The Sword of Morning Star

by Richard Meade

  “Nor underspeak,” said Hagen without flinching. “My own service to the crown and those of my companions would add to more than a century, and our scars gained in battle on its behalf to at least a hundred, too. We neither o’er nor underspeak, but speak directly and to the matter.” He glanced at the scroll. “By your leave, several points have we.”

  “Then say them,” Albrecht rasped, the anger breaking naked into his voice.

  “First, the death of our late, beloved King, Gustav… Certain matters of this death, so greatly mourned, we find obscure. Our request be now that a commission be appointed, of disinterested lords and thanes, to inquire into its manner, so that all facts be fully known.”

  “All facts pertaining to the tragedy have been made public.” Albrecht’s eyes met those of Hagen and held them.

  “The broken boar-spear. When certain of us sought to examine it, it seemed the fatal weapon had been lost.” Hagen’s voice was dry and full of irony.

  “When a king dies, the confusion is great,” said Albrecht. “Request not granted. Go on.”

  “No relief, then, on this matter? Very well: to the next.” Hagen let the scroll snap shut. “Of more moment, now, perhaps is this. Your Majesty is aware, perhaps, that the population of half-wolves in the Gray Lands swells daily; that they flock to Boorn and Marmorburg from all over the world, finding here sanctuary and preferred treatment.”

  Albrecht’s lips curled with amusement. “Aye, well aware am I.”

  Hagen’s gaze went to Eero, standing next the throne. “More. As they come, these outcasts with warm welcome are received and are formed now into new divisions of the Army of the Emperor. And already appointments have been made elevating half-wolves far above men within the Army, the Palace Guard, the court, and civil functions. Now, say we, this is plague not to be borne. Wolves enough already are there in Boorn without allowing it to become infested with half-wolves, too!”

  Eero made a growling sound, put one foot forward and a clawed hand on his sword, but Albrecht gestured him back. “You are troubled with wolves, brave Hagen?” he asked with feigned innocence.

  “Troubled? Little more and they become catastrophe. Like the half-wolves, they, too, have flocked to the kingdom ruled by…” his lips curled as he said the words, “the Duke of the Wolves’ Home, their coverts throughout the Frorwald, their daily sustenance our flocks, aye, sometimes even our shepherds! And yet the King claims all the Frorwald as his own hunting ground, and expeditions to reduce their number have not been permitted…”

  “And your request is—?”

  “That strict limits be imposed on the number of half-wolves coming into Boorn. That we lords be allowed to hunt to ground the wolves of the Frorwald and exterminate them. And that the kingdom, armies, courts, and land of Boorn be ruled by men and not by wolves or half-wolves!” Angrily echoed his voice throughout the hall.

  Albrecht’s face darkened. A full minute he sat there, staring at Hagen, who met his gaze unflinchingly. There was the shuffle of feet, meanwhile, and the half-wolves, at some unobserved signal, closed ranks; then came the creak of sword belts and the whisper of loosened blades in scabbards as they formed an enormous, reeking circle around the handful of men who confronted the King.

  Then Albrecht arose, the Great Sword of Boorn in his hand. “I rule Boorn,” he said harshly, “and no other rules. By this sword rule I, and the crown I wear. And hear me, Hagen. By sword and crown alike, I warn you all that he who speaks treason shall suffer for it.”

  “We speak no treason, sire,” replied Hagen thinly. “But as free lords of Boorn, we may present frankly and unhampered our petitions.”

  “Which are,” rasped Albrecht, “in their entirety denied, being insolent and insulting. And lest you feel the weight of our displeasure, full apology will I have for the impertinence I have heard this morning.” He nodded to Eero, subtly, and now the ring around the lords closed more tightly. Some of them looked around apprehensively, but Hagen, coolly, said in a low voice, “No swords drawn.” His own hands, blunt-fingered and scarred, were raised high, well away from the jeweled hilt of his own blade. Albrecht felt a fierce hatred for this man—the others were frightened and intimidated, fearful of lese majesty and of the wolfmen. Without Hagen, they would dissolve like salted garden slugs. But Hagen was like oak.

  “Should we have insulted the Crown of the Gray Lands or the Sword of Boorn this morning,” the lord said with a courtesy so exquisite that it was mockery, “full apology, Your Majesty, do we make.”

  “And is accepted,” Albrecht said, all at once anxious to be rid of this group. “But all petitions denied.”

  Hagen bowed his head. “So be it. Perhaps Your Majesty will be in mood to reconsider later, should we hit on more forceful argument for our cause. By your leave, sire, now go we all to our separate lands.”

  “Then go,” said Albrecht, and he nodded once more to Eero. A lane opened in the mob of black-clad wolfmen, and the lords wheeled, led by Hagen, stiff-backed and proud in bearing, and then stalked out. Eero barked orders: the Palace Guard rearranged itself in ranks.

  Albrecht seated himself again on the throne, breathing hard with suppressed rage. Then he said, “Good Eero,” and beckoned the half-wolf to him.

  “Your Majesty—” Eero bent close to listen.

  “You have seen Hagen…”

  “Aye,” Eero said, and growled in his throat.

  “The man cannot be tolerated. Besides, it is o’ertime to prove the trustiness of our new comrades. Do you now send this message to the Black Wolf herself in the Frorwald… and tell her that her reward for services shall be great; aye, she shall gorge herself and all her followers on flesh of the sort she loves best.”

  Eero’s tongue lolled as he nodded. “But will not this reflect back against Your Majesty?”

  “The fate of Markau, ghastly as it must be, shall be good insurance against other insurrection. Then we are secure and free to carry out our plans that run beyond this moment—But for now, a messenger to the Black Wolf.”

  “Aye,” said Eero, and he bowed and scraped, and then hurried from the throne, while Albrecht stroked the Great Sword of Boorn with his hand and smiled thoughtfully and darkly.

  CHAPTER V

  With his art, Sandivar had called from the far forests another huge bear, a she this time, whom he called Rowl, and who was also broken to saddle and rein. The tower was carefully locked, and the sorcerer then traced a circle in the sand about it, muttering as he did so words meaningless to Helmut, who watched impatiently. At last, Sandivar was done. “Now, should one with evil intent cross the protective boundary I’ve laid down, woe to him! Still, an honest traveler need have no fear.” Sandivar gathered up the reins of the she-bear. “Let us go.”

  Helmut swung aboard Waddle, who bore his weight with ease. The two animals waded out into the marsh, then began to swim. Helmut liked the strong, rhythmic driving motion of the bear, the feeling of power. It was nearly as good as a war-horse…

  While the two great animals bore them across the marsh, Helmut, Sigrieth’s bastard, looked at the world he now inhabited with a kind of amazement. In his ten years in another, he had forgotten that there was aught but cold and drear, fog and grayness; now he rode in sweet sunshine, beneath arching blue, toward a line of bright, beckoning green that was the mainland. He should, it occurred to him, feel exaltation and freedom at his release from that land of horror to which Sandivar had sent him; but he did not. Indeed, he felt nothing except the determination which had allowed Sandivar to dispatch him to that place in the beginning: to kill Albrecht and revenge the deaths of Sigrieth and Gustav. After that, of course, he would become King of Boorn and Emperor of the Gray Lands, but the thought of reigning stirred no enthusiasm within him.

  These ten years that he had spent in that other world, the decade that had brought him to manhood and had tutored him in all the hard arts of warfare—indeed, he thought, they had left him scarred. It was strange not to be able to respond to beauty,
strange not to feel mirth at the spectacle of Sandivar ducked by a sudden maneuver of the she-bear, startled by a watersnake. Strange not to feel anything human except hatred of Albrecht and the need to obliterate him. Sandivar had not exaggerated the price—indeed, if he remained like this, dead within, once Albrecht died it mattered not to him if he himself were slain. There was no love of life left within him.

  But whatever he had to do, he could; of that he was now certain. His left arm was an almost frightening mass of muscle: single-handed, he could be terrible with the great broadsword that normal men must use two hands to wield. Many times, in rawest, bloodiest combat, had that been proved. With the short sword was he also expert; and with the crossbow. But next to the broadsword, his favorite weapon was the chain-mace, the great iron ball studded with long, sharp spikes, called sardonically by warriors since the days of Siegfried and the Walsungs the “morning star.” For a mounted man with strength of arm, it was a brutal, efficient weapon; had he not lacked a hand, had he been able to use broadsword with his right and the morning star with his left, he would have been the equal—nay, the master—of any warrior in that hell-Valhalla to which he had been sent—and to which someday he must in all probability return.

  But for now, no thought of that. Ahead lay Rage and Vengeance, Death and Destruction, as Sandivar had promised; and, oddly, he was to acquire these extensions of himself in the Lands of Light, that sweet and gentle place of learning which Boorn and the Gray Lands sheltered as a she-bear her cub. But that was Sandivar’s arranging; only let him be armed and armored, mounted on a war-horse of strong, long leg, and then he would take the lead. But for now, he was content to let Sandivar take him, as the old man had insisted on doing, to Neoroma, capital of the Lands of Light.

  Presently the water shallowed, and the bears, fur plastered and dripping, emerged; and they were on the mainland. Here was a forest, not dark and tangled like the Frorwald, but open and clear, its pleasant floor dappled with checkers of sunlight shifting drowsily with the movement of the heavy foliage of the giant oaks and beeches that comprised the woods. They struck a path, and the bears loped along tirelessly with a rolling gait. The air was warm and fragrant, perfumed, but it stirred no response of pleasure in Helmut; by habit, his eyes watched for ambush.

  Long were they in the mossy, misty darkness of the forest; then they emerged into meadows green with grass, bright and riotous with flowers, and murmurous with the hum of insects. Sometimes, as they crested an occasional ridge, they saw villages: pretty little places of whitewashed stone, without walls, surrounded by groves of citrus and of olives. They steered clear of these, continuing across country.

  That evening, they slept in a grove, their cloaks for cover, bread, cheese, and wine from Sandivar’s saddlebags their dinner. The bears rummaged and foraged in the woods, and then, hunger sated by whatever they had found, came back and made soft pillows of themselves for their riders.

  At daybreak they were off again. Now they came to a road; and it was paved in a fashion new to Helmut, neither so hard as stone nor graveled, nor only dust, but of some material that seemed to speed the hurrying feet of the bears. This road was wide and spacious and glittered like the finest marble, yet never was hot or dazzling.

  Like a serpent it wound across the beautiful country, where cattle and horses grazed between the little towns; where children herded swine and geese and sheep; and where, from time to time, the minor notes of a shepherd’s pipe floated drowsily over the tranquil landscape.

  “Surely,” said Helmut, “this road is a marvel.”

  “There are many more marvels in Neoroma, where a good mind and craftsman’s hands are more valued than a strong stroke with a broadsword,” said Sandivar.

  “I am sorry,” Helmut said. “My trade is the broadsword.”

  “Aye, and without it all this—” Sandivar swept put an arm, “would perish. We are near to Neoroma now; it lies just over yon hill.” And he pointed toward a ridge several miles away. “It is, as you know, a very ancient place, ancient long before the Worldfire. There ruin lies upon ruin, and ruin upon that; and then a civilization upon it all—”

  “Which in turn will someday be ruin?”

  “Unless Boorn lends protection until the New Learning is complete, aye.” They rode in silence then, up the ridge; and then they topped it, and Sandivar drew rein.

  “There,” he said. “There is Neoroma. There is the capital of the Lands of Light.”

  Helmut stared. “By the Gods,” he whispered.

  Unwalled, it spread itself over the verdant hills below them, on the banks of a river clear and shining. White spires gleamed, and bronze statues, and pink marble and veined travertine, and nothing that took the eye jarred it or was unwholesome. Here, it seemed, had been laid down a city out of Paradise, huge and swarming, yet no detail neglected for the pleasure of the senses or the convenience of its citizens. Between the temples, palaces, gardens, bright apartments and the pleasant little homes of workers, orderly traffic moved on huge and uncrowded streets. Overarching the river were bridges of incredible gemlike delicacy that yet bore great burdens of laden wagons without a tremble. This was a city without rot or ugliness; and that was something not even Marmorburg, in all its splendor, could boast.

  And yet, Helmut found himself thinking only: that is where we shall get our weapons. This beauty did not move him, once his surprise had died. “They have no wall,” he said.

  “Nor needed any until now. Boorn was their wall, and its king their shield. Let us hurry. We are awaited at the palace.”

  Close up, the city was as pleasant as at a distance. Many beautiful women inhabited it, in costumes that displayed their charms, and their eyes, half-lidded and inquisitive or beckoning, did not miss the tall, wild-looking man clad only in leather. Helmut, in his turn, spared them barely a glance. Women, he had learned in his servitude in that warrior’s half-world, had their place; but it was after the battle; and his battle had not yet been fought. Time enough to use them when Albrecht’s corpse was cold…

  “So many temples,” he said, riding knee to knee with Sandivar. “All to different gods?”

  “Nay,” the sorcerer said. “All to one—and that one, learning. Not that humanity shall sleep warmer or eat better or have more entertainment and luxury, but that humanity shall know its purpose, what the Gods have put it here for and how it may be fulfilled. For look: a bear requires this and no more—food, mating, a little play, a winter’s sleep. Given so much, he is content and seeks not more, for he has no dreams. But man is not a bear: always restless, striving, daring, risking, seeking the unknowable, and all this only to learn his own purpose among the stars. And when he knows it, perhaps then he too will be at last at home on the earth as a bear is, and among the stars, too. Here they seek the answer: what will fulfill man, appease him, and give him rest this side of death; in short, answer what the Gods require of him; and though all that is tall order enough, yet it is not so far from fulfillment. When the knowledge is fully revealed, codified, disseminated, made general and interpreted, when the New Learning is complete and spread around the earth, then man will at last be home from his long journey, and broadswords may rust away…”

  “Have they no warriors here? Must they depend entirely on the goodwill of Boorn?”

  “And until now, the goodwill of Boorn has not faltered.” Sandivar smiled. “Aye, they have warriors here, but they have not armies. For the warrior is like muscle in the flesh, he gives society its strength; yet, too much muscle and one can hardly bend the arm; moreover, muscle draws nourishment from the brain. So these people will have no battalions and no divisions; when their homes are threatened, they will fight, and with a right goodwill. But they are not fighters born, like you of the Gray Lands. You have learned by now that when an army exists, it must always find something for itself to do—something which it must defend against or something which it must attack. Great mischief lies in such forces—which, indeed, are the forces Albrecht now gathers ’round h
im to the north. But here’s the palace.”

  It towered over them, with a great winding spiral of pure white steps leading upward toward the enormous columns, many meters thick, yet so delicately designed and made that their soaring height seemed slender and graceful; this palace, the seat of the King of the Lands of Light, only began there, at that great portico; and then it wandered and bent and towered and esplanaded. There were colonnades and arcades and hanging gardens; vast halls that yet seemed not vast, so careful was their proportioning; and finally there was the throne room, the splendor of it as great as that at Marmorburg and yet, devoid of guards, thus somehow greater. Nor, recognizing them from afar, did the King, whose name was Carus, await their coming; when the herald had informed him, he strode toward them, a handsome, sturdy man of middle age, eyes flashing bright with intelligence, smile warm. He wore no crown, only a golden chaplet or wreath; and his robes were not robes at all, but only a simple tunic of white linen, artfully embroidered. “Sandivar!” He and the sorcerer embraced like brothers.

  Then he turned to Helmut. “And this is—?”

  “Helmut, bastard son of Sigrieth, now heir to the Great Sword of Boorn and the Crown of the Gray Lands.”

  “Your Majesty,” said Helmut, bowing to Carus.

  “Greater than mine your own empire,” Carus said. He frowned at Sandivar as if suddenly remembering. “But I thought Sigrieth’s last remaining son was but a child.”

  “Look at him,” Sandivar said. “If you see aught of child left in him, let me know.”

  Carus met Helmut’s gaze. His face paled, and he turned away, “Aye,” he said as if he understood. “A bitter price to pay.”

  “No,” said Helmut. “Not too bitter. My vengeance shall make it worth the while. Only that the Gods do not send lightning or plague to take Albrecht to untimely death, no more than that do I ask. We need weapons, and I must hurry to Boorn; Sandivar has said that we may obtain them here.”