Bloodstone

by Barbara Campbell

  “What’s the matter with him?” the woman demanded. “Go away, you nasty beast.”

  Her words brought Keirith out of his daze. “Go away,” he repeated. He seized the cushion he was sitting on and hit his father in the face with it. “Go away, Wild Man. Go away.”

  His father fell back on his haunches, his face terrible. Others took up the cry. Cushions struck his father on the head, the chest. The woman tossed the contents of her goblet at him, giggling as the dregs dripped down his cheeks. In a moment, kugi and flatbread were flying toward him.

  “Get away!” Keirith screamed in the tribal tongue.

  Mercifully, Urkiat appeared at that moment. His face went blank with shock and then he seized his father’s arm. The crowd cheered as he dragged him back to the center of the arena. His father lay there, chest heaving, while the old woman launched into a speech.

  “That was odd,” Xevhan said.

  “Yes. Very scaring.”

  “It was almost as if he knew you.”

  Think, Keirith, think.

  “He is a tree lover. Like me. But why is he here?”

  “I was hoping you might tell me.”

  “Well, he certainly acted strange enough,” the woman interjected. “And those awful hands. Did you see them, Xevhan? Like some animal had gnawed off his fingers.”

  “What did you say to him?” Xevhan asked.

  “What?”

  “At the end. You screamed something at him.”

  “I say, ‘Go away.’ He maybe does not understand Zherosi, so I speak in my tongue.”

  “Very clever.”

  “Look, Xevhan. It’s your little blind girl. I saw you ogling her before, you wicked man. She is a pretty child. If only someone would dress her decently.”

  Xevhan’s gaze slid briefly to the performing area. “A dull ending to the battle.”

  “Yes. Not good. Not good at all.” He was talking too fast, acting too strange. Xevhan would never believe he was simply unnerved by the Wild Man. “One man with sword. Another like wolf. It is no fight at all.”

  Stop babbling, Keirith. Have a drink of wine. Talk to the woman. Anything.

  His father was still lying on the ground while the other performers danced around him, singing.

  Why isn’t he getting up? Did the shock of seeing me kill him?

  “You’re right,” Xevhan said.

  Jolted out of his thoughts, he could only stammer, “Excuse me, please?”

  “It wasn’t much of a fight at all.”

  Xevhan’s chilling little smile sent a wave of nausea through him. Before he could speak, Xevhan rose and strode out of the pavilion. The chubby man darted forward, bowing and babbling something, but at Xevhan’s glance, his voice trailed off.

  “Friends, I hope you have enjoyed tonight’s entertainment.” Xevhan held up his hands, forestalling the applause. “Young Kheridh thinks the fight would have been better if the Wild Man had wielded a sword against his opponent. I know it’s late, but what do you say to a real battle? The Wild Man of the North against the great Zherosi warrior. This time with real swords instead of wooden ones.”

  The crowd screamed its approval.

  Chapter 33

  URKIAT WAS ARGUING with Olinio, but like the frenzied shouting of the guests, their voices seemed to come from a great distance.

  Keirith is alive.

  Keirith is safe.

  Keirith thinks the fight would be better with swords.

  Darak had been too shocked at seeing Keirith to move, to speak. After Urkiat dragged him away, he’d recovered enough to feel relief that his son had acted so quickly, pride that he had averted suspicion by pretending to attack him. Then Urkiat translated the Zheron’s speech, and relief and pride leached away.

  Keirith, drinking and feasting with the Zherosi. Keirith, screaming at him to go away. Keirith, suggesting a fight with real swords. Nay, that was the Zheron’s doing. It had to be. He didn’t know what Keirith was doing here, but his son would not betray him.

  Darak felt oddly calm, as if this were all a dream and he would wake and find Griane lying next to him, Faelia grumbling about getting up so early, Keirith shaking Callie awake. But of course, it wasn’t a dream. It was all happening.

  Keirith had risen to the challenge. So must he.

  He sat up, smelling the salt from the sea and the smoke from the guttering torches. He got to his feet, staring at the eastern sky, just beginning to lighten with the promise of a new day. And then he walked toward Urkiat.

  “It’s all right.”

  “What? Darak, do you understand what’s happening? They want us to fight.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, I won’t do it! No matter what the Zheron threatens. Good gods, you can barely stand.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You can’t—forgive me, but you can’t even grip a sword properly.”

  Darak frowned at his hand. “Lash the hilt to my wrist.”

  “It won’t—”

  “Let’s get this over with before their mood turns even uglier.”

  Two of the guests supplied the swords. They were lovely weapons. Fine balance. Not much heavier than the wooden ones they were used to. And the same length as well, about as long as his forearm. The edges were wickedly keen, though. He gripped the hilt, thumb and little fingers falling naturally into the shallow depressions in the leather made by its owner. With the sword lashed to his hand, he should manage well enough. He was more worried about his legs, which were shaking from exhaustion.

  Thikia supplied a thin strip of rawhide. When Urkiat fumbled with it, Bep shoved him aside. “I’ll do it. Your hands are trembling like a virgin’s on her wedding night.”

  Olinio kept up a steady stream of instructions about thrusts and parries until Darak told him to be quiet. Bep’s advice was more practical.

  “Hakkon and Bo are trying to sweep the performing area so it’ll be more even, but steer clear of the backdrop. The sand’s churned up there and we don’t have time to do anything about it. Go easy. Get the feel of the swords. But you’ll have to land some genuine blows or the crowd’ll get nasty. Urkiat? Are you listening?”

  Urkiat nodded. He looked like he might vomit.

  “You’ll be fine,” Darak told him. “It’ll be just like we practiced.”

  The drum pounded an imperious beat. Darak looked around the circle of anxious faces. “Smile, everyone, smile. It may not be magic, but it’s a living.”

  When Bep translated, wan smiles blossomed on all faces except Urkiat’s. He just hefted his sword and whispered a prayer.

  Keirith’s hands clenched into fists as they circled each other. Even in a performance, feet could stumble, an arm could come up too slowly to block a thrust. Even in a performance, blood could be shed.

  His father looked relaxed and alert, balancing on the balls of his feet like a dancer. Keirith remembered standing with his mam, watching him walk through the village. Her face had lightened with one of her rare smiles. “Look at the man. Loose-limbed and graceful as a wolf on the prowl.” And then she’d scowled and smacked him lightly on the head and asked him what was he thinking, idling around the house when there were chores to be done?

  His father lunged with a swiftness that made Keirith catch his breath. When Urkiat feinted, he clamped his lips together to prevent another telltale reaction.

  The crowd was restless. A scatter of boos and catcalls came from the pavilions as they went back to their circling. His father’s lips moved. Urkiat nodded.

  Another lunge. Urkiat caught the blow and threw it off with a screech of metal. Then he attacked. His blow knocked the sword out of his father’s grasp, but the leather thongs kept him from dropping it. The crowd screamed at Urkiat to move in, but he ignored them.

  His father hefted the sword with both hands and charged. Urkiat rolled beneath the blade and landed in a crouch. His father paused to shake his hair out of his eyes and nearly missed a low lunge toward his thigh. He stopped it
close and flung Urkiat’s sword back.

  Urkiat staggered, thrown off balance. Feral shouts of “Take him! Gut him!” rang out. Urkiat ducked under his father’s blade, which sliced the air with a great whoosh. The movement spun him past Urkiat, his blade following his body in a sweeping circle that barely missed ripping open Urkiat’s belly. And then they were both moving so quickly Keirith could scarcely follow them as they whirled and sidestepped and slashed at each other.

  They broke apart. His father was breathing in open-mouthed pants, the wolf’s grace abandoned for flat-footed plodding. Urkiat circled, giving him a chance to recover. He finally darted in and his father spun away. The crowd screamed when they saw the trickle of blood oozing down his left arm, screamed louder when Urkiat lowered his blade.

  “It’s a scratch,” his father shouted. “Come on!”

  Urkiat’s charge drove him across the arena. Even with both hands gripping the hilt, each blow beat his sword lower. His arms were losing their strength. His legs were wobbling, his feet clumsy in the loose sand. He warded off a downward thrust, but the tip of the sword opened a new cut on his shoulder.

  Urkiat sidestepped a clumsy blow and deliberately turned his back. He strutted away, punching the air with his sword, shouting taunts in Zherosi. It was pure showmanship and the crowd loved it. And it gave his father a few precious moments to recover.

  He advanced on Urkiat who spun around at the last moment and blocked the blow. Thrust. Parry. Lunge. Retreat. He could hear his father’s hoarse pants. He was winded, his strength gone. Why didn’t Urkiat stop? Why did he keep pressing him?

  His nails dug into his palms. And then his father went down and Keirith bit his lip to stifle a cry.

  His father scuttled backward, right arm raised to fend off Urkiat’s slow, deliberate blows. He kept trying to find a foothold in the loose sand, but instead of rising into a crouch, he ended up on his knees. Urkiat advanced, the tip of his sword pointed at his father’s throat.

  Xevhan would end the fight now. He had to.

  The crowd was shouting, men and women alike on their feet, shaking their fists, screaming for blood. Screaming for his father’s death.

  “Your lip is bleeding, Kheridh.”

  He didn’t trust himself to look at Xevhan. He picked up a napkin, dabbed at his lip, and tossed it aside before Xevhan could notice his shaking hands.

  “What do you think? Should I let him kill the Wild Man?”

  “He is brave. He fights well. Why kill him?”

  Xevhan gestured to the screaming men and women. “It seems my guests demand it.”

  Urkiat wouldn’t kill his father, no matter what Xevhan ordered. But if he refused, Xevhan could have them both killed. The crowd didn’t care as long as blood was shed.

  “Great Zheron. They are tree lovers. Like me. I ask this. As a greatest of favors. Stop the fight now.”

  “Dear Kheridh. I would so like to oblige you. But I fear my first obligation is to my guests.”

  Slowly, Xevhan rose and walked into the arena.

  Keirith heard Hircha’s voice, whispering in his ear. “There’s nothing you can do. Except help me kill Xevhan when this is over.”

  Killing Xevhan later wouldn’t save his father. Was he strong enough to cast out his spirit now? If Xevhan had taken qiij, he would be able to shield himself. He didn’t seem drugged. Gods, why hadn’t he observed him more closely before he got up? Why hadn’t he watched him all night? Watch. Observe. Remember. That’s what he was supposed to do.

  If he guessed wrong, his father would die.

  Gods, forgive me.

  Keirith closed his eyes and summoned his power.

  “The Zheron’s coming out,” Urkiat said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Finish it now. Before he gets in the way.”

  Urkiat nodded. Darak tightened his grip on the sword. They’d practiced the move a dozen times. More. Olinio called it breathtaking. It had better be. Otherwise, this bloodthirsty crowd would have both their heads.

  He took a deep breath, signaling his readiness, and lunged upwards, his sword driving toward Urkiat’s heart. But instead of spinning away, Urkiat remained motionless.

  Darak had only a heartbeat to glance up and see his frozen look of abstraction. He screamed Urkiat’s name, hoping to shock him into action, but even as he did, he knew it was too late to stop his body’s momentum, too late to avert the thrust.

  The sword drove up and under his breastbone. Urkiat’s sword fell from his nerveless fingers. Darak flung out an arm to catch him, the weight of Urkiat’s body dragging them both to the ground. His right hand, bound to the sword, was useless. All he could do was cradle Urkiat in his left arm while the blood gushed out of his chest. In Urkiat’s eyes, he saw the reflection of his own shock and disbelief. And all he could say was, “Gods, man. Gods. What happened?”

  Urkiat’s mouth opened as if he might speak, as if he could explain what had gone so horribly wrong. Then his back arched in an agonized spasm and his heels dug into the sand. Darak tightened his grip, his breath coming in the same deep, ragged gasps as Urkiat’s. He buried his face in Urkiat’s damp hair, then jerked his head up again.

  Let him have the face of a friend before him. Let that be the last thing he sees.

  He hoped Urkiat would want that. He hoped his face would give him comfort instead of reminding him that it was his friend—the man he trusted and respected as a father—who had killed him.

  “I’m with you, lad. I’m right here.”

  The world narrowed to the man in his arms, to the struggling body and the staring eyes, to the feel of bone and flesh under his arm, to the warmth of blood soaking his hand. It was so quiet. As if the world were dying with Urkiat. No birds sang. No men shouted. His mind was screaming, “Why did this happen?” but his voice continued its ceaseless murmur, offering words of comfort, of friendship, of love.

  The dark blue eyes were glazing. The struggle was nearly over.

  “Go easy, lad. I’ll be with you. Always. To the Forever Isles and beyond.”

  Urkiat’s chest rose and fell. Rose again. Slowly sank as the breath left him. Moments passed. Darak’s heart thudded, a painful testament to life. Urkiat’s chest rose once more. His eyes darkened. His head lolled. And he was gone.

  Through the receding haze, Keirith heard a clear, high voice singing. He lifted his head. No one seemed to have noticed him slumping across the cushions. They were too enthralled by the spectacle in the arena.

  It was the blind girl, her sorrowful face tilted skyward. He was too exhausted to try and make out the words, but the slow, mournful melody made it plain enough that it was a lament. To Keirith’s amazement, some of the Zherosi joined her. A moment ago, they had been screaming for death and now they mourned it. Who could understand them? Who would ever want to?

  He pushed himself into a sitting position. One of the little men was kneeling beside his father. As he reached for the thongs binding the sword, his father’s head came up, his mouth twisted in a snarl. Then he saw who it was and allowed the little man to free his hand.

  His father tried to ease the sword from Urkiat’s chest, but in the end, he had to wrench it free. He flung the sword away and pulled Urkiat closer, rocking him like a babe. And then his head came up again. He seemed to be listening to the lament. The little man bent closer, questioning him, but his father just kept shaking his head.

  “Not one of their songs!”

  His chest heaved. He shook the hair out of his face. And then he closed his eyes and sang.

  The sun hides his shining face And the moon shrouds herself in darkness. The winds scream upon the hilltops And the waters of the rivers swell with tears.

  One by one, the Zherosi fell silent, until there was only his father’s halting voice, choking on the tears that coursed down his face.

  The branches of the trees echo my moans And the earth falls away beneath my feet. The clouds cast shadows upon my face And the bitterness of winter fills my spirit. />
  His voice broke. The little man took up the lament in a voice rough as sand.

  I seek but cannot find you. I call but receive no answer. Oh, beloved, beloved. Would I had died for you.

  His father’s voice fell to a whisper on the last words. He closed Urkiat’s eyes. Brushed a damp strand of hair off his forehead. Bent to kiss him softly on the mouth.

  As Xevhan started toward his father, Keirith struggled to rise. He swayed and nearly fell; the magic had taken the last remnants of his strength. He staggered past Xevhan and faced the silent crowd.

  “It is time to go.” His voice was little more than a whisper. He repeated the words again, raising his voice so that everyone could hear. “No more killing. Please.”

  The little man clutched his father’s arm, whispering urgently. Xevhan must have seen death in his father’s eyes, for he backed away, beckoning the chubby man. “Come to my chamber at midmorning for your payment. Bring the blind girl.”

  He strode toward his litter, shouting at the bearers to hurry. For of course, it was nearly dawn. And time for another sacrifice.

  His father’s gaze followed Xevhan. The little man grabbed his face, forcing him to look at him. The performers drew closer. The one who had played the shepherd held his staff at the ready, but he didn’t need it. As Keirith watched, the tension drained out of his father’s body.

  “I’m sorry,” Keirith whispered.

  His father looked up at him, his eyes dull. “You didn’t kill him.”

  Only because I wasn’t strong enough to cast out his spirit. I just distracted him—and left you to kill your friend.

  “You can’t stay here,” Keirith said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  His father’s expression hardened. “I haven’t gotten what I came for.”

  “Please . . .”