“I’m sure.” Helfgrim gave the duke a wary glance. “My lord, could we at least have my daughters to ride here beside me?”
Fengbald stared at him suspiciously. “Why?”
The old man paused a moment. “It is hard for me to say it, my lord. I trust your word, please don’t believe I don’t. But I fear that your men—well, if they’re out of your sight, Duke Fengbald, they might perform some mischief.”
The duke laughed. “Surely you do not fear for the virtue of your daughters, old fellow? Unless I miss my guess, their maiden days are far behind them.”
Helfgrim could not conceal a flinch. “Even so, my lord, it would be a kindness to put a father’s heart at ease.”
Fengbald considered for a moment, then whistled for his page. “Isaak, tell the guardsmen who carry the women to come ride nearer to me. Not that any should complain at being asked to ride beside their liege-lord,” he added for the old man’s benefit.
Young Isaak, who seemed to wish that he himself had the option of riding anything at all, bowed and went sloshing back up the muddy trail.
A few moments later the guardsmen appeared. Helfgrim’s two daughters were not bound, but each one sat in the saddle before an armored man, so that they looked not unlike Hyrka brides—who, it was reputed in the cities, were frequently stolen in midnight raids and unceremoniously carried away, draped across their captor’s saddles like sacks of meal.
“Are you well, daughters?” Helfgrim asked. The younger of the two, who had been crying, wiped her eyes with the hem of her cloak and tried to smile bravely.
“We are quite well, Father.”
“That is good. No tears, then, my little coney. Be like your sister. There is nothing to fear—you know that Duke Fengbald is a man of his word.”
“Yes, Father.”
The duke smiled beneficently. He knew what sort of man he was, but it was good to see that the common folk knew it, too.
The wind blew harder as the first horses stepped out onto the ice. Fengbald cursed as his mount misstepped and had to splay its legs to stay afoot. “Even had I no other reasons,” he hissed, “I would kill Josua just for bringing me to this godforsaken spot.”
“Men must run far to elude your long arm, Duke Fengbald,” said Helfgrim.
“There is no place that far.”
Snow came flurrying around the great hill’s northern flank, moving almost horizontally in the strong wind. Fengbald squinted and pulled up his hood. “Are we almost there?”
Helfgrim squinted, too, then nodded and pointed to a blot of deeper shadow ahead. “There is the foot of the hill, Lord.” He continued to stare into the darting snow.
Fengbald smiled. “You look very glum,” he called over the noise of the wind. “Can it be that you still do not trust my word?”
Helfgrim looked down at his bound wrists and pursed his lips before speaking. “No, Duke Fengbald, but surely I must feel some grief that I am betraying folk who were kind to me.”
The duke waved his hand at the nearest riders. “To save your daughters—a noble enough reason. Besides, Josua was doomed to lose in any case. You are no more to blame for his fall than the worm that devours the corpse is to blame for Death’s reaping.” He grinned, pleased with his turn of phrase. “No more to blame than a worm, do you see?”
Helfgrim looked up. His wrinkled skin, speckled by snow, seemed gray. “Perhaps you are right, Duke Fengbald.”
The hill now loomed overhead like a finger raised in warning. The company was only a few hundred ells from the edge of the ice when Helfgrim pointed again.
“There is the path, Duke Fengbald.”
It was a tiny break in the vegetation, barely visible even from their near vantage point. Still, Fengbald could see enough to be satisfied that Helfgrim told the truth.
“Now, then …” the duke said, when suddenly a voice came rolling down from the mountainside.
“Stop, Fengbald! You may not pass!”
The duke pulled up, startled. A small group of shadowy figures had appeared at the lip of the path. One of them raised his hands to cup his mouth. “Go back, Fengbald—go away and leave this place. Ride away back to Erkynland and we will let you live.”
The duke turned suddenly and slapped Helfgrim on the side of the head. The old man swayed and almost fell, but his bound wrists held him in the saddle. “Traitor! You said there would be only a few guards!”
Helfgrim’s face sagged in fear. Fengbald’s mark showed red on his pale cheek. “I did not lie, my lord! Look, they are a few only.”
Fengbald waved for his troops to hold their position, then rode a little distance forward, staring. “I see only a handful of you,” he shouted up at the men on the path. “How will you stop me?”
The man nearest the edge stepped forward. “We will, Fengbald. We will give our lives and more to stop you.”
“Very well.” The duke had evidently decided it was a bluff after all. “Then I will let you hurry and give them.” He raised his arm to order his troops forward.
“Stop!” the figure called. “I will give you one last chance, damn you! You don’t recognize my face I know, but how about my name? I am Freosel, Freobeorn’s son.”
“What do I care, you madman?” Fengbald shouted. “You are nothing to me!”
“Nor were my wife and children, my father and mother, nor any of the others you murdered!” The stocky figure had stepped out onto the ice with the rest of his companions. They were less than a dozen all told. “You burned half of Falshire, you great whoreson bastard! Now the time has come for you to pay!”
“Enough!” Fengbald turned to wave his men forward. “Up now and clean the madmen out. It is a rat’s nest!”
Freosel and his companions bent and lifted what at first seemed like axes, or swords, or some other weapons with which to defend themselves. A moment later, as his men began to guide their slipping mounts past him, Fengbald saw to his astonishment that the hill’s defenders were swinging heavy mallets. Freosel brought his own down first, smashing it onto the ice as though in idiot frustration. His companions on either side strode forward and joined him.
“What are they doing!?” Fengbald bellowed. The furthermost of his soldiers were still a hundred ells from the shore. “Have all of Josua’s people gone starvation-mad?”
“They are killing you,” a calm voice said beside him.
The duke whirled to see Helfgrim, still lashed to the saddle of his horse. His daughters and their guards were close by, the soldiers looking both excited and confused.
“What are you babbling about?” Fengbald snarled, lifting his sword as if to swipe off the old man’s head. Before he could move a pace closer, there was a horrible, deafening crack, like the splitting of a giant’s bones. A moment later it sounded again. Somewhere at the foremost edge of Fengbald’s company there was a sudden roar of men’s voices and, even more chillingly, the almost human screaming of terrified horses.
“What is happening?” the duke demanded, straining to see past the crush of mounted men.
“They prepared the ice for you, Fengbald. I helped them plan it. You see, we are of Falshire, too.” Helfgrim spoke just loudly enough to be heard above the wind. “My brother was its Lord Mayor, as you would have known instantly if you had ever bothered to come there except to steal our bread, our gold, even our young women for your bed. Surely you did not think we would stand by and let you also destroy the few of our people who had escaped your brutality?”
There was another jarring crack, and suddenly, just yards away from the Lord Mayor and the duke, a crevice foamed with black water where there had been ice a moment before. More ice crumbled along the opening and sheared loose; a pair of horsemen toppled in, flailing for an instant until they were sucked down into darkness.
“But you will die, too, damn you!” Fengbald shouted, urging his horse toward the old man.
“Of course I will. It is enough that my daughters and I avenge the others—their souls will welcome us.” And then Helfgrim smiled,
a cold smile without a scintilla of mirth.
Fengbald suddenly found himself flung sideways as the white surface erupted beneath him, snapping upward like dragon’s jaws. A moment later the duke’s horse was gone and he was clutching a jagged-edged sheet of ice, which rocked precariously. His boots and breeches were already submerged in freezing water. “Help me!” he shrieked.
Eerily, Helfgrim and his daughters were still upright, seated on their frantic horses just cubits away. Their guards were scrambling away across the remaining sheet of unbroken ice, struggling toward the shelter of the standing stone. “Too late,” the old man cried. The two women stared down at the duke, eyes wide as they struggled to contain their terror. “Too late for you, Fengbald,” Helfgrim repeated. A moment later, with a sudden grinding crunch, the entire section on which the trio and their mounts stood broke and collapsed into the choppy black waters. The Lord Mayor and his daughters vanished like ghosts chased by the dawn-knell.
“Help!” Fengbald screamed. His fingers were slipping. As he slid, the piece of ice to which he clung began to tilt, the far end reaching for the gray sky even as his own end plunged inexorably downward. Fengbald’s eyes bulged. “No! I can’t die! I can’t!”
The ragged pane of ice, almost vertical now, over-balanced and abruptly flipped over. The duke’s gloved hand snatched briefly at the air, then was gone.
The sun was in Maegwin’s eyes. Doubt dug into her heart, sending black rays of pain through all her limbs. Around her, Skali’s Rimmersmen were rounding up her people, prodding them at spear-point, herding them as though they were beasts.
“Gods of our people!” Her voice tore in her throat. “Save us! You promised!”
Skali Sharp-nose approached, laughing, his hands tucked into his belt. “Your gods are dead, girl. Like your father. Like your kingdom. But I may find a use for you yet.” Maegwin could smell the stink of him, like the tangy, rotten scent of over-aged venison. “You are plain, haja, but your legs are long … and I like long legs. Better than being a whore to my men, eh?”
Maegwin stepped back, raising her arms as though to ward a blow. Before she could say anything, the air was ripped by the sound of a distant horn. Skali and some of his men turned, surprised. The horn sounded again, louder now, clear and shrill and powerful. It played a cascade of notes that echoed around the Taig and out over the fields of Hernysadharc. Maegwin stared.
It was only a gleam at first, a rippling shimmer out of the east. The hooves made a rushing sound, like a river after strong rains. Skali’s men began to scramble for the helmets they had tossed aside when they had discovered the nature of Maegwin’s company of partisans; Skali himself began screaming for his horse.
It was an army, Maegwin realized—no, it was a dream, a dream made flesh and unleashed upon the snowy meadows. They were coming at last!
The horn echoed again. The riders were thundering toward Hernysadharc, impossibly swift. Their armor shone in every color the rainbow had—sky-blue, ruby-crimson, leaf-green, the orange and vermilion of sunset fog. She could hear them singing now as they rode, a high, brilliant keening like a flock of impossibly musical birds. They could have been a hundred riders or ten thousand: Maegwin could not even try to guess, for in the beautiful terror of their coming, it was almost impossible to stare at them too long. They streamed with color and noise and light, as though the world had been torn open and the raw stuff of dream allowed to spill through.
Again the horn sounded. Maegwin, suddenly all alone, stumbled toward the Taig, not even conscious at that moment that this was the first time she had touched its wooden walls since Skali had put her people to flight. The Rimmersmen, dismayed, were gathering on the hillside below her father’s great hall, milling and shouting as they struggled to make their horses face this incomprehensible enemy. The horns of the oncoming army sounded again.
The gods have come! Maegwin turned in the doorway to watch. The culmination of all her agonies and hope was here at last, burning across the snowy fields to rescue her people. The gods! The gods! She had brought the gods!
There was a clatter from within the Taig. More of Skali’s men came streaming forth, pulling on helmets, fumbling with sword belts. One them pushed into Maegwin and sent her spinning into the path of another, who raised his mailed fist and brought it crashing against her head.
Maegwin’s world abruptly vanished.
It was Binabik who found Simon at last, with Sisqi helping him search—or rather it was Qantaqa, whose nose could discern the proper scent even in the madness that surrounded Sesuad’ra. They found him sitting cross-legged on the ice beside a motionless figure wearing Fengbald’s armor. Homefinder stood over him, shivering in the terrible wind, her muzzle near Simon’s ear. Qantaqa pawed at the young man’s leg and made a soft sound as she waited for her master.
“Simon!” Binabik scrambled toward him across the rough surface of the lake. There were bodies scattered all about, but the troll did not stop to look at any of them. “Are you injured?”
Simon lifted his head slowly. His throat was so rough that his voice was barely a whisper. “Binabik? What happened?”
“Are you safe, Simon?” The little man bent to examine his friend, then straightened. “You have many wounds. We must get you back.”
“What happened?” Simon asked again. Binabik was pulling at his shoulders, trying to help him stand, but Simon could not seem to gather the strength. Sisqi approached and stood nearby, waiting to see if Binabik would need her help.
“We have won,” said Binabik. “The price we have been paying is great, but Fengbald is dead.”
“No.” A look of concern flitted across Simon’s haggard face. “It wasn’t him. It was someone else.”
Binabik darted a look at the figure lying nearby. “I know, Simon. It is elsewhere that Fengbald is being dead—a horrible death, and for many others than him only. But come. You are needing a fire, and food, and some attending to your wounds.”
Simon let out a deep groan as he let the little man urge him to his feet, a hollow noise that drew another worried look from Binabik. Simon limped a few steps, then stopped and caught at Homefinder’s reins. “I can’t get into the saddle,” he murmured sadly.
“Walk, then, if you can,” Binabik said. “With slowness. Sisqi and I will be walking with you.”
With Qantaqa in the lead once more, they turned and trudged toward the Stone, whose summit was painted with rosy light from the dying sun. Thickening mist hung over the icy lake, and all around the ravens hopped and scuttled from body to body like tiny black demons.
“Oh, God,” Simon said. “I want to go home.”
Binabik only shook his head.
16
Torches in the Mud
“Stop.” Cadrach’s voice was nearly a whisper, but the straining tone was evident. “Stop now.”
Isgrimnur pushed the pole down until it touched the muddy bottom of the watercourse, arresting their progress. The boat floated gently back into the reeds once more. “What is it, man?” he said irritably. “We have gone over everything a dozen times. Now it’s time to move.”
In the bow of the boat, ancient Camaris fingered a long spear Isgrimnur had made from a stiff swamp reed. It was thin and light, and the point had been scraped against a stone until it was sharp as an assassin’s dirk. The old knight, as usual, seemed oblivious to the conversation of his fellows. He hefted the spear and made a slow, mock stab, slipping the point into the still water.
Cadrach took a deep, shaky breath. Miriamele thought he looked as though he were on the brink of tears. “I cannot go.”
“Cannot?” Isgrimnur almost shouted. “What do you mean, cannot? It was your idea we wait for morning before going into the nest! What are you talking about now!?”
The monk shook his head, unable to meet the duke’s eyes. “I tried to nerve myself all night. I have been saying prayers all the morning—me!” He turned to Miriamele with a look of bleak irony. “Me! But I still cannot do it. I am a coward, a
nd I cannot go into … that place.”
Miriamele reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. “Even to save Tiamak?” She let the hand rest gently, as though the monk had turned to fragile glass. “And as you said, even to save ourselves? For without Tiamak, we may never get out of this place at all.”
Cadrach buried his face in his hands. Miriamele felt a hint of her old distrust come sneaking back. Could the monk be play-acting? What else could he have in mind?
“God forgive me, Lady,” he moaned, “but I simply cannot go down into that hole with those creatures. I cannot.” He shuddered, a convulsive movement so uncontrolled that Miriamele doubted it could be trickery. “I have given over my right to be called a man long ago,” Cadrach said through his splayed fingers. “I do not even care for my life, believe me. But—I—cannot—go.”
Isgrimnur grumbled his frustration. “Well, damn you, that is the end. I should have broken your skull when we met, as I wanted to.” The duke turned to Miriamele. “I should never have let you talk me out of it.” He shifted his scornful gaze back to Cadrach. “A kidnapper, a drunkard, and a coward.”
“Yes, you probably should have killed me when you first had the chance,” Cadrach agreed tonelessly. “But I promise you would still be better off doing it now than dragging me down into that mud nest. I will not go in there.”
“But why, Cadrach?” Miriamele asked. “Why won’t you?”
He looked at her. His sunken eyes and sun-reddened face seemed to plead for understanding, but his grim smile suggested he expected none. “I simply cannot, Lady. It … it reminds me of a place I was in before.” Again he shuddered.
“What place?” she prodded, but Cadrach would not answer.
“Aedon on the Holy Tree,” Isgrimnur swore. “So what do we do now?”
Miriamele stared at the waving reeds, which at this moment hid them from the sight of the ghant nest a few hundred ells up the waterway. The muddy bank nearby had a low-tide smell. She wrinkled her nose and sighed. What could they do, indeed?