Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [98]
The crowd shouted loudly, drowning out the Prince’s words.
Bishop Vanya shook his head, a sneer curled his lip. “There will be born to the Royal House one who is dead yet will live, who will die again and live again. And when he returns, he will hold in his hand the destruction of the world,” Vanya repeated softly. “Follow him, you fools. Follow him….”
“We must join together against this enemy!” Garald cried out, and the crowd cheered. “I have been meeting with the nobles of your city-state. They have agreed with me. Will you fight?”
“Aye, but who’ll lead us?”
This voice came from the front of the crowd, spoken by a man dressed in the plain, shabby clothes of a Field Magus. He flew forward hesitantly, as though being shoved from behind. Snatching off a bedraggled hat, he held it awkwardly in his hand and appeared at first abashed to be standing before the Prince. But once there, hovering in the air in front of the platform, he straightened his shoulders, facing the Prince and the white-robed man with quiet dignity.
At this moment, a young man who had been sitting—quiet and unobserved—on the back of the black swan rose into the air and came drifting down beside the Field Magus.
“Prince Garald,” said the young man, “allow me to present my father.”
“I am honored, sir,” the Prince said, bowing in his graceful manner. “Your son is a valiant warrior who fought the enemy at my side yesterday.”
The Field Magus flushed in pleasure at hearing this praise of his boy, but it did not deter him from his purpose. Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he glanced around at his followers, then continued.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. You say you aren’t our enemy anymore. You say that there’s an enemy out there bigger’n we can imagine. I guess we know that’s true. We’ve all heard the tales told by my boy here, and others who were out there with you. An’ we’re willin? to fight this enemy, whoever he is or wherever he comes from.”
The murmuring grew louder, and there were calls of support from the crowd.
“But,” the Field Magus continued, nervously smoothing the hat with his callused, work-hardened hands, “no matter how honorable or noble a man you are, Prince Garald—and I’ve heard good things told of you, I admit—you’re a stranger to us. I think I speak not only for us field workers but for the people who work in this city as well”—cries of assent from the crowd—“when I say that we would feel better goin’ into battle, led by someone who was one of us, so to speak Someone we could count on to think of us as people he knew, not cattle bein’ led to slaughter.”
Joram stepped forward, watching his footing carefully on the slippery platform. “I know you, Jacobias. And you know me, though you may find that difficult to believe I swear to you—” extending his hands, he looked out at the crowd—“I swear to all of you,” he shouted, “that you can trust this man, Prince Garald, with your lives! We have just come from a gathering of the Albanara! They have chosen Prince Garald as their leader, I pledge him my support and I ask you—”
“No, no! We won’t follow Sharakan!”
“One of our own!”
Mosiah, flushing in embarrassment, was arguing with his father. Garald glanced at Joram, as much as to say “I told you so.” Joram, avoiding his gaze, was trying to make himself heard when one single voice, coming from the center of the crowd, rose above the clamor. “You lead them, my son!”
The crowd hushed. The voice was familiar The words, though quietly spoken, were said with such pride, mingled with a deep sorrow, that they echoed in the heart louder than a shout.
“Who said that?” People hovering in the air peered down beneath their feet, for the voice had seemed to come from below.
“He did! The old man! Stand aside and let him speak!” Several people, floating above an old man, pointed