Nearing them, Gratillonius estimated the invaders at a hundred and fifty. It would have meant little—so few would not have dared—when Ys had her usual defenders on hand. Nor could he send to Audiarna for help. That fact chilled him with the knowledge that this must be nothing coincidental, nothing peaceful. Those were Franks.
Big men, mostly fair-haired and blue-eyed, they walked in loose formation behind a few mounted leaders. They had not many pack animals either, nor any wagons, which suggested they did not plan on a long campaign. Some wore nose-guarded helmets and chainmail coats, some kettle hats and boiled leather, but all were well-armed—sword, ax, or spear, and at every belt the terrible francisca. Hairy, slouching, stenchful, they were nonetheless a nightmare sight; it was as if the Roman road shuddered beneath their tread.
Gratillonius reined in and lifted an arm. After a moment, a Frank afoot hoisted a peeled white pole. Gratillonius took that for a sign of truce. Commands barked hoarse and the laeti grumbled to a halt. One on horseback clattered forth from their van. Gratillonius went to meet him.
They sat glowering at each other. “I hight Theuderich, son of Mero-wech,” said the Frank in wretched Latin. He was big, coarse, and golden. “I speak for these men of Redonia whom I lead.”
“You speak to Gratillonius, King of Ys, prefect of Rome. What are you doing here? Trespass on an ally is a violation of Imperial law.”
Theuderich spat laughter. “Complain in Turonum, or Treverorum or Mediolanum or wherever you like,” he gibed. He raised his palm. “Don’t be scared. We mean no harm. Let us camp for a bit and you won’t have any trouble. We’re only here to make sure things go right—that justice is done,” he added, a wording he had doubtless rehearsed.
The tension in Gratillonius slacked off a little. It often happened thus, when waiting had finally ended and confrontation was upon him. Alertness thrummed. “Explain yourself.”
“Well, my lord,” said Theuderich smugly, “the Kingship of Ys is for any foreigner who challenges and slays the old King, like you did, hey? We Franks think the time is overpast for one of our nation to take this throne and set matters right. So we’ve come in a body. That way, can’t be any of your sly Ysan treacheries against our challengers—one each day, right my lord? The Gods will decide. We’ve already asked Them: drawn lots to see who goes first and second and so on. Chramn, son of Clothair, Wotan picked him.” He glanced toward the darkling circle of the Wood below them. “I think he’s arrived by now.”
As if in answer, faint against the wind, from the Sacred Precinct there tolled the sound of the Hammer striking the Shield.
VII
1
“Remember,” Gratillonius told Adminius and his other legionaries, “if he wins, he’s King. Don’t rebel or try to kill him in your turn or do anything but your duty. That is to keep Ys safe and orderly. You’re the framework of what watch it’s got till the marines and navy men come back. After they do, you can go to Turonum and put yourselves under the garrison commander there.”
“We don’t want to, sir,” the deputy answered. “We got families ’ere, and—And you’ll take this swine any’ow, sir, we know you will.”
Unspoken behind the faces: But what of the next, or the next, or the next?
Gratillonius had not allowed himself to think about that. He dared not do so yet. Events were moving like a runaway horse; it was less than an hour since the challenge sounded. He turned from the soldiers. In the absence of the marines, theirs was the task of keeping folk who had swarmed to the scene at a good distance down the road. Nobody had brought hounds to pursue a man who fled, but that was unnecessary today. Gratillonius marched at the measured Roman pace to the trees of battle.
The Franks who had accompanied Chramn waited by the rail fence of the meadow across Processional Way. That was just as well. To have them near the Ysans could easily have brought on a riot. As it was, the yells that reached their ears caused them to glare and grip tightly the spearshafts on which some of them leaned. Doubtless they could not make out the words, but threat, defiance, revilements were unmistakable. If a Frankish King brought comrades of his to Ys, they must needs dwell there like an army of occupation. They’d be less disciplined, though; killing, maiming, rape, and robbery would become everyday occurrences.
Chramn stood under the courtyard oak. Red-robed and black-browed, Soren held ready the bowl of water and sprig of mistletoe. From the porch of the Lodge the staff watched, appalled. Behind, wind soughed mightily through the grove.
Chramn leered at Gratillonius. He was young, perhaps twenty, taller by two or three inches and heavier by perhaps fifty pounds of bone and hard muscle. Reddish whiskers fuzzed an incongruously round, apple-cheeked countenance within which the small blue eyes seemed doubly cold. For weapons he bore throwing-ax, dagger, and a longsword scabbarded across his back. A little circular shield was protection incidental to helmet and knee-length hauberk. He would be difficult to get at inside that iron.
Gratillonius halted. Soren must cough before he could ask, “Are you both armed as you desire?” The Frank scowled, and Soren repeated the required questions in Latin. Chramn replied with a noise that must be an affirmative. Gratillonius simply nodded.
“Kneel,” Soren directed. The contestants obeyed, side by side as if this were their wedding. Soren dipped the mistletoe in the water and sprinkled them. He chanted a prayer in the Punic tongue Gratillonius had never learned.
The Roman wondered if his enemy was inwardly calling on some heathen God. He formed words in his own mind. Mithras, also a soldier, into Your hands I give my spirit. Whatever befalls me, help me bear it with courage. The plea clanked dull, meaningless. Abruptly, of itself: To You I entrust Ys, my children, my wives, all who are dear to me—because Who else is left to care for them?
“Go forth,” said Soren in Ysan, “and may the will of the God be done.” His gaze trailed the pair out of sight.
Chramn joined Gratillonius in passing between the Lodge and a shed, into the grove. Soon huge old boles and densely clustered leafage hid the buildings. The ground was almost unencumbered, except by occasional fallen trees moldering away in moss and fungus. Dead leaves crackled underfoot. Sun-speckled shadow filled the spaces among the oaks, below their arching crowns. For some reason, no squirrel or bird was about, but the wind blustered through branches, making them creak as well as rustle. It smelled of dampness.
At a glade near the center, where grass rippled within a narrow compass, Gratillonius stopped. “Shall we begin?” he said. “Here I killed my two earlier men”—and spared the third; but he had no desire to let this one depart alive.
“Good,” replied the Frank. “You think you will kill me too, ha? You will not. You are a dead man.”
His voice had taken on a curious, remote quality. Likewise had his expression. The spell of combat was upon him, Gratillonius realized. It did not take the Celtic form, that utter abandon which flung Scoti howling onto the points of their foes. Gratillonius had heard that this could seize Germani too, but Chramn was different. He had not become a Roman machine either. He seemed a sleepwalker, lost in dream, as if already he were among those fallen warriors who feasted and fought in the hall of their Gods, awaiting the last battle at the end of time. Yet he watched and moved with total alertness, all the more dangerous because of having put aside his soul.
Gratillonius drew blade and brought up his shield, ready to shift it as need arose. The two men circled warily, several feet apart. The Frankish ringmail moved supple as snake scales. Chramn’s free hand hovered.
It pounced. The francisca leaped from his belt and across the wind. Gratillonius just caught it. He felt the impact through shield, arm, shoulder. The ax stuck in the wood, hampering. Chramn’s sword had hissed forth in nearly the same motion as the cast. He bounded forward and swung.
Gratillonius blocked the blow. Chramn tried for a cut lower down, on the leg. Gratillonius fended him off with the big Roman shield while his own short blade worked from around it, probi
ng.
The fighters broke apart. Again they stalked, each in search of an opening. Their looks met; once more Gratillonius felt a strange intimacy. He had given Chramn a slash in the left calf, blood darkened that trouser leg, but it was a flesh wound, the Frank had likely not even noticed.
Chramn charged anew. Shield against shield, he hammered above and sickled below. Several times his edge rang on Gratillonius’s helmet or scraped across armor. The Roman could only defend himself, parry, push, interpose, retreat step by step.
The flurry lasted for minutes. Gratillonius felt his heart begin to slam and his breath rasp dry. Sweat drenched his undergarments, reeked in his nostrils. He saw the Frank smile sleepily, well-nigh serenely.
He is a generation younger, Gratillonius knew. He has more strength. He means to attack me like this over and over, till I’m winded and my knees shake and the weight of my hands drags on me. Then I am his.
Gratillonius’s glance flickered right and left. He saw what he needed and edged toward it, a tree with lower boughs close to the ground at the rim of the glade.
If he drew well into the grove, the longsword would be hindered, the shortsword not. Chramn knew that. He rushed while his foe was still in the open.
Gratillonius slipped below a branch and went to his left knee. His shield he held slantwise. The limb caused the Frankish metal to strike it awkwardly. He himself had a clear thrust upward from the ground.
His point went under the hem of the byrnie. He guided it with care—time had slowed, he had abundant leisure for precision—and felt it go heavily into a thigh and worked it around to make sure of severing the great blood vessel there. After that he sank it into the belly just above the genitalia.
Chramn pulled free. He lurched back. Gratillonius rose. With his dripping sword, he slashed across the right hand of his opponent, cutting finger tendons. The long blade dropped into the grass. Blood spurted from beneath the hauberk.
“Well,” panted Gratillonius, “that’s one.”
He lowered his heavy arms. Chramn stared and staggered. He would crumple in another half minute or so.
He screeched something and threw himself forward. The shield fell from his left hand, which was still useable. With that hand he grabbed the centurion at the back of the neck. He was losing his footing now, sinking to earth. He kept the hold while he crashed his helmeted head upward, against the chin of his killer.
Blackness erupted.
—Gratillonius gaped at the sky. He looked around, bewildered. A corpse sprawled beside him where he lay. “He was dead,” he mumbled. “He hit me.” Blood matted his beard. “He was dead. He hit me.”
He tried to get up and could not, but crawled between the trees, homing like an animal. Often he collapsed, lay huddled, stirred and crept a little further.
He came back out into sunlight, from behind the house that was red. Men gathered around. “He was dead,” Gratillonius whimpered. “He hit me.”
Soren called for the physician. Gratillonius was borne inside. A moan lifted from the Ysans, a howl from the Franks. Then Fredegond, son of Merowech, laughed aloud and crossed the road into the Sacred Precinct. He took the Hammer and rang the next challenge.
2
A boat had fetched Tambilis from Vigil on Sena, because at an hour like this all the Gallicenae must be on hand. They met in the house of Fennalis, for the old Queen could no longer leave her bed.
Eight standing crowded the small, simply furnished room. It was hot. Sunlight filled the glass of the west-side window as if with molten brass. Everyone spoke softly; the loudest sound was the labored breath of Fennalis.
“A messenger from Rivelin at the palace reached me as I was leaving home to come hither,” Bodilis reported. “I had ordered him to send me immediate word of any change.”
“I should have thought of that!” blurted Guilvilis. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“Cease blubbering,” said Vindilis. “What news?”
“Gratillonius has fallen into a deep slumber,” Bodilis told them. “Rivelin expects he’ll have his wits back when he awakens.”
Lanarvilis nodded. “I looked for that from the first,” she said. “A blow to the chin—aye, one that did not dislocate or break his jaw—should not do harm like a cudgel at the back of the skull.” Her glance went affectionately down to Fennalis. “True? You were ever good with the wounded.”
The dying woman achieved a nod and a whisper: “But he’ll—be weak—subject to giddy spells—in need of rest and care—for days.”
“He mustn’t fight again till he’s hale,” decided Maldunilis, pleased with her own wisdom.
Vindilis frowned. “There’s the question, Sisters. May he wait that long?”
“Of course he shall,” cried Tambilis. Red and white chased each other across her young face. “Else ’twould be no fight. The Gods do not want that.”
“But the Franks do,” said Lanarvilis bleakly, “and we’re ill prepared to deny them.”
“What have they been doing since—” Tambilis could not finish. She had run straight here from the dock.
“Those at the Wood returned to their fellows on Point Vanis, bearing the slain,” Lanarvilis answered. “At Soren’s protest that we had a rite for him, they jeered. They’re camped near the bend of Redonian Way. A band of them went down with a cart to fill jugs at the canal, and our folk could do naught about the defilement of the sacred water, but curse them from the battlements. Nor can we keep them from ravaging the hinterland and murdering whomever they catch, if they grow impatient with us.”
“What of their dead?” wondered Innilis with a shiver. “Will they burn or bury those—on the forbidden headland? Taranis will smite them for that. Won’t he?”
Vindilis compressed her lips before stating, “Grallon held a burial out there long ago. Only today was he stricken down.”
“I watched from a Northbridge Gate tower,” Forsquilis said. “Nay, I cannot make a Sending by daylight, but a charm did briefly sharpen my sight. The Franks have several coffins with them. Yon corpse lies shut away. Those men who had been at the Wood with him—the chosen against our King, I think—stood around the box. They drew blood from their veins and sprinkled it, then they crossed swords above and roared what must have been a vow of revenge.”
“Let us send a herald and appeal to their honor,” Tambilis urged.
“Where will he find it?” sneered Vindilis.
“Well, their pride, their boastfulness,” said Bodilis. “I follow your reasoning, dear. Tell them that he who insists on doing battle with a man not fully recovered is himself no man at all.”
“They might well scoff,” Lanarvilis warned. “At best, we do but gain a short reprieve for… him.”
“Dare we even seek that—we, the whole of Ys, and we, the Nine who uphold the law of the Gods?” replied Vindilis. “Had the King’s foeman not been at the point of death when he delivered that blow, he would have finished Grallon off; and that would have been the will of the Gods, the Frank the new Incarnation of Taranis. How can Grallon delay merely on account of being somewhat weakened, and not violate the law?”
Lanarvilis swallowed hard. “I have talked with Soren,” she said as if each word were a drop of gall on her tongue. “He believes this. He says the King must answer the challenge as soon as he can walk to the scene, or be no longer King. There are… many who’ll agree, though they love Gratillonius and abhor the barbarian.”
Innilis covered her eyes. “Another Colconor?” she moaned. Vindilis laid an arm around her slight shoulders and drew her close.
The older woman’s features had gone rigid. She stared before her. “We are foredoomed in any case,” she said, flat voiced. “Give him back his full health, and still Grallon cannot possibly win every combat before him. He will grow wearied, and bruised, and—Sisters, what we must do is take counsel among ourselves as to how we shall bear what is coming onto us, and how keep Ys alive while we search for deliverance.”
Tambilis wept on her mo
ther’s breast. Fennalis sighed on her pillow. Compassion overrode the suffering in her countenance.
Forsquilis lifted her arms. Her voice rang: “Hear me. Not yet are we widowed and enslaved. Each victory of our King wins us another day and night; and who knows what might happen? We can take a hand in shaping our fate.”
“Nay,” protested Lanarvilis in something like terror, “we may not cast spells against a contender. ’Twould be sacrilege. The Gods—”
“We were not altogether passive about Colconor, toward the end,” said Bodilis, rallying.
“But this—”
“Our lord lies injured. Had it been by cause of war or mishap, we would tend him as best we could and heal him by whatever means we command. Shall our care, our duty, be the less because the harm came to him in the Wood?”
“My thought,” Forsquilis agreed. “Innilis, you have the Touch, and I—can fetch certain materials that sometimes help. Let us go to the palace. Nature would give him back his strength in a matter of days. We will simply lend nature our aid.”
The fear ebbed from Lanarvilis, but trouble remained: “Is that lawful, now?”
“If not, the Gods will decree we fail,” Forsquilis said. “Come, Innilis. I know you have the courage.”
Mutely, the other left Vindilis and followed the witch out of the room.
3
The long light set ablaze the gilt eagle atop the dome on the royal house. Farther down, garden wall and the mansions opposite filled the street with shadow, like a first blue wave of incoming night. The crowd gathered outside the main gate waited dumb; rare were the mutters within that silence. Some had stood thus for hours. Most were humble folk, though here and there glowed the cloak of a Suffete or sheened the silk of a well-born lady. Ruflnus the Gaul was clad with unwonted somberness. A young Scotian in a kilt stood side by side with a young Roman who had put on a robe for this. They lingered in hope of any word about how their King fared.
“Make way!” called a sudden clear voice. “Way for Dahut his daughter!”
Dahut Page 11
