Darkspell

  For a moment Nevyn plunged and fell. He felt his simulacrum loosening around him like a slipped cloak and desperately called upon the Light. All he could do was struggle to heal himself and fend off the worst of Alastyr’s blows as the dark enemy pressed in closer and closer. Like boulders of palpable darkness the blows hit home. All at once Nevyn saw the water veil over the stream coming closer, too close! He wrenched around and flew up fast, dodging past before a startled Alastyr could react. Yet he’d barely repaired his shattered body of light when the enemy was after him with a darkness like a spew of poison.

  Straight into his face Nevyn hurled a wall of light that tore and dissolved the severed heads on his kirtle, yet he could feel himself weakening as the enemy pressed ever on, the darkness pouring from twisted hands. All at once Alastyr screamed, the thought-sound echoing in the blue light, and swooped this way and that like a swallow coursing a field for gnats. Below him his silver cord lay dangled, broken. Someone had killed his physical body, and Nevyn could only assume that it was Jill or even Blaen.

  But there was no time to indulge his shock at this unexpected aid. Alastyr’s simulacrum was breaking up, revealing the pale-blue etheric double underneath. While the dark master fought against the inevitable decay, Nevyn built up a gate to the Inner Lands, two pillars, one black, one white, with an indigo void between them. As soon as they held steady, he sent a blast of light that shoved Alastyr through, then rushed after. Although he’d lost the first battle, the enemy was far from crushed, and Nevyn knew it.

  Nevyn threw himself through the gate after the fleeing dark master, both of them rushing, gliding, falling down the path, blown like scraps of parchment on a livid indigo wind, while all around them were voices, laughter and screaming and torn scraps of words blown past them on the indigo flood, and images—faces, beasts, stars—swirling and beating against them like a flock of manic birds. Nevyn threw waves of light ahead of him, pounding Alastyr, stabbing him over and over until the last of the black robe tore away and whirled past, torn with rents that opened into the void. The wind blew them onward, rushed them, threw them headlong at last into a glow of violet light, where a river flowed far beneath, tenuous, shifting water of a kind that no stream on earth has ever known and no man ever tasted. A silence here, the wind gone, and around stretched fields of flowers, or the shapes of flowers, moon-gossamer things, white and deathly.

  Shaken, Alastyr’s etheric double swooped and fluttered, desperately trying now for escape, not victory. The Moon Land where they fought is the gate to many others, Nevyn’s own Green Land, the Orange of the world of form, the shining home of the Great Ones; here, too, abuts the proper sphere of the dark dweomer, the Dark of Darkness, the Land of Husks and Rinds. If Alastyr could escape to the dark, his soul would live on, working harm for aeons to come. Nevyn could see him trying to open a gate, his hands fluttering, the words of the rite pouring, gibbering from his mouth. Nevyn sent a spear of light that slapped and flung him high just as the first pillar formed, then shattered the half-made gate.

  Howling, Alastyr tried to flee, but Nevyn swooped up and rained down fiery light to trap him. With one hand Nevyn flung spear after spear and pinned Alastyr in a cage of light, while the etheric double threw itself against the shining bars and bit them in panic. With his enemy pinned Nevyn built up another gate, this one with the golden pillars of the sun, and between them opened the pure blue of a summer sky.

  “Not mine the judgment!” Nevyn called out. “But yours!”

  Through the pillars sped an enormous shifting, shimmering arrow of light, flying straight and true, striking Alastyr so hard that the double shattered into a thousand pitiful shreds. There was a shriek, then the whimpering of a tiny child. For the briefest of moments Nevyn saw the child, flickering like a candle flame, a mewling babe with Alastyr’s raging eyes. Then the light swelled, enveloped the tiny form, and swept it through the portal and up the path to the Hall of Light, where it would be judged.

  “It is over!” Nevyn cried out. “It is finished!”

  Three great knocks, three claps of thunder, boomed through the violet light, while down below the death-white flowers nodded. Nevyn knelt and bowed his head, not in worship, but as a sign of fealty, then let the portals fade away. In his exhaustion he felt the silver cord tugging on him, pulling him back to his body, which lay at a great distance but no true distance at all.

  Sarcyn pulled his dagger free of Alastyr’s heart and wiped it clean on his dead master’s face.

  “Vengeance! And honey sweet it is.”

  He rose and ran into the kitchen just in time to see the farmhand bolting out the back door. Sarcyn let him go; there was no time to waste chasing someone who knew so little about them. Whimpering under his breath, Camdel lay in the straw by the hearth. When Sarcyn knelt beside him, he shrank away from the knife.

  “I’m not going to kill you, little one,” Sarcyn said, sheathing it. “I’m going to unchain you. We’ve got to ride fast.”

  When Camdel moaned aloud, Sarcyn hesitated, caught by a feeling that he couldn’t quite understand. His pet lordling was going to have a miserable life ahead of him, no matter how much sexual pleasure he took in his master’s torments.

  “Ah, horseshit!” Sarcyn said abruptly. “You’re going to see your cursed father again, after all.”

  Cursing himself as a fool for succumbing to the first feeling of pity that he’d felt in years, Sarcyn got up and grabbed the leather bag that held Alastyr’s books.

  “Fare you well, my fine, noble lord,” he said.

  Camdel let two thin trails of tears slip down his cheeks in an agony of relief. Sarcyn ran out of the room and into the farmyard, where his horse was waiting, saddled and ready.

  “Gan! Curse you! Where are you?”

  Silence for an answer. Sarcyn turned, glancing round the farmyard. No one there. Apparently the old man had seen a chance at freedom and taken it. No time to worry about him now, Sarcyn thought. His horse stamped with a toss of its head.

  “Whist, whist! We’re on our way.”

  After Sarcyn put the precious books into a saddlebag, he mounted and rode out fast, turning the horse away from the main road into the hills. Ever since they’d moved into the farm, he’d been planning escape routes. He’d gone about a quarter mile when he heard the jingle of tack that meant the gwerbret and his men were coming. Quickly he dismounted and held his horse’s mouth shut as the jingle grew louder, passed him, then slowly died away.

  “So much for that dolt,” he whispered.

  Yet as he remounted, he knew that the danger was far from over. Once the Brotherhood learned of Alastyr’s fate, assassins would come seeking him—and they were already in Deverry. He would have to stay on the run, always hiding, moving constantly, while he studied the books and learned the ways of power. Maybe he could keep ahead of the Hawks just long enough to garner enough magic to save his life. Maybe. It was the only hope he had.

  As soon as Nevyn went into his trance, Jill moved back among the trees while Rhodry stayed close to the old man. The pale moonlight shone on the stream and turned the white birches into ghost trees. In the dweomer-touched silence, she was painfully aware of the sound of her own breathing. Nevyn lay so still that she kept wanting to kneel down beside him to see if he was alive. All at once she heard a sound behind her and spun, her sword raised and ready.

  “Only a rabbit,” Rhodry said.

  Since she knew he could see in the dark, she turned back, keeping her eyes on the crest of the hill, looking for a movement that would mean enemies stirring in the night. Suddenly Nevyn moaned. Jill stepped forward just as he flopped over onto his side. With a muddled thought that he’d been poisoned, she flung herself down beside him. He half sat up, then flopped sideways, but all the time his eyes were shut tight and his breathing was slow and deliberate. He kicked out, narrowly missing Rhodry, then heaved himself onto his stomach with a scuttling motion like a crab that carried him a foot away. When his head barely missed a rock, Jill grab
bed him by the shoulders and tried to pin him, but his trance strength overwhelmed her. Easily he flung her off and pitched to one side. Swearing, Rhodry flung himself down to help.

  For what seemed a grotesque eternity they wrestled with Nevyn’s body as he twisted, jerked, and flung his arms about. Once he landed Rhodry a hard blow on the jaw, but though Rhodry swore even louder, he hung on. Jill could only pray to the Goddess to keep away any enemies that might be approaching. At last Nevyn went limp, and she could just see him smile in the moonlight. His mouth worked as if he were speaking; then he lay utterly still.

  “Oh, ye gods,” she said. “Is he going to die?”

  Just then he opened his eyes and grinned at her.

  “What have I been doing?” Nevyn said. “Flopping?”

  “Like a fish on a riverbank.” Rhodry let go his hold.

  “It happens now and then in trances.” The old man sat up, looking around as if he were a bit dazed. “Did one of you kill Alastyr’s body?”

  “We didn’t,” Jill said. “We stayed with you.”

  “Then Blaen and his men must be at the farm already. No time to explain. We’ve got to hurry.”

  And yet they reached the farm just at the same time as did Blaen and the warband. At the head of his men the gwerbret trotted over to them. In the gray dawn light he looked profoundly annoyed.

  “Thanks be to every god that you’re safe,” Blaen snapped. “We scoured the hills for you.”

  “I owe you an apology, Your Grace,” Nevyn said. “But the battle’s already over.”

  Camdel heard them all ride into the farmyard. He went tense, every muscle in his body spasming in panic when he realized that he wasn’t going to starve to death but be rescued. With a moan he heaved himself to his knees, the ankle chain clanking. It was just long enough for him to stand and take a few steps. Lying on the kitchen table was a long-bladed knife, which would do to slit his throat or his wrists if only he could reach it. He wanted death, lusted for it, the one thing that could wipe away his shame and make him forget the hideous truths about himself that Sarcyn had taught him.

  The chain let him reach the table, but the knife lay at the end of its six-foot span. He leaned over the edge, stretched out, couldn’t get up far enough to lie on it, stretched and stretched but could just brush the handle with his fingertips. From outside came voices, and two that he recognized: Gwerbret Blaen and Lord Rhodry Maelwaedd of Aberwyn, here to see what had become of the Master of the King’s Bath. With a stretch that ached his shoulder he touched the knife. He could just close two fingers on the handle scissorlike, but as he began to pull it toward him, his aching hand spasmed and knocked the knife to the floor. It bounced on the edge of the hearthstone and lay far out of his reach.

  Sobbing, gasping for breath, he let himself fall from the table and crouched in the straw. Why hadn’t Sarcyn killed him? Perhaps his master knew he wanted to die and left him alive as the last torment of all. Blaen will hang you, he told himself, because you stole from the High King. He clung to his one comfort, that soon he’d be dangling from a rope in Dun Hiraedd’s market square. Outside the voices came closer.

  “I only pray we find Camdel alive.” That was Blaen, who doubtless wanted the pleasure of hanging him.

  “So do I,” said an unfamiliar voice. “But I warn you, Your Grace, he might be mad.”

  “Ah, the poor lad!” Blaen’s voice was full of pity. “Well, no man can hold him accountable for this, from what you’ve told me.”

  Camdel felt his head jerk back. Blaen wasn’t going to hang him. He was forgiven, and he would have to live with what he knew about himself. He began to scream over and over as he tossed himself from side to side. Dimly he heard running footsteps and men shouting but he went on screaming until someone knelt in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders. He looked up into Blaen’s face, twisted in horror and pity both.

  “Kill me,” Camdel stammered. “For the love of every god, I beg you to kill me.”

  Although Blaen’s mouth worked, he couldn’t speak. An old man with a thick shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes knelt beside the gwerbret.

  “Camdel, look at me,” he said. “I’m a healer, and I’m going to help you. Just look at me, lad.”

  His voice was so kind that Camdel did what he asked. The blue eyes swelled to fill the world, as if he were looking into a lake of clear water. When the old man laid a hand on his arm, he felt warmth running into his blood, a soothing, calming warmth that made all his cramped muscles ease into peace.

  “Later we’ll have to talk about what’s happened to you, but for now there’s no need for you to remember all that.”

  Camdel felt drunk, a pleasant, giggling sort of drunk.

  “He’s forgetting already, aren’t you, lad? Of course you are. You only know that you’re very ill, and that we’re going to help you.”

  Camdel nodded in agreement, thinking that his long illness had left him fevered and confused. He clung to the old man’s hand and wept in gratitude for his rescue.

  As soon as he saw how broken Camdel was, Rhodry backed out of the kitchen in a hurry. The man was mad, his mind torn to pieces and the pieces scattered forever—or so Rhodry saw it. Death in battle he could face, but this misery? Feeling sick to his stomach, he wandered around to the main door of the house, where a pair of Blaen’s men were keeping guard.

  “Did they find him, my lord?” Comyn said.

  “Never call me that again.”

  “My apologies, silver dagger.”

  “Well and good, then, but find him they did, and it’s not pretty.”

  Comyn shivered.

  “I sent some of the lads out to search the farmstead,” the captain remarked. “Just in case there’s someone lurking around, like.”

  “Good idea. Has anyone been inside yet?”

  “No one wants to go, and I can’t order a man to do somewhat I’m afraid to do myself.”

  “Well, you’ve got a silver dagger riding at your orders. I’ll volunteer. Better than letting Blaen do it and put himself at who knows what dweomer-soaked risk.”

  Comyn hesitated, then handed Rhodry his shield.

  “Don’t know what you’ll find in there, do you, now?”

  “I don’t.” Rhodry settled the shield on his left arm. “My thanks.”

  Rhodry drew his sword as Comyn kicked open the door. The farmhouse was big, about sixty feet in diameter, and like most houses of its type it was cut up like a pie into small wedge-shaped chambers, divided from one another by wickerwork partitions. Rhodry stepped into what had been a parlor of sorts with two wooden chairs, a carved chest sitting under a window, and on the wall a wooden shelf that proudly displayed three painted earthenware plates. The dust lay so thick on the floor that he left footprints.

  In either wall were openings, hung with blankets. Since the one to his right would lead to the kitchen and Camdel, Rhodry decided to go left. He approached the opening cautiously, then flicked up his sword and pulled down the blanket. As it crumpled, he saw a bedchamber, with fresh straw on the floor and a couple of hay-filled pallets. He walked in, spotting several bedrolls and piles of saddlebags, all strewn about as if someone had recently searched through them. Although it looked like perfectly ordinary gear, he refused to touch it. For all he knew, it was filled with strange magicks.

  The blanket over the next opening was pulled to one side. He peered into a chamber, far bigger than the last two, where plowshares, old horse gear, and a couple of pieces of broken furniture lay scattered about. Sitting by the doorway on the far side was a corpse, a gray, puffy thing dressed in farmer’s clothing and holding a woodcutter’s ax in both hands. Rhodry assumed that the farmer must have tried to defend himself as the dark dweomer overwhelmed and slew him.

  “Well, old man,” he said as he walked in, “we’ll get you a proper burial.”

  The corpse raised its head and looked at him. Rhodry yelped aloud and stood frozen for a moment as it slowly lurched to its feet. Altho
ugh its eye sockets were empty, it raised the ax and staggered toward him just as if it could see. Rhodry wanted to gag, but he flung up his shield and stepped aside as a clumsy blow swung down and missed him. When the thing turned toward him, he swung his sword up under its slow parry and caught it full across the throat. There was a gush of some dark liquid with an acrid smell, but the corpse calmly raised the ax again and stepped forward.

  Rhodry’s berserker laugh rose in his mouth. Sobbing and chortling, he dodged, lunged, and hacked into the corpse’s armpit. Although more stinking liquid spewed, the thing came on and swung down at him. When he caught the blow on his shield, he heard the wood crack; the unnatural warrior was strong. His laughter rose to a howl as he swung up hard and cut the thing’s right arm half-off. It merely shifted the weight on the ax to its left hand and swung again. With a dodge he darted round and stabbed it in the back. Slowly it turned to face him.

  Distantly Rhodry heard voices yelling, coming closer, but he kept all his concentration on the ax as the thing swung it from side to side as if it would cut Rhodry down like a tree. He dodged, caught a blow on his shield, and sliced its arm open, but still it swung. He was hampered by the clutter in the room as they went round and round. All at once he slipped; the ax sailed by, a bare inch from his head. He jumped up, shrieking with laughter, and put all his berserker’s strength into the blow. The sword bit deep and cracked bone as it caught the thing on the back of the neck.

  Its head dangling from a strip of skin and muscle, the corpse swung the ax full into Rhodry’s shield. The wood and leather split and cracked to the boss, and half the shield fell away. Rhodry ducked and dodged, then swung at its left arm. Although it dropped the ax at last, still it kept coming for him. He leaped back fast. It seemed that being touched by its fingers would be worse than the blow of a blade. Desperately he sliced its abdomen open. No guts spilled, and still it came for him.