“Smells fine,” said Beltzer.
“How would you know?” hissed Finn. “What have you made there, boy?”
“It’s a potion from willow leaves and comfrey. Both are good for fighting fevers, but the comfrey helps clean the blood and give strength to a sick man.”
“What else is it good for?” asked Beltzer.
“It helps heal bones and reduce swellings and stops diarrhea. It has also—so my master told me—been used to prevent gangrene in wounds. Oh, yes … it is good for rheumatic pain, too.”
“Then while you have the ingredients there, my boy,” said Beltzer, “better make another pot. I have the rheumatism in my knee. Hurts like Hades.”
When the mixture had cooled, Kiall carried it to Maggrig’s bedside, and Finn held the hunter’s head while he drank. At first he choked, but he swallowed half the contents and sank back. Kiall covered him with a blanket, and Finn sat at the bed’s head, mopping the sweat from Maggrig’s brow. Beltzer strolled over and finished the brew, belching loudly.
For an hour or more there was no change in Maggrig’s condition, but at last he drifted off into sleep. “His color is a little better,” said Finn, looking to Kiall for confirmation. The youngster nodded, though he could see little change. “Will he be all right now?” Finn asked.
“We’ll see tomorrow,” answered Kiall cagily. He stood and stretched his back. Looking around, he saw that Beltzer had fallen asleep by the fire and Chareos was nowhere in sight. The back room door was open, and Kiall wandered through. It was colder there but not uncomfortable. Chareos was sitting at the workbench, examining sections of wood shaped for a longbow.
“May I join you?” asked the villager.
Chareos looked up and nodded. “How is Maggrig?”
“I don’t really know,” whispered Kiall. “I have only been working with Ulthen for a few months. But the potion will reduce the fever. I’m not sure, though, about the arm wound. Perhaps the cat had something trapped beneath its claws—dung, rotting meat …”
“Well, he has two choices: live or die,” said Chareos. “Keep an eye on him. Do what you can.”
“There’s nothing much I can do at the moment. That’s a thin bow, isn’t it?” he went on, looking at the slender length of wood in Chareos’ hand.
“It is just a section: one of three. Finn will bond them together for more flexibility. You know what wood this is?”
“No.”
“It is yew. A curious wood. When you slice it, there are two shades: light and dark. The light is flexible, the dark compactable.” He lifted the piece and showed it to Kiall. “You see? The light wood is used for the outer curve, where maximum flexibility is needed; the dark, for the inner, where it compacts. It is beautiful wood. It will be a splendid weapon.”
“I didn’t know you were an archer.”
“Nor am I, Kiall, but I was a soldier, and it pays a soldier to understand the workings of all weapons of death. I’m getting cold in here—and hungry.” Chareos replaced the wood and strolled out into the main room, where Finn was asleep beside Maggrig while Beltzer lay unmoving on the floor. Chareos stepped over the giant and added wood to the fire, then took dried meat and fruit from his pack and shared it with Kiall.
“Thank you for agreeing to help me,” Kiall said softly. “It means much to me. Finn told me you were gallant.”
Chareos smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I am not gallant, Kiall. I am selfish, like most men. I do what I want, go where I want. I am answerable to no one. And do not thank me until we have freed her.”
“Why did you come with me?”
“Why must there always be answers?” countered Chareos. “Perhaps I was bored. Perhaps it was because my mother’s name was Ravenna. Perhaps it is because I am secretly a noble prince who lives to quest for the impossible.” He closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. “And perhaps I do not know myself,” he whispered.
By midmorning Maggrig’s fever had broken, and he was awake and hungry. Finn showed no relief, gathered his bow and quiver, and, with Chareos and Beltzer, set off into the snow to scout the trail to the Valley of the Gateway. Kiall remained with the younger hunter; he prepared a breakfast of oats and honey and built up the fire. Then he dragged a chair to Maggrig’s bedside, and the two men sat and talked for much of the morning.
Maggrig would not speak of the battle at Bel-azar but told Kiall how he had been a student at a monastery. He had run away on his sixteenth birthday and joined a company of bowmen from Talgithir. He had spent two months with them before being sent to the fortress; there he had met Finn and the others.
“He is not the friendliest man I have known,” said Kiall.
Maggrig smiled. “You learn to look beneath the harsh words and judge the deeds. Had I not met him, I would not have survived Bel-azar. He’s canny and a born fighter. There’s more give in a rock than in Finn. But he’s never liked company much. Having you all here must be driving him insane.”
Kiall glanced around the cabin. “How do you stand it? Living here, I mean? You are days from civilization, and the mountains are savage and unwelcoming.”
“Finn finds cities savage and unwelcoming,” said Maggrig. “This is a good life. Deer are plentiful, and mountain sheep. There are pigeons and rabbits and many roots and tubers to spice a broth. And you should see the mountains in spring, ablaze with color under a sky so blue that it would bring tears to your eyes. What more could a man need?”
Kiall looked at the blond hunter, at the clear blue eyes and the handsome, almost perfect features. He said nothing. Maggrig met his gaze and nodded, and an understanding passed between them.
“Tell me of Ravenna,” invited Maggrig. “Is she beautiful?”
“Yes. Her hair is dark and long, her eyes brown. She is long-legged, and her hips sway when she walks. Her laughter is like sunlight after a storm. I will find her, Maggrig … one day.”
“I hope that you do,” said the hunter, reaching out and patting Kiall’s arm, “and I also hope that you will not be disappointed. She may be less than you remember. Or more.”
“I know. She may be wed to a Nadir warrior and have babes at her heels. It does not concern me.”
“You will raise them like your own?” Maggrig inquired. His expression was hard to read, and Kiall reddened.
“I had not thought of it. But … yes, if that is what she wishes.”
“And if she wishes you to leave her be?”
“What does that mean?”
“I am sorry, my friend. It is not my place to criticize. But as I understand it, the lady turned you down once. Perhaps she will do so again. When a woman has children, she changes; they become her life. And if their father loves them—and the Nadir are fond of their children—then she may wish to remain with him. Have you considered that possibility?”
“No,” answered Kiall honestly, “but how much must I consider? She could be dead or sold as a whore. She could be diseased. She could be wed. But whatever the situation, short of death, she will know that someone cared enough to come after her. That is important, I think.”
Maggrig nodded. “You are correct in that, my friend. You have a wise head on those young shoulders. But answer me this, if you can: Does the lady have any virtues other than beauty?”
“Virtues?”
“Is she kind, loving, understanding, compassionate?”
“I … I don’t know,” admitted Kiall. “I never thought of it.”
“A man should not risk his life for beauty alone, Kiall, for that fades. You might as well risk it for a rose. Think on it.”
Finn walked around the deserted campsite. The snow had been packed tight by heavy boots, and there were three abandoned shelters.
“How many men?” asked Chareos.
“I’d say around seven, maybe eight.”
“How long ago?” questioned Beltzer.
“Last night. They moved off to the east. If they come across our tracks, they will be led straight back to the cabin
.”
“Can you be sure they are Nadren?” Chareos asked.
“There is no one else up here,” said Finn. “We should be heading back. Maggrig is in no condition to fight, and your villager is no match for them.”
Kiall stood in the doorway, feeling the warm sun on his face. The long icicles hanging from the roof were dripping steadily. He turned back inside.
“How bizarre,” he said to Maggrig, who was slicing venison into a large iron pot. “The sun is as warm as summer, and the ice is melting.”
“It is only autumn,” Maggrig told him. “The blizzard was a foretaste of winter. We often get them. The temperature plummets for several days, and then it is like spring. The snow will clear within a day or two.”
Kiall pulled on his boots and took up the saber Chareos had given him.
“Where are you going?” asked Maggrig.
Kiall grinned. “Before they get back, I’d like to practice a little with this blade. I am not much of a swordsman, you know.”
“Nor I. I could never master it.” Maggrig turned back to the broth, adding vegetables and a little salt. Having hung the pot over the fire, he sank back into a chair. He felt weak and dizzy, and his head was spinning.
Kiall stepped out into the sunshine and slashed the air with the saber, left to right. It was a fine blade, keen-edged, with a leather-covered hilt and an iron fist guard. Many was the time during his youth when he had walked alone in the woods holding a long stick, pretending to be a warrior knight, his enemies falling back from the demon blade he carried, dismayed by his awesome skills. He hefted the saber, cutting and lunging at imaginary opponents: three, four, five men died beneath the glittering steel. Sweat dripped from his back, and his arm was growing tired. Two more opponents died. He spun on his heel to block a thrust from behind … his blade clanged against an arrowhead, shattering the shaft. Kiall blinked and gazed down at the ruined missile on the snow.
Then he looked up and saw the Nadren at the edge of the undergrowth. One man held a bow, his mouth open in surprise. There were seven men in all, four of them with bandaged wounds on the head or arm. All were standing silently, gazing at the swordsman.
Kiall stood frozen in terror, his mind racing.
“That was a pretty trick,” said one of the newcomers, a short, stocky man with a black and silver beard. “I have never seen an arrow cut in flight or believed any man could move so swiftly.”
Kiall glanced once more at the arrow and took a deep breath. “I was wondering when you would show yourselves,” he said, surprised that his voice was smooth and even.
“I did not tell him to shoot,” said the Nadren leader.
“It does not concern me,” replied Kiall loftily. “What do you want here?”
“Food. That’s all.” He saw the man’s eyes flicker to his right and glanced back. Maggrig now stood in the door of the cabin with his bow in his hands, an arrow notched to the string. An uneasy silence developed. The Nadren were tense, hands on their weapons.
One warrior eased himself alongside the leader and whispered something Kiall could not hear. The leader nodded; he looked at Kiall.
“You were one of the swordsmen back in the town. You were with the tall one, the ice warrior.”
“Yes,” admitted Kiall. “It was quite a battle, was it not?”
“He cut us to pieces. I have never seen the like.”
“He is quite skilled,” said Kiall, “but a hard taskmaster for a student like myself.”
“He is your swordmaster?”
“Yes. It would be hard to find a better.”
“I can see now why you find it so easy to cut an arrow from the air.” The Nadren spread his hands. “However, since we must fight or starve, I think it is time we put your skills to the test.” He drew his short sword from the leather scabbard at his hip.
“Is this wise?” asked Kiall. “There are four of you wounded. It does not seem much of a contest, and warriors should fight over something more valuable than a pot of broth.”
The man said nothing for a moment, then smiled at Kiall. “You would allow us inside?” he asked softly.
“Of course,” Kiall told him. “But naturally, as a token of good manners, you would leave your weapons here.”
“Ha! And what then would stop you from butchering us?”
“What stops me now?” countered Kiall.
“You are a cocky young snipe,” snapped the leader. “But then, I’ve seen you in action, and I guess you’ve reason to be.” He slammed his sword back in its scabbard, loosened the buckle on his belt, and dropped the weapon to the ground. The other Nadren followed his lead. “Now, where is the broth?” Kiall sheathed his blade and gestured toward the cabin. Maggrig stepped back inside. Kiall took a deep, slow breath, calming himself, then followed them.
At first the atmosphere within the cabin was tense. Maggrig sat back on the bed, honing a hunting knife with long, rasping sweeps against a whetstone while Kiall ladled out the broth. It was undercooked, but the Nadren wolfed it down. One of the men seemed weaker than the others. He had a wound to the shoulder; it was heavily bandaged, yet blood seeped from it steadily. Kiall moved to him. “Let me see that,” he said. The Nadren did not complain as Kiall gently unraveled the bandage. The flesh was sliced back, the cut angry and swollen. Kiall replaced the bandage and took herbs from his pack. Selecting the leaves he needed, he walked back to the man.
“What is that?” grunted the warrior. “It looks like a weed.”
“It has many names,” Kiall told him. “Mostly it is called fat hen. It is used to feed chickens.”
“Well, I’m no chicken!”
“It also heals festering wounds. But it is your choice.”
“You are a surgeon, too?” asked the leader.
“A warrior needs to know of wounds and ways of healing them,” replied Kiall.
“Let him do it,” said the leader, and the warrior settled back, but his dark, slanted eyes fixed on Kiall’s face, and the young man felt the hatred in his stare. He pushed the flap of skin in place and stitched the wound, then laid the leaves on top of it. Maggrig brought a section of linen for a new bandage, and this Kiall applied.
The warrior said nothing. He moved to the wall and curled up to sleep on the floor. The Nadren leader approached Kiall. “My name is Chellin,” he said. “You have done well by us. I thank you for it.”
“I am Kiall.”
“I could use a man like you. If ever you travel south past the Middle Peaks, ask for me.”
“I’ll remember that,” Kiall said.
The tension in the room eased, and the Nadren settled back. Kiall built up the fire and helped himself to a little broth. He offered food to Maggrig, who shook his head and smiled.
As the afternoon sun began its slow descent toward the western mountains, Chellin roused his men and walked with Kiall out into the sunlight. Just as they gathered their weapons, Chareos, Finn, and Beltzer appeared. Chareos had his saber in his hand.
Kiall waved to them casually, then turned to Chellin. “Good luck on your journey,” he said.
“And you. I am glad the ice warrior was not here when we arrived.”
Kiall chuckled. “So am I.”
The warrior whose arm Kiall had treated approached him. “The pain has mostly gone,” he said, his face expressionless. He held out his hand and gave Kiall a golden Raq.
“That is not necessary,” Kiall told him.
“It is,” retorted the man. “I am no longer in your debt. Next time I see you, I will kill you—as you killed my brother during the raid.”
When the Nadren had gone, Kiall wandered back to the cabin. Chareos’ laughter came to him as he mounted the three steps to the doorway. Inside Maggrig was regaling them with the tale of Kiall the arrow slayer. Kiall flushed. Chareos rose and walked to him, clapping a hand to his shoulder.
“You did well,” he said. “You thought fast and took control. But how did you deflect the arrow?”
“It was an
accident—I didn’t even know they were there. I was practicing with the saber, and I spun around. The arrow hit the sword blade.”
Chareos smiled broadly. “Even better. A warrior needs luck, Kiall, and those Nadren will carry the tale of your skill. It could stand you in good stead. But it was an enormous risk. Maggrig told me how you threatened to kill them all single-handed. Let’s walk awhile.”
Together the swordmaster and the young villager walked out into the fading sunshine. “I am pleased with you,” said Chareos, “but I think it is time I gave you a little instruction. Then, perhaps the next time you face armed men, you will not need to bluff.”
For an hour Chareos worked with the villager, showing him how to grip the saber, how to roll his wrist, to lunge and parry. Kiall was a swift learner, and his reflexes were good. During a break from the exercise Chareos and his student sat on a fallen log.
“To be skillful requires hard work, Kiall, but to be deadly requires a little more. There is a magic in swordplay that few men master. Forget the blades and the footwork—the battle is won in the mind. I once fought a man who was more skillful than I, faster and stronger. But he lost to a smile. He thrusted, I parried, and as our blades locked, I grinned at him. He lost his temper, perhaps feeling that I had mocked him. He came at me with great frenzy, and I killed him … just like that. Never let anger, or outrage, or fear affect you. That is easy advice to give but hard to follow. Men will bait you, they will laugh at you, they will jeer. But it is just noise, Kiall. They will hurt the people you love. They will do anything to make you angry or emotional. But the only way you can make them suffer is to win. And to do that you must remain cool. Now let us eat—if the Nadren left us any broth.”
Chareos sat beneath the stars, his cloak wrapped loosely around his shoulders, the night breeze cool on his face. Inside the cabin all was silent, save for Beltzer’s rhythmic snoring. A white owl soared and dived. Chareos could not see its prey or whether the owl had made a kill. A fox eased itself from the undergrowth and loped across the snow, ignoring the man.