The Sword and the Chain

by Joel Rosenberg

  *Build and enjoy.*

  * * *

  The first wall went up much more quickly than Karl would have believed possible.

  It wasn't just because of the woodknife's ability to turn the felling, stripping, and shaping of a tall pine from a tedious affair into something that took only minutes, helpful as that was.

  And it wasn't just Ellegon's great strength, although that certainly helped, too.

  Ellegon would seize the blunt end of a stripped log in his massive jaws and drag it from where it fell to where the empty post hole was. That made harnessing the horses unnecessary, although Riccetti could and did rig a block, tackle, and twenty-foot-tall tripod. With that, and with the aid of the mules and the cannibalized harnesses from the flatbed, Karl, Walter, and Ahira could raise the upper end of a log into its proper position and lower the flat end into its hole, before packing dirt around the now-upright log to keep it steady.

  And it wasn't just that all of them worked hard, although they certainly did.

  Ellegon hauled logs, beginning work when the sky grew light, not quitting until well after dark. Fialt, Kirah, and Chak took turns with the woodknife, felling and stripping pines, keeping a constant supply of twenty-foot posts coming, as well as stacking the scraps for the cooking fires. Karl, Walter, and Ahira dug the holes and raised the posts. Andy-Andy and Aeia kept bowls of hot stew and pitchers of cold water coming from dawn to dusk. Ihryk and Tennetty hunted deer, duck, and rabbit, gathered wild garlic, onions, chotte, burdock, maikhe, and tacktob for the stewpot, stretching the supply of dried beef and putting off the time when it would become necessary to start converting the chickens from egglayers into roasters.

  What really made it all work was Riccetti.

  Lou always seemed to be at Karl's elbow, any time he needed a bit of advice or instruction. At times, he wondered if there weren't really three or four Lou Riccettis; others reported the same.

  Riccetti was the one who knew how to lash together a tripod of logs and throw together a wooden block and tackle to raise and support a pole, or turn a dozen saplings and a few hundred yards of rope into a double-lock bridge across the deep-bedded stream.

  He was the one who withheld a portion of the scrap wood, for Ellegon to roast slowly into wood tar, to be later distilled down to creosote, which would protect the palisade against insects and rot.

  Riccetti showed them how to lash the poles together at the top of the wall with wet leather strips, so that as the leather dried, it shrank and linked the individual poles together solidly.

  More important, he knew how to apportion the work so that no bottlenecks developed; Karl, Walter, and Ahira always had just enough poles to work with, without worrying about falling behind while unused ones accumulated, or letting valuable time go by while they waited for the next.

  Riccetti was, finally, in his own proper environment; Karl smiled at the little swagger his walk had developed.

  The sounds and smells of the dying were far away; the days passed quickly, filled with the sweet smell and unwashable stickiness of freshly cut pine, the stink of his own sweat, and the deep sleep brought on by hard labor.

  Chapter Seven

  Moving On

  Now hollow fires burn out to black, And lights are guttering low: Square your shoulders, lift your pack, And leave your friends and go.

  —Alfred Edward Housman

  It was a clear night. Andy-Andy lying still beside him, Karl stared up at the dome of stars.

  Downslope from them, halfway between them and the palisade wall, little Aeia huddled in her blankets, asleep at last. It had been a rocky night for the girl, filled with bad dreams and loud screams.

  If there is a hell, Orhmyst, you are surely there.

  "Andy," he whispered.

  "Yes?"

  He quirked a smile. She hadn't been sleeping either.

  "I've got to leave, for a while."

  She sucked air through her teeth, then rolled over on her side, facing him. She stroked his forehead with gentle fingers. "I know. You're worried about Pandathaway."

  "Not worried: terrified. If I stay here too long, I'm not just endangering myself." He patted her barely distended belly. "There's others involved, too."

  "Like Karl, Junior?" She grinned at him.

  "Even if it is a boy, we're not naming him after me. With a mother as pretty as you, he'll have enough of an Oedipus problem without saddling him with his father's name. Besides, it's probably a girl."

  "It will be a boy, Karl." Her face grew somber. "We women know about these things."

  "Bullshit." He snorted. "I think we know each other a bit too well for you to give me that sort of nonsense."

  "We do know about these things," she said, shrugging, "and we're right about, oh, fifty percent of the time."

  "Funny. Very funny. But you're changing the subject. Or trying to."

  "I'm starting to get fat, is that it? You're going to run off and find some sixteen-year-old—"

  "Shh." He put a finger to her lips. "Shh. Not even in jest. Please."

  A long pause. "How long will you be gone?"

  "Don't know for sure. Six months, at a minimum. Maybe closer to a year."

  "When?" she asked, her voice a low whisper.

  'Twere best done quickly. "In a day or two, I think. It won't take long to pack. I don't know if you've noticed, but Chak's getting itchy."

  "And so are you."

  There was more truth in that than he cared to admit. "No, it's not that. But this vacation has gone on long enough; it's time to get back to work."

  She rolled onto her back and stared up at the sky, her head pillowed on her hands. "Slicing up people. Some work."

  "Slicing up slavers. Or, if you want to be more accurate, my work is murdering slavers. But it isn't the words that matter, Andrea. You know that." Please, Andy, don't ever let the blood come between us. Please.

  She sighed deeply, and then closed her eyes. She lay quietly for so long that Karl began to wonder if she had fallen back asleep. "Who are you taking with you?"

  "Well, Chak, for one. He's seen more of the Eren regions than any of the rest of us, and he's pretty handy with a sword." Besides, he rankles at taking orders from anyone except me. I'm not leaving a time bomb behind. "I'd like to take Ellegon, but he's just too conspicuous." And he's also the most deadly being I know. He stays here, and keeps an eye on my wife and unborn child.

  *I am honored, of course. But I will miss you, Karl. Don't do something stupid and get yourself killed. Please?*

  Just as a favor to you.

  *Thanks.*

  "Who else?" she asked, a decided edge to her voice.

  "Well, I can't take Walter, not this time; somebody's got to run the farm." And if I did take him along, I'd never know whether it was because I wanted him along, or because I didn't trust both of you enough to leave him here. "I think I'll invite Ahira to come along; he'll want to go. He's just as good in a fight as I am—"

  *Better.*

  "—and he's got a fine strategical sense. His darksight might come in handy; it's even better than Ellegon's."

  "How's he going to take your being in charge, Karl?"

  "Huh? Who said anything about—"

  "As Walter would say, think it through. You've always thought he was too conservative, too eager to avoid a fight. So you're going to let him be in charge when you're going out looking for trouble?"

  He snorted. "We'll work it out. What we're doing is too important to let who's-in-charge games screw it up. And . . ."

  "And? I don't recall your mentioning my name."

  He snorted. "Don't be silly."

  "Silly?"

  "This isn't a time for reflex pseudo-feminism. We're going to be gone for six months, at least. If you think I'm going to let a woman at term bounce along on the back of a horse, try thinking again. Case closed; you stay here, where it's safe."

  "Always the diplomat, Karl." She dismissed the issue with a wave of her hand. "But I guess you're right. I
t's just going to be you, Chak, and Ahira?"

  "Can't expect any of the new people to do any good in a fight. The best is Fialt, and he wouldn't last ten seconds against a real swordsman. On the other hand, he's trying hard to learn. If he wants in, he's got it. Chton, Kirah, Ihryk, and he are happy here, or I'd escort them somewhere safe. Tennetty, though . . ."

  "Tennetty wouldn't be happy anywhere."

  "Exactly. But she's hot to kill some slavers. I can't say as I blame her; she can come along if she wants to. Which she will."

  "Is that all?" She frowned. "It sounds like an awfully small group."

  "It is. But I think it's the best one, for now." I may as well get it over with. "There's one more person we're taking along, Andy."

  "Karl, you are not taking Aeia."

  "We're taking her home." He shrugged. "Might as well swing through Melawei. The hunting should be good; there've been slaving raids all along that coast." Mainly by sea, according to Chak; to the best of his knowledge, Orhmyst had been the only slaver to try the difficult overland route to Melawei.

  Question: How does one take on a slaver's ship?

  *Answer: very carefully. Do you have any more stupid questions?*

  No.

  "No!" Andy-Andy said, echoing his response to Ellegon. "You can't. She's getting used to being around us; she'll adjust. I'll take care of her."

  "We're not her family, Andrea. She's been through hell. You should know that, better than I do; let's let her grow up in her own country, with her own people."

  Andy-Andy sat up, angrily pulling the blankets around her. "What good did they do her? Tell me. Her people let her get caught by slavers, raped. Karl, you can't take her back to them. I won't let you."

  He tried to put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged his arm away.

  "Shall we leave it up to her?" he asked.

  "She's too young to decide. She needs someone to take care of her." She looked away from him, toward where Aeia slept.

  "Like you?"

  "Yess," she hissed, "like me. Don't you think I'm good enough to take care of her? Don't you?"

  He shook his head. "No, I don't."

  Her head spun around. "You bastard." Tears filled her eyes.

  "Andy, it's not that there's anything wrong with you. The thing of it is this: She's a little girl. Somewhere, she has family. And they probably miss her as much as she misses them."

  She sneered. "Just as our families back home will be missing us? You didn't seem so worried about that."

  "Different case. For one thing, we're adults; we have to make our own decisions. For another, with the time differential between here and home, the fact that we're gone hasn't even been noticed yet; at home, we've only been gone a few hours.

  "But, again, you're dodging the issue. Think about this: If someone stole little whatever-her-name-is from you, you'd want her back." He laid a palm on her belly. "Wouldn't you? Or would you think that some stranger could take better care of her?"

  She didn't answer for a long time.

  Then: "Leave it alone, Karl. You're right, as usual. Bastard." She daubed at her eyes with a corner of the blanket. "But it's going to be a boy." Gathering her robes about her, she rose and walked down the slope toward where Aeia lay sleeping. She seated herself beside the girl and took one of Aeia's small hands in both of hers.

  And sat there, watching her, until the night fled, and the sun sat above the treetops.

  Part Three:

  The Middle Lands

  Chapter Eight

  Ahrmin

  Revenge is a dish that tastes best when eaten cold.

  —Sicilian proverb

  The windowless room was dark and musty, redolent with the smells of aging paper and parchment; the only illumination was a single overhead lamp. In a dark corner, a tall brass censer burned, sending vague fingers of smoke feeling their way into the air. His eyes stung.

  Ahrmin repressed a shudder. He never liked being near wizards at all, but it was even worse to confront one on the wizard's own territory. That was one thing his father had always said: "Stay away from the wizards, son, whenever you can." In Ahrmin's nineteen years, he had never seen a reason to doubt that advice.

  He stood motionless in the middle of the blood-red carpet, not daring to interrupt Wenthall's unblinking study of the crystal ball.

  Though why the thing was called a ball was something Ahrmin couldn't understand. The "ball" was a head-sized crystal model of a human eye, the iris and pupil etched on its front, complete down to a spoke that projected from the back, to symbolize the cords that connected the eye to the brain.

  The fat wizard gripped the spoke as he held the crystal before him, staring at the back side of the ball as if he were sitting behind a giant's eye, looking out through it.

  Finally, he shook his head, sighed deeply, then carefully set the ball down on a wooden stand before turning to Ahrmin. "Good. I see you received my summons."

  "Yes, sir." Why me? I'm just barely a journeyman. If you have a need for my guild, why not send for a master?

  He didn't say that; Slavers' Guildmaster Yryn had spent most of his tenure trying to improve the often uneasy relations between the Slavers' Guild and the Wizards' Guild, and was known to have little patience with any apprentice or journeyman who did anything to offend wizards—if the apprentice or journeyman survived. The rapprochement between the slavers and the wizards, while tentative, had paid well; it had opened up both Therranj and Melawei for frequent slaving raids. The Wizards' Guildmaster was thought to be lukewarm about the loose alliance; Yryn tolerated no action that might change that indifference to opposition.

  Wenthall walked to a water bowl and splashed water on his face, drying his black beard with his gray robes. "You recall that there is a reward out for the one who stole our sewer dragon," he said, seating himself on a stool, his hands folded over his bulging belly.

  "Of course." Despite himself, Ahrmin voiced it almost as a question. After all, the reward had gone unclaimed for more than a year. Undoubtedly, the culprit was dead somewhere, or had fled the Eren regions, past the range of even Wizards' Guildmaster Lucius' location spells. "But hunting dragons isn't something I can do, Master Wenthall; I don't have that kind of experience. Even if there are any small ones left."

  The wizard's eyes flashed. "Just listen, fool. I do not want you to hunt a dragon—you and I have further grievances against the one who freed our sewer dragon. The same one believed responsible for the deaths of both Blenryth, of my order, and Ohlmin, of yours."

  Ohlmin? That had to mean—no; it was impossible. "But Karl Cullinane has to be dead, or must have fled the region, at least, sir. None of you wizards has been able to locate him."

  Wenthall rose to his feet, sighing. He walked over to a scrollrack set into the nearest wall.

  "There is another possibility," the wizard said, rummaging through the scrolls, finally selecting one.

  He unrolled it; it was a well-worn map of the entire Eren region. "He could have been in the one place in the region that is protected from both the erratic sight of my crystal ball and my more reliable spells of direction. And a message I've received from Lord Mehlên of Metreyll suggests that that must be the case. He was . . ." The wizard tapped at a spot on the map. "There. The home tabernacle of the Healing Hand Society. That is where Cullinane hid. He is not there right now. But he has been. Protected by the Hand."

  "You're certain?"

  "Yes," Wenthall hissed, "I am certain. I haven't been able to see him with the ball, but there is no doubt that Karl Cullinane is alive, boy. He is alive. Look."

  Puffing from the exertion, the wizard reached up to a high shelf and brought down a chamois-wrapped parcel, almost a foot high. He unwrapped it carefully before gently setting it down on a table, a baked-clay statue of a bearded man, holding a long sword.

  Ahrmin looked closer. The statue was incredibly detailed, down to individual hairs carved into the head. "Karl Cullinane?"

  "Karl Cullinane."
Wenthall rewrapped the statue and put it away. Then, from the folds of his robe, he produced a strange device: a hollow glass sphere the size of his fist, containing a murky yellow oil. "Look here."

  Reluctantly moving closer, Ahrmin peered into it.

  A mummified finger floated in the sphere's center. The finger had been messily severed from its owner's hand; a shard of bone projected from its hacked-off end, and shreds of skin and tendon waved slowly as it floated.

  "Hmmm." Walking quickly to a compass on its stand in the corner of the room, the wizard took a sighting. "He's moved again. Not far—but south and west. Still south and west. . . ."

  "Your pardon, Master Wenthall, but I don't understand."

  For a moment, the wizard's nostrils flared. "Stupid little—" he stopped himself. "Never mind. Listen closely.

  "This device works like a location spell. After much effort, I have managed to attune it to the body of Karl Cullinane." As the wizard slowly spun the sphere in the palm of his age-withered hand, the dismembered finger maintained its position, pointing unerringly to the southeast. "Too much effort; getting that statue accurate enough for the spell to work was the most precise, most finicky work I've had to do in ten years. But never mind that.

  "As long as Cullinane remains within range, this will show you in which direction he is. If, as you turn the ball, the finger fails to point consistently in one direction, there are four possible explanations. First, he has fled the Eren regions. Second, he is inside the Hand sanctuary." Wenthall grimaced. "Third, he is otherwise magically protected. Or, last," the wizard said, smiling thinly, "he is dead."

  "Will it tell me where he is? Not just the direction, but how far?"

  "Yes." Wenthall nodded. "But only indirectly." The sphere disappeared in the folds of his cloak. Two quick strides brought the wizard across the room. He shuffled through a pile of papers and parchment on his desk and produced a map of the Eren regions, spreading it out on a low table.

  "We know," he said, picking up a charstick, "that he is in this direction. But where on this line?" Wenthall shrugged, then drew a solid line that stretched from Pandathaway into the Middle Lands, through Holtun and Bieme into Nyphien and beyond. "We can't be certain. And there is no way of knowing, at any given moment, whether he is moving or stationary; the device is not as precise as we would wish. That could be critical. Were he on his way to Aeryk, your task would be easy; were he traveling to Therranj, it would be more difficult. Your guild is not in the good graces of the western Therranji these days."