For King and Country

by Robert Asprin

  "Clinoch," Iona stepped toward him, hand extended, "I know the pain you hold in your heart. But I will never sink to the level of my family's murderers. That victory, I will not grant them. My soul is too precious to stain it with hatred and murder. And Clinoch, it is not the Scotti of Dalriada who have done your family, your people their greatest harm. Please, remember that and think long and hard on the way your answer here, today, will harm or stain your soul, and the souls of those who look to you for their best protection."

  The brightness in the boy's eyes had spilled over, tracking down his face. He gulped once, fighting to retain control, no longer a child, not yet a man, with the weight of decision cruel and heavy on his young shoulders. He looked into Iona's eyes, looked into Keelin's and Medraut's, sipped air, willfully stilled his unsteady lips. "It is not in my heart to inflict war on my people. I have not your strength, Iona, to greet them as kinsmen, but for the sake of Strathclyde, for the sake of my people, I will give this alliance a chance."

  Iona embraced him gently, while Keelin's eyelids came clenching down over more tears.

  In such a highly charged atmosphere, not even those most adamantly opposed to alliance could cheapen the gesture made by Clinoch and Iona. The voting went swiftly. Ganhumara sent Keelin a dark look of utter jealousy, but under the eyes of all Britain—and her husband—even she voted to let the alliance stand. Morgana seemed stunned by the outcome, clearly having expected to be censured, at the very least, if not convicted of treason during time of war. More heated wine went round, with Covianna Nim once again carrying a goblet to Artorius. Toasts were made and answered, congratulations offered on the marriage, and articles of treaty debated and ratified, providing for trade, exchange of artisans, even the establishment of missions by Briton Christian priests.

  As the final details were recorded, Artorius called once again for the council's attention.

  "We have one final order of business. Bring the traitor, Lailoken."

  He was hauled forward by his guards, eyes downcast.

  "Have you anything to say in your defense, Saxon?"

  The man looked up, eyes wild with fear. "It was the demon made me do it! The demon in my head, whispering secrets, promising revenge on the Irish butchers who murdered my wife, my children..."

  "He's mad," someone muttered.

  Stirling watched with a chill in his blood, pitying the Briton minstrel whose life had been shattered by the Orangeman from sixteen centuries in Lailoken's future. Ancelotis, too, felt a complex blend of pity and revulsion, having had his own life wrenched inside out by Stirling's arrival. The look in Morgana's eyes was ghastly. She rose to her feet and spoke, gaze locked on the minstrel as though facing Grendel.

  "Cedric Banning," she said in coldly in English, causing Stirling to suppress a gasp, "what have you to say to me?"

  The man's head jerked up, as though wrenched by a giant, unseen hand. Shock washed across Lailoken's face. Then he snarled, hatred twisting his features. "Filthy Irish bitch! I should have broken your neck that night in the lab!"

  She held his gaze levelly, neither speaking nor moving.

  Banning spat at her, eyes mad with a sparking insanity that left Stirling ill. "I'm only sorry I hadn't the chance to poison every well in Ireland!" Banning laughed, the sound wild and mad. "Get home if you can, McEgan. And if you can't, take your exile as a last gift of the Orangemen of Ulster!"

  Stirling, rising swiftly to stand beside her, said softly, "Who do you think told the IRA and the SAS to hunt for you?"

  The denial balanced on Banning's lips died there when Stirling held his gaze levelly, staring down at Banning with all the loathing he could summon. He saw it form, the realization that his own had betrayed him, the slipping of what little solid ground remained under the man's feet. The caved-in, sick look in Banning's eyes, might, under other circumstances, have moved him to pity. But Banning had chosen hatred and death at every step along his life's path, had allowed his anger and desire for revenge to fester until he'd murdered his own sanity with it. Faced with such a creature, there was only one humane course open to Stirling—or to anyone else in like circumstances.

  Voice soft in the uncertain hush of the council chamber, Stirling said, "In the name of His Majesty's British government, I charge you with terrorism and mass murder, Cedric Banning. If I had access to a gun, I would consider ordering you shot by firing squad. That is the way the Orange paramilitaries deal with traitors to their own, isn't it?"

  A terrible sound broke loose, timbers cracking under the weight of a glacier. Banning began to tremble violently. His lips, wet and quivering, glistened horribly in the light. The looks of utter revulsion sent his way by the silent, stunned audience were lost on the man, whose gaze had not left Stirling's face.

  "This"—Stirling swept a gesture at the council, men and women staring in puzzled silence at the three of them, speaking a language no one else understood—"is the trial by law you are entitled to receive. Take whatever comfort you can find in the knowledge that the murder of every soul in Dunadd may have accomplished what you set out to do. You may well have fractured history for all time, destroying several billion innocents in the process. We," he gestured to himself and Brenna McEgan, "won't know that for a year, if ever. But you, Cedric Banning, you will never know. You will never be given the chance to find out. May God pity your soul, for the rest of us do not."

  Switching to Brythonic, Ancelotis said coldly, "He has confessed his intention to murder as many Irish and British souls as possible. Gododdin votes to hand him to the Irish for whatever punishment they find most appropriate."

  At the head table, Artorius—clearly wanting to know what language they'd been speaking and why—sent Ancelotis a hooded look, but he merely nodded and called for the council's vote. The final tally was unanimous. "Lailoken," the Dux Bellorum said in an icy, iron voice, "you are formally remanded to the custody of Dallan mac Dalriada, who will carry out the death sentence both our peoples have rendered upon your head. If you request it, a Christian priest will accompany you to perform last rites."

  Banning laughed wildly, gasped out in English, "Oh, God, it's too precious, the Dark Ages baboon's offering me papist rites!"

  Artorius frowned, glancing at Ancelotis.

  "He doesn't want a priest."

  "Ah."

  When the king of Dalriada gestured his ranking officers to take charge of the prisoner, Banning spat on them, laughing insanely one moment, cursing them the next, until he was dragged unceremoniously from the room. Artorius rubbed his eyes wearily. "I thank you, kings and queens of Britain, for your wisdom in this council. It is time for us to look to our homes and our harvests and the coming winter. We will meet again tomorrow to settle the matter of reoccupying Saxon-held lands."

  The council—and the war—had finally come to a close.

  At least, Stirling qualified it, until the next time the Saxons grew bold enough and strong enough to try it again. And he knew only too well that they would, again and again. He met Brenna McEgan's eyes, read in them exactly the same weary resolution he felt, to stay and fight for these people as long as they possibly could. It was, perhaps, a form of atonement the two of them could offer these people, for the destruction the twenty-first century had unleashed in their midst. As the council broke up into a genuine celebration, with wine flowing freely and laughter taking the place of grim debate, Stirling felt more hopeful than he had since his abrupt arrival, a few short weeks and a lifetime ago.

  Chapter Twenty.One

  Covianna Nim remained close by Artorius throughout the long celebration, plying him with plenty of spiced wine, smiling into his eyes and waiting for the signs to make themselves visible. When he began to grow sleepy, excusing himself for the evening, she smiled softly, making certain Ganhumara was well occupied with young men with whom to further shred her reputation. Covianna slipped out of the meeting hall to follow Artorius, who had begun staggering as though drunk on the way to his room in the building next door.
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  He wobbled his way toward the bed he and Ganhumara would eventually be sharing for the night, unsteady on his feet and wiping sweat from his face. She waited until he'd disappeared inside, waited until a lamp shone softly within, then hurried away to her own chamber, rescuing a long, slim package wrapped carefully in folds of wool. She slipped it under her cloak, reaching Artorius' room moments later. Looking carefully about to be sure no one observed, Covianna eased open Artorius' door and stepped inside, pulling it closed behind her.

  The Dux Bellorum turned in slow surprise.

  "Covianna?" He frowned, voice already slurring.

  "You seemed unwell when you left the celebration," she murmured. "I wanted to be certain you were all right, as it's only too plain your wife neither cares nor troubles herself over your welfare."

  Pain ran through his eyes, then he collapsed in slow motion onto the edge of his bed. "I thank you for caring. It's kind of you." He was blinking in confusion. "I've had too much wine, s'all. Need to sleep it off..."

  "Of course." She smiled. "Let me tell you a story, to help you sleep." She crossed the room, brushed heavy hair back from his brow, hiding the package beneath her cloak. "It's an old story, Artorius. One you should appreciate." She trailed a fingertip down his face. "Many, many years ago, there was someone very special in my life. A teacher, a mentor, who taught me many ancient arts."

  He was frowning up at her, eyes tracking with difficulty.

  "I loved her as greatly as my own mother," Covianna whispered, nibbling his earlobe with her lips. "She taught me everything of worth in my life. The use of herbs, the use of power, of the ways to blind and bind a man." Covianna smiled down into Artorius' eyes. "Can you imagine, Artorius, what it was like when she died?"

  He worked his mouth with difficulty, speech more slurred than ever. "Muss've been... painful..."

  "Oh, yes. Most painful. Do you know how she died, Artorius?"

  He was shaking his head, tried to scrub his face with one hand. When he was unable to lift it, he sat staring in rising dismay and dawning fright.

  Covianna whispered intimately, "She was murdered, Artorius. Oh, it was done with all the pomp of law, but it was murder, cruel and cold, nonetheless." Covianna stepped back a pace, smiling down into his eyes. "You really should not have condemned Marguase, Artorius. She was worth ten of you. Twenty."

  Shock detonated behind his eyes. "Marguase?" It came out a hoarse rasp. "But—how—"

  "She came to Glastenning Tor, when I was but a child. I worshiped her. Learned every wondrous secret she had to share. She chose me—me—as her acolyte, out of all the girls she could have taken, instead. Oh, I have waited a long, long time for this night."

  He was trying to rise, succeeded only in falling to the floor. She laughed softly at the look of naked horror on his face. When he dragged his sword free of its new scabbard, hunching along on elbows and shoulders, trying to put distance between them, she drew out the package hidden in her cloak. "Did you miss this when I stole it away?" she asked merrily. His eyes widened, recognizing it. "Have you never wondered why you have always been victorious? Why those who oppose your sword arm inevitably die? 'Tisn't the sword, Artorius, nor yet the skill of the arm behind it."

  She tapped the sheath. "I made this, as I made Caliburn, and there is as much witchcraft in the scabbard as there is death in the sword. The lining, Artorius, that's the secret of your wondrous, invincible power." She laughed, derision in every droplet of sound falling from her lips. "Oh, you pitiful fool. I've been most careful to join each of the high councils that have voted on war. And before each battle those councils sanctioned, I renewed the 'magic' of Caliburn's sheath. Mistletoe, Artorius. Sap of the mistletoe, the Druids' weed, mixed with oil and soaked into the lining of the sheath. Do you know the secret of the Druids' weed?"

  He shook his head, eyes wide with horror he could neither escape nor conceal.

  "Coat a blade with mistletoe and you will never stop the bleeding from any cut it makes. Even the smallest nick will bleed for hours. That is the secret of your prowess, my dear and mighty Dux Bellorum!" She laughed again, delighting in the blow to his manhood, to his self-value as a warrior, a blow that left a sick and empty look in his eyes. "Oh, I learned many secrets from Marguase. And even more from Emrys Myrddin. It was Myrddin taught me the secret of Damascus. Do you know how Caliburn was quenched, to give it that wondrously fine temper?"

  He was panting, trying in utter desperation to lift the sword.

  "You must remember, surely, your poor little cousin who vanished? Taken by pirates, most people said? I entertained the little fool at my forge, Artorius, deep in the heart of Glastenning Tor. Down in the sacred caverns my grandmothers have used for centuries. Showed him the secret of Damascus steel, there. Fed him full of ale, then quenched the blade in his drunkard's belly."

  His mouth worked, soundlessly, the look in his eyes ghastly beyond words. Delicious. A victory she would relish every moment of her life.

  "The pieces of him lie scattered beneath the Tor, but don't fret on his account. He's not alone any longer. The advisor who persuaded you to denounce Marguase lies beside him. A pity, really. Emrys Myrddin was the only man I ever met who knew anything about pleasing a woman in bed. And I shall miss his conversation and wit, truly I shall. But he sealed his fate years ago, when he condemned the lovely Marguase to death by slow drowning. I returned the favor, deep in the Tor's sacred caverns, where by now he's rotting as he so richly deserves. And now, Artorius, you will join my dance of death. My revenge lies complete in your destruction. The poison paralyzes slowly, doesn't it? Utterly delightful, that look in your wounded little eyes."

  He lay gasping, trying to lift the sword, barely able to draw breath now.

  She stepped nearer. "The time has come, Artorius, to return Caliburn to my hand. You will not be needing it any longer."

  She stooped to pluck the blade from his hands—

  And he moved, convulsively. The sword lurched upward, too fast to avoid. "Take it back, then!" he hissed. "I return it freely!"

  The shock of pain was so intense, she couldn't even draw breath to scream. The blade had rammed deep into her belly. She clutched at it. Tried to pluck it loose. He shoved hard, lunging in one final spasm of strength. The blade twisted inside her vitals. Her scream burst loose this time, smoking hot through her womb. Shouts and running footsteps reached her ears, but dimly, so dimly and far, far away...

  He's killed me! The thought ran like icewater through her mind. The brainless little bastard's killed me...

  Then the darkness closed down like the waters of an icy lake over her head, until all that remained was the feel of that smoking sword slipping from her dying hand.

  * * *

  Morgana was dancing, skirts whirling as Ancelotis laughingly drew her to join the merrymakers, when the meeting hall door crashed open.

  "Morgana!" A wild-eyed soldier stood in the doorway. "Where's Queen Morgana?"

  She whirled, fright shocking her heart into sudden stillness. "Here," she gasped. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  "It's Artorius! He's collapsed! Says he's been poisoned!"

  Shock washed through her whole body. Then she was running, shouting for Medraut to fetch her satchel. Ancelotis ran with her, bellowing at the others to stay where they were, to give the healer a chance to work. The soldier led them to Artorius' room, where another stunning sight greeted them. Covianna Nim lay dead beside him, Caliburn buried in her gut. Artorius looked up, eyes dark with terror and grief.

  "She was Marguase's... chosen pupil," he croaked, voice badly slurred. "No one knew it. Killed Emrys Myrddin... killed him at Glastenning Tor. Morgan... Can you help me? It's a poison that paralyzes, she said..."

  "Search the bitch!" Morgana snapped at Ancelotis, over one shoulder. "See if she's still carrying the stuff. She must have dropped it into the wine. And fetch her potions and herbs, I must see what's there!" She didn't dare voice aloud the half wish, half prayer that Covianna might have
brought with her an antidote to protect herself. Then Morgana was on her knees, testing his pulse, peering into his eyes. Medraut arrived in a skidding run, stood gasping, eyes wide with fright at what lay on the floor at his feet. Ancelotis, badly shaken, searched the dead woman, pulled something from a jeweled pouch at Covianna's waist, handed it over. Morgana unstoppered the small pottery vial, sniffed. "Fetch me a cup, a lamp, anything to hold liquid."

  Medraut snatched up a wooden cup from Artorius' table and handed it over, while Ancelotis ran from the room, bellowing orders to fetch the poisoner's herb satchel. Morgana poured a bit of the stuff into the cup, tilted it to the light to see more clearly its color, how it smelled, how it clung to the sides of the cup. A feeling of utter dread turned her blood cold when she recognized it.

  "Oh, dear God, yes, I know what this is. 'Tis rare. The bitch must have traded for it all the way to Constantinople. My satchel, Medraut."

  She raked through the packets and bottles with shaking hands. "Bring me another cup and a stack of bowls. And a cauldron of boiling water. Burn that." She indicated the cup, now contaminated with Covianna's poison.

  Ancelotis returned with Covianna's heavy satchel, which Morgana searched carefully as a soldier in the doorway sprinted away to do her bidding. While Morgana plucked at knotted twine to open packets and unstoppered clay vials to sniff at their contents, her unseen guest spoke urgently.

  Have him eat crushed charcoal to absorb what's still in his stomach, then induce vomiting, so he'll bring up whatever's left of it with the charcoal. And force liquids, try to flush his blood and kidneys with water, to dilute the poison he's already absorbed.

  Aye! Morgana gasped, then said aloud, "Ancelotis, send someone to fetch charcoal. Make him eat it, crushed finely. Then pour this," she handed over a bottle of wormwood from her own supplies, "down his throat until he vomits."

  Someone ran from the room, feet slapping against the wet ground. Mere seconds later, a girl's voice, breathless from running, asked, "Is this enough?"