by Brian Daley
“You have done well by your fief, Dulcet,” Angorman told her.
“It is my nephew’s now. Property in these parts is kept by those who can defend it. I steward it for him.”
The Saint-Commander frowned. “It should be yours, and your heirs’.”
“But I’ve none, and never shall have, shall I? That was fated long ago, the day you saved me from Kid-sheerer. If I cannot have the mate I chose, I will have none.”
The old man looked away, his features a doleful monument. Gil knew the Order, like the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, swore celibacy. That tenet must have come under stress here, with Dulcet wanting Angorman and no one else. Having seen what life was like for an Oathbreaker like Wintereye, Gil wasn’t surprised by the tragedy he saw.
The Lady Dulcet called for food, then insisted on seeing the baby. She and Woodsinger agreed the child was a perfect treasure. Her questions were few; it was enough to know that they were bound for Veganá.
“My nephew Newshield should be back soon,” Dulcet was saying. “He went out hunting this afternoon, all at once. He’s something of a scholar lately. A terror in his younger days, but he has come along nicely, I think. He has even had men of learning here, to consult with him.”
They took seats together at one end of the long table. White wine was brought in fluted goblets of lavender glass, a vintage from the giant grapes of the local vineyards. Then they were served hot bowls of stuff like thick bouillabaisse, which they scooped up with crisp shells of breadcrust.
It was dark when they settled at the hearthside benches, telling of late developments on the far side of the Dark Ramparts. Woodsinger began to yawn, the baby asleep on her lap. When Dulcet had her shown to a room, Ferrian and Andre went with her, saying they were tired, meaning they’d be on guard.
Gil had removed guns, sword and byrnie, stacking them with his gear and Angorman’s along with Red Pilgrim in a corner. He relaxed, ecstatic at being able to scratch his chest and back at last.
Angorman had always confined his conversation to matters of travel and stories of his Order, tales of errantry with moral overtones. Now he made an effort to be breezy, witty, to entertain Dulcet. Their talk kept turning down old, private paths. To keep Gil involved, she inquired, “Has Lord Angorman told you how he came to be here in the warmlands? Few are the times he has told that story. Come, Saint-Commander; give us that rare treat.”
Only because it was Dulcet who asked, Angorman settled himself deeper in his seat, to conjure the story. “Where I come from, it is dark for months of the year. In spiked boots we crossed the ice fields, hunting the white bear, the seal and breaching whale-fish. Of ten children, perhaps four lived to the graying of their hair. There, the wildmen of your northern isles were what we called warmlanders.
“In due time, at seventeen, I inherited the axe of my father. He had died battling the white bear, and the weapon’s helve was snapped in two. I fared out to seek a new one, but became lost in a blizzard. Then the weather broke, and I happened upon a ship stuck in the ice, her crew in embossed armor and silken remnants, frozen in the yards and rime-fastened to her deck. How far she had come I cannot imagine, but she had been there a long, long time.
“On her bow sprit was a figurehead. Its shape was the Bright Lady. The bowsprit had struck the ice, and the figurehead was cracked along its length. One great splinter stood out, straight and sharp in its rime jacket. I had found my axe-haft. I broke it off with much effort; the wood was tough as metal. I had my bearings, so I went to find my people, to share my incredible find.
“But the blizzard settled in again. We could not stir out of our ice-lodges for a day and a night. I passed the time mounting Red Pilgrim’s new helve. It was another day before we could start for the ship. We had no trouble finding her; a column of smoke marked where she had struck the ice. My tribesmen halted, wondering how many enemies must be there; in the far north fire means men, and men are most often adversaries. I left the others behind, bellowing a war challenge. In my mind was the ethereal face on the bowsprit, that must come to no harm. But I was too late.
“There were raiders, wildmen from the Isles who go abroad to steal and slay. They follow the Druids, hating the Bright Lady and all Her works. They had lit fire all round the ship, fed with oil. Craftsmanship that had survived for—perhaps centuries—was blackened, withered in coils of flame.” Angorman’s thoughts were far away, holding some of the anguish he’d felt that day.
“I do not know how many there were. They had a large, outrigged sea-canoe drawn up, outfitted for winter voyaging. I went among the lot with my axe. I was young then, coming into my strength, faster with the greataxe than anyone. Many died.
“The rest, fearing a trap, or maybe my madness, launched their canoe and dug their paddles with vim. I saw the ship was past saving, a framework of fire. That proud, holy figurehead was consumed, the ice sizzling under the hull. The ship burned for an hour more, then slid down into the sea, the ice around her melted through. Her chains and metal fittings, molten hot, hissed like dragons at combat as they hit the water.
“But my heart revived. Here was a reason to live, and not just eke out existence. I would find that Lady, whoever she was, and put myself at Her disposal. I set out with my axe and little else, having come upon my Destiny.”
His face creased in a moment’s introspection. “I came at last to join the Brotherhood of the Bright Lady, which Balagon led, and leads still. They all agreed I was worthy, but they numbered one hundred, and are allowed no more members under their bylaws. This inadequate patience of mine soon wore out, so off I went to found the Order of the Axe. You will hear them curse me as a heretic or call on me for miracles, Gil MacDonald, but I am nothing more than a man who, like most, needed a dream. Finding it, I have held fast to it, grateful that She chose me.”
Dulcet had lain a hand on his arm. He covered it with his. The candles burned low.
Gil came back from the story, uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily, studying weapons, shields, trophies and paintings hung on the walls. On a huge disk over the hearth was the device of Dulcet’s family, a single rose.
Dulcet said, “Perhaps you would care to see my nephew’s study? He is a collector of rare books and scrolls. You will find it at the top of those stairs there. Shall I have a servant show you?”
“No. Thanks, I’ll find it.” They wanted to be alone. He decided he’d find a place to rack out after he’d looked in on the study.
It was an odd place, more given to discarded clothing and empty cups than to books. He wandered through it lackadaisically, by candlelight. A few of the scrolls there were very old indeed.
There was a clatter of hooves and baying of hounds in the courtyard. Figuring it would be Newshield, Dulcet’s nephew, he laid down the codex he’d been skimming. His glance crossed the table where he put the codex, went beyond, then back to the loose page lying there. He held it up to the light.
It was the title page from Arrivals Macabre.
He made a fast search, yanking curtains aside, opening chests and cabinets. He pulled up the lid on an ornate oaken box and saw what he’d sought, a glass apparatus of twin retorts like the one in Yardiff Bey’s sanctum at Earthfast. There were voices, loudly, from downstairs. He wished he hadn’t taken off his pistols.
He went back down hesitantly. His first impulse was to get to his guns, and warn Angorman. Moreover, he had to pass through the dining hall to get to Andre and the others. Drawing a deep breath, he re-entered the hall.
Newshield—it must be he—was a young man with pouchy eyes too old for him. He wore mud-caked boots and a fine, ermine-bordered cloak of embroidered silk over a gilt cuirass. Behind him, men hung around the main doors, hands close to swords. Two of them held straining, leashed hounds with either hand. The dogs’ slaver stained the carpet; their muddy paws left tracks. Precipitous tension hung in the air.
“These premises are not my aunt’s, Lord Angorman, but mine.” Newshield’s tone was unreasoning. “I do not
like my hospitality extended without my let.”
The Saint-Commander’s effort to control his temper was visible. “I knew your aunt in days gone by. Surely her kindness can be no great transgression.”
Gil came to their notice. “Where has this fellow been?” Newshield snapped. “My study? Oh, that is beyond the beyonds!”
“Then,” answered Angorman, “we will get us gone. Our apologies.” Gil, hoping Newshield would buy it, headed for his guns. But Dulcet’s nephew raised his hand, and swords were drawn.
“No, Lord Angorman. Having come, you must stay.” The heavies at the door ranged themselves frankly around the room, waiting. Gil’s stomach clenched, but he hesitated to make a long move for the pistols; Dulcet and Newshield were both in his way. There were just too many men, too near, with bared blades. Newshield shed his cloak and loosened his own weapon.
“The rest of this party will doubtless be in guest quarters,” he said, picking six of his men with a sweep of his arm. “You come with me.” He selected four more. “And you others make your way round, through the garden. Post yourselves beneath their window, against escape.”
Dulcet was stunned. “You… you knew they would be here?”
“He’s got pages from Arrivals Macabre upstairs,” Gil told Angorman. Newshield appraised the American.
“Yes, I harbored a very important patron when he was in need. He did not find what he sought in the loose pages he brought, and so left them behind.” He smirked. “We would have taken you when you first came, but my aunt’s chief servitor got wind of it somehow. He fled, and would have betrayed me. It took us all afternoon to track him down in the marshes. He perished with the Bright Lady’s name on his lips, stupid zealot.”
He turned back to his men. “You know what is expected. Bear up; within the hour, the Flaming Wheel will be on the wing to the Hand of Salamá. In one hundred heartbeats we will go in at them. Harrowfoot, you will stay here with the remaining men and guard these three.”
They took torches and moved out, six to the staircase that led to the guest quarters, behind Newshield, and four more for the garden. That left eight in the dining hall. They waited with unsheathed swords, leaving no doubt what would happen if someone shouted a warning. Gil felt sick to his stomach, angry at himself, very much afraid.
Perhaps the other servants would help? No, not against so many men-at-arms. He felt a split second’s pity for the hapless chief servitor, driven to desperate courage by faith in the Bright Lady, run to ground by horsemen and baying dogs.
Something clicked. Short on time, he didn’t even stop to look for flaws. “Harrowfoot, you look like a reasonable guy to me.” The man, hard-bitten ugly whose mid-section had gone to paunch, glared suspiciously.
“I mean, who doesn’t want to turn an honest profit?” Gil hastened. Angorman eyed him noncommittally, but Harrowfoot’s interest had been piqued.
“What profit is that, witling?”
“Hey, listen, I’m not with these people. Why can’t you just let me walk? It’d be worthwhile for you; there’re a hundred gold bits in my saddlebag. You take ’em and I’ll take off, how’s that? Newshield won’t care; he’s got what he wants.”
Harrowfoot plucked the saddlebags out of the pile of gear in the corner, set them on the table and rummaged through them. Gil tried to estimate how much time he had. Hurry! “The right bag, the one that’s tied off. They’re at the bottom.” He bit his lip, trying to tell Angorman with eye contact, It’s coming, get set. The Saint-Commander only displayed contempt.
Harrowfoot, tearing things out of the bag, grinned to himself. If there were money, he’d take it, but the outlander would never leave the room alive. He pulled items out and tossed them aside: a spare shirt, socks, a whetstone, a wadded swatch of red cloth.
Gil saw that, and gathered himself. The dogs growled, showed fangs and fought to break free with insane ferocity. One handler was dragged headlong, losing his hold. His two dogs flung themselves directly at Harrowfoot and the strip of red bunting Gil had saved from the attack on Woodsinger at Earthfast.
Harrowfoot went down with a scream. Everyone in the room was shouting. The armsman nearest Gil was distracted. The American took a long step inside his guard to knee him. He jumped the next man, whose sword pointed at Dulcet’s heart. The man was just turning, having heard the thud of the kneeing and the first guard’s moan. Gil clamped an arm around his throat and, kicking the back of his knee, hauled him back off balance. He bellowed to Andre and Ferrian, wherever they were, to watch out. To Angorman he screamed, “Go for it!”
The Saint-Commander wrestled the sword from the second man, thrust Dulcet over to the wall, and wove through confused foemen toward his axe.
The second handler’s animals had turned on him and savaged him. They, too, now threw themselves at Harrowfoot. Two guards were trying to beat them off him with the flats of their blades. Men and hounds stabbed, bit, growled, cursed and fought.
Gil put his second man away with a hammer blow to the base of the skull, but the first was stumbling to his feet. The American damned himself for not having nailed him right. Another guard came around the table. Caught between them, Gil dove under the long, wide dining board, strawberrying his hands and forearms.
Angorman had eluded one opponent. The melee of dogs and men diverted most attention from him. Another foe closed with him. They flailed at each other, using their broadswords two-handed. Angorman, used to his axe, was forced on the defensive. He managed to draw his adversary around until their positions were reversed. Cautiously withdrawing out of dueling distance, he threw his weapon at the man, pivoted, and seized his greataxe.
The swordsman stepped back. One of his comrades, chasing Gil, broke off and came around the table to his aid. Red Pilgrim was in the old man’s hands. He nodded to himself.
“Now, we shall see,” he told them. Gil, scuttling along between the table’s ornate legs as blades whistled past him blindly, heard a new sound, an ululating war cry. He realized it was Angorman, and spotted the swirl of the old man’s robes and the shuffle of feet as the fight resumed. There was the metal-to-metal clash of the duel. A man hit the floor, blood running from his side.
Gil took a quick survey of stamping feet and running boots, rolled past polished wooden griffin’s limbs, and came up where he thought he’d be least noticed.
The hall was filled with turmoil. Harrowfoot was wheezing out his life, and the dogs were dead or dying. Several of the opposition were down; as he watched, Angorman dropped another.
Gil saw no stiffness in the Saint-Commander now. There was only lethal precision, a facility with the six-foot axe that was nearly gymnastic. It whipped through the air, taking red stains coming and going. It changed direction in midair, hitting from any arc and every quarter, as if Angorman had transcended gravity and velocity, ignoring or employing them at his pleasure. Sheer dexterity was at work.
He advanced up the hall, his flickering shadow thrown huge on the walls by light from the hearth. Red Pilgrim spun through loops and angles of its own fatal geometries. Another armsman jumped forward, broadsword raised. The crescent axehead eluded him, flew through his rib cage. Blood spurted and he toppled sideways. Gil, ignored, back to a wall, caught his bearings.
Angorman stopped his advance, having reached Dulcet’s side. She was white-faced, hands gripped together, but her gaze never left the Saint-Commander. He swept her behind him. Newshield and his men swarmed back into the room, recalled by the fracas.
“Surrender,” ordered Newshield, “or I will surely kill you.”
Angorman, holding his eye, took the legendary great-axe around in a flourish that left an arc of light in the air.
The men with Newshield set their torches aside and advanced. The old man flicked Red Pilgrim through a dazzling figure eight and came on again like a nimble, deadly machine. One adroit change-vector and a man was down, his leg sliced open. The rest became more cautious, spreading to encircle him. He laughed, a wild gleam in his eye, and to
ssed his weapon into the air one-handed. It spun quickly, its center of gravity just below its head, and returned to his hands. He feinted in one direction, shifted his grip, and struck in another so fast that Gil lost track of it. Angorman met sword cuts with the axe’s head or langets, or eluded them completely. He’d insert a flourish for love of it, but the bewildering ellipses were always murderous.
Two men had pulled bucklers from the wall, coming at him from the sides. He drove one back with an eager attack, then planted his feet firmly and swung on the other. The buckler split; the arm beneath was nearly halved, its ulna and radius both parted. The Saint-Commander had the axe back instantly as if, Gil thought, it were made of bamboo and aluminum foil.
Another man had skirted the table, having spotted the American. Gil chucked a footstool at him. Seeing his way was clear, he dashed to the corner and burrowed for his holster. He fished the Browning out and cocked it, but when he turned around again, the situation had changed. His pursuer had stopped and gone back, Angorman having driven the other men off; but Newshield had slipped around the Saint-Commander and now held his swordpoint up under Dulcet’s chin.
Red Pilgrim froze. Angorman’s shoulders slumped as defeat came into his carriage. Gil took up a stance, right shoulder to his target, feet planted solidly. He set his left hand on his hip and brought the Browning up, straight and steady, with his right. He inhaled, exhaled half a breath and held it. Sighting, he squeezed the trigger slowly. A fierce delight swept through him. He wanted to get the Mauser too, and empty both pistols, then take Dunstan’s sword and swing it until he was exhausted. His blood coursed like electricity. He fought the feeling down, needing composure.
He eased tension off his forefinger, lowering the barrel. The room was too dim, and Dulcet and Newshield, in the shadows, too close together. Gil wasn’t expert enough to be sure he’d make the shot. Angorman was about to lay his weapon down again.
