“Do you dare lay hands on the hef-Alador?” Wynett cried.
“Until he proves himself, aye,” grunted the barbarian.
“Then at least allow us to dress,” she asked. “We shall freeze else, and there will be no profit.”
The man thought for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. But tread carefully, strangers!”
The four woodsmen moved back, ringing them with arrows as they climbed into their furs and pulled on their boots, then one bound their wrists behind their backs as the others leveled shafts at their chests. After they were secured they were pushed roughly to the ground, their weapons tossed aside as the barbarians set to debating their fate.
Kedryn was doubly frustrated, for he could neither study the faces of their captors nor understand what they said. Wynett outlined the argument she had put up and the responses it had brought, and—as best she could—translated what she could hear of the conversation.
“One argues for killing us,” she murmured, “another for bringing us to the Ulan—Cord, he is called—whilst the third is unsure. Their leader is eager for profit, but afraid that you might be the hef-Alador. ”
“If only he could be convinced,” Kedryn muttered.
“Perhaps he can,” Tepshen Lahl whispered.
“How?” Kedryn was dubious.
“By swordright,” answered the kyo.
“Swordright?” Kedryn shook his head, his voice bitter. “I am blind, Tepshen—I cannot fight.”
“The hef-Alador would not fight a common warrior,” said the easterner, “but a member of his Gehrim might.”
Hope sparked in Kedryn’s darkness and he said, “It might work.”
“How goes the argument?” asked the kyo.
“I am not sure,” Wynett answered, “but I suspect that greed wins. They fear that Cord will take their profits if they bring us to him, and that if we prove to be only wanderers they will have wasted time. One still fears the eagle, but the rest seem careless of the danger. ”
“Then speak before they reach a decision,” urged the kyo.
“What shall I tell them?” she wondered.
“That the hef-Alador forswears to soil his blade on a commoner,” said Tepshen, “but presents the leader of his Gehrim in his place.”
“You might well face three blades,” warned the Sister.
Tepshen Lahl snorted dismissively.
“Tell them.”
Wynett paused, marshaling her thoughts, then called out, startling the barbarians who turned toward her, clearly irritated by the interruption.
“The hef-Alador challenges you,” she cried. “He will prove himself by swordright.”
“A blindman?” chortled the would-be rapist.
“The hef-Alador would not soil his blade on such as you,” she retorted, praying she did not overdo the insult, “but the leader of his Gehrim will stand in his place.”
“The yellow-face?” demanded their leader.
“The kyo, Tepshen Lahl,” Wynett confirmed. “The hef-Alador grows angry at his confinement and if you will not bring us to your Ulan, then you must face the wrath of his champion.”
“Kill them now!” urged the sanguine one.
“Would you doubly despoil the honor of the Drott?” Wynett said, putting contempt in her tone. “To kill bound men is the work of cowards, not warriors. To kill the hef-Alador bound must surely condemn you to limbo. After you have known the embrace of the eagle!”
“There is truth in that,” said the short warrior.
“Aye,” grunted the spokesman. “Let us vote on it. Who favors killing them now?”
Two hands pawed the air.
“Ragnal and Narr vote for death. You, Wyll?”
“I say we bring them to Cord,” said Wyll. “I think the woman speaks the truth.”
“It depends on you, Kalar,” Ragnal said. “How do you cast it?”
Kalar combed dirty fingers through his beard, dislodging little pieces of food as a slow, ugly smile spread across his face. “There are four of us and only three horses,” he murmured. “Three slaves if she lies. And what reward they will bring if she speaks the truth will go farther should two of us die.”
“You think that slant-eyed creature can kill me?” Ragnal sneered.
“I do not know,” answered Kalar, “but if he does I shall claim your woman.”
“If he does, you can have her,” said Ragnal, “and welcome.”
“And mine,” added Narr.
“Very well,” Kalar decided, “I have seen no honest combat since Cord took the torque.”
Ragnal and Narr were on their feet in the instant, shields slipping from their backs to be secured about their forearms, wide-bladed swords sliding from their sheaths. Kalar rose, producing a knife, and cut Tepshen’s bonds. The kyo rose fluidly, massaging his wrists.
“This pretty thing is yours?” Kalar hefted the long eastern blade in its ornate scabbard and tossed it to the kyo.
Tepshen caught the sheath, nodding.
“I would see this,” Kedryn said, and Wynett translated.
Kalar ducked his head in agreement and said, “Hold your shaft on them, Wyll,” slicing the ropes as the other warrior nocked a fresh arrow.
Kedryn and Wynett rose, standing hand-in-hand as Tepshen paced gracefully toward the waiting barbarians.
“Can he win?” asked the Sister.
“Aye,” said Kedryn, confident in his friend’s ability.
The sun was closing on the treetops, elongating the shadows, the fire brightening as the light grew dusky Ragnal and Narr moved away from one another, crouching behind the cover of their bucklers, shifting to come at Tepshen from either side. Ragnal brought his blade up. ready to strike on the downswing, while Narr held his close against the circle of cured bullhide, preparatory for a stabbing thrust.
Tepshen slid the longsword clear of the scabbard and let the container fall to the snow. He gripped the eastern blade twohanded, extended before him at waist height, slanting upward, his stance deceptively casual.
“You are dead,” Ragnal bellowed, the words falling uncomprehended on the kyo’s ears.
Kedryn watched, guessing the content of the challenge and doubting its veracity, his gaze fixed on the trio as the barbarians began a circling movement, seeing the stance Tepshen assumed and knowing how the easterner would respond to the double attack.
Then Narr shouted and both men rushed in, intent on bearing the kyo down before their shields.
Tepshen Lahl remained still for what, to anyone unfamiliar with his deadly style, would appear too long. Kedryn felt Wynett stiffen; heard her sudden intake of breath. Then the kyo shifted, fluid as a cat, darting forward the three paces needed to take him between the shields, spinning as he passed with the long-bladed sword swinging in a double-handed cut at Ragnal’s spine. A tail of wolfskin hung abruptly down the barbarian’s legs, bloody where the sword had slashed to the bone. He jerked, his descending blade hacking empty air, and screamed in pain and rage. Only the thickness of his furs had saved him from mortal injury and as it was, he was slowed, gore pulsing from his wounded back.
Narr was less fortunate—or more, for his death was swift. He stabbed at Tepshen’s side and found no target, the kyo continuing his turn so that he pirouetted, the long blade rising above his head, falling as he faced the second warrior. Narr was unbalanced by his clumsy charge and struggled to bring his shield up, forgoing sword-work as he saw that defense was his only hope. It was a forlorn optimism, for Tepshen’s edge came down to strike his shoulder, hacking with terrible force at the joint of neck and collarbone. Narr’s sword arm dropped as a gout of crimson drenched his face and torso. His eyes opened wide, the scream that would have erupted from his mouth only a liquid gargling as he fell to his knees, then pitched face-down on the snow, his draining life spreading an ugly darkness over the white,
Tepshen wrenched his blade loose and paced back as Ragnal came forward, limping, his bearded features contorted. He held his buckler high, his heavy sword out to the
side, its weight straining the weakened muscles of his back. Kedryn saw that the lower part of his jerkin and the backs of his fur breeks were stained with blood. Tepshen Lahl’s face was calm, indifferent to the carnage he had wrought, and that seemed to infuriate the barbarian. He bellowed a war cry and charged a second time as the kyo faced him with upraised sword.
Tepshen’s timing was exquisitely precise, even more delicate than that first lethal maneuver. He let Ragnal’s swing begin, then sidestepped, his own blade descending and turning to cut beneath the defensive buckler, a single step taking him clear of the warrior’s sword as his own carved across the man’s belly. Ragnal gasped, doubling and scything wildly with his blade as the kyo turned again and almost casually reversed his stroke to bring the edge down against the man’s exposed neck. Ragnal’s head fell forward, the whole of his jerkin drenched now, his neck stretching to expose bone through the red lips of the wound. He went onto his knees, weight resting on his outthrust hands, his long hair touching the snow. He seemed to stare at the crimson that pooled beneath his face, steaming in the cold air, then slumped full length, his feet kicking for a while before the stillness of death overtook his body.
Tepshen Lahl spun to face Kalar, menace in his obsidian gaze.
For an instant it seemed he might charge the two remaining woodlanders and Kalar took a step backward, hand fastening on his own sword hilt.
Kedryn saw Wyll shift his aim to cover the kyo and tensed to spring forward, thinking that he could at least prevent the tribesman from putting a shaft into Tepshen. Then a coughing, angry roar filled the ominous silence and Kalar’s swarthy face paled under its coating of grime. Wyll’s hands trembled on his bow, his eyes rounding in amazement, and he shouted something to his fellow. Kalar replied in a tone that Kedryn recognized as awe and dropped to one knee, his hands extended toward Tepshen. Wyll eased his bowstring down and followed suit as a second roar bellowed from the darkening trees.
Both woodlanders babbled, turning from Tepshen to Kedryn, then to Wynett as she translated.
“They say you are truly the hef-Alador, and Tepshen your champion. They say the forest cat tells them this—he proclaims your right to nde the Beltrevan. He threatens to take their souls in the night if they do not bring you to Cord. They offer you their allegiance. They believe that only with you will they be safe.”
Kedryn came close to smiling then as he watched the barbarians unsheath their swords and hold them toward him, hands on hilts and blades in token of obeisance.
“Tell them I accept their fealty,” he responded. “But not that the cat expects us to feed him. ”
“He will have meat aplenty,” murmured Tepshen, glancing at the bodies.
“And we have guides to Drul’s Mound,” Kedryn added.
“You are certain of this?” King Darr asked his daughter, displeased by her request but unable to conceive any valid objection beyond the personal antipathy he felt for Hattim Sethiyan.
“Aye, I am.” Ashrivelle ducked her blond head, so much like Wynett’s, Darr thought, yet lacking that soundness of judgment, that strength of character, that marked his elder child.
“I had thought you viewed the young Prince of Tamur with favor,” Darr said, seeking to purchase a little time in which to marshal his thoughts. There seemed such an escalation of events he felt himself caught up in a flood he appeared incapable of slowing. The Lord of Ust-Galich had appeared in Andurel far earlier than the king had anticipated—almost as though propelled by magic, yet he had no Sisters in his retinue to work the weather spells that might have summoned a wind—and the malaise that had brought a guilty flush of pleasure to Darr had abated under the ministrations of Sister Thera, who now occupied an honored place among Sethiyan’s followers, leaving the Galichian clearly able to press his suit of the princess with such force as to persuade her.
If only, Darr cogitated, Kedryn had come south, rather than seeking the cures of Estrevan, then perhaps Ashrivelle would have found her interest rekindled, and Hattim’s ardor held at bay. Kedryn would, without doubt, make a finer husband, for no matter how he viewed the matter, the king could find little to please him in the Galichian’s character. The man was handsome enough, and that counted for much in Ashrivelle’s eyes; and he was wealthy, fashionable, the king supposed, and certainly eligible. But there was that overwening ambition in the man and Darr doubted that Hattim’s motivation was purely that of a lover: doubted that Ashrivelle, for all her beauty, would be so pleasing to him were she not of the highest blood, a potential stepping stone to the throne.
“Kedryn Caitin is pleasing enough,” Ashrivelle agreed with irritating candor, “and when he fought the trajea I did, indeed, feel a stirring of interest; but Hattim is a man and I love him.”
“He is somewhat older than you.” Darr fingered the medallion of his office hung about his neck, the tripartite crown raised in silver from the golden disk, but it gave him no inspiration.
“Father,” Ashrivelle responded with fond scorn, “what matter? A few years makes no difference to us.”
“He is the Lord of Ust-Galich,” Darr said, stroking a beard gone fully gray these past months, “and it is more usual for a princess of Andurel to wed a son of the Kingdoms. Wed to Hattim you bind Andurel and Ust-Galich; you create an imbalance. Our custom has always been to marry sons to daughters, the partner not of Andurel renouncing inheritance that no Kingdom might rise above its fellows.”
“Father!” Ashrivelle struck a pose, pouting dramatically. “I know all this. It is common knowledge. But I love Hattim and there is no one else.”
“There is still Kedryn Caitin,” Darr said hopefully.
“He is blind,” answered Ashrivelle, undeterred, “and gone to Estrevan. He may never return. And Prince Kemm is bandy and smells of horses, which I believe he loves far more than women.”
Darr could not help smiling, for there was some measure of truth in what she said and he doubted that Kemm would agree to forsake his beloved herds even for a woman as lovely as his daughter. Besides, Kemm was no statesman, and the throne required a diplomat—such as Kedryn had proved himself to be.
“I doubt Kedryn will remain in Estrevan forever,” he tried.
Ashrivelle wound a ringlet of honey-colored hair about a finger and smoothed an invisible fold in her pink gown. “He is blind,” she argued, “and so young”
“He is a hero,” her father countered. “He slew the leader of the Horde and saved the Kingdoms, and he is of marriageable age.”
“He is not Hattim,” answered Ashrivelle, her voice sulky.
“Would you not consider him?” Darr saw that he fought a losing battle: in some ways Ashrivelle was as firmly purposed as her sister. “Could you not wait a little?”
“For what?” Ashrivelle let go the ringlet and took her father’s hand. “I love Hattim and that will not change no matter how long I wait.”
Darr stroked her palm thoughtfully, marveling at the smoothness of her pale skin. He had voiced objections when Wynett announced her intention of remaining in Estrevan to become a full-fledged Sister and lost then; now it seemed he had another daughter—albeit less sensible, in his eyes, than her sibling, but nonetheless determined—who would go her own way no matter what objections he raised.
“There is still the problem of power,” he murmured. “Andurel and Ust-Galich bound by marriage? Would Hattim renounce his kingdom?”
Ashrivelle’s blue eyes opened wide, her generous mouth forming a moue of surprise. “We have not discussed it,” she said. “Why should he? Do you not think it possible he can rule both?” “Tamur and Kesh might object,” her father opined mildly. “We could ...” Ashrivelle thought for a moment, then smiled as if she stumbled on a perfect solution, “establish a regent.”
“Who would doubtless be Hattim’s man,” Darr pointed out.
His daughter pouted again, snorting dismissively. “I think you harbor some secret dislike, some animosity toward Hattim.”
She removed her hand from his
grasp, turning an amethyst ring in a gesture Darr recognized as irritated. “I have no animosity toward Hattim Sethiyan,” he said slowly, mildly ashamed that he lied, “but I do dislike the notion of vesting such a weight of power in a single lord.”
Ashrivelle stamped a silver slipper. “You deny me my love!” she cried melodramatically. “Perhaps we should elope!”
“I doubt Hattim would agree to that,” Darr retorted, then added tactfully, “He would not shame either of your lines with such an action. ”
Ashrivelle allowed herself to be mollified, turning an appealing face to the king. “Surely there must be some way to overcome this tiresome objection? Surely I may marry the man I love?”
“I expect there is,” Darr agreed. “But I must think on it.”
“Then you are not—in principle—against our wedding?”
The king looked at the princess and shook his head, seeing no alternative that would not be an insult to Ust-Galich. Outright refusal could make an outright enemy of the ambitious Sethiyan, and Darr had no wish to foment civil war; especially not with the Galichian forces marching south while the armies of Tamur and Kesh disbanded.
“Then I may tell Hattim he is free to approach you,” pressed Ashrivelle, “formally?”
“You may,” Darr nodded.
“Thank you!” The princess rose to kiss her father on the cheek, hugging him briefly before running in a most unregal way to the door, blond locks streaming behind her.
Darr watched the door thud closed and sighed. If only Grania lived, he thought, she could prognosticate the outcome, perhaps even suggest a solution. But Grania was dead and Bethany the Paramount Sister of Andurel, for all her undoubted virtues, was not a whit the politician Grania had been.
He rose from the plain-carved chair and paced to the window, his simple gray robe rustling as he crossed the flags. Cold winter sunlight sparkled on the white of the palace walls, stark shadows hiding in the angles and comers of the yards below. Frost shone on the gardens, silver against the white canopy of snow, the shrubbery dark, seeming to crouch against the frozen earth. A squad of pikemen marched orderly to their watch station, sunlight glinting bright on their cuirasses, on the polished heads of their bills, the steady pounding of their boots a metronome cadence that echoed against the windows of the chamber. They might hold the palace, Darr thought, but the city would fall should Hattim employ his southward-marching army; then he shook off the thought as unworthy. Surely not even Hattim Sethiyan would risk civil war.
Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 Page 24
