To the Haunted Mountains

by Ru Emerson

  “Take what I have, it will be of no use to me here.” She undid the belt, drew off her water bottle, her depleted healing packet, the pouch of provisions. Malaeth took them blindly; tears ran down her face. Ylia bit her lip, turned away.

  “Are you ready?” Lyiadd was there. “You of Nedao. Note, please, that you have your weapons, your stores—all you brought with you. She has bargained for your lives; I hope you are as grateful as you should he. She and the cat remain with me, of their own free choice. In turn, you live. A reasonable trade, at least to her mind, since she made it.

  “We three will bridge you far from here, as many leagues to the north as we can, by means of my Power. I strongly suggest you resume your journey and forget this place. There is no point to your returning here, is there?” Silence. “You who are warriors, you appreciate the odds against you: should you do something so foolish? The old woman, she can explain to you, perhaps, what other things you might face, were you to act so stupidly as to return.” Silence again. “Leave me alone, you Nedaoan barbarians, and I will do as much for you and yours. Complete your journey to Aresada and find another ruler for your kind.”

  “There is nothing here for us, since we have learned the temper of her steel.” Golsat spoke with such loathing that she went cold and sick. “Why should we return for such a traitorous, ill-gotten heir to Brandt's throne?” Levren leaped, dragged Marhan back; the Swordmaster's blade was halfway out and his face was murderous. Lyiadd laughed as he wrapped a possessive arm around Ylia's shoulders. She closed her eyes; Golsat's words rang through her inner being.

  “Nothing here for you, as he so nicely puts it. Let us go!” Marrita swept out with her women. The guarded Nedaoans and Lyiadd, his arm still across Ylia's shoulder, followed.

  A wide porch gave onto vast ruins: three broad steps led down into the open. The air was chill, for the sun had barely cast its first rays across the trees on the western slopes high above. She stood where Lyiadd left her, barely aware of Marhan's furious gaze, Golsat's cold one, Marrita's hot-eyed glare. Lyiadd was at his consort's side now, conversing with her in a low, earnest voice, but her expression remained furious.

  Ylia stepped back; her heel caught in a shallow ditch cut into the turf, sent her staggering. She eyed it dully, turned on one heel to follow it around a large, uneven rectangle. A light breeze cooled her face.

  Odd. As though a cloak had dropped across her inner being, suddenly she could no longer sense Nisana—not even Lyiadd, though she could readily see him. Sword-field. Something Scythia had told her son once, long ago, and Beredan had told her—a place where men possessing AEldra strengths could learn swordplay without relying upon the Power. A sudden exultation gripped her; she tamped it, hard, as Lyiadd scowled over his paramour's shoulder.

  “Come now! I would have this done.” She walked back across the demarcation, back onto rubble-strewn pavement. The muffled sensation was gone. Gone, too, that horrid chill that had gripped her since Brendan's death. There was grief, pain—but they had been pushed aside. Anger, purpose—she was properly, fully aware again. And ready to catch at the chance when it presented itself.

  “Join!” He caught at her fingers; Nisana jumped onto her shoulder. The air around him shimmered, seemed to catch the red of his garments as he raised his hands. Ylia's own hands tingled as the joining caught; her ears hummed. Her friends were enfolded in that redness, gone. She turned from emptiness as the contact was severed. Sweat beaded Lyiadd's brow, hair clung damply to his neck. “I have held to my end of the bargain, but of course you would see this, since,” he added mockingly, “you cannot trust me.”

  “No. I cannot.” Flat answer. He took her shoulders, turned her to face north and a little west.

  “There—perhaps twelve leagues. If you are capable—”

  “Capable enough.” ‘Nisana?’ The cat leaned against her, joined. Her companions sat on a high, grassy ledge, and tears were spilling down Marhan's face. She blinked rapidly; the vision was gone.

  'You saw, Ylia?’ She nodded. ‘He has kept his word, they are beyond the reach of any, save a strength equal to the threefold one that placed them there.’

  “Good,” Ylia whispered. “What we do hereafter is for us, not out of fear for them.”

  “You begin to bore me.” Lyiadd's words were edged with exasperation. “You speak of fear, always; why for? If I had wanted you dead, you would be dead already. And you gave up the ruling of Nedao, such as that might be, to remain here; I will not be ungrateful. Perhaps one day I may find a substitute for you. Nar, perhaps, or another.”

  “Why?” It took effort to face him, to meet those opaque eyes.

  He shrugged, laughed briefly, began walking back toward the staircase. “Why not? Let us say for your aid, for your assistance, when I take Yls and make her mine.”

  Ylia shook her head. Paced casually, or so she hoped, back along the way she had just come. “You speak of war and death, and then ask my aid.” Ten steps—nine. Less than a thought, lest he hear her.

  “Well? What is the Sirdar to you? And—who spoke of war? I will have no need of war. Not once I have gained that I seek.”

  “Do as you will,” she replied flatly. “I am here because I have no choice. But I will not dabble in evils, as you do. I will bring no further dishonor to the House of Ettel than I have done already, nor to my mother's line.” Four steps—three. Her boot turned a little on the trench as she stepped onto the sword-field.

  “So you say—now. But I will persuade you eventually.” No threat, merely calm assurance. He pivoted neatly on one heel, crossed the trench with a long stride.

  “Nisana, leave me, go!” she whispered fiercely. The cat dropped neatly to the ground, sprang away. “Lyiadd! Her voice echoed through the broken columns. Dead silence. Lyiadd turned. They stood, both, in the very midst of the field, ten paces apart. “I claim blood-price for the life of my arms-mate! And I challenge you, here and now, that he be avenged!” The renegade AEldra closed the distance between them, stopping only a hand's distance from her face. He did not suspect, not even the least! “How—dare—you!”

  “I dare.” Her voice was pitched to reach the farthest of his men. “Did you think I would bow tamely to your bidding? You let Brendan die to no purpose! Save only to daunt me! And Nisana—how long do you plan to hold her life as surety for my behavior? Until my actions are no longer my choice at all and I am your creature entirely? No. It is my right, by the law of Nedao and by AEldran, to cry you challenge, and before these, your armed, I do so!”

  Men looked at each other. “Or are you afraid?” she demanded in the now heavy silence. “You have dealt with evil and worked horrors with the Power for so long. Do you fear to cross blades, here on your own sword-field—with me?”

  His eyes never left her face as his hand caught at the strings that held the Narran short-cloak in place. He slung the flare of blood-red cloth from him, spread his arms wide. “I wear no mail.”

  She dragged her own cloak loose, tore Nisana's travel pouch over her head, undid the shoulder clasps that held the mail shirt in place. The armor hit the ground with a dull clank; she pushed it aside with her foot. The leather under-jerkin followed; she shivered as the cool breeze cut through her shirt.

  “Nor do I.”

  Marrita launched herself across the open ground, caught at him frantically. “She has tricked you; she plans, I read it in her!”

  “Of course she does,” he replied quietly. “She plans my death, Marrita, love. But she will not have it.” He pushed her gently away. She sprang at Ylia then, nails ready to tear. Lyiadd dragged her back.

  “I will not exchange scratches with you, Lyiadd's trull. I am a swordswoman—I do not sink to what your kind calls fighting.” Marrita's eyes were icy with hatred. Ylia turned away from her, dropped to one knee. Nisana met her gaze, understanding in her eyes that neither dared voice. “You are not bound by anything I do,” she whispered. There could be no answer; they were held apart by the sword-field. Dark green, imp
assive eyes held hers, a small paw touched her fingers. It was answer enough, though not the one she'd wanted. But she'd known already: a vain hope that the cat bridge away while she and Lyiadd fought. Ylia kissed the thick fur between her dark ears and stood.

  The sword-field was already ringed about, empty within. She gave her mail another shove with her boot, pushing it outside the field, stepped into the open. Some distance away, one of Lyiadd's men held Marrita. Nisana padded off the field, sat on Ylia's cloak. None of the armsmen would stay near her, and those who had been close to the outlander's mail, cloak and jerkin moved would-be casually away.

  It felt strange. Even though she never had much of the AEldra Power, there was always some. And now, cut off as she had never been, unable to sense outside her body, unable, as she had done since babyhood, to touch thought with Nisana. Fear flared briefly, then ebbed. If it was unnerving to her to be trapped within herself, dependent on steel weapons, how must it seem to this creature, who had depended on nothing save his warped power for so long? She drew sword, snapped the dagger free, checked her grips, tested the balance. The familiar actions were steadying.

  Lyiadd was several paces away, testing his own arms: one of his men had brought him a Nedaoan sword and a serviceable, plain dagger. His voice was raised, suddenly, as hers had been, to include his following. “Dost wish,” he called out, “to assuage thine honor with first blood?”

  “Nay,” she replied flatly. “I seek thy death here!” He laughed, said something to one of his guard, which she could not hear but which left the man grinning. “I foreswear, by the Guardians, all use of the Gifts,” she went on, completing the formula, “that the outcome be of the weapons of hand only.”

  “And I so foreswear.” Movement behind him: Marrita twisted to free herself, subsided abruptly as hands tightened on her wrists. Lyiadd strode forward, sword extended. She studied him as her blade touched his, aware that he in turn was studying her. A broader blade, his—longer also. And his reach was longer, too. She would not dare cross at the point, lest her own sword snap, but she was used to that. He was stronger, of course; most men she had fought were. But she was younger, more agile, steadier—she hoped—of wind. The first clash would show more.

  “You make an uneven trade, my blood for that of your liegeman. Even if—ah, if he were an amusement for you as well.” The softly spoken words broke into her thought. He means to anger me. “I merely offer you a better trade. Consider this: mine the urgings to Kanatan, mine the knowledge allowing the attack of the Tehlatt at a time unexpected and unforeseen.” His sword came to ready as his voice dropped away: he had expected her to throw herself at him.

  “To thy hands—the lives of my mother, my father, my folk.” She stared at him. How calmly he speaks and thousands die, and it is no matter to him. “I dare believe nothing you say. But that you claim it is enough. I will avenge this, also, upon thee, Lyiadd!”

  “Pretty.” Elaborate distaste. “You are unworthy, like all of your kind. I would offer you a world above any you could grasp alone, and you would throw it all on a funeral pyre of vengeance. So be it.” He turned to walk away, leaped in the same motion, twisted and was upon her, his sword a downslashing blur.

  An ancient trick—startling but old. She barely flinched, her own weapons were already poised and his sword struck against hers, slid down to the hilts. She twisted away. A quick, ferocious clash and they were suddenly a length apart, circling. Measuring each other.

  He fights as he talks, with treachery. He feinted, dropped his dagger hand, sidestepped, leaped forward again. Ylia turned sideways after the Northern fashion, to present as small a target as possible, concentrated on her sword; a sharp pivot, another. A leap in, a sudden backstep as the dagger slashed, and he pulled away. She did have an edge on him in speed, but she would need all of it, for he was skilled and he had played this game to the end before. She had not.

  So she wove about him: a slash here, close crossing there, another slash—parry—leap—draw him out, wear him down. But still neither had drawn blood. Once she saw Marrita's pale face, once Nisana—otherwise, nothing but Lyiadd. A murmuring among those watching, suddenly hushed.

  Her blade slipped through his guard, hit on his dagger, but he was not quick enough. He stood still, as though rooted. The shoulder of the swordswoman's shirt was torn where he had cut moments before, and only a quick drop and twist aside had saved the arm under it. But she had sliced the front of his shirt, and a bright ribbon of blood ran down his breast. Not dangerous, it would not even slow him. But—first blood to me! She balanced on the balls of her feet; he drew a deep breath as his points came up again.

  Another close and furious clashing of steel on steel; they were once again circling at arm's distance. First one, then the other feinted, trying to draw an unwary response. She was beginning to tire. He was already tired. Now! She pressed forward; he gave way, one slow, reluctant step at a time. She pressed again, renewed the attack furiously, baring her teeth in a mockery of smile as he moved back another pace and another; those who had held to the eastern end of the swordfield cleared hastily away.

  He must not leave this safety! She leaped forward, circled. They moved back toward the center of the field. His face was pale with effort, his breath came in gasps. She closed, beat at his sword, pivoted to follow the opening her dagger had made—too soon! With a snake's speed he sidestepped, his dagger slashed across and up, and she fell.

  A wordless roar went up from those watching. She gazed dumbly at Lyiadd, at his sword held steady against her throat, at her sword arm that was both numbed and afire. She tore her eyes from that last hastily: dizziness washed through her. His dagger had run a long, deep course from forearm to elbow, and even if she dared take her attention from her opponent, she could not heal it; not on the field. Strength of will—that, alone, she still had. The bleeding slowed, became a trickle. The fingers—she forced them to wrap around the hilts again. Her dagger hand was empty; the blade had spun high and was a full length away, silvery on the grass.

  “Will you continue?” Cold satisfaction edged his words, though his voice was uneven with his ragged breathing. “Your companions—know that I will deal with them, somehow. After I have finished with you!” He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. “That is ugly, it must pain you.”

  “No,” she replied flatly. “I can manage it.”

  “Perhaps. Were it the only—” He laughed. Fear, pain threatened. His point moved from her throat, tugged at her shirt, ripping through the fabric, drawing blood as she had drawn his. She caught her breath, bit her lip. Another touch, crossing the first.

  He hesitated only briefly. The blade wavered, held her eyes, moved downward to press hard against her side. “Strength of will,” he murmured. “How much have you, I wonder?” A blackness swirled across her eyes, by the shock of it she knew he had cut deep, though she could not yet feel it. The twin cuts at her breast burned with sweat; her arm throbbed.

  “Did you take so much pleasure from Brendan's death? Even your Mathkkra slay more cleanly!” He bared his teeth, drew the sword back; as suddenly, he brought it back to rest against her throat.

  “I underestimated you. You nearly provoked your death, and that was what you wanted, wasn't it? No. You will not die, though you will wish you had. I dare not kill you. But how long do you think it would take you to die here, alone and unaided?”

  “How long did it take Brendan?” Hot anger released her from the paralysis that had held her terrified and hurting under his blade.

  “Long enough.” His blade pressed hard against her throat. He laughed as she involuntarily closed her eyes; the pressure was gone. She blinked. Sunlight glittered on the point, hovering just above her eyes. Mothers no, he will blind me! Horror stopped her breath. But it moved again, sliced her cheek open from temple to chin, and she screamed with the pain of it, a shrilling that echoed across the silent watchers. Blood ran down her arm.

  “You are losing the game. Concentrate, concentrate. Wil
l time aid you? A minute—two, perhaps? Ask of me, beg. Perhaps I will give you more.” His sword was gone; she watched through a haze as he leaned against it. Concentrate. She must, somehow. She caught her lip between her teeth, hard. The bleeding slowed.

  “Ask—of you?” she whispered then. And she rolled, crying out again as full weight bore down on her sword arm, clawed for her dagger. She threw it, backhanded across her body, hard.

  No long throw, and no great one, for he stood so near she could scarcely have missed him. But true. It flew straight, caught him high in the breast, buried itself in his body to the hilt, and he fell without a cry.

  The child never failed to surprise me, but in this thing she gave me one of the greatest shocks I had ever had: that she defeated Lyiadd and not by the Power common to both, but by her father's strengths. That she had planned it so, hiding her thought from him and even from me—though I knew she intended something against him, chauvinistically I presumed it to be yet another attack with the Power. That she could take a formal sword crossing to its lethal conclusion, planning that, also: there were still things about this child I had known all her life, that I did not know.

  24

  “LYIADD!!” His men stood rooted in horror; Marrita tore free to fly across the sword-field. Her scream roused the stunned watchers, but too late: as she flung herself down, Ylia caught her by the sleeve. Off balanced, Marrita fell against the wounded Nedaoan, whose sword was already at the woman's throat.

  “He is not dead!” Ylia's voice cut flat across the babble. A lie, gods and Mothers, grant me it's a lie! “And let the first who moves pay blood-debt to Lyiadd for this female!” She pushed to her knees, to her feet, dragging Marrita with her. Lyiadd's consort whimpered as Ylia's hand tore at her hair; it fell from elaborate coils to fall across the swordswoman's arm. No pressure at all, and yet it hurt. Mothers it hurt.