by Tom Deitz
It occurred to him, then, that he wore Zeff’s shield and helmet and that both were very likely … magic. They would have blood, Zeff had said; blood would power them. The helm would enhance his will. The shield would absorb any force brought to bear against it. At least that was what Avall’s regalia had done. He had no idea whether Zeff’s versions would evince those same powers, for Zeff had never confided anything about his work with the new gems.
But Zeff was not Avall.
And he certainly was not the smith Avall had been.
Yet if Ahfinn had a fault, it was curiosity, and if he had two, the second was impatience. It was therefore no surprise that he found that he could wait no longer. A deep breath, and he slapped the helm hard enough to bring forth blood from the barb within it, which was also hard enough to send that blood to the gems in the war helm’s brow. At the same time, he squeezed the grip within the shield.
Power answered—but not enough; he knew that in an instant. It was weak and tentative, and eased into his body like warm syrup, not hot wine. Yet for all that, his shield arm suddenly felt stronger, and his vision had grown more acute, so that he found himself staring at the forces still crowding their way through the gap half a shot away, and could now hear their voices, as though a wall had lifted from between them.
Yet so intent was he on those odd new sensations that when the first scaling ladder slammed into the wall six spans from his feet, he started—for to him that impact had sounded like thunder. Without thought, he dashed toward it, even as the more seasoned knights around him surged past him on either side, swords hissing from their scabbards, shields rising to cover knee to chin. He was awash in a sea of blue and white, and then, somehow, he had moved past it—exactly as the first head showed above the rampart. He hewed at it from reflex, but a sword stabbed upward beside it, narrowly missing his throat. He hewed again, and again the sword swung—but this time he met it with his shield.
And felt nothing. The sword might as well have been paper. And he who had wielded it drew back—not a completely destroyed blade, as contact with Avall’s magic shield would have produced, but one whose edge, nevertheless, was dull and smoking.
And since Ahfinn had not had to absorb the force of that blow with his body, he had strength to push forward instead—and slammed the shield into the face of the man who had now scaled another two rungs to meet it. The man screamed and toppled, hanging by one hand for a moment before falling to the ground four spans below. Someone beside Ahfinn grabbed the top of the ladder and pushed. The ladder swung backward into the air, but not far enough. It smacked into the parapet again.
And then another touched down right beside it, and all Ahfinn knew was fighting.
It was thirty to three hundred, however—or three thousand—and Tryffon, like Ahfinn himself and most of his Ninth Face brethren, was tired of waiting. Ahfinn therefore found himself and his companions quickly forced back by Royalist elite. The water was higher now: lapping across the edges of the platform. In another hand it would be too deep for anyone on foot to essay. As for himself, he had maybe another dozen breaths in which to decide a course of action from among the three choices he confronted: to die there, to let himself be captured, or to retreat.
The latter was most likely, for already he was in the center of the platform, with the Royalists making slow progress along the narrow walk that led to it. Some slipped and fell, and some of those fell victim to his comrades. Some of his comrades, too, had jumped into the water and were hewing at the feet and legs of the Royal Army. Yet fighting was all but impossible when water was rising around one’s ribs and the range of possible blows thereby limited.
“Do we retreat?” a man gasped beside him: the first time anyone had posed that question so nakedly. The man’s face was calm but grim. He had brown eyes, Ahfinn saw, which was rare.
“We—”
Ahfinn never got to finish his sentence, for, with a roar like a waterfall exploding into being, the water to his right burst upward in a bubble of white, gray, and blue that became a lacy geyser that seemed to freeze in place for the briefest instant before subsiding. And rising from it came—impossibly—a slim young man on horseback, gold-helmed, with a shield of the same, and waving a sword that could only have one name.
Two others rode with him, one behind the other: a man, and, pressed hard against his back, a woman. Both—incredibly—held on as the beast surged out of the water, and—in one impossible leap—landed on the platform between Ahfinn and the vanguard of Eron’s army.
A twitch of the rider’s arm sent lightning arcing across the hold beneath the lowest gallery. The woman was off the horse and on her feet by then, and reached up to snatch something from the sheltered place between soldier and saddle. She flourished it aloft for all to see, not bothering to unsheathe the sword she also wore.
Ahfinn recognized her in a flash, though he had never met her.
Merryn.
Merryn san Argen-a: Avall the High King’s sister.
And in her hand …
Black hair, blank eyes, slack mouth, stump of neck still dripping red …
Zeff.
With a flourish of her wrist that precisely matched the disdainful sneer that curled her lips, Merryn dropped the head to the pavement. It splashed in the finger-deep water there, and rolled onto one ear, gazing up at Ahfinn.
Ahfinn felt his blood turn to ice.
And then Avall syn Argen-a raised the Lightning Sword, and Ahfinn knew fear indeed.
CHAPTER XXVII:
THE HARROWING OF GEM-HOLD
(NORTHWESTERN ERON: GEM-HOLD-WINTER–NEAR-AUTUMN: DAY II—SHORTLY PAST NOON)
It was one of the hardest things Avall had ever done: holding that sword motionless in his hand. For—in spite of the helm, the shield, and the balance they in theory provided—the Lightning Sword was clamoring for release. Full release—in thunder, lightning, and storms. He could feel the whole weight of the Overworld poised there, invisible at its tip, demanding to be called into Avall’s realm as raw, naked power.
Whether this was the darkest side of his own will manifesting or the power of the gems themselves trying to act in his behalf in the most profligate manner possible, he had no idea. All he knew was that, after the first bolt—which had still been weak, as he himself was still weak from this latest jump—it was all he could do to control the thing.
His only option was to let go—slowly—cutting off all but residual blood from the gem.
While trying not to show it.
“Lower the floodgates now!” he shouted. “Or I will bring this hold down around you. One blast of this sword and everyone before me burns—or boils—alive. One on that door and we enter however and in what number we will. You have lost—whoever you are. I will now receive your surrender.”
It was a good speech, anyway, Avall supposed. And maybe it would save some lives. But this was not the time to contemplate such things, as he sat there waiting for reply—it seemed forever, though he knew that perception was in part a function of the way the gems shifted his sense of time. His heart beat loud. He could feel the sun on his back, already sucking the moisture from his clothes. River water ran into his eyes, but he managed not to blink.
And before him, moving as if in a dream, a young fellow—not much older than he was, he suspected—wore the helm he had made as a replica of his own master one, and carried the shield that twinned the one upon his arm. That other’s sword, however, was plain.
“Your name,” he barked, to break the restless silence that was suddenly a weight around him.
“Ahfinn,” the young Ninth Face warrior replied, with no trace of hesitation whatsoever—which could reflect either bravery or fanaticism. Avall prayed it was not the latter.
“Do you command this hold?”
“In the name of—of Zeff—I was given command of it.”
“To hold against your King, or to surrender?”
“To do either as my will and conscience demand. But I am only one man
, Majesty. Each and every warrior of the Ninth Face must act as his heart requires.”
Avall shook his head. The sword twitched. Like many other people—like Vorinn and Zeff, and Merryn and Rann, and probably this Ahfinn as well—he was tired of playing games of feint and parry. And deathly tired of waiting.
His hand squeezed—once—and as quickly released. But that one gesture was sufficient. All that pent-up power arced from the sword and slammed into the wooden door seven spans behind where Ahfinn was standing. It also struck two of his loyal guard who had retreated there. One toppled where he stood; one fell into the water. They had played the soldier’s gamble; one had lost, the other had even odds.
The door itself was blown to splinters.
“Remain where you are,” Avall warned Ahfinn frankly, “and I will either ride through you or over you, but neither way will you survive. Pass to the side now, and you will live. You will undergo trial as a traitor, but you will live—until Law—which belongs to your clan, not mine—rules otherwise.”
Ahfinn did not move for a moment, and then, with quiet calm, he removed his helm and passed it—to Avall’s surprise—to Merryn. His shield he bestowed upon Rann, and then, without looking either to right or left, he laid his sword on the pavement before him—and joined the throng of loyal Eronese behind Avall.
“Stay close,” Avall called to him over his shoulder. “I will need a guide.” A pause, then: “Tryffon, if you will assist me?”
Tryffon made his way forward. Somehow he had managed to get himself drenched with blood in spite of the very brief battle, but he looked happy, if wary and surprised, as Avall—who did not wish to relinquish the regalia yet, however much it cost him—climbed down from faithful Boot. “Where’s Vorinn?” Tryffon rasped into Avall’s ear as their heads came close together.
“Well, but far away. I had to leave him, else I would not be here now. That’s all I know, and all I have time for at present. Look for him in a breath—or in a season. The same applies to all of them. For now, we have a hold to reclaim, a situation to reassess—and still a narrow way to travel if we are to reach that goal. Likely a fair bit of resistance, too—which I am sure will delight you no end. But I see we now have a spare magic shield and helmet.”
“My own will be more than sufficient,” Tryffon rumbled.
“Go by my will and with Fate’s blessings,” Avall told those soldiers—mostly members of Common Clan, he noted—who had gathered around him. One maneuvered Boot aside so that Tryffon and the bulk of what remained of the Night Guard could make their way across the pontoon bridge. Avall expected them to meet at least token resistance there and in the arcade beyond, but no such opposition was forthcoming.
A hand later, the southern fifth of the hold was secure, and the water around it was receding at roughly a quarter span every hand—they dared not drain it faster for fear of damaging the locks, as well as the quays and fishing holds downstream. Which was not to say that the harrowing of the hold was not slow going, for they had to progress a stair, a hallway, and a room at a time, checking all doors and hiding places as they went. And there were indeed pockets of resistance, though those were few—Zeff had evidently maintained loyalty mostly from force of personality, or, more recently, fear of what was reported by many of his men as something close kin to madness. Most of the holders they found neatly bound—some in their clan quarters, some in the weather-locks adjacent to the arcades, a few as though they had simply been trussed up in haste and left in place once that initial binding was complete. He prayed they would find them all; slow starvation in a closet would be a grim death indeed.
As for those few Ninth Face knights who chose to stand and fight, most quelled after he brought Ahfinn up to march alongside him—especially after Ahfinn was given Zeff’s head to carry. To Ahfinn’s credit, he did so with dignity, though he was clearly scared to death. They were not so unlike, Ahfinn and himself, Avall supposed. Both were competent at many things, talented, and smart. And both had been thrust into positions of power for which they were not suited by temperament, but for which circumstances had nevertheless equipped them, uniquely, to bear: Avall, because he understood the most powerful force in Eron as much as anyone did, and in some small wise controlled it—or was controlled by it, he feared; Ahfinn, because in a hold full of scholar-specialists, he was the only one Zeff, for whatever reason, had dared entrust with knowledge of his weaknesses. What would happen to Ahfinn now, he had no idea. That was for Law to determine.
For the present, Ahfinn had information Avall needed, and that was enough to ensure his survival. “Crim,” Avall demanded of the Ninth Face’s erstwhile commander. “And Rrath: as soon as may be, take me to them.”
“Crim is in her quarters, tied to her bed—or should be.”
“With how many fingers?” Tryffon snapped.
“All she was born with but one,” Ahfinn answered calmly.
“Pray you speak the truth,” Avall muttered. “And these quarters, I believe, are—”
“Farther on—Majesty,” Ahfinn finished for him.
It was another hand before they found the former Hold-Warden, courtesy of a particularly persistent pocket of militant Ninth Facers that had to be cleared out. There couldn’t be many left, Avall reckoned, for word of its liberation had spread through the hold like fire, and as the Royal Army advanced through it, not only were more of his soldiers available to take captives, but the former hostages often as not rose up in advance of their liberators and delivered their captors to them. More than one party of Eronese warriors came upon groups of Ninth Face knights neatly tied up for their disposal.
They found Crim’s suite easily enough—locked—and had to break through the door. And once inside, they found the deposed Hold-Warden as well—bound to her bed, as Ahfinn had predicted—but also with a gaping wound across her throat, and her sheets dyed crimson with gore. “Dead,” Avall said dully, for he had liked Crim as well as he had known her, and respected her administrative skills as much as anyone’s he knew.
Rann took it even harder. He rounded on Ahfinn, murder thick in his eyes. “Do you have any idea who—?”
But before Ahfinn could reply, a pair of Night Guardsmen came tromping up—with a white-faced man squirming in near panic between them. “Ishvarr syn Myrk’,” the taller guard volunteered, indicating himself. “And loyal cousin to Hold-Warden Crim, I might add. We found this scum in Gem-Hold colors, trying to escape. I didn’t recognize him—but I did recognize some unique pieces of jewelry he had with him that once belonged to my kinswoman.”
“He has blood on his hands, too,” the other Guardsman supplied. “And was trying to rid himself of a bloody dagger.”
Avall’s face went hard and grim. His blood seemed to run colder in his veins. “You have this dagger?”
“Aye.”
“Give it to this man.” He indicated the wide-eyed Ahfinn.
Ishvarr hesitated but an instant, then did as commanded. Ahfinn blinked in confusion. Avall fixed him with an icy stare, then nodded toward the ash-faced prisoner. “Your man: your clan: your justice,” Avall informed Ahfinn coldly. “You know the sentence for murderers. If he leaves this hold alive, this man’s fate will be the same—but he will suffer longer.”
Ahfinn’s face turned whiter than the accused’s, but bit his lip and, before anyone expected it, stabbed the murderer-thief beneath the ribs, then drove the blade upward with a sharp, deft twist. The man whimpered once, then went limp. Ahfinn left the weapon where it stood as the Guardsmen released the lifeless body and let it topple.
Ishvarr relieved the thief of the stolen treasure and returned it to Crim’s suite, then gently closed the door and rejoined Avall’s party in the hall. Leaving the corpse in a spreading pool of his own blood, they continued down the corridor.
“Rrath,” Avall reminded Ahfinn curtly. “Now.”
“He should be in Zeff’s private quarters. At least that’s where I saw him last,” Ahfinn replied carefully.
“
He had best be alive, is all I can say,” Avall growled.
The suite Zeff had claimed as his base was more austere than Avall would have expected of even a minor Chief, then again, Zeff was Priest-Clan, and they prided themselves on asceticism. A door to the left led from the common hall to what was clearly Zeff’s sleeping chamber. A small wooden box stood on a bare stone table there—nothing remarkable, yet it drew Avall’s gaze like a lodestone. Ahfinn saw him looking. “Majesty,” he said impulsively, “if I may …”
“Careful,” Tryffon warned. “It could be a trap.”
“No trap,” Ahfinn countered. “On my life.”
“Which belongs to us, in any case.”
“Let him,” Avall broke in. “We’re waiting.”
Ahfinn deposited Zeff’s head in what had most likely been the Chief’s favorite chair, to judge by the patterns of wear, then retrieved the box. It rattled when he picked it up. Avall was taken aback when Ahfinn approached again, knelt suddenly before him, flipped the box’s lid open, and raised it so that he could see inside.
Red glittered there.
Gems.
Magic gems. Not many, and most were small—some smaller than the fragments he had salvaged from his own smashed master gem—yet it was without doubt a treasure trove, and a power trove along with it. “All we could find before we flooded the mines,” Ahfinn explained, rising. “The rest are in the sword, shield, and helmet Zeff took to the duel. If there are more—”
“I doubt there are,” Avall murmured. “At least not here.”
Tryffon regarded him sharply.
“Rrath,” Avall prompted, looking around. “And could someone find Esshill? He will want to be here.”
“He’s here now!” someone called from the outer chamber. “If you mean that little former Priest who’s been following us around.” A moment later, and not without a bit of pushing and jostling, the crowd of Night Guard in the doorway parted to admit a slight figure still clad in the Argen-a livery he seemed to have adopted as his own. Then again, Esshill probably did not feel comfortable claiming his own clan just then. He bowed deeply when he saw Avall, then stood up straighter. “Majesty?”
