Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  Oh yes, Thurs could end it quickly—for both of them, and probably most of the royal enclosure. But there were other sides to Thurs, just as for the other runes, and Ardagh hastily expanded his mental focus, welcoming the swarm of meanings, hunting for Thurs in all its aspects. Powers, this wasn't an easy way of magic, so cursedly complex, wasteful of Power. He was dimly aware of his body's panting, but he could still find: yes, here was something, Thurs as the wild creative force of sex, of life, and Ardagh grinned as the killing fire turned to a much more pleasant heat.

  Too pleasant. This had all taken only a few seconds of real time, but with a great wrenching of will, Ardagh pulled his mind from sudden hot, joyous thoughts of Sorcha, controlling himself as no human could, very well aware that Osmod was about to strike again. And very well aware, too, that there had to be a counterbalance for the fire that was Thurs.

  Yes! He struck back at Osmod with Is, Isa, ice and self-protection in one, cooling the fire, the sorcery, cooling the will, Osmod's will, dazing the human, befogging his senses. Yes, ah yes, and now, if only he could find—

  No. The force of Is hadn't held long enough; he simply didn't have the experience for that. Osmod might not have a Sidhe's Power, but he was certainly more skilled in the use of runes. Stunned, confused though he was, he could still strike back with another all too Powerful rune:

  Hagall, the prince realized, Haegl or whatever they call it here: Hail in all its essence of destructive force. Powers, he does mean to destroy us both!

  But the rune must have other sides, just like the others, and if he could only find them . . . find them quickly, because every second warding off something as fierce as Hagall was draining his strength to the point of danger. . . .

  Yes! With a great psychic effort, Ardagh twisted the rune's meaning about from negative to positive, menace to protection against that very menace, not even trying to tap into the greater sense of cosmic shielding.

  But before the prince could find a rune for counterbalanced attack, Osmod struck again, frantic with haste. This time, to Ardagh's shock, it was with a rune he didn't recognize, one that clearly wasn't used by the Lochlannach though his Sidhe senses caught the Saxon name, Daeg, and his Sidhe senses knew this was being cast in its most terrible aspect, the force of sheer, horrifying change.

  Osmod, you madman! You'll destroy us both, and the city with us!

  There had to be a safer side to this, but he didn't know the rune, he didn't know how to deal with it. Desperately prodding his wearying mind for a weapon, Ardagh seized upon the only rune he could find that was even remotely related: Ar, Ger, jera, he couldn't remember which was the Lochlannach name, which the Saxon, but it was the rune symbolic of the changing of the year, the normal, sane changing, relentless and hopeful. Nothing of wild chaos here—

  —and Daeg slid harmlessly away, its magic blunted, leaving the prince staggering and breathless with relief and the sudden uneasy return to balance.

  Whatever made me think I could win a duel like this? Foreign, so damnably foreign I don't know how to take the offensive.

  Instead, he was letting Osmod, merely human Osmod, drive him figuratively back and back, helpless to do more than just defend.

  Oh, you great dolt! Ardagh snapped at himself in a sudden blaze of fury. Of course you can't win a duel like this, never like this! You're letting Osmod set the rules, and you're actually playing by them. Think, curse you!

  Ae, yes. "You're weary, aren't you?" the prince called out suddenly over the roar of the wind, and felt the wall of Osmod's concentration shiver slightly. "Of course you're weary." Ardagh fought to hide the tired quiver in his own voice. "This is such a magic-weak Realm. We both know that. So very magic-weak. No wonder you tried to end our duel quickly. You knew you must end it before you just . . . fell over from exhaustion!"

  Ha, that stung! "I am strong enough," Osmod snapped. "And you are a fool to try besting me."

  "Oh, I was," Ardagh agreed smoothly. "I was a fool to think I could win a game you controlled. But it doesn't matter now. You never could wield much Power, could you?"

  "What nonsense are you—"

  "Of course you couldn't." Keep him off balance; don't give him a chance to think of the runes or he'll have us fighting into mutual collapse. "That's why you had to steal life force. For Power. Oh, and of course to appease your masters." He smiled at Osmod's quick, hastily suppressed start. "Yes, I know about the Darkness." Which is why I can't kill you with a blade. I cannot risk your blood opening a gateway. "You've been very clever at it, killing in the midst of all these folk with none suspecting."

  "Oh please. You can't expect me to confess to that."

  "Have I said anything about confessions? Tell me, Osmod, how many lives has it been? What, can't you remember?" No, you really can't, can you? And that bothers you not at all. "Come, how many lives have you stolen?"

  "Not as many as I shall." For a heart-stopping moment, the Darkness itself swirled about Osmod, for a moment Darkness burned coldly from his eyes. "Pretty words, Prince Ardagh. But I will not be lulled by them!"

  Power surged up about him again, but to Ardagh's immense relief, the Darkness faded, unable to find an opening. And this wasn't quite as strong a blaze of magic as before. "I was right," the prince exclaimed. "You really don't have much Power left. Not even with the blood-force you stole from Leofrun."

  Leofrun! There was the way out of this, so obvious it all but screamed in his face. Powers, yes, Leofrun and her sacrifice. Leofrun and justice. He'd been going about this all wrong. Not desperate defense or blind attack, no, but one specific attack: Justice.

  Ignoring the battle runes, the glyphs for fire, ice, death, Ardagh hunted through his mind till he'd found Reid, Rad, the heart of rightful choice, of honor, and Tyr, Teiwaz, the very essence of justice. He cast them both together, even though the strain of it blazed through his head, cast them both with all his weary will.

  Fire hit him, so suddenly he nearly screamed. Even as he was hurling Tyr and Reid at Osmod, Osmod was hurling Thurs's fury at him, and if there weren't any physical flames, the savage, all-engulfing pain was still very real.

  "No," Ardagh gasped out, and "no," again, willing, There is no fire, no pain: I do not acknowledge them. There is no pain! There was nothing but the two runes Reid and Tyr, honor and justice, honor and justice, honor and . . .

  Leofrun. Soft and silent as fog, she moved to Osmod's side, her face tranquil, her eyes dreamy. Soft and silent as fog, she enfolded him in her arms. Ardagh gasped in relief as the fire vanished. He saw the shock in Osmod's eyes as he struggled against fog that yielded yet would not disperse. But he also felt the Darkness rousing and swirling all about, hunting for the smallest crack into Reality.

  Act, a chill, indifferent nonvoice told him. Or act not.

  It hardly mattered to the Darkness. There was, It told him without words, no way for It to lose and he to win. Leofrun couldn't hold back the Night, not alone, not even she, innocent, willing sacrifice though she'd been. If she fell, the Darkness would tear her being into mist, and there would be the gateway. Ardagh could never overcome Osmod's magic in time to save her, but if he killed with a blade, blood would be shed—and there would be the gateway. And he, finite, useless creature, could do nothing for there was no justice, no hope, only endless . . . indifference.

  A cold, clear flame of purest rage blazed up in Ardagh. Kill Osmod? So I shall—but not on Your terms, old Darkness, never on yours!

  He was Sidhe, born of magic, born of music and pitiless honor. He was Sidhe and yes, there is justice and yes, there is hope. Wild with that pure, pure rage, the prince cried out, "I claim Avenger's Right through she who was Leofrun! I claim Avenger's Right for all the lives you stole! Hear me, Osmod! Hear me!"

  And the prince cried out a spell that was a wild new mingling of runic and Sidhe Power. It was shaped without thought, shaped by fiercest instinct, shaped with all the savage blaze of will within him as he hurled it straight at Osmod:

  "Ma
y you be consumed as is

  the wood upon the fire,

  May you shrink as does

  the frost beneath the sun,

  May you fail as water in a drought,

  May you fall as helpless as a withered grain.

  You are Smallness,

  You are Weakness,

  You are Powerless!

  You are Nothing!

  You are Nothing!

  You are Nothing!"

  Osmod fought back. Strangling, choking, Osmod fought with all the desperate strength of a man in flames. His Power surging up with one last blinding blaze, too much, far too much—all at once far more than any one mortal frame could hold. Ardagh felt Osmod's heart tear itself apart as the spell engulfed him, saw Osmod scream, the sound drowned out by the roar of the wind. Wide-eyed with horror, the sorcerer stumbled to his knees, still struggling to rise, still struggling to live even as his body died. With a sudden roar of thunder, the whirl of Powerful wind was gone.

  And Osmod's life went with it.

  The Morning After

  Chapter 38

  The savage wind was suddenly gone, so suddenly that Cadwal, who'd been helplessly pressed back against a wall, staggered forward with a startled grunt. Iesu, almost morning. The sorcerous battle had gone on for nigh all the night.

  Never would have believed I'd have thought about something like that. Or seen it, for that matter. Whatever it was I saw.

  Look there, that crumpled form was the sorcerer Osmod, lying close by his victim, that poor innocent, whatever her name had—Leofrun, that was it. No doubt about whether she was dead, God have mercy on her. As for the other: After a battle, you checked the foe first, made sure he wasn't going to spring up behind your back while you were examining your own wounded. Cadwal approached as warily as he would someone feigning death on a battlefield, but one touch of his hand to the man's wrist and one glance at the staring eyes told the story clear enough: The man's heart had given out during the battle and slain him.

  And not surprising, since it was magic putting the strain on it. Iesu, there I go again, thinking that so calmly.

  Och, but the prince! To Cadwal's relief, Prince Ardagh was very much still alive and looked to be unhurt but, judging from the way he'd dragged himself wearily up on one elbow without even glancing up, was in no Condition to get any farther.

  Hell of a place for him to collapse. And what do I do if he passes out altogether? Sling him over my shoulder and run for it?

  Just as Cadwal reached the princes side, the doors of the Great Hall burst open, releasing a horde of wild-eyed ealdormen. Like so many frightened calves out of a barn, Cadwal thought, and drew his sword, holding it in the casual "not quite a threat yet not quite not one, either" manner he'd long ago learned was more effective than any outright menace.

  And look, here came King Egbert, disheveled as though he, too, had been caught by the wind. Cadwal saw his eyes widen at the sight of the three fallen bodies, two of them dead, then caught a flash of genuine pain on the royal face at the realization that one of the dead was Leofrun.

  Sure enough: "Leofrun," the king breathed. Of course, Cadwal thought, it wasn't properly regal for him to go and check the bodies himself; instead, Egbert gestured to one of the attending servants.

  "Don't bother," Cadwal said laconically. "They're dead, the both of them." He saw renewed pain in the king's eyes, and thought with a touch of surprise, So he did care something about her after all.

  But the crowd was just now noticing the third figure, Prince Ardagh, and to his disgust, Cadwal heard words like "treason" and "murderer" being bandied about.

  "Och, stop that nonsense!" he snapped, pitching his voice to ring out as though these were nothing but raw new recruits. Into the startled silence he'd created, Cadwal continued, "He didn't murder anyone. You want to know who killed the poor lass, look at the knife at that one's side." His jerk of the head took in Osmod's corpse. "Blood on it, blood on him, not a drop on the prince here."

  Of course they turned, of course they looked. And of course they couldn't miss seeing that truth. Egbert stared at Cadwal, eyes cold and exceedingly regal. "What happened here?"

  Was he expected to cringe? I'm in the service of the High King of all Eriu, you arrogant Saesneg. I'm not going to be overawed by the likes of you. "What happened," Cadwal drawled, "is that your late ealdorman over there was leading a secret life. As a sorcerer."

  He had the satisfaction of seeing the king actually recoil. "What madness is this?"

  Cadwal shrugged. "Only madness was maybe on his part. Look you, there's your poor lass lying dead as his victim. And if I were you, I'd start checking back to see who else at your court met a mysterious death or just out-and-out disappeared."

  "Physician Octa," someone murmured, and Cadwal saw the king wince. "Octa," Egbert echoed, "yes. My poor Leofrun . . . you really were telling the truth, weren't you? You were telling the truth about Osmod, and none of us would listen."

  Cadwal remembered the prince's words about magical persuasion and nodded. "Right. And I'll wager the lot of you that you're suddenly finding your minds a good deal clearer than they've been in days." He met the king's eyes and saw it as blatant truth. Egbert was suddenly realizing exactly what had been happening to him.

  Which isn't necessarily a good thing for the prince and me. Kings don't like the folks who point out their failings, and Egbert isn't going to like our presence reminding him that he'd put his trust in that bastart Osmod.

  But before Cadwal could say anything nice and noncommittal, Prince Ardagh was struggling to his feet, pale with exhaustion but somehow managing to stand proudly straight of back. "I am not a traitor, King Egbert." His voice was faint but steady. "I am neither oathbreaker nor assassin. You know that, King Egbert. Swear to it."

  "I don't see what—"

  "Swear to it."

  There was just the barest hint of . . . what? Cadwal wondered. Not anything as easily defined as menace. Just a matter-of-fact, You will do this.

  "Of course you aren't an assassin," the king said suddenly, his sharp sweep of a hand saying, it's not important.

  Leave it, Cadwal pleaded silently to the prince. Don't push this any further.

  But: "Swear to it," Prince Ardagh repeated, staring directly at the king.

  Few humans, Cadwal thought, could meet the steady gaze of a Sidhe. Even one who was half-dead on his feet. "Prince Ardagh," Egbert said in an angry rush, "you are no assassin, traitor nor oathbreaker, as far as it is in my knowledge; I swear to this. Your honor, Prince Ardagh, is clean. Now do not press this matter any further. There is . . ." His voice faltered as his glance rested on, flinched away from, Leofruns body. "There is much to be done."

  "And we," Cadwal cut in as urbanely as he could, "will not be disturbing you any longer." Ah yes, that sounded properly elegant. "If you will but grant us horses, we shall be returning to Eriu this very day." Before you decide to see that we, your embarrassingly awkward guests, meet with some sort of "accident."

  For a long moment, he was sure that the king was going to refuse. But just when Cadwal was wondering if there was any possible way for one swordsman and one bone-weary Sidhe to fight their way free, Egbert waved a brusque hand. "Granted. You are free to take your leave."

  Ardagh stood in starlight, leaning lightly on the rail of the ship taking him back to Eriu and still feeling very fragile. This was, according to Cadwal, the first time he'd been truly conscious since they'd left Uintacaester.

  I'll have to accept his word for it, since I don't remember a thing. That was, as Cadwal would put it so delicately, one hell of a duel with Osmod.

  He shuddered, thinking about it. In the Sidhe Realm, such a duel would have been over with elegant swiftness. Here . . . all night. All night to finally put an end to Osmod—and nearly to himself as well, from sheer exhaustion. At least, Ardagh thought wryly, Cadwal had assured him that the journey here had been most wonderfully uneventful.

  Ae, Cadwal. I owe him a great deal.


  Ha, here was the man now, looking wan and uncertain.

  "Ships," the mercenary muttered.

  Ardagh chuckled. "I won't ask you, then, how you're feeling."

  "How I'm feeling," Cadwal said shortly, "is that once I get my feet back on solid land, I am never, ever leaving it again." He glanced balefully at the prince. "Glad to see at least one of us is healthy again."

  "Mostly. Ae, we make a fine pair. The triumphant heroes returning," with heavy irony, "home."

  "At least we have one," the mercenary countered. "Even if it's not our own."

  He staggered away before the prince could find a retort. Ardagh grinned ruefully and returned to looking out over the peaceful water. He shifted his weight slightly to match the ship's roll, and the runes still in their pouch at his side clicked together as though reminding him of their presence. Them, and the possibility of new magics.

  And the possibility, too, of renewed interest from the Darkness.

  No. He wouldn't worry about possibilities of any sort, not right now.

  Save, perhaps, for one? Ardagh thought with a sudden shiver of wistfulness, Sorcha. It seemed impossible that all this long, convoluted journey had taken such a short stretch of human time, a few of their months, no more. But it would hardly have seemed brief for her.

  Does she still worry about me? Does she still think of me? Does she—ah Powers, does she even still love me?

  He'd been too weary lately to even try contacting her, but all at once Ardagh couldn't bear to wait any longer. No one was close enough to overhear, so he took out the small amulet and began his call.

  "Ardagh!" Sorcha answered so suddenly and fiercely that Ardagh started and nearly dropped the amulet.

  "Sorcha, I—"

  "Where were you? Where in the name of—where the hell were you? And where are you now?"

  "Right now, love, I'm on a ship headed back to Eriu."

  There was a long silence on her part. Then Sorcha murmured in a voice that wasn't quite steady, "God be praised. God and whatever Powers kept you safe be praised. But where were you? Surely not in Uintacaester all this while!"