The Castle of the Winds

by Michael Scott Rohan

  Merthian swung a fist. Alais stepped in his way and struck him once, across the mouth, with the force that flung her javelin. It sent him staggering, with split lip.

  ‘Enough!’ spat the Chief Syndic, springing up and gesturing to an official, who rapped a great pikestaff on the boards. ‘The next to break order I’ll have flogged, whatever their other guilt or innocence!’

  ‘My lord!’ howled Merthian, thrusting Alais back. ‘I demand in the name of my office that you put an end to these irregular accusations at once! They seek only to delay the inevitable!’ The number of shouts in his support was disturbing.

  ‘What have we to gain by that, Master Thief?’ growled Kunrad, half drawing his sword. ‘Leave off fighting with women, and answer! I’ll abide the truth when it comes. Dare you do the same?’

  ‘I dare!’ shouted Merthian above the uproar. ‘But that does not mean I have to bow the neck and be traduced! My lord – in the name of this chamber, which as you hear is behind me, I demand that you silence these intruders, and stop that traitor’s mouth until his trial! And that I be sent at once to save what I can from the wreck he has brought about!’

  ‘To bury the evidence, you mean!’ spat Gille.

  ‘Kermorvan, silence your servants or I’ll hear you no longer!’ shouted Bryheren.

  Alais pushed past Merthian, and called up to the dais. ‘Arenyn! Kerynan! Will you stand to hear your father and your sister dragged down in such a fashion? And your family name trodden down in a mire of lies?’

  The younger brother looked uncertainly at the Chief Syndic, and suddenly he pattered down to the floor. His sword looked largely ornamental, part of the livery he wore, but he set hand to hilt readily enough. ‘I will not, sister!’ he barked, in a younger version of Kermorvan’s voice. ‘My Lord Bryheren, your pardon; but I’d stand for my father’s good faith if the heavens fell! Brother Kerynan, what say you?’

  The taller man swallowed nervously. ‘My lord, any man may be mistaken in anything, I allow – but though my father may be many things, and we in little accord, yet I know he is not traitor and betrayer! And my sister is an honest woman!’ Having taken the plunge seemed to give him courage; he also stepped down to the floor, tugging at a sword stuck in its scabbard. ‘And … and also those witnesses they vouch for, Northerners or whatever they may be! Let them have their hearing, my lord!’

  Alais ran to embrace her brothers, leaping up and down and weeping aloud. They gathered around Kermorvan; and taking him from the prentices, they helped the old man to a particular seat in the tiers immediately to the right of Bryheren. Kermorvan’s face was limp and sweat-streaked as they settled him down, and he gripped the wooden barrier before him with whitened knuckles; but then he settled back and breathed deeply, like a man content, with his children around him.

  Bryheren’s narrowed eyes grew wide with surprise; and Kunrad saw with a sudden thrill that the reaction of his aides had impressed him more deeply than anything else. He sat back in his great chair with a loud sigh; and that quelled the uproar in the chamber as surely as his bailiffs rapping staff. He drummed his fingers on the chair arm.

  ‘If we hear lies, it is no disgrace to us, but only to the forsworn. My Lord Merthian, we shall hear you to your satisfaction.’ There was an approving growl in the hall, but by no means a majority; and as he went on, it died. ‘And then we shall hear the Lord Kermorvan, and his witnesses. I find that there is a case to answer on both sides. And we shall reserve judgement and all else until the truth is made clear.’

  Merthian choked with anger; but Bryheren leaned forward, and the expression in those eyes was hard. ‘And before you start, my Lord Marchwarden, there can no longer be any question of your commanding the relief. It is no reflection upon yourself, but a simple demand of justice. You must – how did the Northerner put it – abide the truth.’

  The shouts of protest from Merthian’s supporters seemed to die stillborn, such was the change in Merthian’s countenance; and not of colour alone. One look after another flickered across it with the transience of flame, too fast to be given a name – horror was there, and burning shame, and sudden, revealing fear, and desperation that blossomed rapidly into fury. He knew what must happen now; and Kunrad believed he saw murder come into that look, at the Chief Syndic first of all. Then a great calm seemed to descend, like a shutter closing. Merthian spread his arms in a gesture of reason and resignation, and turned to address the Syndicacy, unaware of what he had so nakedly revealed.

  ‘As you will, my lord. I shall be happy to accompany the force as its guide—’

  Bryheren’s face was impassive, his voice pedantically precise. ‘By no means would we so inconvenience you, my Lord Merthian. Many lords know the region well enough, Lord Ternyan for one. I should prefer you to remain here and at my behest until this matter is resolved. Lodgings will be found for you within the Citadel. My Lord Kermorvan will also wish to remain, but as he is clearly suffering he may reside at his home, if he wishes.’

  Merthian seemed to be struggling violently to swallow something. ‘You – you’d imprison me? And not him? Whose side do you take, Bryheren?’

  ‘I seek only to act for the best interests of Bryhaine.’

  Merthian made a desperate gesture. ‘When I was appointed – you promised me – anything I may have done was with your approval, in spirit—’

  Bryheren did not raise his voice, but his tone was inexorable. ‘Then you must have nothing to fear, my lord, must you?’

  Merthian was standing half stooped, chest hollow, panting with baffled rage. ‘All right! So that’s the way of it! I am betrayed to my enemies and yours! But I have been insulted, my honour traduced, and I may still claim my right of retribution!’

  ‘Not against my father!’ protested Kerynan Kermorvan angrily. ‘He is old and wounded! And besides, you cannot challenge your accuser in a case!’

  ‘Certainly!’ said Bryheren, in his dry, even manner. ‘That would in effect be trial by combat, and that, of course, was abolished even in ancient Kerys. The precedents are clear.’

  Merthian stood straighter now, and his eyes glittered. ‘Him? I’ll leave him to his wounds, and the poisons he’s filled himself with! No, I threaten no kin or decent countryman, my Lord Bryheren. But that Nordeney bandit there put the name of thief upon me, and I will have his head for it – here and now!’

  Bryheren frowned. ‘The challenge is allowable, and a time and place may be fixed for its answer. Yet it is customary to allow time for thought and redress, and an opportunity for mediators to settle the quarrel by other means, or to agree rules and limits for the fight – to first blood alone, for example—’

  ‘That’s for men of breeding,’ said Merthian stiffly. ‘This is ridding our clean air of a scabby Northern cur!’

  ‘He’s gone stark mad!’ said Olvar incredulously. ‘What’ll he gain that’s worth the risk?’

  ‘No, not mad!’ said Alais, leaping down the steps to clutch Kunrad by the arm. ‘Can’t you see? He thinks – if my father—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kunrad. ‘I was thinking much the same.’ Merthian might be desperate, but his mind was still working away, coldly balancing probabilities. If old Kermorvan died – and it was a miracle he still lived – and he could silence Kunrad …

  ‘Then there’s only my word against him,’ said Alais, ‘until the investigation is complete. And as a witness only, since I’m a woman. He thinks that would let his supporters turn the tide.’

  ‘He may not have so many now,’ said Gille. ‘Look at their faces.’

  ‘But he doesn’t seem to see that!’ shivered Alais. ‘He still means to try. You’ve got to keep out of this, Kunrad! You can refuse, you don’t live by our laws—’

  ‘He doesn’t think it’s a risk!’ said Kunrad slowly. ‘And if I back down, I may be within your law, but my guess is it would make me a less credible witness. Wouldn’t it, princess?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  Kunrad nodded. ‘Well then.’ />
  ‘But you will still be there to speak! You are a brave fighter, but you were not raised as one, as he was! You’re more than his match as a leader, you’ve proven that – but hand-to-hand, and armed as he is? He’ll kill you! And what then? What of us all?’

  ‘What must be,’ said Kunrad, still slowly. ‘More than one can calculate, princess. Remember that!’

  Bryheren was on his feet, and beckoning to Kunrad. ‘Well, Master … ah, Mastersmith Kunrad? What say you to this challenge? And to its immediate settlement? I advise you against it, the more so as you are a material witness and an outlander; and not, I guess, a warrior of an order such as ours. You may refuse without stain upon your honour.’

  Kunrad bowed. ‘My Lord Bryheren, I do not feel that is so. I had a home once, and a name for my craft, gold enough for my needs, and a place of honour in my own land. And I made that armour, the dearest of my craft that I would never sell! This man stole all these things from me, and when I pursued him, a close friend was slain by his allies – of the Ice.’

  Bryheren rounded sharply on Merthian. ‘What’s this? The Ice?’

  ‘More lies,’ said Merthian dully. He had lost interest in argument, Kunrad saw. His hope now was in killing.

  ‘Best you hear that from my Lady Alais, my lord,’ said Kunrad. ‘She has the most to say on the point. But I made that armour on that man’s back, and he dishonours it. Let him say how else he came by it, or fight me as he threatens!’

  Merthian shrugged. Bryheren shook his head. ‘I am half minded to have you answer these charges before me, Merthian, this instant! But the challenge is issued and accepted. Where will you fight?’

  Kunrad was about to open his mouth, when Merthian snapped, ‘Here. Now. Before the Syndicacy, armed as we are.’

  ‘Outside in the square, then,’ began Bryheren. ‘And you must wear the same w—’

  Merthian shook his head, and suddenly drew his sword, tossing aside the scabbard. Kunrad stepped hastily back and drew his. Merthian tugged up the mail-hood from around his neck, and snatched up his helm. It fitted him only too well.

  ‘This cannot be allowed!’ snapped Bryheren, and then dodged back as Merthian came on guard. The onlookers scattered, Olvar pulling Alais back.

  ‘There is precedent,’ Merthian said flatly. ‘Lords have fought and killed here. Did not Vayde the Necromancer slay three upon these same boards, to the great shame of all Suderney? I will wash them clean with the blood of this his lying disciple!’

  Kunrad, backing away, realised Merthian was again being cleverer than he had guessed. He sought not only the Northerner’s death for a grudge, but a symbolic, patriotic gesture that would swing his following behind him once again; and it might very well work. Merthian slashed at him suddenly, a superbly controlled stroke; he countered it, but the tip rang across his mailshirt, and somewhere he heard a link give. ‘My Lord Bryheren!’ he called. ‘This isn’t a fair fight! He has my armour, while mine is ordinary mail—’

  ‘What’s the matter, Mastersmith?’ Merthian jeered. ‘Couldn’t make yourself another set?’

  That raised more than one laugh from around the chamber, and Kunrad knew any further appeal would come to little. Anger drove his hand, and he struck out and under Merthian’s guard, aiming for the mailed joints at his elbow. His sword skipped helplessly along the overlapping plates, and he barely managed to slip aside as Merthian lunged in answer. He saw Gille and Olvar alongside Alais on the steps, faces grimacing, intent. She was bunching her fists and hammering the air in front of her, while they swung empty punches. He laughed a little, to reassure them; but also giving voice to a sudden strange elation. ‘Remember how we worried over those plates, lads? Look at the flexion in ’em!’

  Merthian hewed at him again, a great overhand swipe; Kunrad threw up his sword two-handed to counter it, but the stroke hissed down to his hilt with jarring effect. He fell back against the low wall encircling the first tier, braced himself and used his great strength to heave Merthian’s sword back at him. Merthian staggered, Kunrad swung at his hip and caught him with a jangling crash. But again the mirrored metal sent the sword skipping away, down over the studs that anchored the plate to the mail and heading for the floorboards. ‘See how important it was to shape those studs?’ Kunrad demanded. ‘So the sword doesn’t snag and spend its force, but is directed harmlessly away—’

  Merthian’s sword hammered his down into the wood, biting deep, then swung up at Kunrad’s unprotected neck. But that had been obvious, and instead of pulling up Kunrad plunged forward, under the stroke, levering his own blade free and bringing it up, as he whirled around, to strike Merthian’s from the rear, speeding it on its way. Merthian was half spun around by the sheer force, managed to catch himself, only to find Kunrad’s sword already sweeping towards his breast. The breastplate did not ring, but thudded and rose slightly under the impact, catching Merthian a smart blow under the chin.

  ‘See that?’ said Kunrad keenly. ‘That’s why it’s got to fit perfectly. He must be wearing more padding under there—’

  A stroke raked at his shoulder. It was slow by Merthian’s standards, but Kunrad’s counter was too late, and he was thrown backward on to the dais stairs, fighting to keep his balance again. Merthian thrust like a striking snake. Kunrad’s parry deflected it only a little, and the sword smashed the panelling at his flank. He rolled aside, feeling fiery heat at his shoulder from the first blow, where the mailrings had been driven through the padding. Merthian freed his sword, but Kunrad had just time enough to hack at his neck. It was a hefty blow, near his hardest; but the strange-shaped shoulderplates caught it and sent the blade flying up in the air, while Merthian himself was no more shaken. ‘See that? See that?’ crowed Kunrad, obviously rejoicing in the perfection he had created. ‘Just the way we planned it after that first one cracked!’

  Merthian swung at him furiously, but with less skill than he might, somehow, and Kunrad parried it. For a moment they closed; then it was pointwork, fast stabs and short spitting slashes with the first few inches of the blades. Kunrad was getting the worst of it, stinging beneath his mail with the repeated impacts. A trickle of blood was running down from his injured shoulder, and it ached with every impact. Any minute one might get through. Then, by chance, he managed to bar a thrust, bound Merthian’s sword and heaved hard. His huge strength bore Merthian’s blade back, to bring his own point below the breastplate’s lower edge. It lodged in the mail beneath a moment, Merthian was flung back; but then the point was skittering away to the side, and Kunrad staggering past.

  ‘The mail held!’ he called to the prentices. ‘See? Never rely on the plate entirely, even when—’

  ‘My lord!’ panted Merthian. ‘Make him stop! He’s taunting me!’

  ‘I know of nothing in code or custom against such exchanges,’ said Bryheren calmly. ‘Proceed!’

  They faced one another, legs apart, swords levelled, grinning mirthlessly with the violent need to breathe. Merthian was having the best of it so far, and not solely due to the armour, either; only Kunrad’s greater strength had saved his life against the other man’s coldly fluent skill. That strength had carried him thus far; but he had come straight from the high roads, without rest or food for hours since. And something more than mere exhaustion was plucking at the edges of his mind.

  Kunrad found himself being pulled this way and that by his feelings. He never wished to kill anyone; and yet for a hundred reasons over and above his own safety, he desperately needed to bring Merthian down. And all the while he was striking at his own greatest achievement, the thing that had torn his life apart and led him this terrifying dance; striking, frustrated by its strength and craft and glorying in it, all at once, striving to expose the weakness he suspected, and proud when he failed to find it. The tensions and the effort, and the cold fire in his shoulder, were making his head roar like the wind furnace. He strained to think of some craft of his own he could bring to bear, some of the things he had learned for the shaping of swo
rds. What had old Kennas taught him – of the edge and the point that must be able to act as one …

  With all the lightness he could, he leaped forward, body in line with his sword, thrusting hard at Merthian’s unprotected face. Merthian sprang aside and launched a parry in the same catlike movement – but Kunrad’s wrist flicked, and the lunge became a backhanded slash. The parry went by beneath, and all Merthian could do was fling up his arm. The blow landed on it with a jarring crash, echoed almost instantly as the point struck square upon his shoulderplate. Instantly Kunrad heaved back the blade in a slash that should have carried across Merthian’s throat or face; but the Marchwarden had had time to learn the ways of the armour, and ducked his head in the manner Kunrad had planned. Helm and collar met and joined as one to form a smooth surface that would turn the impact; the visor came down with a clang, and the sword was sent skidding away. Merthian, recovering fast, swung up his sword in a wide over-the-shoulder wheel that sent Kunrad leaping back. It crashed into the heavy panelling where he had been, and clove it to the floor in a shower of splinters.

  ‘You saw that, Gille?’ Kunrad shouted, almost laughing with delight. ‘How the gorget locked under the blow?’

  ‘Every piece as you designed it, Mastersmith!’ called Gille. ‘The buffered hinge, and the virtue of integrity!’

  Merthian slammed up the visor once again, and screamed so loudly Kunrad could hardly make out the words in it. ‘He’s driving me out of my wits! For the love of all the Powers, make him stop!’

  ‘For all I know, it is legal to chant a hymn of praise in such proceedings,’ said Bryheren coolly.

  ‘Or a bawdy song!’ suggested Kermorvan unexpectedly, at his side. The old man was slumped back in his seat, but his eyes flicked keenly between the combatants.

  Bryheren cast him a disapproving glance. ‘Be that as it may, Lord Merthian, you have chosen your ground, and a contest without mitigation or prior rules. Now you must abide by it. Proceed, or confess yourself defeated and forsworn!’