The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads (32 page)

Dressed in their stolen mail and surcoats, Pwyll, Lord Carl, Samul Renne, and Jamm appeared in the failing light. Michael stood with his senior officers on a small rise in among a few trees. Around him his runners crouched, ready to carry orders to the company captains. His guards were there as well, though not many in number. Prince Michael felt safe with his army around him, and now with Pwyll and the others he breathed a great sigh.

"What goes on?" Pwyll whispered. He had realized immediately that the unnatural silence was no accident.

"The Renne are about to land," Michael whispered.

"Vast…" whispered Carl.

Pwyll leaned close so that none of the officers might here. "But they are your allies," he whispered.

"Yes," Michael said softly, "but my army desires revenge for their losses on the Isle of Battle. I have had no choice but to bring them here. Pwyll, I don't know what to do."Carl A'denne had leaned close to listen. "You must withdraw your army," he said urgently.

"There will be a mutiny if I do.""But the Renne will not land here," Carl said. "They will have sent false information through Vast, whom they know to be a trai-tor. The Renne will land either north or south and fall on your army from behind, driving them into the river."Michael put both hands to his forehead. "I wrested control of my army from the Wills. Now how do I wrest control from the soldiers?"

Vast sat on the gunwale of the boat as the oars dipped silently. He could just make out the other craft, all painted black, their pas-sengers still and silent. A horse whinnied softly on the western shore. Barges would bring them across as soon as the Renne had landed and established a perimeter. It would take several hours to move all the men, their mounts and equipment. He wondered how long Menwyn Wills would wait before ordering the attack. No doubt he would want to destroy the Renne army, not just drive them back to the western shore. It would take patience and nerve. He worried that Lord Menwyn possessed neither.

The Duke could almost feel the men around him in the dark-ness. Feel the living heat of them. Many of his own men would cross over the river that night. The final river. His heart sank at the thought of it. They would die because of his bargain with Menwyn Wills. Because the Renne did not offer him enough. Never enough.

As for the Renne … by morning they would be a noble house in hiding, those that were left. They would have to be hunted down to the last child—none left alive. Otherwise, their genius for hatred would bring a terrible revenge.

He looked up at the stars, then at the dark shadow of the east-ern shore.

"Is the current not setting us too far south?" he whispered to the massive shadow that was Lord Fondor Renne.

"No," Fondor answered. "We are exactly on course."Vast felt himself nod, though none could see in the dark. He gazed fixedly at the shoreline again. He knew the river hereabout as well as anyone, having traveled it all his life. They were already south of the stream mouth where they planned to land. Disaster was about to be born of incompetence.

He touched Fondor on the shoulder. "We are too far south. I'm sure of it." He leaned toward the riverman who held the boat's tiller. "We must go north—"But a blade at his throat stopped his speech.

"Say not another word, Duke," Fondor whispered.

Vast found himself staring down into the water, ten thousand points of light wavering across the surface. He wondered if he'd ever see such a sight again. Traitors were never shown mercy. He swallowed hard. He had made his choice and now the price would be exacted. The wavering stars drew his eye again, the sheer beauty of them.

I'm crossing a river of stars, he thought. But it was the darkness that seemed to draw his eye, as though he could tumble out of the boat and fall endlessly into the night.

Hafydd did not concern himself much with the beauty or the wonder of the chamber, but Beld found himself staring like a peas-ant in a palace. The room was vast, yet not a single pillar supported its dome, which curved overhead like an ivory sky. Across the floor spread a great mosaic, the pattern eight-sided like the chamber it-self. The walls were highly decorated, but the faint light of the torches barely touched them, and Hafydd wouldn't have much pa-tience for him wandering off to admire the art. Near the far side, the floor was bisected by a narrow channel that ran with water, and on their side of the channel, was a small, round pool, faintly aglow and half-obscured beneath curling vapor wraiths.

"He will ask you to kill me, now," A'denne whispered, slipping quietly up beside Beld.

Beld looked over to Hafydd, who stared into the steaming pool. No guards were within hearing. "I cannot," he whispered.

"You must," A'denne said softly. "Only you might get close enough to murder him, but if you refuse to"—the man swallowed hard—"end my life he will never trust you.""How do you know I would want to kill him?""Because I have watched you, Beldor Renne. I don't know what happened, but some… understanding has come over you…" He struggled to find more words but could not. In his face, Beld saw resignation and a visible struggle to control his fear.

Beld touched the stone beneath his shirt. "He's too careful.""With me, yes, but he suffers you to come near. When you kill me show not a trace of remorse. Strange to think that he would trust such a man more, but I believe it's true.""Lord Beldor…!" Hafydd called out, his harsh voice distorted and eerie in this place.

Beld hurried over. Hafydd stared into the pool, his hands clasped behind his back. White light streamed up from below, and an intense cold knifed through his clothes and into his skin. Hafydd didn't look up, and Beld found himself gazing into the pool, won-dering what so fascinated the old warrior.

"Do you see him?" Hafydd whispered.

Beld bent a little closer. The veils of steam swirled slowly over the surface, and the light from below caused him to squint. There … ! What looked like a face—raven-haired and bearded— eyes closed, lips so faint they were all but colorless.

"I think I do see … a man's face.""The great enchanter," Hafydd said softly. "Wyrr, encased in a coffin of perpetual ice.""What will you do now?" Beldor heard himself ask.

"We have bargains to keep, Beldor Renne. Bring the book, the earthenware jar, and Lord A'denne. You've kept your blade sharp?""It is always sharp, Sir Eremon."Hafydd turned and looked suddenly into his eyes. "Then have it ready. You will kill A'denne for me. I will tell you when and how."Hafydd summoned his guard captain. "Have someone bring me two of those chairs," he ordered.

Beld stood frozen to the spot. He had killed many men—his own cousin, even—and felt no misgivings before, nor any guilt after… But now he felt suddenly light-headed, strange, as though it were he about to die. Beld fingered the green gem beneath his shirt. Had he fallen beneath a spell? Was this what others felt when they went into battle? He was flushed, hot, breaking out in a sweat. He watched Hafydd with a growing sense of horror.

The knight opened the wooden box containing the book, and Beld noticed that everyone took a step away, as though they could feel the malice, the coldness—colder than the ice that encased Wyrr. Laying the box over the backs of the two chairs, Hafydd opened the book. Beld felt a sudden weight inside him, like a stone dropped into the winter river. There was no cheating Death. You could only pass through the gate with your honor intact or without it. He saw that now. Toren had always understood it instinctively. Even Dease knew it in his way. It was the only thing one took from this world. Nothing else passed through the gate—not even love. Beldor knew. He had groveled before the entrance to Death's king-dom, stripped of all pride and property… and of his honor, as well. That had been his deepest regret. He would go honorless into that dark place, to be remembered for nothing else.

With the utmost care, Hafydd laid a rope in a circle, perhaps thirty feet across. A small sackful of gray dust he emptied evenly over the rope's entire length. In the center of this, the sorcerer made another circle, two yards in diameter, and from it, eight lines were marked on the floor with gray dust, cutting the circle evenly.

"Bring the earthenware jar and your sword, Lord Beldor. Step not on the lines! And Lord A'denne…We will need you as well."Beldor took up the jar, surprised by its weight. A'denne ap-proached them, as if in a daze. Beld had seen men go to the gallows before, and they looked much as A'denne did now—disbelief mixed with grief and horror.

Beld tried to concentrate on the actions of the sorcerer—anything to keep his mind off A'denne and what he was about to do.

Hafydd took the jar from Beld, his face betraying nothing. Two guards had followed A'denne, and stood behind him to either side. The nobleman struggled to control his fear. Many, Beld knew, broke down at this point.

Hafydd took out a dagger and cut away the wax seal around the large cork that stoppered the jar. Using the dagger's point he lev-ered the cork slowly out, and the smell of strong spirits touched Beld's nostrils—mixed with something more bitter.

Hafydd pulled up his sleeve and reached into the liquid, draw-ing out a dripping, stillborn infant by its tiny feet. A'denne choked back a sob, earning a disdainful glance from Hafydd. The tiny crea-ture was set in the center of the circle, where it lay in a puddle of spirits, eyes closed, waxen, as still and silent as morning.

"Lord A'denne…" Hafydd beckoned with a finger.

The nobleman took three measured steps and stopped within reach of the sorcerer, his black honor guard close behind. His eyes blinked rapidly several times, perhaps stung by the smell of spirits.

"Lean over the stillborn child," the sorcerer said, and the guards took A'denne by the arms, as he leaned forward from the waist. Hafydd nodded to Beld, who drew his sword. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, his face flush red.

"Cut his throat, Lord Beldor," Hafydd said, backing away, out of sword's reach. "Quickly!"A'denne glanced up at him, ashen with fear, but even so he gave the smallest nod. Beldor hesitated only a second, the eyes of the guards on him. One swift cut and A'denne went limp, held up by the guards, his blood pouring out, a crimson stain overspreading the tiny infant. The salt smell of blood, like the distant sea, assaulted his senses, and Beld reeled away, nauseated and unsteady.

"Your part is done, Lord Beldor," Hafydd said. "Be careful where you place your feet as you leave the circle."Beldor backed away, the scene burning into his vision like a flame; Lord A'denne bleeding out his life onto the stillborn child, which lay, half-human, half-maggot, in the center of Hafydd's web. The dead and the dying, and the life not yet born.

Turning away to hide his reaction, Beld stepped out of the cir-

cle as Hafydd opened the book, using the box over the chairs for his reading stand. He began immediately to murmur, then to chant. Beld covered his ears, but the words did not stop. They beat upon his eardrums like drops of water—one by one by one.

The guards dropped the body of Lord A'denne and retreated from the ring, escaping just before Hafydd set it afire. Beld turned away, but a dark fascination drew his gaze back. Among the lines and circles of flame he saw the smallest movement—the fingers of the stillborn child opened and closed, then it threw back its head and opened its mouth as though to scream.

Elise did not hesitate at the bottom of the stair but rushed out, cut-ting down the first of two guards. The second guard Orlem ran through, but not before the man called out a warning.

The giant and Elise raced toward a ring of fire that flickered and smoked, across the floor of a massive chamber. Toren forced him-self to keep pace, his feet hammering the hard surface. A step be-hind and to his left, Gilbert A'brgail matched his pace, sword glowing green in the smoky air.

Hafydd, it could be no other, stood beyond the flame, chanting. His guards formed a line between their master and his sorcery and the onrushing company. Elise and Orlem raised their luminous swords and bellowed like animals as they struck the line of black guards. Toren threw himself on a man who tried to circle to Elise's left, and then all order was lost in the frenzy of battle. Evading this stroke, countering that, cutting a man's legs out from under him, the feel of his blade slashing into flesh. As he fought a larger oppo-nent, Orlem stepped back into him and sent him sprawling at his enemy's feet. He could feel the sword rise above him for the final blow, then the man toppled onto him, twitching and writhing. The weight came off and someone dragged him up, and Toren found himself facing his cousin—Beld—who had been swept up into the air by Death's servant.

"You're too late," Beldor shouted over the clamor. "He is done."A tongue of flame flared out among them, setting cloaks afire and chasing both guards and their enemies in all directions. Toren felt the floor shiver, and he was thrown off his feet. Among the ring of flame something hideous rose. It spread out its arms and bel-lowed, shaking the Isle to its very roots.

A giant leapt the line of flame, bounding into the circle, a great blade raised. He struck the creature a blow that shook the air and shattered his sword, but the monster brushed him aside with a sin-gle swipe and turned its back on the pitiful scuffling of mortal men.

"We should never have left the stairwell," Eber said. He clutched his son's hand tightly and gave it a little shake. "Don't leave my side again! Look at the danger you've put us in!"Theason glanced over at the small man, who was trying to shield his son from the battle, as though his ancient body might stop a blade. The fighting ranged over the floor of the great cham-ber, careening this way and that. It drove them around two sides of the left wall, where they slunk along at the edge of the floor, hop-ing to go unnoticed.

"What is going on, Eber?" Theason whispered. "Do you see?"In the center of a flickering ring of red flame, something large was moving just perceptibly.

"It's feeding," Eber said, his voice flat, frightened.

"On what?"

"The carcass," Eber whispered, "of a man—""River save us."The light was poor, and the tide of the battle could not be guessed. Hafydd collapsed suddenly and was supported by two of his guards. The others fought a ferocious battle against Elise and her company, Orlem driving the black guards back wherever he went. The giant leapt the flame and attacked the soul eater, but it sent him tumbling back through the flames.

And then a tongue of fire struck out at the fighters, scattering them this way and that.

"You have lost, Sister!" a voice cried over the fighting. "Go back while you can."The fighting seemed to waver, the black-clad guards gathering about their master, Elise and her company standing defiantly across the floor. Theason could see her there, tall and straight-backed, undaunted and proud.

"I shall bring this cavern down upon us first!" she called out.

Raising her sword she struck the ground with it, a blow that shook the walls and threw them all down upon their bellies. Thea-son scrambled up and helped Eber to his feet.

"Where is Llya?" the old man said, looking around frantically. "Where is Llya!"A second blow, greater than the first, and Theason was thrown hard against the wall and lay for a moment, dazed. A deafening rending, and he opened his eyes to see massive broken blocks of stone tumbling down from the ceiling.

The shock of their landing buckled the floor, throwing the little man into the air for a moment, then slamming him down. He thought he heard someone whimpering and realized the voice was his.

Something fell so close that he was tossed up again, and again smashed down. Smoke stung his nostrils,then darkness fluttered over him, like a fall of black snow.

Beldor felt something jerk around his neck, and then slide over his hair. He thought he moaned. He slipped away for a moment, then woke again, darkness, but not far off, a little light. His vision was blurred, and he tried to shake his head to clear it. The murmur of a soothing voice.

A rubble of stones ranged around him, and Beldor lay in some space between. He moved his arm and felt down his side. There was no feeling there, as though the flesh belonged to someone else. He struck his hip but felt it only in his fist.

"What has happened to me? I can't move."His vision blurred, darkness bleeding in around the edges. But there, in the center of the darkness, he could see a figure hunched down in a faint light. A voice, very distant, murmured, like water running over stones.

"There, granddaughter," it said softly. "Death shall not have you this day—you or the poor girl who bears you."The figure rose, a woman. Gracefully, she slipped down a nar-row passage between fallen stones. He could almost see her face.

"Can you help me?" he whispered, his words poorly formed.

The woman hovered over him an instant, as though weighing his request.

"You made your bargain with Death," she said at last. "I will not interfere." And she turned away.

"Please," Beld heard himself say. "At the end, I forsook my bargain.""Too late, man-at-arms," she said. "Too late.""No," Beldor whispered. "Not too late… Not for me."Darkness dribbled across the scene, like ink over glass, and Bel-dor felt a sudden warmth spread through him. He exhaled a long breath—and did not draw it in again.

Tarn held his torch aloft. A rubble of boulders, half the size of houses and greater, spread over the floor of the cavern. Smoke wafted about the place as though it could not find an escape, and a burble of water echoed eerily.

"What happened here?" Fynnol asked.

"We came too late," Alaan said, and cursed. "Caibre… Hafydd and Elise fought.""Who survived?" Tam said.

"Perhaps no one. Come let's look."A crash shook the chamber, and Tam flinched, almost burning Fynnol with his torch. A great chunk of the ceiling had fallen, breaking boulders beneath. They began to search among the rocks, ducking down as they went, fearing the ceiling would collapse at any moment and bury them all.