by Dave Duncan
The thing in the octogram dropped to its knees
beside the sword, caressing it, kissing it, whispering.
"Is that possible?" Radgar yelled.
The conjurer, wherever he was, did not answer.
But why would it not be possible?
"Thrall?" moaned the ghost, embracing the
sword, weeping. "Find it, Youngling! Find it and
kill it."
Herding pigs? Somewhere on this island of
Fyrsieg a Blade was toiling naked in the
King's fields, herding pigs? Wasp ground his
teeth. How Cynewulf must enjoy that!
"Answer my questions," Radgar shouted. "Why
did you reveal the ambassador's instructions?"
Yorick continued to stroke and nuzzle the
sword hilt, yet he answered clearly enough.
"Hard it is to kill a king, Youngling--if you
want to live to brag of it. I needed to meet
Aeled alone. Made friends with you so you would
arrange that. You did, but he was too smart ...
brought company along. Didn't matter. I
closed the deal with your uncle, and after that
the treaty was nothing. Fat pension to Cynewulf and
forget what the paper said. Ambrose happy,
Cynewulf happy. Me happy. All I
wanted was revenge, and I got it without your
help."
"Pension? Throne? What else did
Cynewulf get? You said you'd already given him the
... given him my mother! How?"
"A draft, Youngling. Slip it to a woman and
she goes to sleep. Then you enjoy her. She's
yours to enjoy ever after."
Radgar moaned.
Wasp said, "So Ambrose put you up to all
this? Ambrose?"
Yorick sighed like wind in treetops. "Too
late, brother! It's dawn. New day ..."
The whisper faded. "Fare well, Youngling. ..."
No light penetrated the fog and trees. There
was nothing in the octogram except the sword, and
never had been. Even Healfwer had gone. A
steam vent whistled and splashed nearby.
Wasp shivered as if he had a fever.
"He's dead, isn't he? A thrall can't be
restored?"
"No. He's dead. Villain that he was."
Wasp went over and pulled the sword out of the
ground. It came easily for him, although his hand was
shaking. "I'll take this and one day I'll send
it back to Starkmoor. I owe him that much."
"Not yet," said Radgar. "I will need a good
blade before this day is out."
Hard it is to kill a king.
FYRLAF
VIII
Radgar was barely conscious during most of the
trek out of Weargahlaew. He had wanted
to find Healfwer and convince the crazy old man that
the crater must soon be his grave, which the maniac
knew perfectly well and longed for. Wasp
forbade it and forced him to abandon the wita to his
chosen fate.
It was dawn, the ghost had said, and yet there was
no way to know that in the fog-filled crater.
Steam, hot water, foul gases were bursting forth
everywhere. Paths vanished into pools of bubbling
mud, lakes had flooded huge areas of the forest,
and Radgar's memory of the route was useless. More
than once he passed out completely from the fumes
and would have lain there and died had Wasp not half
dragged, half carried him onward. That was his
binding at work, of course; but superhuman
endurance must demand a price eventually. In the
absence of daylight and landmarks, the only guide
to direction was the relentless rumbling of
Cwicnoll. They must head away from the summit
to find the tunnel. The summit was no longer their
greatest peril. The ancient crater of
Weargahlaew was coming to life under their feet,
steaming and shaking, reeking of sulfur.
Why did it hurt so much? He had long since
guessed who had killed Dad, and should have been
glad to have his suspicions confirmed. Almost six
years had passed since the death of Aeled; it was
a nightmare from a world long gone. The bereaved boy
who had suffered so abominably was gone, changed
by his ordeal and the years in Ironhall into another
person altogether, a capable young man who could
survive in the world, if he must, entirely on his
skill with a sword. He was no longer that child, so
why did he hurt so much?
The cave passage was even harder than before--more
obstructed by rocks. Wasp found a way through and
brought them both out safely, although rubble was falling
all the time. Half crazy already, the horses were
thrown into frenzy by the sight of these two filthy and
bloody relics, yet Wasp managed to soothe
them enough to be ridden. There was a diffuse sort of
daylight at Baelstede, but the wind had risen and
was lifting ash in choking clouds. At
times the falls seemed fresher, hot and deadly.
Radgar just followed his Blade's orders, paying
little attention to where he was going as they started the
ride home.
Was it not justice that Aeled had been slain
to avenge men he had caused to die? His killer,
Yorick, had already paid. Must his accomplice,
Cynewulf, also die, the wheels of slaughter
rolling on forever? Was it not justice that the woman
Aeled had stolen and then come to love had been
stolen from him in turn and so provoked his death?
She could not be blamed for what had happened then or
since. She had done no wrong, so why could her
son not forgive her? Why could he not judge her as
a person instead of an ideal?
Villain! If ever a man deserved to die it
was Cynewulf. Hard it is to kill a king and
live to brag of it. There, certainly,
Yorick's spirit had spoken truth. Had it told
the truth about the murder, though? Not the whole truth
and more than the truth. To bring a king to justice was
never easy. It needed better evidence than the
reported gabbling of a conjured thrall.
When they reached the forest, where the trees gave
some shelter from the choking ash, Wasp pulled his
horse back level with his ward's. He looked
tired enough to die of exhaustion. His eyes were open
sores under white eyebrows, his clothes caked with
blood and ash; even the fuzz on his lip had
grown to a milky mustache. Poor Wasp!
Few Blades had ever been in a worse
predicament than he was in now, less than a
month after his binding. A boy had been sent to do
ten men's work. He spat out mud before he
spoke.
"You better now?"
"Just tired." The very word made him yawn. "You
Blades are lucky you don't get tired."
"We do get tired. We just can't sleep when
we rest. What are you planning, Atheling?"
What indeed? He had learned the truth about the
murder, but it had brought him no closer to justice
or vengeance. If he swore blood feud against
Cynewulf, or just went for him with a sword, the
house the
gns would kill him, and Wasp too. No
question about that. "Advise me."
"You won't listen."
"Try me."
"Become king. Isn't that what you want?"
Wasp's hoarse croak made the question
almost a statement.
"Yes." Radgar was too weary to lie
anymore. "But it isn't possible. It's an
illusion, Wasp." From cniht's oath
to coronation oath had taken Dad six years, and
he had been the youngest king of Baelmark in over a
century.
"Then run away. Hide--back in Chivial
or Thergy or anywhere."
Run? Radgar rode on for a while, trying
to think the unthinkable. "I can't. Aylwin,
Leofric, the others who have helped me ...
Cynewulf will kill them."
"Certainly. Take refuge with a friendly earl,
then."
"That means civil war!"
Wasp stared at him with scarlet-rimmed eyes.
"Yes. That's why I said to become king. Any
other way we die."
Hard it is to kill a king. Easy for a king
to kill. Send the brat off foering with
Goldstan and Ro`edercraeft and start writing the
funeral invitations.
A few moments later Wasp added, "You
knew this would happen if you came back. You can't
run and you can't hide. You have to go on."
But there was no way on.
When they reached farmland, the weather had turned,
wind veering to the northwest. A steady haze of ash
swirled over the landscape, prickling eyes,
gritting in teeth. Cattle bellowed
unhappily on the pastures. Thralls digging
ditches and planting beans were dusted like ghosts with
it.
On this wider trail Wasp fell back again.
"Any good ideas yet?" He looked half dead
already. Blades who lost their ward usually went
insane and oftentimes berserk. What happened to a
Blade who saw no way out? How much of this
punishment could Wasp take?
"Friend, do you trust what the ghost said?"
His Blade scowled. "Some, not all. I think
it was trying to defend Ambrose."
Soon after that a party of a dozen horsemen
trotted out of the city in their direction. Wasp
rode forward to intercept, but their leader was
Leofric and suicidal heroics were not required.
He reined in to watch Radgar's approach,
glowering disapproval.
"You are still alive, then?" He wheeled his
horse in on Radgar's right as Aylwin and the
others took up position in the rear. If the
atheling's return to the city could not be kept
secret, it must be made a formal indication of
support, obviously.
Radgar remembered how to smile. "Only just
alive."
"What did you learn?"
"That no one can guard a front door
effectively when a traitor inside is opening
shutters in back."
Relief lit up the thegn's craggy features
and was instantly suppressed. "Healfwer was still
there? I heard Weargahlaew had been
abandoned."
"He's all alone and determined to die there.
He did summon Geste's spirit and it confirmed
what we had surmised, but I don't know if I
totally believe it. Geste killed my father and
claims Cynewulf was in on the plot--but it
may have been lying!"
"Don't worry about that," Leofric growled.
"If he didn't do that murder he's done lots
of others. From the look of you, you need a quick rinse
in the palace hot springs, a change of clothes,
a bowl of chowder, and as much sleep as you can grab
before noon. You must be present at the moot."
"I'm not a thegn. Ro`edercraeft will keep
me out."
The blue eye glinted. "Let him try."
Radgar smiled his thanks. "Two seconds
in hot water and I'll be asleep. Carry me
into the hall and wake me up when the proceeds get
interesting."
"They may get very interesting." Leofric was
almost smacking his lips. "There's at least three
candidates trying to raise support for a
challenge. The odds are that none will succeed. That's
when we push you forward!"
"I'm not even a cniht yet."
"Oh, we'll find some way around that."
As Dad had said, there was nothing wrong with
Leofric's fighting.
"Get your lazy carcass out of that bed,"
Aylwin said loudly, and for about the third time. "Or
do I have to tip this over you?"
Radgar forced one sticky eye open. The
blankets prickled his skin, the air stank of
sulfur. ... The moot would assemble at noon.
... Oh, spirits! He opened both eyes.
"Drink it yourself, you overmuscled lout!" With a
killing effort he managed to sit up and accept the
tankard of spruce beer he was being offered.
Gulping down the tangy stuff he registered a
fancy tunic laid out on the bed and some
glittering things on the stool. Thegn Leofric was
going to put forward his prot@eg`e in style.
"And hurry! There's trouble." The best that could
be said for Aylwin's face was that it was honest.
Leofric's son was no wita. Hard work, good
humor, endurance, yes; loyalty in abundance,
starvation rations of wits. Physical strength, of
course. Even before he could afford to have himself
enchanted into a leviathan he'd been a hulking
lad, but the best conjurers in the world could not enchant
extra brains into him, and he wouldn't know what to do
with them anyway. Like his father, he had loyalty,
loyalty to the death. You asked his opinion only
out of politeness.
"What sort of trouble?" Radgar threw off the
blankets and shivered as the cool air touched his
bed-warmed flesh. The whole room shivered, making
the pretty things dance on the stool and the bed ropes
squeak. Cwicnoll was still restless.
"Waeps Thegn."
"What about him?"
"He's gone."
"Gone where? Blades never leave their wards."
Radgar pulled on breeches and socks. He
could hear rain beating on the roof.
"Think he's gone to kill Wulfwer."
"What? Tell me!" Moving much faster,
Radgar hauled on wool leggings and stood up,
tossing the long garters to Aylwin. They were gilt
stuff, very royal, and the pretties waiting on the
stool were a shoulder brooch as big as one of
Aylwin's great fists and a belt buckle almost as
large, both of them flashing with gold and deep-red
garnets.
Aylwin knelt to wrap the garters around his
friend's legs. "He was sitting right outside the
door, Radgar. Guarding you."
"Yes." Smock next. This story was going
to take some time to extract.
"Dad told me to come and tell him that
Wulfwer's back. He went strange,
Radgar. Wasp did. I mean his face turned
cheese color and he shouted at me that I had
to stay and watch you.
Made me swear. Then he
ran, Radgar."
Radgar wrapped the shiny tooled belt around
himself and fastened the ornate buckle. He could
imagine nothing that would make a Blade behave like
that.
Nothing!
"Did he say anything before he ran? No
explanation?"
"Well, he shouted something, Radgar, but I
didn't catch it. It was in Chivian. He was
sort of excited, see?"
More like clean out of his mind. "You caught no
words at all?"
"No, Radgar." There was the cause of
Aylwin's distress. His father had probably
ripped a thousand strips off him.
"Not your fault you don't speak Chivian."
Aylwin stood up, looking much the way he had
looked when he was one third the size and caught
raiding the honey jar. "He did say your name and
Wulfwer's, and I think Healfwer's."
"And you have no idea where he went?" Radgar
stopped with one foot poised over a boot and thought
about this. Eventually he put the boot on and
stamped it; then the other one, and he still could think of
nothing that would prompt a Blade to desert his
ward like that. Especially in this palace, with a
hundred knives sharpened for his neck.
"No."
"When did this happen?"
"'Bout an hour ago. I'd sworn to stay
outside your door, see? So I couldn't go
tell anyone till Dad came to wake you.
Dad's gone looking for him."
How many people could a Blade kill in an hour?
Radgar slung the soft wool cloak around himself,
fastening it with the great shoulder brooch. All done.
He took up a comb and peered in the mirror.
He did not like the gaunt, stressed face staring
back out at him. Wasp had broken, but he must
not. The worst thing I did in my short life
was bind that boy as my Blade.
"What exactly did you tell him about
Wulfwer?"
"Just that he's back. He was around this morning,
so Dad asked questions. Seems the King had sent
him off to Weargahlaew to see how it was
and pull out the hermits if conditions were too bad.
That's all. He rode in before dawn."
Radgar and Wasp must have passed him on the
way. Nothing remarkable in that--there were many trails
up into the hills. The crater was a royal
demesne, so sending the tanist himself in such an
emergency was not surprising either. What could Wasp
possibly have seen in that information that had provoked
him to such madness?
"It is not your fault," Radgar assured the
