupied by straw dummies—not a raider to be found.”
“What in God’s name does that mean? Bring me the priest.”
“The foot soldiers will be here momentarily, Sire,” said one of the nobles.
My father glared at him. “Not soon enough. You will ride back to them and lend the priest your mount.” When the man had gone, he turned to me. “Tell me, son: where are we?”
“We are in the far reaches of Easonton, sire. Near the foothills of the White Range.”
“Correct. And where is the Lady Elder?”
“I have not seen her this day, m’lord.”
“Have you seen any from her house?”
I glanced around the field, lifting my helmet visor for a better view of the pennants and standards. “No, m’lord. I see none from House Elder.”
“And what do you suppose that means?”
My brother had snuck forward, where he wormed his horse amongst the front ranks and between me and my father. He answered while I was still in thought.
“It is cowardice, m’lord. A clear indication that the lady and House Elder cannot be counted on when needed.”
The king ignored my brother and gestured at me with his raised lance. “You. You’re the eldest; what do you say?”
“This could be a trap. House Elder was always a close ally to the former king and the lady may have set this up to kill us while her forces remain safe. My guess would be that they provided an excuse of why they could not be here with you, m’lord—perhaps Lady Elder claims to face another threat?”
“You are correct. Lady Elder sent word yesterday of a raider threat at Easonton’s southern border—one that required her personal attention and all her men at arms. The question is: Where is the trap?” He glanced at my brother. “And you are an almost total moron. Get back to your ranks.”
The pounding of hooves sounded behind us but I didn’t bother to turn and look, knowing it was the priest. A moment later he arrived. The man jumped from his mount and knelt before my father before rising back to his feet with great effort, using his staff to augment the movement, betrayed by the decaying knees of an old man.
“Move your men into place, priest. We may need them.”
“Why, sire?”
“Do you not smell it? Or feel it?”
“No, your majesty. I sense nothing.”
“This is dark arcana, priest; get your monks in place, now.”
Without warning a roar erupted, an ear-splitting scream that made my horse rear in terror, throwing me through the air to land flat on my back. The wind had been knocked out of me. For what felt like hours, I struggled to breathe against the weight of my chain mail at the same time I moved to my hands and knees to see panic unfold. Horses sprinted in every direction, some of them without their riders and noses and eyes flared wide. The fear had to come from a spell, I decided, a kind of invisible mist that emanated from hell-born creatures that once more roared and screamed.
The long tent in the center of camp had been at least a hundred yards from us, and wasn’t visible because of the rows and rows of smaller tents that encircled it. Its poles flew into the air, flapping upward toward the sky. They trailed canvas behind them like a kind of solid smoke and the site hypnotized me at first, my mind incapable of understanding what could have flung massive wooden shafts in such a high arc. They crashed to the ground out of sight.
“Protect the king!” Robert shouted, bringing me back to my senses. My father and Robert had also been unhorsed along with several noblemen who now formed a line between the king and camp’s center.
I moved into the line next to Robert. “What is this magic?”
“I know not, my prince.” He gestured to the ground near my feet. “Take up that lance. We will form a pike wall.”
“This is madness. I can feel the spell, Robert, a fear that rides on air in a miasma. Where are our priests?”
“They will come, lord.” Robert’s helmet had no faceplate and his cheeks went bone white. “Stand fast and hold this line! It comes!”
I turned to look in the same direction as Robert. Tents in the distance flew in either direction, launched upward by whatever it was that now bore down on us, its screams coming from multiple locations. There is more than one. From behind came the panicked shouting of what remained of our army, trying to reassemble and form ranks, but the terror had scattered them in every direction—too far now to come to our aid quickly. We were alone. Only ten men stood between my father and the monsters now bearing down, and my arms trembled with a sense of doubt and uncertainty, my muscles having already decided that our adversary was invincible. And my brother was nowhere to be seen.
The old priest took a position in front of us. He lifted his staff and moved bony hands over the shaft in a series of precise movements, after which it clicked and swung apart in sections to rejoin into a three-foot-long contraption of wood and steel. When he’d finished, the priest raised it, pressing the wooden section against his shoulder and lowering his cheek to peer down its length.
“The word of God is absolute,” the priest said, barely loud enough for me to hear.
My father drew his sword and placed his hand on my shoulder for just a moment. “To think that I now have to trust my life to you: a drunkard and brothel rat. God truly despises me.”
“It comes!” the priest shouted.
The closest row of tents flew apart, torn into pieces by three creatures that charged us, atop them bearded raiders whose faces had been painted in brilliant red stripes. I froze, horrified. The creatures had been formed through an unholy marriage of snake and mountain lion, so that they slithered forward on a python section more than five feet in diameter, at the same time a giant, catlike front pushed off the ground with two clawed paws; one bore down on me, its face four feet across with jaws peppered by thick fangs. Without warning the priest’s staff barked. The noise startled everyone, its loud explosions reminding me of small cracks of thunder that made me flinch at first, and I watched flame erupt from one end.
The closest raider clutched his chest, which had exploded in a burst of blood, and it occurred to me that the priest’s weapon must have been a kind of bow—its arrows invisible and holy. The word of God. Now the man aimed his weapon at the creature, its face spurting jets of blood with each hit the priest scored until the monster roared in pain and collapsed onto the ground, spilling its rider into the grass near Robert’s feet. One moment the priest had been fighting, the next he was gone. The right-most creature had lunged toward him and snapped the man in half, before turning its attention on the pikes, using a massive paw to swipe at them.
“What are these monsters?” I asked.
“This is your first encounter of arcana,” Robert hissed. “Do not fear. These creatures are like grizzers—mindless in their thirst for blood, but not intelligent like you or me. God is with us.”
“God just let his man die!”
The monster on my left knocked lances out of the way with one swipe, then charged forward; with its other paw it swiped at the noblemen beside me and flung them through the air. One of them screamed. The thing’s claws had raked the man’s sides and broke through his mail so that as he flew, his innards spilled out to trail streamers of intestines and blood. Now it looked at me. The raider shouted a war cry and raised his axe at the same time his monstrous steed swung at my lance. I lowered it, dodging the blow, and then charged. Part of me wondered how my feet had found any ability to move, much less move forward, because the fear had become so intense that I lost all sensation in my extremities. Somehow I screamed in rage and thrust the lance as hard as I could; it speared the creature in the mouth. Carried by its own forward momentum, the cat-snake moved forward and the wood flexed, pushing me back until I dropped the lance’s base to wedge it against a rock. The steel tip broke through the creature’s head and it fell to the ground, dead.
The raider dove from the dead monster’s back, slamming into me and pinning me to the dirt. He raised his axe. Time slowed and the odor of the man made me feel nauseous, the smell of sweat mixed with rotting meat making my eyes water while I struggled to draw my sword, which had pinned beneath me. This was the end, I thought. The raider’s axe started its arc downward and would soon impact against my helmet, its hard steel capable of splitting through and then cleaving my skull. But the blow never came. A moment later my father lifted me to my feet and then pulled his sword from the raider’s neck.
“Dammit, boy, you should have been ready for that. What has Robert been teaching you? Always keep your sword free and clear.”
“Where is the last monster?” I asked.
“Look and see. The Church has finally arrived, and they brought a pillar of fire.”
I drew my sword, using it to prop myself up on my knees, and looked. A line of priests had arrived. These were the ones who resembled turtles and now instead of sputtering with a small blue flame, the priests’ rods erupted in cones of fire. They spat flame with a hiss at the final creature, which now roared in agony as it turned and fled, fully engulfed in flame. But the raider stood before them, untouched. He raised his axe and shouted before one of the priests aimed his rod at the man, spraying him with orange and red fire, not stopping until the raider collapsed, twitching on the ground in death spasms.
“What magic is this?” I asked.
“It is not magic, my prince,” Robert said. “It is the will of god. And the enemies of God will burn in eternal flame.”
“A pillar of fire by night,” my father said. He nodded, a grim expression on his face. “God be praised for such a magnificent display. He is truly all powerful, is he not, Robert?”
Robert was about to answer when he instead motioned to me with his chin; I turned to look where he’d gestured. My father now faced my brother, whose face had gone red from tear tracks and whose armor was bright—spotless from having not been touched during the entire engagement. He sobbed now, and wiped his nose against a mailed sleeve.
My father slapped him. The blow knocked my brother’s helmet off, his face only partially hidden now by a mail hood.
“You ran!” my father bellowed.
“My horse bolted. It took me forever to regain control.”
“That’s not what my scouts say. They say you left with both spurs kicked into your horse as if late to a wedding feast.”
“Your scouts lie.”
Now my father struck the other side of his face; his metal gauntlet split my brother’s cheeks so that blood streamed down to his chin. “The only things worse than cowardice are the lies that come with it. Get out of my sight. Go ride with the grave diggers and saddle boys.”
As soon as my brother left, Robert and several surviving nobles gathered around my father, their expressions dark with worry.
“Your majesty,” Robert said. “This was an assassination attempt. It was clearly not a standard raid, and the precision with which these barbarians charged in an effort to get to you tells us everything we need to know.”
A nearby nobleman nodded. “Your arms-man is correct, highness. These creatures were sent for you alone, this entire encampment a ruse.”
“Do you think me a moron?” My father paced before them, his sword bared and its tip dragging in dirt. “House Elder dares to use the dark arts against me—against the Church.”
“Father, you cannot openly accuse House Elder of this,” I said.
“Why not, boy?”
“They are not here. There is nothing concrete linking them to the attempt, and of all the houses, Elder is the most powerful. They have allies—houses who remember the old king and who we can assume were in league with them.”
“And,” my father said, “what do you think we should do?”
“Plan. There is always a way to deal with traitors, even ones so well positioned.”
The king gestured to Robert, who stepped closer and bowed his head. “Robert, this boy is to stop his drunkenness and whoring. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, highness.”
“And Camden.” The king grabbed my mail shirt in a single fist, almost lifting me from my feet. “You are my eldest. But the high families will only tolerate so much from their king and they will never accept a lecherous puppy like you as being the legitimate heir. If you can fix yourself, then you will be king after me. And God help us all when that happens.”
The nobles grinned and chuckled, some of them cheering and raising their swords. “God help us all,” one repeated.
My father let go and pushed me away, where I stumbled over the body of a raider and fell flat on my back. Robert lifted me. But I felt nothing, the joy of what my father had said coursing through my veins and making everything feel weightless. Together we joined ranks with the others, all of whom had begun marching homeward, following in the direction of our horses, who by now were most likely halfway to their stables. Mud that had worked itself into my mail soon caked and dried, falling out in clumps as we marched, but the ground underfoot was still wet and soggy from rain the previous day. Before long, my boots sunk three inches into muck, trodden and re-worked by the men before me.
“You passed the test of dark arcana,” Robert said. “So the king will make you his heir.”
“My brother will hate me for it.”
“Your brother hates you already, m’lord. It is the way of noble families.”
“I don’t know if I want to be king.”
“Really?” Robert laughed. “This is clear to even the most idiotic of those around you since the way you drink and whore is legendary—even among the king’s arms-men. But your father is right, Cam.”
“About what?”
“You are made of the stuff that a king needs.”
The sloping mountainside was a godsend at first, its upward trail free of mud so the ground didn’t paw at me and slow my progress. Soon, though, the effort of climbing with added weight of mail and sword made my legs burn. To be the king. I’d never thought much about being heir to the white throne and what I hadn’t told Robert was that I hated my father just as much as my brother; my dreams had always been ones of getting away from the noble houses—of having my own life. I looked back at the grave diggers, now far below us. They struggled with the bodies of noblemen who’d died when the monsters attacked, and among them I spied the shiny mail of my brother. He glanced up. Even from that far away I sensed the hatred with which he looked at me.
“Fine,” I said—grabbing Robert’s shoulder when I slipped. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?” he asked.
“Be king. But don’t expect me to stop whoring and drinking; those are the only things that make this life bearable. I’ll just have to do a better job hiding it.”
“How old are you, Cam?”
“Sixteen last month.”
“You’re too young to be so jaded.”
“Nonsense,” I said. “I learned it from you.”
Robert clapped me on the back and laughed. “Then there’s hope after all.”