Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi)

by Ann Marston

  Closing my eyes, I leaned back, tilting my head until it rested against the bole of the elm. Two days since I had been taken? Three? Surely Cullin was now following the trail. He would set the whole of Honandun on its ear searching for me, as efficiently and easily as he had set the inn of the Sword and Crown on its ear. Even the Ephir could not simply ignore the kidnapping of the grandson of Medroch dav Kian of Broche Rhuidh, a man near as powerful in his own country as the Ephir was in his.

  A shadow fell across my face. I opened my eyes to see Drakon standing over me, silhouetted against the light of the fire behind him.

  “Have you grown too proud to eat my bread?” he asked.

  I closed my eyes again.

  “Your arrogance will not last long once we get across the Maeduni border,” Drakon said. I heard his feet rustle in the grass as he moved. A glance through slitted lashes showed him just out of kicking distance, his shoulder propped against a tree. “If you’re waiting for your friends to come for you,” he went on, “you’ll be waiting for eternity.”

  I looked up at him. He bared his teeth in a cruel parody of a smile.

  “Eight years ago, you took a woman from me,” he said. “A woman I genuinely looked forward to having. That debt is repaid now.” The smile widened into a ripe sneer. “We caught the carriage before it got too far away. A most spirited woman, your Celae sword-wielder. She provided me and my men much entertainment before I cut her throat. Rather a waste, but she was not worth the trouble of bringing along.”

  My hands spasmed on my knees. Something squeezed my heart in my chest and the breath clogged in my throat. I tried to tell myself he was lying, but I knew. The link with the sword, the link with Kerri, was no longer there. It had been gone since I had regained consciousness. She had said the bonding was breakable only by death. If the bond was gone, there could be only one reason for it.

  “You needn’t think to wait for your friend to rescue you, either,” he said bluntly. “Your big Tyr is dead, too. Tergal ordered him killed as he left the Ephir’s palace. An easy bowshot from a second storey window. I’m told your friend took the arrow in the spine just below his neck. He’s quite dead, I assure you.”

  I looked up at him. “I owe you blood debt for three deaths, then, Drakon,” I said hoarsely.

  He sneered. “You are in no position to claim blood debt,” he said. He laughed, a low, nasty sound in the stillness of the night. “Tomorrow evening, perhaps, when I am less fatigued, I think I will see how well that hair of yours burns. Will the flame be the same colour as the hair?” He touched his damaged ear and smiled. “It will be pleasant to hear you scream as I did.” He paused to consider his next remark. “I remember it being very painful. I wonder if I remember aright. Ah well, you shall soon be able to tell me.”

  ***

  I searched fruitlessly through my dreams for the hill crowned by the dance of stone, for any sign of the Watcher on the Hill. I found nothing but a cold, dead, blighted land, the grass burnt and flaked to ash beneath my feet. Skeletons of blasted trees raised branches, wasted and withered by the desolation, in supplication to a pitiless, ash-clogged sky, colourless and bleak as banished hope. I walked the salt-strewn ground, the only thing moving in all that vast, devastated landscape. Ash stirred up by my feet rose to hang in a dry, choking haze around me. There was no help here, no hope of aid. My soul shrivelled until it was as lifeless and arid as the land.

  ***

  I awoke with moonlight spilling through the trees, my vision blurred. Bright sparkles radiated out from the edges of the moon through the prism of the tears standing in my eyes. I had not shed tears since the day so long ago when I had wept for Rossah. My grief for Cullin demanded more than mere weeping. It raged for vengeance, as did Kerri’s humiliation and death at the hands of Drakon’s Maeduni mercenaries. I lay curled around my raw misery, feverish and ill, and wept until there were no more tears within me. There was no solace in knowing Sion dav Turboch was there to see Cullin properly home even if there was no one who would ever see me home to Tyra; there was no one to perform the final ritual for me.

  The moon stood directly overhead when I levered myself to a sitting position beneath the elm tree. Only dim embers glowed in the firepit. Lumpy figures wrapped in cloaks and blankets lay randomly placed around the fire, unmoving. Occasionally, the low snoring of deep sleep carried on the still air.

  A sentry sat against a tree several metres from me, head down, chin against his chest, hands slack on his knees. I watched him for a few moments, but he did not move.

  As I lay there, listening to the night sounds of sleeping men and moving water, a plan born of fever and desperation formed slowly. Images of the General kneeling before the disembowelled corpse in Frendor danced vividly in my head. Other pictures flashed through that memory—the agonized screams of tortured men as Mendor’s stock-tenders left them eunuchs, writhing in the filth of the sheep pen.

  I would not let them do that to me. By all the seven gods and goddesses, they would not do that to me. Ill and hurt I might be, but they had not taken away my ingrained stubbornness.

  Slowly, carefully, I tested my feet. I felt them move in my boots. My hands were numb, the fingers too thick and clumsy to untie the knots in the thongs around my ankles. I could not walk, and I could not ride, but if I had the courage for it, there might be one means of escape, dare I try it. It was dangerous. I might not survive, but if I died this way, I would at least accomplish half of my purpose. I would cheat Drakon out of the pleasure of torturing me, and I would deprive the General of any benefit he might gain in my death.

  I turned onto my belly and glanced at the sentry. Still, he had not moved. Slowly, painfully, I crept forward on knees and elbows, hunching and straightening like a measuring worm.

  Something rustled in the grass behind me. “Crawling suits you,” Drakon’s voice said, full of malevolent amusement. “I have been patient enough with you. My patience is now at an end.”

  I eeled around to see him behind me, silhouetted against the moonlight The pale light gleamed softly on the dagger he carried. He took a step toward me. All the anger, all the pain, all the grief swirling through me suddenly coalesced into cold, white rage. My body tensed like a leaf-spring, waiting for him to take that last step which would place him close enough.

  He shifted his grip on the haft of the dagger and lunged at me. I drew my feet back, then lashed out. One of my feet caught him on the hip bone and the shock of it travelled clear up my spine. The other foot sank into the softness of the pit of his belly. He screamed shrilly, and I heard an answering shout from the suddenly awakened men by the fire.

  I rolled desperately, closer to the bank of the river. A sudden, crushing sensation caught me and pinned me to the ground as securely as if I had been arrow-shot. I was less than an arm’s-length from the lip of the riverbank, but I could not move. Breathing hurt, and my heart felt squeezed between the jaws of a vice. Dergus moved out of the trees and stood over me, grinning wolfishly, as Mendor stooped to help Drakon to his feet.

  “He’s still bespelled,” Dergus said casually. “I’ve deepened it. He won’t move.”

  Leaning most of his weight on his father, Drakon limped closer. He drew back his foot and kicked me above the hipbone. I had not even the breath left to cry out in pain.

  “I’ll kill him,” Drakon shouted. “I will kill the bastard—”

  “You will not,” Mendor said, pulling him back. “Not yet.”

  “Look what he did to me,” Drakon raged, spittle flying from his lips in a fine spray. “I will kill him—”

  “You will have your time with him,” Mendor said. “Come.”

  Dergus stooped and put his hand to my head. “He’ll cause no more trouble now,” he said.

  Nausea gripped my belly and I felt as if I moved far away from myself. From a great distance, I watched Mendor lead Drakon back to the fire. The weight released me, and I drew in a great, rasping breath. When I tried to move, I found I could not.


  I felt detached and separated from my body. I knew what Dergus had done to me, but was unable to care. When two of the guards dragged me back under the elms, all I could do was close my eyes and sleep.

  ***

  For five days we rode eastward across land flat as a plate. The horizon stretched interminably ahead like a fine wire, unbroken by hills or even trees. The grass, already browning under the heat of the sun, rustled beneath the hooves of the horses, and clouds of insects rose like drifts of smoke, to mark our passage. Occasionally, I saw a small farmstead huddled in the shelter of the trees lining the river, the only water on this vast plain.

  As the days passed, the feeling that my head was wrapped in wool did not decrease, nor did the strange, floating sensation of detachment. The bruises on my chest and hips gradually healed, turning from the colour of ripe eggplant to ugly saffron and green, then fading entirely. Riding became easier as the pain diminished, and I was able to move with the rhythm of the horse with a little less difficulty. They had loosened the bonds at my wrists enough so that the swelling in my hands had gradually disappeared. I rode between two Maeduni guards, one of them with the lead rope of my horse tied to his saddle, the other, behind me, holding a rope tied in a noose around my neck. The message was more than clear. If I tried to escape, my neck would be snapped as easily as the neck of a felon on a gibbet, but I was no more danger to them than one of the rabbits that fled the hooves of the horses in the thick grass.

  At the head of the small column, Mendor, Drakon and Dergus set a harsh pace. We travelled from dawn to after sunset, making up to ten leagues a day.

  About mid morning of the sixth day, I saw the first faint outline of mountains to the north on the horizon. The looked like little more than a low bank of cloud that faded to nothing in the east, but they marked the southern border of Tyra. We were not more than fifteen leagues from the northeast border of Isgard where Tyra, Maedun and Isgard come together, and not more than three or four leagues from Maedun. Something tugged at my heart, a ghost of longing, but it was gone before I could grasp onto it.

  Shortly after midday, Mendor and Drakon swung sharply south. An hour later, we turned off to follow a rutted track along the river. It was a little cooler with the water close and the thick stands of trees lining the bank.

  We rounded a bend in the track to find the walls of an isolated landholding directly ahead. As we approached, the gates swung open, and shut with a clang behind us as we passed through.

  Mendor, Drakon and Dergus dismounted and tossed the reins of their horses to servants who came running. With bemused indifference, I recognize Lord Balkan descending the wide steps to the courtyard to meet them. I suppose it was too much to hope he had not survived the conflagration in Frendor if the others had escaped.

  One of the Maeduni soldiers cut the bonds that lashed my ankles to the stirrups, and hauled me down from the horse. I stumbled as I hit the ground and the soldier jerked me back roughly by the rope around my neck. Docile and passive as a lap dog, I let him lead me away.

  ***

  My head felt clear for the first time since Dergus had touched me at the river bank. The apathetic detachment had faded gradually since I had been thrown into the small, dank cell. I had no way of telling how much time had gone by. A narrow slit of a window, barely wider than the breadth of my hand, let in a faint glimmer of light and the faint sound of moving water.

  The scraping of a key turning in the lock of the door sounded overly loud in the quiet. I looked up from the corner where I sat huddled against the damp stone walls of the cell. The heavy door opened ponderously and showed the silhouette of a man framed against the dazzle of the evening sun. It took me several moments to recognize Drakon. Behind him stood two guards.

  I struggled to my feet, my back pressed against the dank stone wall. I couldn’t remember the last time they had given me food or water, and I was dizzy and weak, unsteady on my feet as a newborn colt. Drakon took two steps into the cell and it gave me no little satisfaction to note that he limped slightly.

  “They have an interesting custom in Maedun,” he said, his voice slurred as if he were partly drunk. “They brand their slaves on the cheek and breast. We’ve never done that in Falinor. We think it lowers the value of a slave to disfigure him. Balkan has an excellent blacksmith here. He’s made me a very nice branding iron with my House crest on it.”

  I said nothing. I needed my breath and my strength to remain erect.

  “I can’t decide whether I should have you branded before or after I put you into the hands of the Herdmaster.” The tone of his voice was both falsely musing and mocking at the same time.

  A wracking cough bent me over when I tried to reply. I straightened slowly, catching my breath, and looked at him. “I willna care much after, I expect,” I said with false calm, determined he would not goad me into the outburst he obviously wanted.

  “I would think you’re right. It will be interesting to find out.” He laughed softly. “They’re waiting for you in the stock pen,” he said. “And I’m ready to be entertained.”

  “Hellas take your black soul, Drakon,” I whispered hoarsely. The rock of the wall felt cold and slimy beneath my fingers, like the skin of a fish. Cold rage burned quivering in my chest. “I will lay a curse on you with my dying breath before the General kills me. I have magic. Magic the General wants. You can’t escape the curse. Have you ever watched a man die of a curse, Drakon?”

  Drakon stepped back quickly, his face paling. He gestured to the guards behind him. “Bind his hands,” he told them. “Then bring him along.”

  The last glow of sunset dazzled my eyes after so long in the dark cell, but the fresh air revived me and I felt a little stronger. I allowed myself to stumble and stagger as the guards pulled me along, each with a hand on one of my arms.

  They led me out through a small gate in the wall past two sentries armed with bows held ready. Ahead, near the bank of the river, stood a long, low open shed facing onto a pen ringed around with a rail fence. The pen was empty save for one man dressed only in a pair of trews and a leather apron that covered most of his chest and hung to his knees. He barely glanced our way as we came out through the gate into the meadow.

  The only entrance to the pen was on the side nearest the shed, close to the river bank. The path was narrow and my guards had to walk in the grass alongside it to maintain their grip on my arms. We were nearly to the pen when the guard nearest the bank tripped on something hidden in the grass and went sprawling onto his face. He lost his grip on my arm as he fell, swearing, and pulled me away from the other guard. The second guard made a startled exclamation and instinctively turned toward the fallen guard.

  I stood there, confused only for the instant it took me to realize I was free. Instinct took over. I was less than five strides from the river. I whirled and began running clumsily. I heard a whirring rush of air, like the slither of an animal in dry grass, then something struck me a hard blow on the shoulder. The point of an arrow penetrated deep enough to pierce my shoulder and protrude through my shirt just below my collar bone.

  Even as I began to fall, I hurled myself desperately toward the bank, muttering a prayer to all the seven gods and goddesses. I dived forward and gave myself to the river. The last thing I heard before I hit the water was Drakon shouting incoherently at the guards in rage, demanding they plunge into the river after me.

  The shock of the cold water made me gasp. I swallowed a double handful of the muddy water, coughed and choked, then rolled onto my back in an effort to keep my face above the water. Air trapped in my filthy shirt and plaid helped but probably wouldn’t for long.

  Tentatively, hesitantly, I reached for the healing power, afraid of what I would find—or not find. At the first touch of that vast, chilling void, I drew back, shuddering.

  The current swept me quickly past the tree-lined bank, westward to the sea. I fought only to keep my face above the bubbling surface. I lay on my back in the water, watching the stars slowl
y appear one by one against the black curtain of the sky. The trees along the riverbank became only darker black shadows against the faint glow of the sky, moving with incredible speed. I had not realized the current was so swift.

  Then, caught in a wide sweep of a bend, the river spun me like a fallen autumn leaf. Even as I struggled to right myself, the current slammed me into something hard and unyielding. A dead tree, half submerged, stripped of all but a few sharp stumps of branches. One of the stubs stabbed into my chest and caught me there . Even as I struggled to free myself, the force of the water slammed my shoulder against the solid wood of the trunk and the arrow shaft broke. Pain tore through my shoulder, blinding in its intensity, and I lost consciousness.

  XXI

  I stared directly into the face of the oddest apparition I ever remembered seeing. Grizzled, unkempt hair spiked out in all directions around the sharp-featured face. He looked like a silver northland owl, bushed out in its winter plumage. Black eyes, deep-set beneath shaggy white eyebrows, yet bright and inquisitive as a wren’s, held cheerful amusement and avid interest. The skin around his eyes and covering the wide brow was curiously unlined and smooth, making a startling contrast of youth and age between it and the flaring halo of wild, grey hair. A wide, gap-toothed grin beamed from behind the bush of frizzy beard. I gaped in amazement for a moment, then shuddered and closed my eyes, hoping that if this were another nightmare, it would go away quietly and leave me to die in peace. Or if I were dead and this was Hellas, that it would let me be and allow me to suffer my due torments in solitude.

  The apparition cackled merrily. “Ye can open yer eyes, lad,” it said. “I be no wraith from Hellas come to carry ye off. Just old Jeriad, I be. Old mad Jeriad, they calls me. Mostly harmless, they says.”

  I opened my eyes again. With something close to bemusement I saw that the face had not gone away, nor had it changed. Only vaguely curious, I looked around. I lay between two layers of furs and skins on what might have been a pile of bracken in a semicircular room walled in undressed stone. Dim natural light filtered in from somewhere, and a single guttering torch giving off more smoke than light cast writhing shadows around the room.