The Chronicles of Amber

The sharp twang of a bowstring sounded behind me. I had known it was coming, but it still surprised me. All gods needed to be tested now and again to prove their divinity. An arrow in the back would be my test.

I whirled, arms a blur, turning faster than any mere man could ever move. Time seemed to be slowing down as I focused on the arrow heading straight for me. It whistled faintly as it flew, a black shaft with black fletching, its barbed arrowhead tipped in gold. How fitting for a god.

I snatched it from the air before it could strike me and continued my pirouette. I wound up facing King Aslom again. He gaped, eyes wide, hardly able to believe what he had just seen. A miracle to them… a trick of speed and coordination for me, as easy as catching a ball.

Then fear began to replace joy in his expression. I was the god, and on his order, his son had just tried to kill me. What would I do? What punishment fit this crime?

“A fair shot, but it will take far more than an arrow to kill me,” I said easily, letting a note of amusement creep into my voice. Better to treat it as a joke and let him off the hook. Tightening my fist, I snapped the arrow in half, then tossed it casually at his feet. “Bring forth your first-born son,” I continued. “I want to look upon him.”

“Iankos!” cried King Aslom. “Join us!”

Still pale, Aslom knelt again and bowed his head. He dared not look at my face—I couldn't blame him for his shame. Things were going even better than I had hoped.

Iankos—a lanky version of his father—trotted out from the bushes behind me and joined his brother, kneeling with eyes turned down.

“Command us, Lord Oberon!” King Aslom cried. “How may we serve you?”

His sons looked startled when I called each by name: “Iankos. Eitheon. Lymnos. Haetor. Stand and let me look upon your faces.”

They rose slowly, the three eldest daring now to gaze upon me with awe and wonder. The youngest, Haetor, had a curious expression somewhere between suspicion and disbelief. There had to be an unbeliever in every family, after all. Despite my trick with the arrow, he still had doubts. If I could convince him, they would all be won to my cause.

“You do not believe the prophecies about me,” I said to Haetor, smiling. “It is good to be skeptical.”

“Lord Oberon!” he protested. “I do believe!”

“You want to test me,” I said. I drew my sword in a smooth motion. “Do not protest. I see it in your heart.”

“Most exalted one—” he began uncertainly.

“Draw your blade, Haetor,” I said in a kindly voice. “You will not be satisfied until you have tried your steel against mine. This I know.”

King Aslom threw himself at my feet. “Spare him, Most Revered Oberon!” he gasped, eyes desperate. “He is young and rash!”

Aslom's other sons shifted unhappily. I glanced at them and smiled. Had their father commanded, I knew they would have drawn their swords to protect Haetor from me… even at the cost of their own lives. Such loyalty would serve me well against Chaos.

“Be at ease, good King Aslom,” I said softly, so only he could hear. Haetor must be his favorite, I decided. I would play to his emotions. “Your son is not destined to die this day, but he must learn his place if he is to serve me. I have important plans for his sword. In years to come, he will become my strong right hand. As will you. I have need of you all.”

“Thank you!” Aslom whispered. “Thank you!”

I looked at Haetor and motioned him forward. The boy swallowed audibly. Clearly he was having second thoughts about facing a man who might be a god.

“Draw your sword,” I told him. “Would you slay me this day?”

Haetor knelt suddenly, blushing furiously. “Forgive me, Most Exalted Oberon!” he cried.

“Rise!” I said sharply. “Draw, Haetor! Show me what a warrior-prince can do! Or are you a coward, ashamed of your meager talents?”

He climbed to his feet. Then, in a single fluid movement, he drew his sword and attacked.

I had wanted a race of warriors. I had deliberately sought out a Shadow where the strongest, fastest, bravest swordsmen lived… where they worshipped me as a god. But I never imagined how fast Haetor would move—or how brilliant a natural swordsman he might be. With the supple grace of a dancer, he launched a blistering attack that would have overwhelmed lesser men. I fought defensively, slowly giving ground before him, watching the darting tip of his blade for an opening. It moved like a hummingbird, left and right, up and down, testing my defenses and my speed. Other than my father, I had never seen a finer fighter. His enthusiasm, finesse, and technique could not be faulted.

But neither could mine. For every move he made, I had a counter. If his sword hummed with speed, mine sang. If his footwork dazzled, mine shone brighter than the sun. We fought differently, but the match was still uneven.

Finally, I saw the faintest of hesitations. His sword turned slightly out of position following my riposte, and his recovery had a second's hesitation. I knew, then, that his arm had grown tired.

I leaped at him. Sparks flew as steel rang oh steel. I advanced, falling into a deadly rhythm—thrust, thrust, lunge—thrust, thrust, lunge. He fell back, and his face showed sudden alarm.

Then, with a twist of my wrist, I ripped the sword from his hand through sheer strength of muscle. It went sailing through the air and landed point-down in the field to our left. Slowly, it rocked back and forth.

Haetor gazed dumbly after it, clutching his right hand to his chest. Then he faced me bravely, standing tall as he waited unflinchingly for my death-blow.

Swifter than he could follow, I dropped my own sword and closed with him. My left hand seized his throat while my right hand grabbed his armored stomach. Like a child lifting a doll, I raised him over my head.

“Listen well, princeling,” I said softly, so only he could hear. “I can crush the life from your throat, or pluck your heart from your chest as easily as you can pick an apple from a tree. Your life is mine to give or take. Do you understand what that means?”

“Y-yes, Lord Oberon!” he whispered. His face had gone pale.

“Gods,” I continued, voice low, eyes narrowing, “are quite hard to kill. Remember that.”

He began to shake with fear. I saw belief in his eyes… and sheer terror as he realized suddenly life and death lay solely in my hands. I had but to close my fist and his throat would be crushed. I had but to press my fingers another few inch into his chest and his heart would fail.

I tossed him twenty feet, into his brothers' arms. They staggered, but caught him and set him down. As he reeled dizzily, I threw back my head and laughed.

“You will do well, young Haetor!” I said. That sounded like something a god would say to a loyal subject. “I have seen your future, and it is glorious!” I wished it were true. What did his future hold?

Haetor fell to his knees before me. “I swear to serve you for the rest of my life, Lord Oberon. Command me. I am yours!”

“Retrieve your sword,” I said. “We must all return to the city. Aslom?” I faced his father again.

“Yes, Lord Oberon?” He still looked greatly relieved that I had spared his youngest son.

“Tonight we will celebrate my arrival. Tomorrow you will begin gathering in your armies.”

“You will lead us into battle?” he cried eagerly.

“Yes!”

“Against what foe?”

“The hell-creatures of Chaos!”

“Against the hell-creatures!” he shouted. His sons drew their swords and raised them, taking up the cry: “Against the hell-creatures! Against the hell-creatures of Chaos!”

Chapter 21