by Ann Marston
Cullin grinned. “He stole that one,” he said. “Or mayhap he inherited it, the owner no longer being in need of a sword. He took it away from a bounty hunter, and killed the man with it. He was unarmed at the time. I was there. I saw it.”
The woman was about to say something else when Moigar came running into the tavern. Moigar never runs. His bulk made walking quickly a tedious chore. He looked around, spotted Cullin and hurried over to the table.
“I’ve come to warn you, Cullin,” Moigar said breathlessly. “The city guard be out searching for you.”
Cullin’s brows rose in inquiry. “Whyever for?”
Moigar collapsed onto a stool and fanned his sweating face with one hand. “One of those Isgardian troopers you encountered last night was apparently the cousin of the Ephir. You damaged him rather severely, I’m told. He be after your blood.”
I reached for the ale jug. “I knew this would happen sooner or later,” I said. “So why not today? The rest of the day has been perfectly delightful too.”
Cullin cocked an eyebrow at me. “How long did they stay annoyed with us last time?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Three or four seasons?” I said. “I’m not sure. But that time it was only the Captain of the City Guard we tossed out of the tavern. For the cousin of the Ephir, it might take a little longer.”
“He be nursing a broken nose,” Moigar said, a smug upturn at the corners of his mouth. “He be a vain man, be Tergal. He won’t take kindly to anything might spoil his attraction for the ladies.”
“Perhaps half a year, then,” Cullin said. “Or even a year.”
“Trevellin near the Falinor border is pleasant this time of year, I’m told,” I said. “And they have need of merchant train guards.”
Cullin finished his mug of ale before he stood. “Aye,” he said. “Mayhap it’s best if we take ourselves out of the way of trouble for a while. It willna take long to get the horses.”
“I’ll find your men, Cullin,” Moigar said. “And send them on to Trevellin to meet you.”
We walked out into the street, right into a knot of seven Honandun city guards.
Cullin stopped dead in the street and stared at the Isgardian troopers. He swore loudly and an expression of acute dismay spread across his face. The Isgardians saw it and began to grin in anticipation of chopping us into stewing chunks.
“Seven of them,” Cullin said in disgust.
“Aye,” I said, knowing my part. “And only two of us.”
“Outnumbered,” Cullin said.
“Indeed.”
Cullin watched the troopers draw their swords and slowly drew his own. “This is an insult,” he said. “Only seven for two of us.”
I drew my own sword and moved to his left side. “It isna fair,” I agreed. “But then, mayhap they dinna know any better, ti’vati.”
Cullin tested the balance of his sword and grinned. “Only three each and we’ll have to share the last.”
I heard the hissing susurration of drawn steel. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the woman, Kerridwen al Jorddyn, step up to Cullin’s right side.
“Two each, and we can flip for the one left over,” she said firmly. “Crowns, he’s mine. Falcons, you can share him.”
The grins on the faces of the Isgardian troopers faded. The leader eyed us warily and motioned his men to spread out in a bid to surround us. I swung around to cover Cullin’s back, saw the woman had already done so, then moved so that each of us had a full one-third arc of a circle to cover.
The good citizens of Honandun, never ones to become involved in another man’s quarrel with the City Guard, had scattered. The street in front of the tavern was deserted except for us and the troopers. That was good. I hated tripping over noncombatants in a fight. It spoiled your timing.
Cullin faced the troop leader, the grin widening on his face, the light of battle in his eyes. His earring glittered and swung as he snapped the long braid back over his shoulder out of his way. “They gather their courage, ti’rhonai,” he said. “I told you before that you should cover that face with a beard. It almost frightens me, too.”
I flexed my fingers on the hilt of my sword, feeling it settle against my palms, perfectly balanced. “No, it’s your teeth, ti’vati. I would—”
The troop leader sprang forward, his sword slicing down at Cullin’s belly. Cullin stepped back and shook his head in disappointment and well-feigned pity. “Did they no teach you anything about proper handling of swords, man?” he asked sadly, then whirled into action.
As the troop leader swung his sword, two of the troopers came at me, and I lost track of what Cullin was doing as I spun to meet them. I had spent seven years under the tutelage of one of the best swordmasters ever to come out of Tyra, a land renowned for its swordmasters. I was not the equal of Cullin dav Medroch, but I was more than a match for the two Honandun guards. They were slow and clumsy. I ran my blade through the thigh of the first even before he had his sword fully raised to strike. The second, wary now, leaped back, then attacked more cautiously.
I was at least a handspan taller than he, and my sword was longer. I had a lot of reach on him. He couldn’t get close enough to do any damage. In the end, tired of playing with him, I feinted a blow to his head, then lowered the sword and tangled it in his feet. He went down like a fallen tree and his sword went spinning out of his hand. I brought the flat of my blade down on the side of his head to discourage any thoughts he might have had about trying to retrieve the blade.
When I turned back, Cullin was standing with his foot across the throat of the troop leader, leaning on his sword, watching Kerridwen, the grin still in place. She had left one guard sitting in the dust of the street, moaning over a bleeding sword arm. The one guard still remaining fought desperately as she beat him inexorably across the street, her blade flashing almost too quickly to see.
“She moves well,” Cullin said calmly. “A bonny fighter, yon wee lassie. D’ye think she needs our help?”
“She disdains help from barbarians and savages,” I said. “Or so she told me this morning.”
“Ah.” He grinned again. “You could get the horses ready, I think. I’ll stay for a moment and discourage this fellow down here—” He gestured toward the guard leader who lay completely still, his throat under the sole of Cullin’s boot. “—from trying to stop us. She should be finished playing with that wee mannie fairly soon, now.”
“I suppose we’ll have to take her with us now,” I said.
“I suppose so. They’re going to be severely vexed with her after this, I fancy.”
I nodded, then sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
He laughed. “We owe it to her to get her away from here, at any rate. I’ll meet you at the stable in a few minutes.”
I sheathed my sword and left him still admiring the way Kerridwen handled her blade. The inn was only two streets away. I remembered Kerridwen had stayed at the inn as well, and flipped a copper to the stable boy.
“The lady Kerridwen’s horse,” I told him. “She’s in need of it in a hurry. Saddle it quickly and bring it here.”
He snatched the coin deftly out of the air and flashed me a wide grin. “Aye, sir,” he cried and darted to a box stall in the back of the stable.
By the time I had Cullin’s bay and my sorrel saddled, the boy had led a black mare out into the courtyard. I flipped him another coin and was rewarded by another grin. A moment later, Cullin and Kerridwen came dashing around the corner.
“We’re going that way,” I said, pointing south.
“I’m going with you,” she said. “I’m not letting you or that Rune Blade out of my sight until I sort out what’s going on.” She snatched the mare’s reins out of my hand, then turned and slapped a heavy leather pouch into Cullin’s hand. “That should cover your fee for the next season or two.”
Cullin weighed the pouch judiciously, bouncing it gently on his palm. “What say, Kian?” he asked me, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Do we take her along?”
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“If it were up to me, I’d tie her up and drop her down the nearest cistern,” I said. “And drop that bag in after her. Onto her head.”
“I take it that means yes,” Cullin said mildly.
I glanced at Kerri, who glared back. “Tcha-a-a-a,” I said, and mounted Rhuidh. “If we’re going, we’d best go before the whole of the Honandun guard comes boiling around that corner.”
Kerri vaulted into the mare’s saddle and crowded the horse close against the sorrel so that her knee pressed hard into mine. “And one more thing,” she said, her voice harsh. “If you ever try to kiss me again, or even touch me, I’ll carve out your liver for roasting, and feed it to you for breakfast. Is that quite clear?”
I pulled Rhuidh back a step and raised both hands, palms out in surrender. “I’d sooner kiss the mare,” I declared positively. “Or the sword. It would be warmer.”
Cullin was having trouble with the corners of his mouth again. He put up his hand to smooth his beard. “Kian’s right,” he said. “We’d best go.”
He kicked the stallion into a canter. Kerri gave me one last scowl, then urged the mare to follow. I said, “Tcha-a-a,” again, and followed.
X
We showed our heels to Honandun. We didn’t move with any particular alacrity, being fairly certain the city guard would not pursue us past the city gates, but we wasted no time, either. It had, after all, happened once or twice before when our welcome in the city had been temporarily withdrawn. Cullin’s reputation being what it was, there was always someone who thought to challenge him, and his ability also being what it was, the challenger almost always ended up predictably embarrassed. Given time, bruised pride eventually settled down again. Cullin also being the best merchant train guard on the continent, the merchants of Honandun usually managed to sort things out before we returned to the city.
If I had been expecting Kerridwen al Jorddyn to complain about the abrupt exit, or about the relatively arduous pace Cullin set, I was again mistaken. She rode in pensive silence, keeping up as well as I did. She was as good a horsewoman as she was a swordswoman. But I kept glancing at her to find her gaze, speculative and thoughtful, on me. Or, mayhap more correctly, on the sword I carried across my back.
It was nearly dusk when we left the track and found a small hollow in a copse of silverleaf and scrub oak by a thin thread of quiet water. I lit a small fire while Cullin unlimbered his bow and set out along the burn. Forty-five minutes later, a brace of fat rabbits sputtered and crackled on a spit over the fire. When we finished eating, Cullin announced he would take the first watch. I told him to wake me at moonset, then wrapped myself in my plaid and curled up amid a heap of bracken, and was asleep in minutes.
Cullin woke me just as the moon touched the tops of the trees behind him. As he settled himself for sleep, I wrapped my plaid around my shoulders and moved to sit by the fire, my back to the fire, watching the moon slip down behind the trees.
Guard duty at night leaves a man alone with his thoughts. Even while my eyes and ears remained alert and watchful, I could let part of my mind drift. I drew the sword and held it across my knees, then got my sharpening stone and cleaning cloth from the wallet at my belt. The last light of the moon picked out the runes engraved on the blade, and I ran my fingers across them thoughtfully.
“Can you read them?”
Kerri’s voice coming out of the darkness didn’t startle me. The part of my mind still standing guard had heard her rise from her place by the fire behind me.
“No,” I replied, not looking up. “Can you?”
She seated herself comfortably on the ground near me. I noted she, too, chose to sit with her back to the small fire so the light would not impair her night vision. She had, perhaps, done this sort of thing before.
“No, I can’t,” she said. “But then, it’s not my sword.”
“That makes a difference?” I bent over the blade, busy with the stone.
“It makes all the difference. No one can read the runes on another’s blade.” She watched me for a while as I ran the stone along the blade, honing it to a keener edge. We sat in silence for several minutes and she watched me care for the sword. Finally, she said, “Is it true, then? That story of how you came by the Blade?”
I made an exasperated noise. It was all the answer the silly question deserved. I pulled an oiled cloth from the pouch on my belt and wiped the sword blade carefully before I thrust it home in the scabbard. Then, still ignoring her, I stood and stretched like a cat. She muttered something under her breath I didn’t catch. I turned to see her looking up at me. There wasn’t enough light to read her expression, but her taut posture spoke louder than words. I heard her take a deep breath, let it out in a gust.
“Kian, I have to know how you come to have that sword,” she said, her voice under tight control. “I have to know.”
“I told you how I came by it,” I said. “If you choose to disbelieve me, there’s not much I can do about it, is there now?”
“But it’s a Celae Rune Blade—”
“For the last time, I took it from the man who owned it when he tried to take me back to a slave-owner.”
She shook her head. “You don’t understand. A Rune Blade won’t fight in a hand it wasn’t made for. It won’t accept the hand of a usurper.”
I smiled wryly. “It accepted the hand of the man I took it from.”
“No,” she said. “It let you kill him. Unarmed as you were, it let you take it from him and kill him with it.”
Exasperation welled up and exploded. “Swords don’t do that, sheyala. A sword is just a sword. A length of tempered steel. It’s not alive—”
“It’s not? You felt nothing when Whisperer met your blade?”
I shivered. I couldn’t forget that eerie thrumming singing through my body from the blade in my hands. “It’s not alive—”
“No, not alive,” she said softly. “But tuned like a harp to respond to a certain touch.”
“Tcha.” I turned away in disgust. No sense in arguing with her. She never listened.
“And there’s another thing about a Celae Rune Blade,” she said. “It finds the one it was made for. It may take a long time, but it will find the one who was born to wield it.”
“Like that bounty hunter?” I asked.
“The bounty hunter brought it to you,” she said. “And you can see the runes.” She shook her head. “Can you read, Kian?”
“A little,” I said. “A girl I once knew taught me how to read Falian.” For the first time in years, I thought of Rossah. Again, I saw her crouching behind the stable, drawing letters in the dust with a twig. I hadn’t thought of her for a long time. A house slave, she had been taught to read and write to assist Mendor’s scribe. The pain of loss had faded over time to a mild ache when I called her to mind. “And my ti’vata taught me Tyran.” I grinned. “She said a Clan Laird’s grandson should not be thought of as being completely ignorant, in spite of what opinion a Celae swordswoman might have on the subject.”
She leaped to her feet. “You certainly gave every indication of being stupid and ignorant,” she snapped. “You’ve more than your share of arrogance, even for a Tyran clansman. I could have handled all three of those mercenaries.”
I laughed. “You woke me up with all the racket you were making,” I said. “I couldn’t think of a faster way to quiet things down. Next time, pick a better place to prove how talented you are.”
She ignored the jibe. “You call Cullin ti’vati,” she said. “Father?”
I shrugged. “Foster-father. He officially adopted me when I was eighteen.”
She jerked as if I had hit her and stared at me. “Then you’re not Tyran?”
“Yes, I am,” I said. “Cullin is my uncle. My father was his elder brother. Both my parents died when I was seven. I’m Tyran.” And I was. Thoroughly Tyran.
“But the sword—”
I shrugged. “Mayhap it’s using me to take it to the proper hand,” I said and laughe
d. “If what you say about it is true. Now go and get some sleep, sheyala. It’s late.”
“What is that word you called me? Sheyala?”
“It’s Falian. It means Outlander.” I didn’t tell her, since all Falians considered non-Falians to be coarse, uncouth and completely uncivilized, it also meant barbarian. Mayhap she’d find out for herself. When she did, I’d have to be prepared to defend myself. Until then, it was a mild enough joke. “Go and get some rest.”
***
In the morning, Cullin appeared in no hurry to continue our journey. There were no signs of pursuit behind us, and the road stretched long and empty ahead of us. We broke our fast on the left-overs from our meal of the previous evening.
“Before we continue this,” he said to Kerri, “I wish to know what it is you expect from us for that generous purse you gave me yesterday.”
Kerri looked at him. “To help me find Prince Kyffen’s grandson,” she said.
“A tall order, sheyala,” I murmured. “Help you find a man you canna name, you canna describe and might not recognize if you saw. It’s like trying to find a single grain of wheat in a winter granary.”
“I’ll know him,” she said with conviction. She gave me an unreadable glance. “I’m sure of it.”
“How did it happen in the first place?” Cullin asked. “It’s unlike the Prince of Skai to misplace a daughter and a grandson, I would think.”
Kerri’s mouth straightened and tightened at the amusement in Cullin’s voice, but she made no comment on it. “A long story,” she said.
Cullin smiled. “We have five days’ journey to Trevellin,” he said. “Time enough for the longest story.”
She busied herself bundling her bedroll and tying it into a neat roll while she collected her thoughts. When she had it put together to her satisfaction, she made herself comfortable by the dying fire. “I’ll try to start at the beginning,” she said.
“A suitable place,” I said, smiling politely.
She shot me a withering glance. I smiled again.
“Prince Kyffen had two children,” she said, ignoring me now. “A son Llan, and a daughter Ytwydda, two years younger. Llan, of course, was the heir. Kyffen arranged with the Duke of Dorian for a marriage between Ytwydda and the Duke’s son Tebor when Ytwydda became fifteen. Kyffen and Duke Balan were close friends, and they hoped the marriage would secure the relationship between their two provinces.”
