“She threw stones in my mill when I would not give her bread,” old Hagga added. Welk, the thatch-cutter, accused her of seducing his son. Dellawynn had been busy for one day.
“Harlot!” another old woman shouted. “She’s cast a glamour on Krohn!”
A stone flew and hit the wall near Dellawynn’s head. She slashed with her sword, but the crowd didn’t back down.
“She’ll have to be burned,” Ganton said. Welk held up dry bristle and thatch, ready to light.
Ignored, Keaf marched to within a dozen steps of the mob and planted his feet. “Stop!” he shouted over the noise. “She’s with me!”
Heads turned, and mouths gaped. Someone laughed and lobbed a stone that fell short of Keaf’s feet.
“Get back to your graves,” Ganton sneered. It was easy to see where Lane had gotten his manner.
Keaf held his ground and pulled out the Sword. As he raised it, the sound of cheering drowned out all other noise, not with volume, but with undeniable energy. “I command you to leave her alone,” he said.
Incredulous looks turned to adoration, and those nearest to Keaf knelt to the ground. Murmured praises rose up—my lord, my liege, prince, and king—and Keaf knew that any of them could be true. He only had to wish it.
“Ganton,” he called out.
The big man stepped forward and pulled his cap from his head so that the balding spot showed as he bent low. “Sir?”
Keaf reached into his pocket and tossed a gold coin at the man’s feet. “I’d like your best room for the night.”
“Any room, my young master,” Ganton said, bending for the coin. “The inn, if you desire it. I would gladly make it a gift to you.”
Keaf listened for strain in Ganton’s voice, some indication that he suffered for his sudden devotion, but his words were completely sincere. A consoling magic, at least for those it spelled, but it robbed Keaf of much of his feeling of vengeance. He supposed he could command them to suffer, even to inflict suffering upon each other, but that would bring no better satisfaction, and it made him feel uneasy to realize it was possible.
Dellawynn joined his side, and the crowd cheerfully escorted them into the tavern hall of the inn.
“I had no idea who you were before this,” Ganton said. At the serving bar he ordered his bartender to pour his best brew.
“A king’s son,” Krohn declared. “He must be out to prove himself.” He waved a finger at Keaf and grinned. “You can’t fool us, young sir.”
“Or he’s on a mission,” Ganton said, pulling at his ruddy beard. “Are you on a quest, Master Keaf? We can help, you know. We can do quite a lot here in Palmora.”
“I only want a room and a good meal,” Keaf said. Those were enough to demonstrate his newfound power.
“And so you shall have them,” Ganton said.
Lane and Kaye returned with a freshly killed silver boar, and a feast was declared in Keaf’s honor. He’d tasted bitter ale once or twice, but the heady stout that Ganton served made the room too warm and the laughter too easy.
Every girl of the village knelt at his feet to praise him during the course of the evening, including Toya, who seemed far too sweet to be bound by magic. Dellawynn chased them all away in between teasing the men. Keaf basked in the adoration, sure that he’d finally discovered the secret to friendship.
Late in the night, as the room began to spin, chamber servants carried him to his room and laid him to bed, and Dellawynn was there, warm and soft and faithful as he passed out.
Keaf began the morning by puking in the vicinity of the chamber pot. He staggered back to bed and fell across it before he realized that Dellawynn was still there, rolled in the covers. She shifted against him, and one hand tousled his hair while the other slid between his legs. Startled, he pulled away, but dim memories—her excited cries, her nails raking his back—told him he hadn’t shied earlier in the night. He flexed his shoulders and winced.
As he sat up, a knock sounded at the door.
“Who is it?” he asked. For a moment he pictured reality breaking in, Ganton hauling him out to be whipped in the square, a line of villagers hurling insults and stones. Instead, a young chambermaid peeked inside.
“I have your bath water drawn, my Lord, and fresh clothes waiting.” She opened the door a bit wider, and Keaf saw more servants with steaming pots and a large oblong tub.
The bath was a truly wonderful experience, even when the maid got a little fresh with her scrubbing. Dellawynn awoke and watched from the bed, giggling when he squawked about the soap in his eyes or the coarseness of the bristles on his tenderer parts. Breakfast was fresh berries that someone had spent the night obtaining from a city to the south, and cream that clotted on Keaf’s fingers. Afterward, in fur-trimmed trousers and ermine-collared shirt, with jewels on his belt and fine leather boots with real heels and soles, Keaf found it easier to believe in his new superiority.
The villagers had been busy while he slept. Krohn’s manor was no castle, but it was the biggest house in Palmora, and it included a stable with six fine riding-beasts. Krohn had moved into another abode, displacing the family that rented it from him. His staff, now at Keaf’s disposal, was determined to polish every bit of the manor before their new lord arrived. An entourage of Ganton and Krohn and every other important man of the village accompanied Keaf to the front gates, and they waited patiently while he made an absurd show of inspection. He knew no more about manor houses than he did about being a king, but the people hung on his every word and leapt to fulfill his every request. No one grumbled.
Through the morning, during a lunch of rabbit, fresh bread, and red wine, and into the afternoon, Keaf was attended and administered and fussed over. The local magistrate only visited Palmora once a month, but now Keaf became the village judge. A farmer came to ask him what to do about a wolf that had been raiding his wool-beasts over the last few days, and an angry wife dragged in her husband, accusing him of dallying with another woman. Keaf suggested a hunt for the wolf—Kaye had done it before, and he volunteered—and he sent the husband to stay home with his wife for a week. Everyone marveled at his wisdom, and a scribe wrote down his every word. Dellawynn grew tired of it before noon, and begged excuse to go find whatever mischief she could. Keaf had come to understand her well enough to know that she thrived on challenges, and he made everything too easy. He also knew that she would be back.
While Krohn was presenting his riding-beasts for Keaf to select one or all, news came that an old man who’d been sick for some days had died.
Ganton interrupted Krohn with anxious words. “Master Keaf, this is a serious problem.”
Keaf nodded. He was the only one in the area suited to bury the fellow. “I understand.” He cracked his knuckles and flexed his shoulders. It would be good to do the digging after two big meals in one day.
As he started away, Ganton stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “My Lord. Your disguise is ended, and your mission is far too important. You need only tell us who is to replace you as the gravedigger. I would gladly take the job myself, but my back is not what it used to be.” He reached behind and made a poorly faked grimace of pain.
Keaf stood there stunned. All adoration aside, it had never occurred to him that he would no longer be digging graves. He had assumed that he would simply be the best-treated digger in the land.
But Ganton was serious, whatever mission he thought Keaf was on, and Krohn and Lane and the others looked genuinely worried that he might actually do something besides let them serve him. “N-no,” he stammered. “You shouldn’t do it, Sir Ganton. Get someone younger.” A malicious choice came to him, and he spoke before he considered more. “Let Lane do it.”
Lane stepped forward, looking grim and huge. “I am honored,” he said with total sincerity. “Thank you for thinking of me.” He turned and lumbered off in the direction of the cemetery with a whistled tune on his lips.
Keaf watched him go, and he almost yearned to follow. The irony of casting L
ane among the shunned had a second edge. Power took as well as gave, and it had just taken away Keaf’s purpose in life. He would have to work at finding a new one.
By evening, Keaf was growing convinced that his new occupation was to give his followers someone to follow. He was waited on and tended to with unerring devotion, and the village seemed happier than he’d ever seen it. They had purpose as never before. And they used up their small supplies of food and stores as never before.
During the supper feast, travelers arrived seeking room and board for the night. Their leader, Baron Mallorin, was a dashing figure, a young nobleman from the Western Empire. Ganton couldn’t offer them his best room, but he made his second best sound even better. While he and the baron bargained at the serving bar, Dellawynn sat beside Keaf and stared.
“I should see to your new guest,” she said as Mallorin glanced around the tavern hall. Even his smile gleamed. Dellawynn had discovered a silk dress that left her stomach enticingly exposed and did fine justice to the rest of her. A Gypsy dancer had left it at the inn sometime past, departing under hurried circumstances that Ganton did not speak of around his wife.
Keaf was growing impatient with Dellawynn’s roving eye, or maybe there was little else to rouse him, and he let his irritation show. “Wait until the baron comes to greet us,” he said. “Then we’ll see who best captures his interest.”
Dellawynn sat back pouting, but her eyes remained on Mallorin. As Ganton concluded his arrangements, he took the baron’s arm and led him toward Keaf. The villagers had set up two fine chairs on a raised platform of rough planks, and from there Keaf held his meager court. Meager but absolute.
The hall grew quieter. Mallorin’s brow wrinkled, assessing and speculating as he met Keaf’s gaze. When he looked at Dellawynn, his expression turned hungry.
“Lord Keaf,” Ganton said, “may I present Baron Mallorin from the Western Empire.”
Mallorin bowed slightly. Keaf stood and drew his Sword. As the distant cheering rose up, the baron dropped to one knee. “My Lord,” he said. “I did not know that you possessed one of the Twelve Swords. Allow me to pledge my eternal allegiance.” He bowed lower and offered his glove.
“You see,” Keaf said to Dellawynn, loud enough that everyone heard. “He serves me, and none of my followers would ever go behind my back to you.” He took the glove and tossed it beside his chair.
Dellawynn’s pout melted away as she gazed at the Sword. “It was wrong of me to ever think it,” she said. “Serving you is all I ever want.”
Keaf sighed as he put the Sword away. Too easy. Everything was too easy, and everyone was too doggedly obedient. Contemplating bigger challenges, he motioned Mallorin to sit. “You know this Sword?” he asked.
Mallorin nodded. “It is one of the Twelve, forged by the Gods in the mountains north of here. I held the one called Sightblinder for a short time. Anyone who looked upon me saw a different face.”
“And this Sword?” Keaf patted his side but left the blade sheathed. “It seems to work a similar magic.”
“No,” Mallorin said. “The Sword of Obedience was made for you to wield. In another man’s hand it might make him seem great, but that would be delusion. In your hand it only confirms what my heart tells me. Once you throw off this cloak of meager birth, you will be the ultimate ruler, a god among us.”
A shiver ran down Keaf’s back. To hold such power in a single blade? He’d seen practically nothing of the world in his short life, but now it was his for the taking. That was irony beyond measure, that a gravedigger could rule the Earth.
“Thank you, Baron,” he said. “You may attend to your dinner and your duties. We will talk more in the morning.”
“I await your call.” As Mallorin steered himself back to the serving bar, Dellawynn sat quietly, her hand light on Keaf’s arm.
The evening wore into night, and Keaf drank more stout and more wine. Mallorin had put visions in his head, visions that went far and promised much. Visions that made Keaf’s desire for simple friendship seem ridiculously small. As he staggered off to bed, there was a knot in his stomach and a cloud in his head.
“Please, my Lord Keaf, I beg you, wake up.”
Keaf wasn’t sure how many times he heard the whispered words before he understood. He raised his head and lowered it again as drink-inflicted pain thrummed through his skull.
A servant girl stood at the foot of the bed and begged him to rise. “It’s urgent business, the man says.” She pointed to the door. “Your welfare is at stake, he says, and he must see you tonight.”
Keaf reached out to tell Dellawynn that he’d be back, but she wasn’t there. He rubbed at his forehead and felt the ache at his temples. “Get me a drink of water,” he rasped.
The girl slipped out and returned a minute later with a mug. The water was cool and sweet, and it reduced the fire in Keaf’s belly. He sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head while she worked him into pants and shirt, tied on his boots, and draped a cloak over his shoulders. “Please, my Lord.” She urged him up, guided him down the corridor, and they slipped out the door into the night.
As the cold hit him, Keaf’s head cleared enough to realize his oversight. He’d left the Sword behind, and all of his loyal followers were asleep. He grabbed the girl by the arm. “Damn, girl! Fetch me my Sword!”
She darted away.
“You shouldn’t have dug it up,” a deep voice said from the dark.
Keaf turned to see Jarmon step from shadow into moonlight. “Templar?”
“You’ve been busy,” Jarmon said. “News of a great new lord has traveled as far as the Temple of Dawn.” His sword rang as he drew it from its sheath.
“I-I’m sorry,” Keaf stammered. He stepped back as the servant girl returned with the Sword still in its scabbard. She knelt at Keaf’s feet and stood the blade against him.
“Begone, girl,” Jarmon said.
She looked at Keaf, and he nodded her away. After she’d gone back inside, he reached for the Sword’s hilt.
“Don’t,” Jarmon said. His voice was tight with warning, and a stone-hard look glinted in his eyes.
Keaf pulled his hand back. “I didn’t know it was magic. Truly, I only thought to sell it for a few gold pieces.”
“I doubt you’d get that for it,” Jarmon said. “A kingdom, an empire, maybe the whole world, but not a few gold pieces.”
“I’m sorry,” Keaf said, and he’d never felt any emotion stronger in his life. “I only wanted to make them like me.”
Jarmon stepped forward and wrapped a mailed fist around the Sword’s scabbard as he touched the point of his weapon against Keaf’s chest. “And I paid you to do a job. I trusted you.”
The words cut twice, like the twin edges of the Sword. Jarmon had expected trust, but he hadn’t shown it himself. And Keaf had broken the trust that he’d accepted. He believed in trust and integrity, things that his father had taught him to value, and he’d looked upon Jarmon as a noble man. The truth was, they’d both failed. “You didn’t trust me at all,” he said, letting his shame translate into anger at the Templar. “Otherwise, you would have told me about the Sword. You tricked me into burying it.”
Jarmon drew back his sword, and the look in his eyes softened. Before he could answer, an arrow whizzed past Keaf’s head and pierced the heavy leather padding at the Templar’s shoulder. The impact knocked Jarmon back, and the Sword fell at his feet. Keaf turned to look for the bowman, and Kaye charged out of the darkness with another arrow nocked.
“Get back, Keaf,” he shouted. “I’ll defend you.”
Jarmon reached to tear the arrow free and growled deep in his throat with the pain. Keaf sprang for the Sword, but Jarmon’s boot caught him in the chest and sent him sprawling to the side. Kaye’s next arrow shot past Jarmon’s head and hit the wall of the inn with a dull thump.
The Templar didn’t wait for a third arrow. He wrapped both hands around his own sword and advanced to attack. Kaye pulled out his hunting knife a
nd planted his feet, apparently willing to die for Keaf.
Keaf’s chest ached from the kick, but he managed to roll to his feet. “Stop!” he shouted, but only one man there was bound to him.
Kaye froze, torn between defending Keaf and obeying him, and Jarmon struck. His sword slashed across Kaye’s left hand and knocked the knife away with a trailing spray of blood. Kaye fell back clutching his wounded hand as Jarmon stepped over the Sword to deliver another blow. Keaf had only an instant to react, and he lunged.
He hit the Templar in the knees and knocked him off-balance. Jarmon stumbled a half step sideways and his blow missed Kaye’s head by the barest margin. Keaf grabbed for the Sword. Before he could unsheathe it, Jarmon twisted, off-balance, and swung his blade. The blow tore the scabbard from Keaf’s hands and sent it cartwheeling upward. The Mindsword slipped from its sheath. Moonlight caught the spinning blade, and it seemed to hang in the air for an eternity.
The sound of the roaring crowd echoed off the black outline of the mountains. At the edge of the darkness, Dellawynn appeared with a gash in her leg and her small sword badly notched. Dripping blood, Kaye reached for his knife, and Jarmon’s mailed hand reached for Keaf’s neck.
As the Sword reached the top of its arc and began to fall, Keaf saw the fight that would ensue, saw that it would end in death. And he saw the Sword gleaming with its strange designs written for gods and not for men. Not for men.
He pushed away from Jarmon and sprang toward the Sword. The Templar snagged him by the foot to stop him, but Keaf’s right hand reached far enough. Far enough for the tip of the blade to slice through flesh and bone and pin his palm to the hard ground.
He shrieked with pain and curled around his skewered hand as Jarmon and Kaye regained their feet. Jarmon took a step toward Keaf, but he stopped as Dellawynn raised her weapon.
“Leave him alone,” she warned.
“He’s hurt!” Jarmon snapped as he backed away. “That cursed blade.”
“It’s that blade that you were going to kill him over,” Kaye said. He held his wounded hand inside his belt and circled to trap Jarmon between himself and Dellawynn. His eyes strayed to Keaf, but as much as he wanted to help, he had first to defend his master.
An Armory of Swords Page 10
