That was all he saw or had time to see, for now he was truly fighting for his very life, and so were they all, exhausted and at the ends of their strength. Each sword swing was an act of will; the weight of his iron mace of a fist seemed now almost beyond the lifting. Since dawn had he neither drunk nor eaten. Whatever the sally from Markau meant, unless it were help, and effective help, they were finished.
But still they pressed on, in the gray twilight; and then a strange thing happened. All at once the hard line of wolves softened, and a new note of panic rang forth in a chorus of howls. “Forward!” Helmut screamed again, with the last of his breath. “Boorn and Victory!” And he swung then up on the bloody, frothing war-horse.
The lines of boars and bears put out their last remaining strength. The forest came alive with animals as they surged forward toward the plain below. But the wolves had broken at last, seemed leaderless and confused, and let themselves be driven down. Then Helmut was out on the plain, the meadows of Markau, in the last gray evening light, and there were other men there too, now, fighting men on chargers; men at arms on foot with pikes, even peasants and citizens with pitchforks, mowing scythes, and a kind of weapon they made like a cat-o’-nine-tails, with a sharp cow horn at the end of each of nine chains riveted to a common handle. All of them, with fury long pent up and now released, were slaughtering wolves; and as Helmut raised his visor, their leader galloped up. “Hagen of Markau!” he bellowed above the din. “Who be you?”
“Helmut, bastard son of Sigrieth, King of Boorn and Emperor of the Gray Lands!”
There was a frozen instant of surprise. “Aye, when Albrecht falls, may be!”
“That shall we discuss later!” Helmut cried back. “For now, there’s still killing to do!”
The forest was still, utterly quiet. Sandivar sat patiently on his beech limb and watched the moon rise. The din of battle had long since faded. But he knew the happenings: himself forced out of himself and circling like a tiercel overhead had seen it all. And now… Now he waited, for one whom he knew must come.
He had long since sent Waddle after the melee; for he wanted keenly to be alone for what happened next, win, lose, draw. Maybe, even, he owed her that much, too, not to load the odds against her by Waddle’s presence. Anyhow, he waited… And presently he heard her coming.
The sound of her footsteps had the cadence of raindrops on dry leaves—the steady trotting of an animal. She was some distance off, but coming fast; and the wind blew from her to him, so she would not smell him. A cloud veiled the moon; but now it shifted, and silver light enough fell through the trees to dapple the path. Sandivar sat perfectly still; and in a moment, she came into view.
She was a huge bitch wolf, coal black, with shining yellow eyes, lolling red tongue, and gleaming white fangs. Monstrous in size, powerful of jaw, yet she must not have fought today, for there was no mark on her. That was like her, Sandivar thought. As much as she loved to wreak damage, she never risked it to herself.
Sandivar held his breath. The wolf came on, unwitting. Then, at the proper instant, with agility that would have done credit to a younger man, Sandivar dropped from the tree and landed squarely in the path before her.
“Hold, Kierena!” he snapped as she reflexively crouched back.
The yellow eyes stared at him. The red tongue lapped around black jowls. A deep growl rumbled in the bitch wolf’s throat.
“No use,” said Sandivar. “I taught you all you know, did not I? Think you not that if you are wolf, I could not, before you leap, be one of twice the size and power? Or whatever form you choose to take. No, Kierena, your wolf jaws may not tear out my throat.”
The wolf, still crouching, looked at him with those blazing eyes. The black tail twitched, the white fangs shone. Then a wisp of fog seemed to move between them, the wolf and Sandivar; and when it passed, no wolf was there. Only a woman clad in a loose robe of shimmering black fur, her face and body lovely beyond belief, her long hair falling in a sleek black cascade to her waist.
“Dear Sandivar,” she whispered, “think you I’d do you harm?” She smiled; and Sandivar trembled when she did that, for her smile had not changed at all. “No,” she said. “Often have I thought of you and dreamed of you and wondered where you were. But my magic was not sufficient to find you.”
“But sufficient for this,” said Sandivar hoarsely. “To lead the wolves…”
“And you the boars and bears,” she smiled. “And both of us return, the call of blood stronger than all else. But now, it seems, I am the one defeated, who must leave again. It will be lonely, leaving Boorn again. Perhaps you might go with me, Sandivar.” She moved closer to him. “Perhaps you might change yourself into that great wolf you spoke of, and we might run side by side before they have time to hunt me down. We could cross the Frorwald in a night, take human form tomorrow, then run again tomorrow night, strong werewolves, and fleet. And so until we reach a place of safety, where we two could be alone as once we—”
“Be still, Kierena,” Sandivar said hoarsely.
She ran her hands down over her breasts and belly. “You let yourself age, though your art could make you young and strong again. As my art, learned from you, has kept me comely. Now that we are met once more—and that well met, good Sandivar—perhaps we never need part again. The pleasures that we knew in Marmorburg can once more be ours, the long afternoons and lazy evenings, and—” She put out a hand and touched his cheek. “Run with me, Sandivar; and it will be worth your while.”
“Perhaps,” he said, trembling all over, “I will, someday. When we meet again.”
She frowned. “You will not come with me now?”
“Believe me,” Sandivar whispered in a voice full of emotion, “I would sell my soul to do so. But a man can sell his soul but once.”
She laughed faintly at that, a silvery sound. “But I may go? You will not hold me?”
“For a kiss,” said Sandivar, “I will let you go.”
“You should have it even if you held me,” she said, looking at him levelly. She put out her arms to him. The moment she fastened her mouth on his, she would turn back to wolf and his life would be forfeit, Sandivar knew; and so, moving into her embrace, he conjured the silver dagger from his sleeve, and with a groan of grief, stabbed her in the back and through the heart with it.
She staggered backwards, her eyes changing. No longer loving and lovely, they were feral and hateful. Then she sank to the ground; that fog seemed to blot her out again. When it had cleared, the Black Bitch-wolf lay there dead.
Sandivar sat down at the base of the tree and put his head in his hands. He was still sitting thus when Waddle and an escort of bears came back into the Frorwald to find him and take him down to Markau.
CHAPTER X
The last killing-ground was the plain at the foot of the Frorwald, where, caught between Helmut’s army and Hagen’s men, the demoralized wolves were slaughtered like penned sheep. Hardly one escaped; and just as the battle had ended, Waddle came shambling down out of the forest with Sandivar on his back and the carcass of the Black Wolf herself slung before him.
“Now indeed is the danger over,” said Hagen, dismounting and removing his helm. He stared at the exhausted Helmut and shook his head. “By the gods,” he said, “so like Sigrieth in his youth that it is necromancy. But of course—” turning to Sandivar, “it would have to be if you were in it.” That was half-jesting and half-earnest, but Sandivar was in no mood for jest.
“This is only the first battle,” he rasped. Then he turned to the King Boar and King Bear, who stood warily back from the humans, their followers having already vanished into the thickets. “Well done,” he said. “Aye, well done indeed.”
“You may tell them,” Helmut said, “that all promises will be kept and that I am done with boar- and bear-hunting for life, unless one of their kind turns rogue.” His face was gaunt with weariness, and he swayed as he leaned against Vengeance, but he went on: “They have the King’s thanks.”
&n
bsp; “And you theirs,” Sandivar translated. “But now they bleed and need their wallows of mud; they ask permission to withdraw.”
“Granted and again with thanks,” said Helmut. Then the two great animals went each in a different direction only a few paces and vanished miraculously and silently into the dark-shrouded forest. “They served well,” said Helmut; and then exhaustion claimed him. The world spun, and he heard Sandivar yell something. Someone caught him as he fell, and then he knew nothing else for some time.
He had a dream. In it hovered a lovely face above him, and two soft hands cooled him and bound the wounds he had sustained that day and held strong wine to his lips. Later he rolled over and slept again: pleasant sunshine through frothy hangings billowing in a morning breeze awakened him. The first thing he thought of was that face, with its pale skin and frame of lovely golden hair. Then there was a knock on the door of this airy bedroom in which he lay. “Come in,” he called, the coverlet well pulled up around him with his one good hand.
And it had not been a dream. Accompanying the serving maid, she was there—the girl, the woman, the vision. She was tall, slender, yet full in bosom and hip, attired in a gown of pale blue silk that clung to every curve and complimented the deeper, richer blue of her eyes.
She made curtsy. “Good morning, my lord. I trust you slept well.”
“Aye, well indeed. What o’clock is it?”
She smiled, and her eyes glinted. “Past ten—on the second morning. So exhausted were you that you slept the clock around and half around again.”
“By the gods!” He was about to spring from the bed when he realized he wore only a nightgown. “Your pardon, lady—” He gestured helplessly. “I know not your name—”
“Nissilda, my lord. Daughter of Hagen of Markau. And I do not think you need hurry so. At least, my father and my lord Sandivar do not seem to think it necessary. They breakfast leisurely. My father, however, is vexed with you, my lord.”
“Vexed?” Helmut stared at her, frowning. She nodded. “Aye. Much better, he said, had you waited until winter to relieve the siege, when all the pelts were prime and we had then gained good wolfskin enough for a century’s requirements.” She laughed, merrily, then sobered. “But I am not so peevish. Right glad was I to see your army at any time, and so have brought you breakfast.”
“Thank you.” He sat up in bed; then he felt his cheeks burn; it was going to be impossible to manage the tray in this position with only one hand and the morning star. For the first time, he was acutely conscious of the weird aspect of the thing at the end of his wrist; and, also for the first time, hated its warlike, utilitarian ugliness, felt a sudden impulse to hide it.
But Nissilda, sitting quite boldly on the bed, steadied the tray with her own hand. “Be not afraid, my lord,” she said gently. Then she touched the spikes of the iron ball. “I have heard your story,” she murmured. “Sandivar told it to us yesterday. You have been through much grimness, have you not?”
“Aye,” he said, and pulled the thing away from her. “Enough.”
“And so you do not smile,” she said. She looked at him directly. “Can you not smile?”
“No,” he said.
“Strange; I never met a man who could not smile before.”
He drew in a long breath. “Something there is within me that is frozen. It is what one smiles with—or loves with.”
“So I have heard. But when you have reclaimed your throne, perhaps that will be different.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “If I reclaim it…”
“Why, you surely will. Even now my father and Sandivar lay plans—”
“Lay plans?” Suddenly Helmut pushed the tray aside. “My lady,” he rapped, “if you will excuse me—Please serve my tray where Sandivar and your father breakfast and tell them I shall come directly I am dressed.”
His quick, hard, businesslike manner dismayed her. “But, my lord—”
“Please do so and leave me, so that I may dress.” He made as if to swing himself out from under the cover. She gave a maidenly shriek of fright, jumped up and ran. Then Helmut did arise, and finding clean garments laid out, donned them quickly. When he came out of the bedroom, Nissilda was waiting there demurely.
“All has been done as you directed, good my lord. Now I shall lead you to where they are.”
“Aye,” said tough old Hagen. “It is revolution that we talk. But not treason, when the throne’s rightful heir sits here across from me.” They were at table in the Knight’s Hall, and Nissilda had withdrawn, as was fitting when men planned warfare. “Your father’s friend was I, hard and fast, good Helmut; and ever distrustful of the smiling Albrecht. Thus the siege of wolves here—Albrecht’s punishment for my daring to inquire into your disappearance, the death of Gustav, and sundry other matters of misrule. So if, as Sandivar tells me, you mean to take back your throne—why I have debts enough to settle with Wolfsheim to keep me at your shoulder all the way.”
Sandivar said: “But time works against us. A watch of half-wolves slew we on yon side of the Frorwald three nights ago; some wolves of course have this battle escaped; not long will it be until Albrecht knows that something is afoot and moves against you directly, Hagen, with his army—and against us.” He turned to Helmut. “Thus, while you slept have we taken the liberty of sending emissaries to those trusted lords who joined Hagen in his protest and who are loyal to the blood of Sigrieth.”
“You see,” said Hagen, “Albrecht has a mighty army of half-wolves. And, we learn, the barbarian Kor will also act in concert with him. That means he can crush us each and all in detail, unless we can rally an army almost on the instant. Now, your father had a mighty army and one right well trained. But Albrecht broke and ruined it, replacing men with half-wolves…”
“Which may be his worst mistake,” snapped Helmut. “For surely those ex-soldiers have a score to settle…”
“Aye. Right many of them have taken service with local lords—those to whom I’ve sent my emissaries. Others have drifted into civil life or joined the bands of outlaws with which the country is now plagued. But if the word got out that Sigrieth’s son had returned and begged all old soldiers of his father to join him in revolution against the half-wolves…”
“Think you they’d come?”
“They’d flock like crows to corn, if Sigrieth’s standard once again were raised and amnesty guaranteed for the crimes with which Albrecht has saddled and outlawed so many…”
“So be it. We’ll gather then our lords and their fighting men and send out the word where all the outlaw bands may get its wind. In the total, given time, how badly think you we’ll wind up outnumbered?”
“By three to one, at least.”
“Not bad,” said Helmut casually. “Longer odds have I fought against and won. And ours will be trained soldiers. Sandivar. Canst rally also any animals more, as you did against the wolves?”
Sandivar shook his head. “The bears and boars were sorely wounded yesterday; nor have other creatures stake in this outcome. You know that animals do not, like men, fight and kill for ideas, but only for food and home. No, this is a matter for men.” He looked at Helmut narrowly. “As I persuaded the King Boar and Bear to fight with us, so now you must persuade the lords and ex-soldiers of Boorn. They are not boars or bears, but men; and if they judge you also man enough, will rally to your standard. But if they find you wanting, perhaps their nerve will fail—and so our enterprise. All this, however, is a matter for you alone, in your meeting and addressing of them. Here all hinges on one fighting man’s assessments of another; and no sorcery or witchcraft can take the place of that.”
“Such gamble do I welcome,” said Helmut calmly. He arose, went to the window, pulled back the hangings, and looked out. “Now, I must put myself in Albrecht’s head and think with his brain.” Staring out at the bright meadows, littered with the carcasses of wolves which only now were being cleared away by Hagen’s people, he was silent for a space. Then he turned.
&nb
sp; “If I were Albrecht, I would not be hasty.”
“What mean you?” Hagen asked. “If he moves fast, he can crush us each, one by one, before we rally.”
“Aye,” said Helmut. “There is that consideration. But I think he will see the matter in another light.” Coming back to the table, he took a bit of meat. “Some news he has, or will receive, that a man with a morning star where his right hand should be has killed a small detachment of his half-wolf civil guard and has also defeated the Black Wolf and her Frorwald wolves and raised the siege of Markau. But who is this one-handed man, and what is it that he wants? If Sigrieth’s bastard, then sorcery must also be feared, for Helmut was but a stripling when Albrecht cut that right hand away, and that scarce half a year. And if not he, then who and why?”
“Either way,” said Hagen, “he’ll smell revolution in the air.”
The Sword of Morning Star Page 13
