Daggerspell

  “Da says that anyone with any sense is always afraid before a battle. So I suppose I can take comfort in that. At least I’ve gotten used to the stinking mail. I was sparring with Amyr today, and it doesn’t slow me down anymore.”

  “Well and good, then. I’ve been waiting for that.”

  Jill felt a cold shiver run down her back.

  “Loddlaen is the key to everything,” Aderyn went on. “Corbyn’s been ensorceled so long that without Loddlaen, his nerve will break, and he’ll either surrender or sally. I’ve already asked Jennantar and Calonderiel to help me kill Loddlaen. Will you come with us when we go hunting the hawk?”

  “I will, truly, but how are we going to get at him?”

  “I’m going to make him fly. I wager I can lure him out, because I know him very well indeed.” He got up slowly. “It may take some time, mind, but I’ll just wager he comes to us in the end.”

  After Aderyn left her, Jill sat by the campfire and wondered what strange dweomer Aderyn would use to lure his enemy out. She was still musing over it when Rhodry stepped out of the shadows as silently as one of the elves and sat down next to her. At an inadvertent touch of his sleeve on hers, Jill’s heart began to pound.

  “Tell me somewhat. Are you sure that Nevyn spoke the truth about my Wyrd being Eldidd’s Wyrd?”

  “I am. Rhodry, are you aching your heart again over having a lass fight for you?”

  “Well, what man’s heart wouldn’t ache? But it’s not just the honor of the thing. I can’t bear to think of you being harmed. I think I’d rather have bards mock my name than to risk you getting one little scratch.”

  “Has his lordship been drinking mead?”

  “Oh, don’t be all my lady Haughty with me! You know I love you, and you love me, too.”

  Jill got up, threw a branch on the fire, then watched the Wildfolk dancing along the dry bark in a long flare. After a long moment she heard Rhodry get up behind her.

  “Jill? I know I can bring you nothing but harm. You’re right enough to be cold to me.”

  Jill refused to answer.

  “Please?” Rhodry went on. “All I want is to hear you say you love me. Say it just once, and I’ll be content with that.”

  Rhodry slipped his arms around her from behind and pulled her back to rest against him. The simple human comfort of his touch went to her head like mead.

  “I do love you. I love you with all my heart.”

  His arms tightened around her; then he let her go. She stared into the fire while he walked away, because she knew that she would weep if she watched him go.

  “We’ve got one last hope, the way I see it,” Nowec said. “Rhys hates his cursed brother so much that he might intervene just to shame him.”

  “He might, truly,” Corbyn said.

  When they both looked at him, Loddlaen merely shrugged. They had been besieged for eight days now, eight stinking days in the hot, dry autumn weather, eight days of living behind stone walls—a torment for a man used to riding with the Elcyion Lacar. He wanted to make them share his torment by telling them the bitter truth, but he wanted to have a plan of escape laid by before he did. If he could find a plan of escape.

  “I’ve been working on the gwerbret’s mind, of course,” Loddlaen lied smoothly. “But the situation’s vexed for him. He has councillors who argue against intervention.”

  “Ah, ye gods!” Nowec said. “We’ve got to think of morale. Can’t you do somewhat faster?”

  “The dweomer has its own times of working.”

  “Oh, indeed, you piss-proud beggar? You were quick enough to get us into this mess.”

  Loddlaen stared straight at him. From his own aura he sent a line of light and struck at Nowec, spinning the lord’s aura. Nowec’s eyes went glazed.

  “I do not care to be cursed.”

  “Of course,” Nowec whispered. “My apologies.”

  Loddlaen spun the aura once more, then released him.

  “Besides, I assure you that the question of morale is very much on my mind. No doubt I can keep the men confident of our eventual victory.”

  Loddlaen rose, bowed, and swept out of the chamber. He had to be alone to think. All he wanted to do was to call forth fire and burn that stinking dun to the ground. He would escape; he’d pack his clothes and a few coins in a sack, then fly away alone and free. Somewhere he’d find another lord to ensorcel, somewhere far to the east where Aderyn would never find him.

  “I’ll follow you, lad,” Aderyn said. “Even to the ends of the earth.”

  With a yelp, Loddlaen spun around, but the corridor was empty. Aderyn’s presence lingered like the scent of smoke in an empty hearth.

  “Sooner or later,” Aderyn’s voice went on. “I’ll come in after you, or you’ll have to come out. Sooner or later, you’ll look me in the face.”

  The feeling of presence vanished. Loddlaen hurried to his chamber and slammed the door behind him. He couldn’t escape; Aderyn wasn’t going to let him escape, as somewhere in his heart he’d been sure his father would do, as he’d always done before.

  “Then I’ll have to win.”

  If only Aderyn were dead, Loddlaen could do much more than merely carry messages to the gwerbret. He could send fire into Rhodry’s tents, rot into his provisions, disease to his men and horses, and stir Rhodry’s army to such a panic that the men would desert like snow melting in the sun. If only Aderyn were dead. If.

  Toward the middle of the afternoon, Loddlaen went to the window and tried to call up a storm. If nothing else, it would soak Rhodry and his cursed army and give Loddlaen something to brag about to Corbyn and Nowec. He called upon the elemental spirits of Air and Water, invoked them with mighty names, and saw clouds begin to swell and thicken in the sky. Wave after wave, the storm rushed in at his command as the wind picked up strong. All at once, the wind died, and the clouds began to dissipate. Loddlaen swore and struggled and cursed the spirits, until at last he saw one of the elemental Kings striding across the sky. Huge and storm-tossed, the King was a vaguely elven shape of silver light surrounded by a pillar of golden light as fine as gossamer. The King waved one hand, and the spirits fled, far beyond Loddlaen’s power to call them back.

  Loddlaen leaned onto the windowsill and wept, knowing that Aderyn had summoned the King. Once he had stood at Aderyn’s side and been presented to those mighty beings as Aderyn’s successor. Now he was an outcast and beneath their contempt.

  It was over an hour before Loddlaen felt strong enough to leave his chamber. As he was going down the staircase, he saw Aderyn walking up. Loddlaen stood riveted, his hand tight on the rail, as his father came closer and closer. Aderyn gave him a faint smile of contempt, as if he were showing Loddlaen that he could break Loddlaen’s seals anytime he wanted and enter anywhere he wished. Then the vision vanished.

  Loddlaen hurried to the noise and company of the great hall. While he ate his dinner, he was brooding murder.

  Late that evening, Jill and the two elves were swearing over a game of dice when Aderyn came to them. He was carrying two long arrows.

  “It’s time. Which of you archers wants these arrows?”

  “I do,” Jennantar said.

  “The revenge belongs to you, sure enough,” Calonderiel said. “I’ll have steel-tipped arrows ready to back you if need be.”

  Only then did Jill realize that the two arrows had silver tips.

  “Jill,” Aderyn went on. “If Jennantar can bring the bird down, you might have to finish it off on the ground. Use your silver dagger and only your silver dagger.”

  “I will. So, the old tale’s true, is it? Only silver can harm dweomerfolk?”

  “Oh, steel can cut a dweomerman as easily as it can other flesh, and steel would harm the hawk, too. But if the silver kills him, his body will come back to man-shape when he’s dead.”

  Aderyn led them about a mile from the camp down a road dimly lit by the first quarter moon. They passed two farmhouses, tightly shuttered against Rhodry’s army,
and came to a meadow bordered by a line of oaks.

  “Hide under the trees,” Aderyn said. “I’m going to go throw the challenge. Be ready, will you? He could always outfly me.”

  Aderyn climbed the lowest tree and steadied himself against the branches to take off his clothes. Jill could just dimly see him, a dark shape among the leaves, as he crouched there. She thought she saw the indistinct, shimmering image of an owl beside him; then suddenly a glow of blue light enveloped both the shape and Aderyn. The old dweomerman was gone. In his place was the silver owl, spreading its wings for flight. With one soft cry, the bird leapt and flapped off steadily in the darkness. Jill caught her breath.

  “It always creeps your flesh,” Calonderiel remarked. “No matter how many times you see him do it.”

  Jennantar nocked the first silver arrow in his bow. Slowly the moon rose higher. Jill kept a watch on the starry sky in the direction of the dun, but Calonderiel saw them first.

  “Look!”

  Jennantar raised the bow and drew, but it was another good minute before Jill saw a dark speck moving against the stars, the owl, flapping and gliding as fast it could. All at once she saw another bird, dropping down from high above, plunging, stooping, nearly catching the owl. Flying straight and steadily, the owl and the hawk raced for the trees, and the hawk was gaining. Muttering under his breath, Jennantar stood tense, waiting for the hawk to come in range. Nearer and nearer they flew, and the hawk was getting far too close to the owl. Jennantar swore and loosed, but the arrow fell short. The hawk plunged down and caught the owl, grappling with him in the air.

  They fought exactly like real birds of prey—closing with each other high in the air, grappling and clawing as they fell, then breaking apart to fly up, circling each other to gain height again. Jill heard the hawk shriek with rage every time the weary owl twisted free. Every now and then, one great feather would fall to earth, flashing silver in the moonlight. Jill and Jennantar ran out into the meadow under the fight, but Jennantar didn’t dare shoot for fear of hitting the owl.

  As they wearied in this unnatural battle, the two birds dropped, swooping closer to the ground, rising less high when they broke to grapple again. Shrieking and clawing at each other, they came down low, only to break apart and flap up again. The owl was tiring badly and rose slowly.

  “Aderyn!” Jill screamed. “Drop low! Cursed low!”

  Indifferent to her voice, the hawk stooped, plunged, and caught the owl. Down and down they dropped, and this time the owl made little effort to break free, merely slashed with its beak as they fell. Jill ran off to get a start, and waited tensely with the dagger in her hand—she would have only one chance at this—then raced across the meadow and leapt up, stabbing at the hawk. Its shriek of agony told her she’d made her strike as she dropped to her knees in the grass. She felt the rush of wings as the owl broke free and flew just in time to save itself from plunging into the ground. Jill staggered up just as Jennantar’s bowstring sang out.

  Pierced to the heart, the hawk shrieked once and began to fall. In a flash of blue light it changed, so that for one hideous moment Jill saw something that was half hawk, half man, feather and flesh oozing into one another. Then it fell to earth with a sickening, perfectly ordinary thud. The owl called out a long cry of mourning and settled into the grass. It vanished cleanly, leaving Aderyn sitting there, bleeding from long claw slashes all over his body. Jill ran to him.

  “We’ve got to staunch those wounds!”

  Aderyn shook his head no and staggered up to lean on Jill’s shoulder. She half carried him over to join the two elves beside Loddlaen’s corpse. He lay twisted on his back, his face clawed, his thigh slashed open from the silver dagger, his chest pierced with the silver arrow. Aderyn raised his hands heavenward.

  “It is over. Let him go to the halls of light for his judging. It is finished.”

  Rolling across the meadow came three great knocks like thunder from a clear sky. Jill cried out, her blood running cold at the sound. Slowly Aderyn lowered his hands and glanced at the corpse. Even in the gauzy moonlight Jill could see that he was fighting with all his will to keep himself under control. Jennantar laid his arm around the old man’s shoulders and, whispering gently in Elvish, led him into the trees.

  “Let’s get this lump of meat back to camp.” Calonderiel idly kicked Loddlaen in the head. “The sight should gladden our cadvridoc’s heart.”

  As they stooped to pick up the body, Jill heard Aderyn wail, a long high keening from among the trees. On and on it went in a frantic rhythm so painful that she was glad when they were finally out of earshot. Although she was stunned that Aderyn would mourn his enemy, all she could assume was that the old tales were true, and that working dweomer together made strong bonds between men.

  When they staggered into camp with their burden, one of the guards recognized Loddlaen and howled his name. The rest of the army came running. Laughing and slapping each other on the back, the noble-born and the commoners alike crowded round when they dumped the body at Rhodry’s feet.

  “So the bastard bleeds like any other man, does he?” Rhodry called out. “Here, men, how do you feel about his cursed dweomer now?”

  The army answered with catcalls and obscenities. Rhodry held up his hands for silence.

  “It would only be honorable of me to return the councillor to his lord, wouldn’t it? I wonder what the piss-poor little weasel will think when he sees this?”

  The men laughed and cheered him roundly. Jill looked up at the silent dun and wondered if Corbyn and his men could hear the noise. With a touch of dweomer-cold, she knew that tomorrow would bring the battle. The only way that Corbyn and Nowec could salvage one scrap of their lost honor was to sally and die.

  Later that night, Nevyn attempted to contact Aderyn. He could feel his old pupils mind, grief-struck, torn, filled with a pain so palpable that a few tears came to Nevyn’s eyes. He broke off the attempt and left Aderyn alone with his mourning. Later there would be time to talk and learn the details, but Nevyn knew the most important thing: Loddlaen was dead. He left the brazier and flung open the shutters over the window in his chamber.

  Far below him the tiny town of Dun Gwerbyn lay wrapped in darkness and silence. Once a dog barked; once a lantern bloomed briefly in a yard, then went out. The sleeping householders would never have to know what strange dangers had been threatening them and their overlords, and Nevyn was profoundly grateful for it. Over the past week, he had been contacting the other dweomermasters in the kingdom, who were scattered like a wide-meshed net across the land. A few had picked up traces of the dark dweomer close at hand, and now all were alerted. Soon Nevyn might have news of his fleeing enemy. He hoped so, because he would have to take steps against him as soon as he could.

  “And tomorrow will see the end of this little tangle,” he remarked to the starry sky. “Oh dear gods, keep my Jill safe.”

  The camp was struck, the baggage train sent farther down the meadow. In the brightening sunlight Rhodry’s army sat on their horses outside Dun Bruddlyn and waited. In a last honorable gesture to the enemy, Rhodry had positioned his men far enough back so that Corbyn would be able to get his entire force outside before the fighting started. Off to one side, Jill rode between Sligyn and Rhodry himself. Ready behind them was a squad of picked men to guard their dweomer warrior.

  “Remember your orders,” Rhodry said to Jill. “You hang back and let the rest of us cut your path to Corbyn. Then he’s yours.”

  Jill smiled at him; now that the time had come, her fear was far away, a little coldness in the pit of her stomach. Under her, Sunrise stamped, battle eager and ready. Suddenly the wind carried the sound of silver horns, ringing in the dun. Jill pulled her mail hood over her padded cap, settled her helm on top of it, then got her shield into position as javelin points winked up and down Rhodry’s line. As the distant horns sang out again, she drew her sword.

  The gates to Dun Bruddlyn creaked open. With Lord Peredyr at its head, the main body
of Rhodry’s army surged forward, held steady for a moment, then charged as the enemy poured out the gates in waves, turning and wheeling into a ragged line to meet the charge. Javelins arched through the air and fell as the field exploded with war cries.

  “Get into position!” Rhodry yelled at the squad.

  The men surrounded Jill, but they kept several yards away to give her room to maneuver once the fighting started. She rose in the stirrups and looked out over the field, where dust swirled in thick clouds. Nowec and Corbyn’s men fought gamely, riding in pairs with their horses nose to tail as they fended off the mobs around them. Jill saw a thick clot of fighting around Nowec with Peredyr in the middle of it. The noise was horrible; somehow she hadn’t expected that battle would be such a deafening, shrieking thing.

  “There!” Sligyn screamed. “Just coming out the gates!”

  His green shield trimmed with silver, Corbyn galloped out on a black horse with a squad of men behind him. With a yell, Rhodry waved his squad forward at the trot. All at once Rhodry started to laugh, a cold, fiendish delight straight out of the Dawntime. The squad leapt forward at the gallop and burst into the midst of the fighting. Jill felt like a leaf caught in a torrent as they wheeled, screaming and slashing, to face off with Corbyn’s men.

  Up ahead, Rhodry was howling with berserk laughter, and Jill saw his sword swing up bloody in the sunlight. Through the dodging, shifting mass of men and horses, she could just see him, hard-pressed by two of Corbyn’s men while Sligyn tried to come in at his flank. All around men slashed and swore; horses reared as they tried to shove forward. All at once Rhodry’s laugh changed to a bubbling mirth that Jill instinctively knew meant he was in grave danger. She risked rising in the stirrups and saw Corbyn’s men parting ranks—and letting their lord through. Corbyn was going to make one last try on Rhodry’s life, and she was the only one who could stop him.

  At that moment, Jill went berserk. A blood red haze flared up to tint the world; a war cry welled out of her mouth; she could no longer think. She swung Sunrise free of her startled squad and kicked him straight for Rhodry while she slashed and swung and went on shrieking. When a man on a chestnut wheeled to face her, Jill charged in, a battle of nerves that she won when he pulled aside out of her way. When Sunrise turned perfectly to follow, Jill got a good strike on the rider’s exposed side that drove him round in the saddle. Before he could parry, she slashed him across the face backhand. Screaming he fell forward under the hooves of his own horse.