Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  "I wish I could help you. But I'm afraid that all I know for sure is what I gleaned from Father's maps. Cymru is the overall name for a full tangle of kingdoms, Gwynedd, Powys, Dyfed, Gwent, I don't even remember the rest of them."

  "A pity," Ardagh said sardonically. "A pity that I can't combine this unplanned visit with some practical politicking; get at least some good out of the whole affair."

  "No."

  "No, indeed. From what I've been able to pry out of Cadwal, it's no use trying to forge an alliance with King Hywel or whoever's wearing the crown right now."

  "Cadwal's right. There's not one of the kingdoms strong enough to be worth the effort of an alliance."

  Or, Ardagh added, that of fighting human prejudices.

  "Look you, my love," the prince said suddenly, "no matter what you think about Cymru, I'm in no danger in this land; the people here don't know me, they have no reason to be my foes."

  "Yes, but Cadwal—"

  "I'll do my best to keep them from harming him—and do my best to find out what or who is behind . . . behind whatever it is that's tormenting him. Ae-yi, who knows? Maybe we really will learn the truth about his lady and—"

  "Gwen!" Cadwal shouted, sitting bolt upright, so suddenly that Ardagh nearly dropped the amulet. Hastily breaking contact and slipping the amulet back into its pouch, the prince saw Cadwal scramble to his feet and sprang up as well, staring in astonishment at:

  At . . . Gwen? Was this really that long-lost woman? Her figure glowed faintly, eerily, in the dim light, but it looked almost real, almost solid, as it slowly retreated, a woman of middle height, brown hair, strong, lovely, worried face. . . .

  "Gwen," Cadwal whispered, a world of pain and longing in his voice, and took a shaky step forward. "Och, Gwen." What else he said was in his native Cymreig and unintelligible to Ardagh, but the meaning was clear enough.

  Ae, Cadwal . . .

  In that moment, the prince knew he was as close to understanding that human emotion, pity, as ever he'd come. For Sidhe sight saw far more clearly. And Sidhe senses reacted to lives, human lives, there beyond the bushes! Human lives, and the smallest brush of Power with them as well! This, Ardagh knew with a shock almost of sorrow, was no ghost, no almost-living revenant at all: nothing but illusion. A trick—

  Yes, and one meant to lure Cadwal to his death! Ardagh hastily grabbed the man's arm, struggling to hold on as Cadwal fought to free himself. "No! Cadwal, no, listen to me, she's not there, she never was there, it's just a trick!"

  "I see her, dammit, I hear her!"

  "It's illusion!"

  "No! I failed Gwen once; I'm not going to fail her again!"

  He tore free, shoving Ardagh savagely aside, and raced off in desperate, terrified pursuit. The prince hurried after him, thinking, At least he's drawn his sword, at least he's not unarmed, then stopped so sharply he nearly fell, melting hastily back into the shadows.

  An ambush!

  Of course it was—his senses had been all but screaming the fact—an ambush, and the magic-dazed, anguished Cadwal was running right into it. A ring of warriors sprang out of hiding, swords drawn, torches blazing, and the mercenary stopped short, his face grim and bleak with sudden acceptance, and raised his own blade.

  Curse them all, now he does want to die!

  But rushing blindly after Cadwal wasn't going to help either of them, particularly since his darkness-adjusted sight was being dazzled by the light. Ardagh waited, blinking frantically, sure that the noble Morfren ap Dyfyr had to be nearby. Surely the man wouldn't let his father's slayer die so easily—ha, there he was. No doubt about that rich clothing, that proud bearing. A youngish man, not particularly strong of feature, and not a scrap of kindness to him.

  I can't understand what the two of you are snarling at each other, but the gist is clear enough: taunting on Morfren's side, defiance on Cadwal's. He really doesn't care about living if he can take Morfren with him, that will be enough.

  Not for me, it won't!

  Wait, now, wait . . . little by little, the ring of warriors were being drawn into the byplay, little by little they were growing fascinated by this small, deadly drama and lowering their guards. Yes, ah, yes— Yes!

  Whipping out his sword, Ardagh leaped to the attack, lunging at this man, slashing at this other, dodging blades and torches, feeling his sword hitting armor, cutting flesh, not interested so much in killing as in causing as much confusion as he could. Not much room to maneuver, but—

  "Ae!"

  A torch slammed against his wrist, hard enough to send his blade flying from a suddenly numbed hand. All at once Ardagh found himself unarmed in the midst of angry, iron-wielding humans who had no idea who he was—

  And who had not the slightest reason in the world not to kill him.

  A Small Revenge

  Chapter 22

  Trapped, about to die at the hands of human warriors, Ardagh, too stunned by the sudden turn of events to think about anything but survival, found himself falling into the graceful moves of Tarien'taklal, the unarmed form of Sidhe combat he'd once (so long ago it seemed!) taught the sickly young Breasal.

  Weird, weird, I've never used it before, not in combat, I don't know why I'm using it now, but—Powers, look at this!

  It was working, it was actually doing what it should, he was sending this man flying aside with a twist of the arm, hurling that one to the ground—ha, no, he wasn't going to die just yet! Despite the raging Morfren's shouts, the warriors were so confused by this strange attack they were falling back. Cadwal's sword flashed and flashed again, bloodred in the torchlight, as he cut a way free of the warriors, and Ardagh, catching a glimpse of the mercenary's face, saw in his eyes the madness of pure despair driving him, telling Cadwal to kill and mindlessly kill till he, too, was slain—

  Have to shock him out of this, and quickly! Tarien'taklal was all well and good, but you couldn't go on being successful with something you'd never before used as a weapon, and—yes!

  "Cadwal!" Ardagh shouted in sudden inspiration. "Cadwal, help me! Help!" And he hurled no little will behind that.

  It struck. No matter how Cadwal felt about it, reflexes honed by years of determined survival weren't going to let him desert a comrade—or die, either. Sanity blazed in his eyes, and Ardagh gasped at him, "Run!"

  "Damned right!"

  They raced together out through the forest, sheer desperation and Ardagh's keen night-sight giving them the edge over the jumble of bewildered, furious warriors they'd left behind them.

  "There," Ardagh gasped. "Down there."

  The earth fell away in a sharp bank. An ancient oak had crashed partway down the slope, some of its roots still clinging to the top. Ardagh and Cadwal scrambled down the bank and wriggled into the cramped little space beneath the roof of matted roots. They froze there like hunted wild things, trying not to pant or make any other sounds, Cadwal with his hand still clenched on his sword hilt, both of them waiting tensely. They heard the warriors crash past overhead, torches probably more hindrance than help in all that tangled underbrush, heard Morfren's shouts, heard the wild turmoil gradually fade and fade. . . .

  And finally vanish altogether.

  "They're gone," Cadwal said. He struggled out of the earthy cave and let himself slide down the bank to the mossy ground below. Ardagh followed, brushing himself off as best he could. Phaugh, this new coating of leaf mold and dirt on already stained and dirty clothing was the last indignity—no, no, safer to say probably only the latest indignity—of the journey!

  "You're not hurt, are you?" he asked the bedraggled Cadwal, keeping his voice warily down.

  "Not more than scratched, thanks to you. And thanks, I guess, for getting me out of that."

  " 'I guess'? Were you going to let Morfren have the triumph of seeing you die?"

  "No, damn him! I only wish—I wish—och, I don't know what I wish. Yes, I do. I want to get drunk. So roaring drunk I can't stand or see or . . . think."

  "Excellent idea,
" Ardagh agreed with delicate sarcasm. "What a pity that we can't do anything about it. We'll just have to wait."

  "Heh. And you—what in the name of all the saints was that weird thing you were doing?"

  "Tarien'taklal."

  "Ah . . . right. Whatever. Just tell me this: If you already knew such a good style of hand-to-hand fighting, why did you insist that I train you? For that matter, why in hell haven't you been using it all along?"

  Why, indeed? "I don't know," Ardagh admitted awkwardly, feeling his face growing hot. "I never really even thought about it. Tarien'taklal is just . . . something everyone learns. Everyone of noble birth. For the training in grace, muscle control—I don't know. None of us would ever actually think of using it, not in combat."

  "Heavens no," Cadwal said, mimicking Ardagh's fastidious tone with ruthless accuracy, "not for something as brutish as actually hitting someone. Iesu. Really are different, you and me."

  "Sidhe and human?"

  "Noble and commoner."

  "Ah. Not totally."

  "Guess not. Didn't know the Sidhe could blush."

  "Life is full of surprises." Ardagh glanced speculatively back up the slope, then sighed and started the climb.

  "Here, now," the mercenary called after him in alarm and a fierce, wary whisper, "where are you going?"

  "I left my sword back there." Hopefully one of the humans hadn't found it, because that would mean the complication of hunting the hunters. The way everything has gone so far, I wouldn't be surprised if that happened as well! "Besides," the prince added, pausing in mid-climb, listening with more than physical hearing, "there's something I've left unfinished. Wait there—no, on consideration, I think you may want to be a part of this. Come on."

  Ardagh paused long enough to be sure Cadwal was following, then scrambled all the way up and started surefootedly back to the site of the ambush, the mercenary right behind him, moving almost as silently and swiftly.

  Good. It's going to be morning fairly soon, and I want to get this done before I lose the advantage of darkness.

  Messy. No dead bodies or wounded left behind, but the ground was torn and definitely the worse for wear. Ha, but at least something had gone right: There was his sword, lying unharmed where it had fallen. The prince gladly snatched it up, quickly wiping it clean with a handful of grass and slipping it back into its scabbard. He straightened, listening anew . . . yes. The three of them were still where they'd been; he hadn't expected them to be the sort who'd run off on the hunt with the others.

  "How softly can you stalk?" he whispered in Cadwal's ear.

  "Soft enough. Who're we hunting?"

  "You'll see. Come."

  Ardagh stalked forward, quiet and intent as any predator, Cadwal following with reasonable—for a human— silence, stealing about behind the prey.

  Three of them, yes, just as the prince had sensed, sitting where they'd fallen in sagged-shoulder weariness: three men of no particular distinction. No distinction, that was, save for the faint hint of Power about them.

  Ardagh smiled with Sidhe contempt. Power? It would surely have taken all three of them working themselves into complete exhaustion to have ever created the illusion of Cadwal's Gwen and transferred the image into his sleeping mind.

  Fortunate humans, not to have burned out your brains in the process. Still, you did do a credible job. And how, I wonder, did you know where to find Cadwal? How did you know that he'd returned to Gwynedd?

  The prince expanded his senses carefully, probing very, very delicately. . . .

  Osmod! Ae, no, that wasn't possible. Ardagh probed again to be sure: No doubt about it. It had, indeed, been Osmod who'd sent them the warning. All the way from Wessex—Powers, that's amazing! And alarming. Unfortunately, I can't do anything about him just yet. But in the meantime, I don't want you three trying anything like this again, so . . .

  "Beware," he hissed in the Sidhe tongue, and bit back the laugh that would have spoiled the effect as the three yelped and turned as one, nearly falling flat in their hurry. He saw their faces actually blanch at the sight of him: there was still enough darkness to give his eyes their normal—and eerie to humans—nighttime glow.

  But he hadn't expected them to gasp, "Tylwyth Teg!" And it was said with such absolute certainty, such absolute recognition that a little thrill of excitement shot through him.

  The sense I had of being watched by—by kinfolk— it really was some of the Tylwyth Teg! There really are folk out of Faerie in this land.

  He stored that fascinating fact away for the moment. Far more important to put the fear of Faerie into these folk.

  How? He didn't speak their tongue; they certainly didn't speak his! But to have Cadwal translate for him— no. That would definitely spoil the effect.

  "Stand beside me," he murmured to the mercenary. "Where they can see you clearly. But say nothing."

  Putting on his most regal, most haughty pose, guessing that they could see enough of him in the ever-brightening light to appreciate the effect, Ardagh began in the Sidhe language, using gestures to help the meaning along, "You are not to harm the man Cadwal ap Dyfri!"

  Cadwal, with a perfect sense of drama, moved to Ardagh's side as suddenly as though conjured, his face absolutely blank of expression. All three men started, all three made furtive signs against evil.

  "You are not to harm Cadwal ap Dyfri, not by weapons"—that was easy to pantomime—"nor by Sendings!"

  That was not quite as simple, but from the way they flinched, wide-eyed, when he imitated a man concentrating on spellcasting, they got the point of it.

  "I have taken Cadwal ap Dyfri under my protection!" Ardagh told them fiercely, and placed a possessive hand on the mercenary's shoulder; Cadwal obligingly didn't stir a muscle, and the prince bit back a smile. You'd make a fine performer, my mercenary friend. "Do you understand what I'm saying, you ignorant, pathetic would-be fools of magicians? I have taken Cadwal ap Dyfri under my protection!"

  Oh yes, they understood! They were nodding and bowing to Ardagh and Cadwal both and edging nervously away, radiating fear. In their eyes was the worried, almost studious look of three men who have suddenly decided to change their land and occupation.

  Ardagh stifled the urge to shout, "Boo!" after them to speed them along, and stood in aristocratic stillness, smiling thinly, watching them go.

  There, now. He relaxed, removing his hand from Cadwal's shoulder. "I told you I meant to get back my sword. More to the point, there will be no more tormenting dreams for you."

  "You mean those were the sorcerers? Those three pathetic little nothings were the ones who almost drove me mad? Damnio! You should have let me kill them."

  There was a brittle edge to Cadwal's voice; this was, for all his strength, a man at the end of endurance. "Those are not worth the staining of your sword or honor," Ardagh told him quietly.

  "Yes, but—"

  "They weren't sorcerers; nothing so grandiose as that. Only three more or less ordinary men with a touch of Power and a terror of disobeying their master,"

  "Yes, but still, all those terrible nights, them daring to touch my memories of—of Gwen . . ."

  "Tsk, Cadwal, did you think I would let them escape unpunished? Do you grant me Avengers Right?"

  "What—"

  "Do you grant me Avengers Right?"

  "Uh, yes, I guess—"

  "Good!" Ardagh grinned sharply—and judging from Cadwal's shocked start, it wasn't at all a human grin. "Wait. I should be able to do this properly, even in this Power-weak Realm." The prince shut his eyes, seeing the three bland faces, holding them in his mind, firm in his mind . . . yes. He gathered his will, his inner strength, gathered it, gathered it . . . yes! Ardagh hurled fear to their minds and fear to their hearts and fear to all their being, fear—

  The prince broke off, staggering with such sudden heavy weariness that he nearly fell. Cadwal instinctively reached out a steadying hand, then snatched it hastily back. "Dewi Sant preserve us, what did you do to t
hem? Fairly had me . . . ah . . . wetting myself, and I wasn't on the receiving end!"

  Ardagh managed a somewhat predatory grin. "Avenger's Right: the right to serve as surrogate avenger. You gave me the freedom to act: I sent a goodly shock of fear into their minds. Something to haunt their nights and shock them anew if ever they think of attacking you again." Something so basic shouldn't have drained me like this—but that's this cursed Realm for you.

  Cadwal was studying him with unreadable eyes. "What?" the prince asked breathlessly. "Didn't like that?"

  "I did, I'll admit it. Devious sort of revenge, but hell, after all those foul, sleepless nights, it's grand to think of them getting something good and nasty in payback. Just wouldn't want you as an enemy, that's all."

  "You're not. You won't be."

  "I won't be, right. Wouldn't be that stupid! I get the feeling Sidhe revenges aren't ever anything as simple or quick as death."

  "They're not," Ardagh said flatly. He took a deep breath, another, feeling his racing heartbeat beginning to slow back to normal, then frowned at the mercenary. "Now what's troubling you?"

  "Now I'm wondering: You couldn't do something like that to Osmod?"

  "Powers, no! Not without killing myself!" Ardagh started back towards cover, legs still shaky, Cadwal at his side. "It's one thing to send fear into three nearby minds," the prince continued, "minds touched with just enough Power to hear me but lacking true evil's strength. Osmod, on the other hand . . ." He shrugged expressively.

  "Is neither soft nor untouched by evil. Got it."

  Ardagh glanced sideways, not liking the shadow he saw in Cadwal's eyes. "She could never have returned," he said very gently. "Even if your lady's soul really had been snared, freeing her would have meant sending her on to . . . to wherever."

  "I know that," Cadwal snapped, then shuddered. "Didn't mean to attack you. And at least now I know Gwen really is safe. It's just . . . damnio. I almost wish Morfren had killed—"

  "While we're on the subject of killing," the prince said hastily, "why did you let Morfren live?"