Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  You were up late, weren't you? Ardagh thought. Tsk.

  He heard Cadwal, who had been guarding the prince's flank, urge his horse forward a touch as though by chance, balancing Osmod's move, keeping a closer watch on the man.

  Appreciated. But Osmod isn't going to try any oddnesses, not with so many others as witnesses.

  All around them was the cheerful turmoil of the hunt, men shouting and laughing, horses snorting, bright red banners snapping in the wind. The hounds coursed up ahead, a mass of wagging tails; they might not have found any game yet, but they were enjoying the outing, too. Ardagh waited with a little less than full patience. This was the one element he couldn't control. If the hounds didn't start up a quarry—

  Ha, but the amiable sniffings and yappings suddenly sharpened into baying. Horns blared. A stag! They'd started up a fine, spring-fat stag. As the hunt charged forward, Ardagh grinned, bent over his horse's tossing mane, riding as though as eagerly blood-hungry as the others but actually hunting something else entirely.

  Ah yes, here was a narrowing of the road, with trails branching off in all directions. Easy for a hunting party to become accidentally separated. Ardagh reached out his will, not even trying to snare a human mind, no, no, touching an equine mind instead, the king's stallion, telling it, Mares! Mares running this way!

  And—now! Ardagh turned his own horse aside and sent it racing off at a tangent, crashing through the underbrush along what was probably a deer trail, ducking and dodging branches. He could hear Egbert, having no choice in the matter, following closely after him, hissing curses when he didn't dodge quite in time, swearing creatively at his eager stallion.

  Cadwal's going to be furious, left behind like this. No help for it.

  At last Ardagh slowed his horse to a trot, listening. Behind them, the clamor of the hunt had faded into silence, and he reined in the animal altogether, glancing over his shoulder. The king's stallion had stopped of its own accord, snorting and curvetting in very clear equine confusion at the lack of mares.

  "King Egbert," the prince said. "It was you following." As though I didn't know it!

  The king, fighting his prancing, puzzled mount, said something hot and decidedly unregal under his breath. "We've lost the stag. And the hunt. And," he added, looking around at what, to his human senses, must have looked like trackless forest, "ourselves."

  "Annoying, I agree. But we're not in any danger, and as soon as the rest of the party realizes we're missing, they'll be looking for us. They'll find us soon enough. Or perhaps," the prince added, as Egbert angrily kneed his horse forward, ignoring Ardagh, "we shall find them." And you're not getting away from me that easily.

  Ardagh urged his own horse after the stallion, riding beside the king, leaves brushing at his legs and twigs crackling beneath the horse's hoofs, and smiled to himself. Egbert hadn't the slightest idea that his stallion had been lured aside. More to the point, the spell had been so small that Osmod wouldn't have sensed it, either. "Ah well," the prince said, with the air of a man making light conversation, "at least we've been given a rare chance."

  "Eh?"

  "Why, to talk, King Egbert, to talk. Yes, and in relative privacy."

  The king glared. "About what? The alliance?"

  "Now, did I ever mention anything about an alliance?"

  Egbert snorted. "Not in so many words. But why else are you here?"

  The prince raised a languid hand. "King Aedh might have heard about your coming to the throne." Then again, he might not.

  "And sent a courtesy message? Using a prince as messenger?"

  Ardagh grinned. "That does sound unlikely, I admit." He glanced around, deliberately theatrical. "We're quite alone. Come now, tell me, just between us, what would you think of such an alliance?"

  It hardly mattered what Egbert thought of so seemingly naive a question. The prince knew that it was impossible for humans not to think, no matter how briefly, of a suggested subject, and for an instant to radiate their true emotions about it. At least for those with the skill to read such things.

  Arrogance, Ardagh sensed. Pride. Power-lust. Worse, ruthless land-lust. And this isn't Osmod's influence. This is the true Egbert.

  Ah well, he'd hardly expected any less. Aedh wasn't such a sweet and tender fellow, either, though lacking in that absolute arrogance: No king could be soft. And such total ambition as burned in Egbert didn't mean complete defeat.

  But it's certainly going to make things more difficult.

  How did one form a safe alliance with someone who'd just as soon conquer his allies?

  "King Egbert—"

  "I hear them," the king cut in. "The hunt's just ahead." With the eagerness of a prisoner escaping, he prodded his stallion into a canter, crashing through the underbrush, leaves and bits of twig flying. After a moment, Ardagh sighed and followed.

  But then he reined his horse in so sharply the animal nearly reared, every Sidhe sense all at once screaming Danger!

  There, thinking himself hidden in the underbrush, was Osmod, magic gathering around him.

  "I wouldn't," the prince said. "And you might as well come out of hiding. I see you quite plainly." And was wondering when you'd show up.

  "What were you doing with the king?"

  "Nothing that concerns you, ealdorman."

  "What were you doing?" Osmod insisted, kneeing his horse forward to block Ardagh's way, his eyes blazing. "What plot were you working?"

  "No plot. The very opposite of one, actually. Move aside, Osmod."

  "Not till I learn what I wish. And don't think to escape me. The king's too far away by now to hear us. The hunt's moved on. There's no one to help you."

  "I need no help," Ardagh said flatly. "And I don't like false theatrics. Come, I'll even give you a warning: I'm at my strongest here in the forest. But I don't wish to fight you." What I wish is to see you dead. But Egbert would never forgive me for your death.

  "Don't you? A pity, because I do!" Deliberately, Osmod raised a small, limp form—a rabbit, Ardagh saw—deliberately pressed it to his lips, drinking.

  "Is that supposed to horrify me?" the prince asked. "Believe me, I've seen far worse than a bit of blood-drinking."

  Osmod grinned, red staining his mouth. "I wasn't trying to frighten you. You have your Power," the sorcerer purred, "I have mine."

  Fugitives

  Chapter 18

  Ardagh felt the forest's Power stirring all around him, pulling at him, reacting to the two intruders who bore their own Power. Fighting against its seductive lure, he snapped, "Osmod, this is insane. I told you once already, our magics are too different; we cannot use them against each other."

  "I have only your word for that. And I'll never have a better chance to be rid of you." The human tossed the dead rabbit casually aside and sprang from his terrified horse, flinging the reins around a branch, never taking his gaze from Ardagh. "No prince, no alliance, no encumbrance. An accident, don't you see? Hunting accidents happen all the time."

  Oh, you idiot. "Sometimes," Ardagh said in grim resignation, "the hunted wins," and subtly closed his hand about the hilt of his dagger. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost his hunting spear; but a knife was good enough. He'd learned knife fighting from Cadwal, and he could certainly move more swiftly than any human. One swift thrust—

  No! Impossible to explain a dead Osmod to Egbert if it's my knife in the child-killer's throat. It must be magic, then, Darkness take him, and we'll see what happens.

  The prince leaped down from his own nervous horse, letting it go as it would, not wanting it in his way, and gathering his magic to him. If only this cursed Realm had enough Power in it for one quick, efficient killing spell!

  As well wish for a dragon to come zooming down from the skies. The only thing to do right now was simply Ward and hope he could swiftly find the key to dealing with Saxon magic—

  Magic that Osmod was unleashing right now! Hands clenched about what seemed to be bits of bone, he shouted out savage Words. They
meant not a thing to Ardagh; they sounded only like distortions of the Saxon tongue. But definite Power glowered behind them, and the prince cast up a quick wall of will, blocking—

  Nothing! Magic there was, but alien, eerie, its shape, its feel once again like nothing he knew, magic whirling uselessly about him in a fierce wind. And his own, ae, his own Power could do nothing, either! Of course he hadn't been lying to Osmod, they really could do no magical damage to each other—but the two waves of disparate, discordant Power had to go somewhere. Tangling and recoiling off each other, they spiralled up in a sudden, vicious gale. Pelted by a stinging storm of leaves and twigs, Ardagh heard trees begin to sway, creaking ominously, heard branches snap and crash to the forest floor, felt more than the gale, felt a wrongness growing, growing—

  We could . . . we could tear a hole in Reality like this, he thought breathlessly. Alien magics clashing . . . should have realized this might happen . . . can't stop, though . . . not till he does . . . if one wave's gone, if the Power's out of balance . . . it'll kill us both. I'm not dying for his stupidity.

  "Stop," the prince gasped out, less firmly than he would have liked. "Stop, you idiot, now, or we both die."

  "Coward," Osmod gasped back, staggering as he said it. "Coward . . ."

  But of course a human, even one with some Power, had less magical stamina than a Sidhe. Osmod gave way without warning, falling helplessly to his knees. The tangled mass of Power, now perilously unbalanced, tore free, and Ardagh desperately caught at it before it could blaze totally out of control. He drew as much Power, his own and the forest's addition, as he could absorb into himself, dizzy with the sudden unexpected feast, cast the excess, the alien, Saxon side of it, into the earth, the air, the very heart of the forest. Some of it returned to its Saxon host, restoring Osmod. Ardagh sensed that much and couldn't do anything about it. Stumbling back against a rock, dazed and shocked with this strange, strange magical-backlash-that-wasn't and struggling to catch his breath, he felt the wild wind—

  Vanish as though it had never been.

  I did it. Whatever it was I just did. Just in time, too, I think.

  Far too narrow an escape. He stood panting helplessly, shaking, watching the still equally helpless Osmod. Ae, he'd been right the first time! A plain knife was going to be far more useful than magic in settling this, and to the Dark with political complications.

  Oh, yes. If only he had the breath to do anything. Ardagh took an unsteady step forward, not quite sure what was going to happen.

  The forest exploded into a new storm of sound and color. Something large, solid and gasping crashed into the prince, nearly knocking him over—a stag! The hunted stag, reeking of fear and despair, the baying hounds close behind. The hunt had turned this way, by chance or maybe even pulled here by the wild magic-storm.

  Just what I didn't need!

  As Ardagh scrambled frantically out of the way, the hounds leaped at the stag, dragging it down almost on top of him, making the kill so close to him that blood nearly spattered his clothing. The prince lost his footing, twisted, trying not to land in the midst of the snapping, snarling hounds, catching a dizzying montage of faces, hunters, courtiers, King Egbert, faces savage with predatory joy. As Ardagh struggled to his feet, his hand closed reflexively about a smooth, solid object, and he came up clutching—ha, the hunting spear he'd thought lost.

  Not wise! Osmod was going to—

  He was, indeed. Before Ardagh could get out a word, Osmod, seizing his chance, hurled himself against the king as though defending him, shouting, "No! Assassin, there—see—his spear—he was set to cast it against you!"

  "Liar!" Ardagh protested savagely, raging at seeing his history repeating itself. "I would never stoop to—"

  But Osmod drowned him out, screaming at the king like a man at the edge of righteous hysteria or sheer nervous exhaustion, "He's an assassin, foreign assassin! There was never any plan of an alliance. No, no, he's been sent to slay you, to slay you during the hunt!"

  Ardagh would have thrown the spear just then, and thrown it straight at Osmod, but harsh hands caught his arms before he could fight them off, tearing the weapon from him, trying to pin him against a tree. The prince drove his elbow back fiercely as he'd learned from Cadwal and heard a man grunt and lose his grip. But there were others, damn them, too many others; he couldn't fight them all!

  And then he heard a familiar voice shouting war cries in Cymreig. A horse crashed into the men holding him, bowling them over, and Ardagh caught a quick glimpse of the mercenary, drawn sword flashing in one hand— yes, and with his own horse's reins clutched in the other hand as well!

  Oh, brave man! Clever man!

  The prince leaped up as quickly as ever a Sidhe moved, landing astride his horse, grabbing up the reins Cadwal threw at him. As though they'd rehearsed the move, they charged straight at the hunting party, men scrambling desperately out of the way, and raced on, whipped by branches, pelted with leaves, their horses scrabbling their way along the winding trail.

  "Road's this way!" Cadwal yelled.

  "Good!" Ardagh gasped back. "The more of a lead we get, the better. They'll be after us."

  "Really? Never could have guessed. Don't want to know what you did back there, but let's get the hell out of here!"

  "Agreed!"

  Ardagh, bent as low as he could over his straining horse's neck, mane practically whipping at his face, felt wild shudders still racing through him, the shivering of roused magic that hadn't quite relaxed. Amazing that he hadn't already collapsed from backlash—but then, it hadn't really been a failed spell, had it, and—no, no, he was dithering, and ae, but he was going to enjoy a good, peaceful collapse when it finally did hit. If ever he had the time to allow it.

  The prince glanced sideways. Cadwal rode with no grace at all, but he stuck to his mount like the proverbial burr. No problem there.

  Yes, but horses weren't magical beasts; they couldn't run full out for long. It would take some time for the hunting party to get themselves sorted out, remounted and go after the fugitives, but his mount's breathing was already harsh in his ears, and if it collapsed now . . . Ardagh looked fiercely about for sanctuary, seeing nothing but forest, field, forest, field, field, no cover, no place to hide. They weren't going to get much farther, and he and Cadwal wouldn't have a chance of fighting off a whole royal hunt—

  No, wait! Something that way, something seen not with the eyes but felt with his already overactive magical senses—yes!

  "Follow me!" he shouted to Cadwal, and pulled his mount sharply to the left.

  The mercenary must have been puzzled, but he followed without question. They urged their rapidly tiring horses across a plowed field, jumped them over a low hedge, then raced as fast as the weary animals could manage over a grassy plain into a wilderness of scrubland.

  "No cover here!" Cadwal protested. "It doesn't matter," Ardagh said, hunting. "Ha, yes, there! That's what we want."

  "Nothing there."

  "Trust me! There isn't time to explain—here!"

  He pulled up his panting, wild-eyed horse, leaped from the saddle, sent the tired animal staggering on its way. Cadwal, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "Save me from suicidal Sidhe," followed his lead, slapping his horse on the rump to get it moving. "Now what? What the hell?"

  "Nothing to do with the Christian hell." Ardagh shuddered, certain with every Sidhe nerve that danger, that sorcery, was imminent. "Nothing to do with Christians at all. See? There, there, and there." Ae, he was chattering! Have to control himself, control the Power—

  "What?" Cadwal asked. "Some darker spots in the earth? Forming a . . ." His voice trailed into silence.

  "A circle," Ardagh finished for him. "That we're standing within. Indeed."

  "Old. It has to be, if there's this little left of it."

  "It is." Ardagh flung his arms about himself, pacing back and forth restlessly. "Old at least as the stone circles I've seen in Eriu."

  "We h
ave them in Cymru, too," Cadwal began, then stopped, staring. "You can tell?"

  "The age? Not exactly. However . . ." Ardagh shook his head, unable to explain the feeling of past and present in one; "They, whoever those ancient 'they' were, used wood this time rather than stone, for whatever reason. That's why there's nothing left to see." With human sight, at any rate.

  "Yes, but—"

  "It doesn't matter what they used," Ardagh cut in impatiently. "Someone died here, someone of great importance. Yes, and died willingly, I'd guess, probably in an effort to eternally guard the land or some such 'human' foolishness. Someone of Power. A stupid waste of magic in my opinion, but he's buried right under where we stand."

  "Here?" Cadwal glanced down as though expecting spectral hands to reach up and drag him under.

  Ardagh brought himself up short at the circle's edge, came back to Cadwal's side, far too nervous with uneasy Power to be still. "He's long gone. But a shadow of his protection, his magic, really does remain, seeped into the soil as it were. Enough to draw me here. Enough," the prince added grimly, "to help us. I hope."

  Cadwal straightened. "Against spears? There's that much magic?"

  "No. Against—"

  He broke off with a hiss as the attack he'd been expecting suddenly struck. Osmod couldn't have loosed too much sorcery, not while surrounded by the king and his men—but whatever it was he had sent was riding the winds swiftly, and if it wasn't anywhere nearly as foul as a demon, it was still unpleasantly of the Dark, and viciously unhappy about being forced out in daylight.

  Unhappy enough to tear out our hearts.

  "You of the Past," Ardagh said swiftly in his native tongue, feeling Power blazing up within him all over again, "you of the land, you of the earth and wind and water, come to me. Come now, come face the Darkness, come!"

  As he chanted his hastily improvised conjuration, the prince called on the Power he'd gleaned from the forest as well: the Power of circle and long-dead magician, of earth and forest and self—yes, yes, by all the Powers, of self, and yes, it was working! All the forces were responding as one, the circle was blazing into magical life, blue-white fire to Sidhe eyes. Yes, ae, yes, and the joined Power was surging through and through him!