Through it all Llaw had been filled with a burning desire to make Lydia happy. But at the end her father had been right. Lydia died a terrible death - one that would have been avoided had she not married the giant smith. He would never forget the sight of her lying on the bed, her dead eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Yet now he lay with another woman, and his thoughts were not innocent of desire.
He rolled to his side, facing away from Arian. He could smell the perfume of her body and see, without seeing, the oval beauty of her face, the sparkling challenge of her eyes and her mocking smile.
‘Are you awake?’ she whispered, and he heard her body move on the bed. He did not reply; there was nothing to say. He was being betrayed by his body, which yearned for her, and even his mind was at war. It is natural, he told himself, for a man to desire a mate. Tragedy could not change that. And yet... and yet... If he found peace and love with another woman, would not that make him forget Lydia? And then she would be truly dead - lost and forgotten, as if she had never been. He could not stomach that thought. She had not deserved her fate and did not deserve this treachery now.
Llaw lay silently until the dawn, then rose and watched the rising sun. Beside him Arian lay sleeping, her arms tight against her body, her long legs curled up like a child. Llaw looked down at her; his fingers brushed the hair back from her cheek and he felt the softness of her skin.
Her eyes opened as he touched her. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked, yawning and stretching. Her shirt slid up to expose an inch of midriff and Llaw moved away to the door. Outside the men were gathering and he saw Groundsel, dressed now in hunting leather and carrying a bow. The squat outlaw leader was also wearing two short swords with curved blades.
Llaw gathered his double-headed hand-axe and joined the men. Nuada waved and approached him.
‘It should be quite a day,’ said the poet, grinning. ‘The sun is high, the sky is clear. Tonight will be a fine time of feasting.’
‘You have no idea of what today will be, poet. This is not a stag hunt. Are you coming with us?’
‘Of course. How can I tell the saga if I do not witness it?’
‘That does not seem to have affected your talents thus far,’ observed Llaw.
The group split into three sections and scouts were sent out to search for spoor. Llaw went with Groundsel, Arian, Nuada and three others, and led them back along the trail to where he had seen the beast feeding. They found traces of blood, and a few split bones and several enormous tracks, but of the creature there was no sign. They stopped at midday by a stream and sat in a circle around a small fire.
‘It has gone to ground,’ said Arian. ‘I think it must be sleeping in a cave somewhere. But the ground to the north is rocky, and we’ll not be able to track it.’
‘Then we must bring it to us,’ stated Groundsel. ‘Last night it slew one of my men, so we know it has a taste for human meat.’
‘You keep saying it,’ Llaw remarked. ‘But there are more of them.’
‘So you say,’ snapped the outlaw leader. ‘This is my plan: We will journey back to the point of its last feeding and wait. It has probably buried some meat there and will return after dark.’
‘You will fight this creature at night?’ Arian whispered. ‘What if the clouds gather? Without a hunter’s moon the archers will be useless.’
Groundsel grinned. ‘We will sit by a fire - your friends here, and I. And we will talk, swap stories. You and the other archers will be hidden nearby in the trees, out of harm’s way. I think the beast will come to us.’
‘That is madness,’ said Arian. ‘And what will it prove?’
Groundsel’s eyes flickered towards Nuada, then he shrugged. ‘Can you think of a better plan, Llaw Gyifes?’
‘As you wish,’ Llaw muttered. ‘But I think you should gather in all the hunters. This creature will withstand many arrows.’
After the meal Groundsel ordered one of his men to sound the horn and the hunting parties converged to meet at a pre-selected spot, on a high hillside overlooking the stockade. Here a change was made to the original plan, for the first hunting group had found the remains of Daric’s family half-buried in a tree-shrouded hollow.
‘It will return,’ said Groundsel. ‘Did you leave the bodies where they were?’
‘We did,’ replied a tall lean hunter named Dubarin, his face still grey with the shock of the find. ‘Believe me, Groundsel, the beast is large. Its stride length is over seven feet; it is no bear.’
‘As the poet said, we will nail its carcass to the hall doors tonight.’
Some of the men were sent back to the stockade but Groundsel, Llaw, Nuada and Arian journeyed into the hills with twenty bowmen, arriving at Daric’s cabin an hour before dusk. They were led to the bodies by Dubarin, who stopped short of the grisly grave and waved them on.
‘I have no need to see it again,’ he said, turning aside.
‘I don’t want to see it at all,’ declared Nuada, backing away, but Llaw Gyffes grabbed his arm and hauled him forward.
‘Come now, poet, you can’t sing of it if you haven’t seen it!’
Nuada struggled, but Llaw’s grip was like iron and he was dragged to the shallow grave. An arm jutted from beneath the earth and the half-eaten corpse of a young woman lay exposed, her entrails covered in dirt. Part of a child’s body lay close by. Nuada gagged and twisted away to vomit on the ground. Llaw knelt beside him. ‘Now you see,’ he said. ‘This is not some song. There are no Elven princes, no flame-breathing dragons. I shall listen to your tale with interest - if we survive this hunt.’
‘Leave him be,’ said Arian. ‘It is hardly his fault that he has never seen death.’
Llaw stood and wandered to where Groundsel was issuing orders to the men. There were trees all around the hollow and he ordered the archers to climb them and prepare for a long wait. Arian took Nuada by the arm and led him to a thick-boled oak, helping him to climb to the lower branches. Groundsel moved some twenty paces from the bodies and built a fire; Llaw gathered wood and joined him.
‘You know, of course,’ said Llaw, ‘that there is no need for us to sit out here in the open like this? The beast will return anyway.’
‘It will smell people. I want it to see there are only two of us.’
‘There is no one to hear us, Groundsel. What you want is to impress the girl. I am not a fool; I see the way you look at her.’
‘And I you,’ snapped the outlaw. ‘How is it you haven’t bedded her?’
Llaw sat down and removed his tinder-box from the pouch at his belt. Swiftly he lit the fire. ‘Maybe I will — when the time is right.’
Groundsel chuckled. ‘You think you’ll survive the night?’
‘If I don’t, I will not be alone. You may have ordered one - or more - of your archers to cut me down, but I won’t die until my axe is buried in what passes for your brain.’
‘I have ordered nothing of the kind,’ retorted Groundsel. ‘I need no help to kill a man. I was thinking of the beast.’ He strung his bow and removed three shafts from his quiver; having checked them for warp, he stuck them in the earth beside him. ‘Have you ever heard of a beast of ihis size?’
Llaw shrugged. ‘No. A merchant once told me of great cats in the east that could kill a bull and leap a fence carrying its carcass. But this is no cat.’
The sun sank slowly behind the mountains and the two men sat quietly, Llaw feeding the fire. Neither man stared directly into the flames, for the brightness would cause the pupils to contract and leave them virtually blind if they needed to scan the undergrowth. After a while, Groundsel spoke.
‘If you deem it unnecessary to sit here, why do you do it?’
‘Perhaps for the same reason as you?’
‘To impress the lovely Arian? I don’t think so. You worry me, Llaw. Could it be that you want to die?’
‘You think, perhaps, that if we sit quietly in a safe place we will live for ever?’ responded Llaw, removing his axe from his b
elt and laying it in his lap.
‘Did you really kill your wife?’
Llaw swung on Groundsel, his hand curling around the black haft of the axe. For some seconds he could not speak.
‘My wife was... strangled by the Duke’s nephew. He raped her and killed her. I killed him. Do not -ever - repeat that calumny. You won’t understand what I am to say to you, but I’ll say it anyway: I loved Lydia. More than life. Much, much more than life.’
‘So, you are looking to die here? Not a good end. You think to join your Lydia? Believe me, Llaw, there is no one to join. Look in that pit over there. That’s death, and that’s all there is. Darkness and corruption.’
‘When did you become a philosopher?’ hissed Llaw.
An owl screeched in the night and the two men froze, listening to the wind sighing in the leaves. Groundsel glanced up; the clouds were gathering.
‘It will be a dark night,’ he observed.
‘The night of the beast,’ said Llaw. His words hung in the air.
Groundsel hawked and spat. ‘Are you frightened?’ he asked.
‘Of course. And so are you - I can smell your sweat.’
Groundsel chuckled and drew his swords. ‘I stole them from a Nomad merchant. Silver steel, Llaw, the finest I have ever seen. They are from the east.’
‘There’s good ore there,’ said Llaw. ‘They make impressive blades - and horseshoes that will last a year. I’d like to have gone there and learned the craft. May I?’ he asked, holding out his hand. Groundsel reversed a blade and handed it hilt-first to the former smith. ‘Yes,’ said Llaw, running his fingers reverently along the curved blade. ‘Beautiful work. Layer upon layer of fine steel, tempered with the blood of the craftsman. The hilt is held in place by a tiny sliver of ivory.’ He tapped it out and removed the blade. ‘See? Here is the mark of the craftsman. Ohei-sen. This sword is over three hundred years old.’
‘It’s worth a lot then?’ Groundsel asked.
Llaw slid the hilt back in place, locking it with the ivory. ‘Worth? Tonight you will see what it is worth. But in the east you would receive maybe 200 Raq - in gold — for each sword.’
‘That much? Then maybe I’ll go there one day.’
A movement in the undergrowth caused Groundsel to reach for his bow, while Llaw eased himself to his feet, wiped his sweating palms on his leggings and took up his axe.
The undergrowth parted and Arian walked to the fire. ‘I was getting cold,’ she said, dropping her bow to squat by the blaze and holding out her hands to its warmth.
‘Perhaps you were missing me?’ suggested Groundsel.
‘Behind you!’ yelled Nuada and Llaw swung as the beast exploded from the undergrowth, charging across the small clearing on all. fours. For a moment Llaw froze. The size of the creature was beyond anything he had imagined. Groundsel swept up his bow and loosed a shaft which glanced from the monster’s skull. As the beast neared, Llaw - realizing Arian was behind him -hurled himself forward. Arrows flashed into the racing form, but did not check its speed. Llaw’s axe hammered down to smash into the creature’s shoulder, but its weight struck him - hurling him back, the axe torn from his grip. Arian dived to her right as the beast turned towards her, its great paws scattering the fire.
Groundsel had sprinted some yards to the left and hastily he notched another arrow, sending it to punch home into the grey fur of the beast’s back. More than twenty shafts bristled from the creature. The hunter Dubarin leapt from a nearby tree and ran at the wolf-beast with a lance. As he approached the creature sprang forward, sweeping aside the weapon with a great paw. Talons raked down, ripping Dubarin’s face from his skull. Coolly, Arian loosed two shafts and the beast turned, its red eyes focusing on the slender bow-woman. Groundsel ran forward with his two swords in his hands. The creature rose on its hind legs and Groundsel ducked under a vicious sweep of its talons and buried his right-hand blade in its belly. Its forelegs swept around him, the talons lancing into his back. He bellowed in rage and pain and rammed his left-hand sword into the beast’s armpit. Then Llaw Gyffes, axe once more in his hand, leapt to the creature’s back, hooking his fingers into the shaggy mane of its neck. The axe rose and fell, again and again. Finally the wolf-beast released Groundsel, who staggered back into the arms of Arian.
Two men now ran to aid Llaw. The first died as talons ripped into his belly, the second plunged a lance into the beast’s breast. It tried to retreat back into the undergrowth, but more men ran in to encircle it... and all the while Llaw Gyffes clung to its back, hammering his axe against the corded muscles of the creature’s throat. At last it grew weaker and fell forward. Tearing a lance from the hands of a man near him, Groundsel moved in to help Llaw. The beast’s huge head came up and Groundsel buried the point of the lance in its mouth, using all his weight to drive the weapon through its spine.
Llaw stepped from the monster’s back just as the clouds cleared and moonlight bathed the scene. The creature was dead.
Snow began to fall as Groundsel pulled the spear clear of the gaping mouth and used it to measure the beast’s length. It was over nine feet long from taloned toes to gaping maw.
‘We’ll never drag this back to the stockade,’ said Groundsel. ‘Cut its damned head off.’
‘We ought to see to those wounds,’ suggested Arian. ‘You’re leaking blood badly.’
‘There’s no good way to lose blood,’ responded Groundsel and kneeling by the creature, he tore one sword loose from its belly. The other was snapped just below the hilt; he swore, and looked up at Llaw Gyffes. ‘You know, before tonight this would just have been a broken sword. Now it’s 200 gold Raq lost. There’s a moral there.’
‘You can always steal another,’ suggested Llaw. Groundsel’s eyes narrowed as in the distance an eerie howl echoed in the forest. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we go after the others. I’ll not have these creatures in my forest. Now where’s that cursed poet? I want to hear my song.’
CHAPTER NINE
Errin opened his eyes and almost wept with joy at the absence of pain. By his bed sat an elderly woman in a high-necked dress of blue wool edged with silver thread. ‘You are healed, young man. The bone is knit.’
‘Thank you, lady. Your magic must be very strong.’
‘And expensive,’ she told him. ‘But do not thank me — thank the Lord Cartain, who has paid handsomely for my services.’ She rose and walked from the room and Errin sat up. He was in a small bedchamber with two oval windows; a fire was blazing in the hearth and he could hear the cries of gulls from the roof above. He lay back on the pillows. The ride along the forest road had been a torture beyond his ability to endure; his broken leg had swollen and a fever had taken him. Vaguely he remembered Ubadai tying him to the saddle. And there were people... His hazy recollection was of a column of refugees snaking their way along the Royal Road as the snow began to fall. And weird cries in the night... the howls of wolves? It was difficult to remember anything but the grinding pain.
Ubadai entered, bearing a tray on which was a bowl of broth and a plate of fruit. ‘Better you eat,’ he said. ‘You still look bad.’
‘Where are we?’ Errin asked the stocky tribesman.
Ubadai set the tray on the bed and wandered to the window, pushing it open against the snow on the sill. ‘Pertia Port,’ he answered. ‘Our ship leaves tomorrow for Cithaeron.’
Errin finished the broth, which carried just a hint of the flavour of beef, and ate two of the apples on the side plate. With the window open he could smell the sea. He smiled and felt good to be alive.
Alive?
Suddenly he saw again Dianu tied to the stake... the flames curling up beneath her, the look in her eyes as he rode through the mob, the hope dying as he bent his bow, the flight of the arrow as it ended her life.
He groaned and Ubadai strode to him, his dark slanted eyes full of concern. ‘Old witch said all pain gone.’
‘I am all right,’ Errin told him, blinking back the tears from his eyes-
&n
bsp; Then why cry? Not good for a man.’
‘Tears for the dead, Ubadai. That’s all.’
The Nomad tribesman grunted. ‘Leg healed; you should stand. Test it before the witch leaves.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll get up in a while. Who is this Lord Cartain?’
‘No Lord,’ replied Ubadai. ‘Nomad merchant. He is waiting downstairs. Shall I send him away?’
Errin chuckled. ‘The man has just seen to my health. Why on earth would I send him away?’
Ubadai sniffed- ‘Nothing for nothing,’ he said, returning to the window. ‘Good ship. Makes Cithaeron trip three... four times a year. Good time to sail. No storms.’
‘What is bothering you?’
Ubadai swung to face his young lord, but Errin could read nothing in the flat, expressionless face. ‘You want me to bring him to you?’
‘Yes, I would like to thank him.’
Ubadai shook his head. ‘I think, maybe, we miss
that ship.’
‘Nonsense. Bring him up.’ Errin swung from the bed and moved to the chair by the window, where his clothes lay neatly folded; they had been cleaned and perfumed. He dressed swiftly and was pulling on his thigh-length riding boots when Ubadai returned. Behind the tribesman was a tall hawk-faced man, dark-eyed and wearing a gold circlet on his brow. The man bowed.
‘It is a privilege to meet you, Lord Errin,’ said Cartain.
‘I cannot see that it should be a privilege,’ answered Errin, offering his hand.
Cartain shook it briefly. ‘You risked your life to save the Lady Dianu - and fought one of the dread Knights. You are a man of courage.’
‘I failed,’ said Errin. ‘Let that be an end to it.’
Cartain smiled. ‘May I sit?’ Errin nodded and the merchant arranged his flowing purple robes and sat in a high-backed chair.
‘Why have you helped me? Were you a friend to Dianu?’