Ach, no. There was absolutely no way to safely get the woman alone, no way to safely dispatch her and dispose of the body.
Who else? Who else? One of the Witan? Now there was an entertaining thought. Osmod let his gaze rove over them, settling lightly on this man and that as though by idle chance. Cuthred, perhaps? Honest as sunlight, that one, yet bland as an ox. No one would miss him since no one really noticed he was there. But then again, that hardly would make him a fitting sacrifice.
What about Eadwig, then? Nothing bland about him: large as a warrior, florid of face, red of hair, loud of voice. The court would be a good deal more tranquil without him.
Alas, no, again. He would never die quietly. No, in fact, to all of the Witan. Oh, it would be easy enough to get any of them alone, and there were certainly enough pompous idiots among the ealdormen who'd improve the quality of the court by their deaths, but—
But what? What was missing?
Logic, Osmod decided. If he was to gain the optimum amount of Power out of this, there must be a logical reason for the sacrifice of whomever he chose to—
Wait, now . . . logical. Who would be the most logical person to visit him up in his sickroom? Who had already shown disconcerting hints of dark suspicions?
"Octa," Osmod murmured, so softly that no one heard. "Physician Octa. Yes."
Perfect, so perfect. A physician, a healer, a practitioner of—of goodness. What a perfect offering to the Lords of Darkness—and how much Power would be in that goodly blood! Now, Osmod told himself, he merely had to puzzle out how in the name of those unfeeling and possibly unreal Lords he was going to manage this. The murdering of someone so important must look like an accident.
An accident . . . the slipping of a tool . . . no. Hardly anything to do with weaponry, not where a physician was concerned. And Octa was never the sort to accidentally poison himself with one of his own potions. There must be some other way. A fall from a horse—no. Octa almost never rode. A fall, though . . . a fall . . . surely he was on the right path with this—
Ah, the answer was so obvious it practically screamed at him to use it! Osmod smiled, pleased as he'd not been for days. He might be Powerless—for the moment—but that didn't mean he'd lost his cleverness. Oh no, he'd not lost that at all.
Poor me, he thought. I fear I am about to suffer a most unfortunate relapse.
Outside, the evening sky was heavy with ever-thickening clouds. Portentous clouds, thought Osmod, lying in bed with the nervous Bosa hovering nearby. Ha, yes, there came the first flash of lightning. He waited, counting off heartbeats . . . yes, there was the first deep rumbling of thunder. The storm was still a goodly way off, but definitely heading this way. Portentous, indeed. And, if the rain came along with the drama, convenient as well.
So. Time to go to work. Osmod moaned, the sound of a man caught in the throes of feverish illness, and stirred restlessly in the bed.
"M-master?" Bosa quavered. "Are you all right?"
No, you idiot. I'm deathly sick. Can't you tell? "I'm . . . not sure. Head . . ."
"Sh-shall I go fetch the physician?"
"No . . ." Osmod murmured. "Be all right . . ." He feigned an attempt to stand, fell back onto the bed with a new groan. "Yes." It was said with apparent reluctance. A great, strong man, that's me, hating to admit weakness. "Yes. Must have . . . must have done too much . . . too soon. . . ."
"I—I'll get the physician, it's all right, I'll get Octa."
"Hurry."
Osmod lay there till Bosa was safely away, then sat up, grinning savagely. Yes. Here came the rain. Perfect.
Ah, but here came footsteps on the stairs. Bosa, yes, but followed by someone else. Physician Octa. Osmod lay back again, pretending with all his might to be on the edge of feverish slumber. He heard the physician approach, murmuring to Bosa, and stirred as though too restless to stay asleep, then sat bolt upright, staring at Bosa as though he'd never seen the servant before.
"You! What are you doing here? Begone!"
"M-master? Don't you know me? It's me, Bosa, and—"
"Demon! Begone, I say, ere I call the Church down on your evil head!"
Octa sighed. "The fever's returned. I feared it might. Better leave," he told Bosa. "Your presence is only exciting him."
"But—"
"Don't worry. I can deal with this alone."
"Are you sure . . . ?"
"Of course I—"
"Begone!" Osmod shrieked at Bosa, stumbling to his feet.
"Go," the physician ordered.
Bosa, with a nervous glance back at Osmod, fled. Osmod stood where he was, panting and glaring as though thoroughly out of his mind, all the while listening carefully to the ever-approaching storm, the ever-louder crashes of thunder. He must time this perfectly.
Octa took a cautious step forward, as though trying to approach a wary wild thing. "Do you know who I am?" he asked in a gentle voice.
Forcing back the impulse to shout, a trusting fool, Osmod nodded. "Of course. I sent for you. It's important. A matter of utter urgency. Come, you must study this plan with me." He looked back over his shoulder at the physician with a frown. "Come, come!"
Octa, humoring him, moved to his side. "There," Osmod said, pointing, "what do you think of that?"
"I'm afraid I don't see—"
"There! Look there!"
With a sigh, the physician bent to look. Osmod caught up a clothes chest in both arms and, timing his action to the next crash of thunder, brought the chest down with all his might on Octa's head. The physician crumpled, but Osmod was there to catch him before he hit the floor, and neatly pierced Octa's throat with his dagger. Quickly pinching the small wound closed with one hand, Osmod flailed about with the other till he'd found the basin he'd placed within reach.
"For you, Lords of Darkness," he muttered, and let blood fill the basin. Time enough to spill it properly on the ground later. Now Osmod placed his mouth against the wound and drank, ecstatic to feel Octa's life fading into him, flooding him with wild new strength, so much greater, so much more Powerful than any he'd ever absorbed.
Yes, ah yes, ah yes!
Here was Power, here was life, yes, yes, here was all he'd lost, returned in this one fiery rush!
At last, dizzy with satiation, Osmod forced himself to stop. The body could hardly be found with a massive loss of blood, not if this was to look convincing. He staggered to his feet, dragging the body with him, one hand tight over the wound in its throat, timing each pull to each clap of thunder. There, now, there was the stairway, nice and slick with rain.
You're heavy, Octa . . . Osmod thought, panting, heavier . . . I'd guess . . . than you were in life.
He lugged the body about to the head of the stairway, waiting, waiting . . . now!
With a great shove, Osmod sent the body tumbling down the stairs, then stood at the top of them shouting in feigned horror, shouting and shouting until courtiers came running, bundled against the rain.
"There!" Osmod cried like a man gone beyond hysteria. "There! He—he slipped, I—I saw it, the poor man slipped and fell and cut his throat, there, on that splintered wood, and—and—God help him, is he—"
Bosa had reached the body first. "He's dead," the servant said, staring up at Osmod in wide-eyed horror. "Physician Octa is dead."
Osmod staggered back as though too stunned to stand. But he was thinking, He's dead. And I—I am alive, I am healed and strong and Powerful—
I am myself again!
Spells and Raiders
Chapter 30
Cadwal was a huddled mass of woolen brat, there on the deck of the Sea Raven. Ardagh glanced about at the maze of sleeping Lochlannach (curled up wherever they could find a place, he thought, like so many slumbering beasts), then picked his delicate way through the maze to the mercenary's side. The prince hesitated, not wanting to wake him, but a sepulchral voice Cadwal said in Gaeilge, "I'm not asleep."
"Ah." Crouching by the bundle's side, Ardagh asked softly, so as no
t to wake the Lochlannach all around him, "Are you feeling any better?"
A baleful eye glinted at him, and the prince sighed. "I withdraw the question."
"Wanted to ask me anything else, did you?"
"Nothing that can't wait till morning." And hopefully a more seaworthy stomach on your part. "I hope you know that I did try to keep the Lochlannach from bothering you too much."
"I know. Appreciated." Cadwal groaned faintly. "I'd have fought them over this except I might have survived. You . . . wouldn't be telling King Aedh about this, would you?"
"Tell him what? That his mercenary leader is human?"
"Prince Ardagh . . ."
"Ae, Cadwal, haven't we worse problems than that? No, I will not tell the king you have any such weaknesses. And this one will pass."
"Right. When we get to dry land." Cadwal stirred, still wrapped tightly in his brat. "Any idea when that will be?"
"No."
Something in his voice must have sounded odd, because Cadwal suddenly sat up, peering at him. "Here, now. You don't look so healthy yourself."
"Ah well, I'm not feeling quite myself, I admit it."
"Och. No insult meant here, but . . . well . . . too much iron, right?"
Ardagh glared, not too happy about having his own weakness discussed, but admitted, "In too confined a space, yes. At least that cursedly solid chunk of iron that's the anchor is overboard till morning."
Was that a wry chuckle from Cadwal? "A fine, heroic pair, aren't we?"
Ardagh found himself grinning in spite of himself. "We are, we are, indeed."
"Tell you what. The first chance we get, we hie ourselves off this hell-ship and away from these barbarians as far as we can run."
"I . . . can't. And don't stare at me as though I'd gone mad." Ardagh dropped his voice still lower. "Cadwal, I may have found a way to fight Osmod on his own terms."
"Oh?"
A world of wariness in that sound. "listen to me," the prince said in sudden impatience. "I'm not merely talking about taking personal revenge, though I won't deny that won't be satisfying. But there's more to the whole affair than something that finite."
Cadwal frowned. "Something to do with kingdoms, I take it?"
"Clever man." Quickly the prince summarized his thoughts about Osmod and Egbert together forming a military and sorcerous peril to Eriu.
"Iesu," Cadwal muttered when he was done. "The way you tell it, the whole thing sounds all too possible. Hell no," he added hastily, seeing Ardagh stiffen slightly. "I didn't mean that the way it came out. The idea of the two of them in alliance—it really does sound like something that could happen. And danger like that . . ." The mercenary's eyes glinted in the darkness. "Neither of us wants to lose our sanctuary, and all that. All right, then. You want any help from me, anything a magickless human can do, that is, you've got it."
"Thank you. Unfortunately, though, the only thing we can do right now is simply be where we are."
"Which brings us back to the first point: Why?"
"I can't be sure, not without a good stretch of time in which to study this, but Einar the self-styled scald just may know some interesting spells—"
"What, that raw-faced boy? He doesn't look as though he could complete a song, let alone cast the simplest—"
"He can't cast a spell at all. That doesn't mean that the runic magics he knows, or claims to know, won't work in the proper . . . ah . . . hands. Runic magic," Ardagh added, "is almost certainly what Osmod is using."
"There's more, isn't there?"
"There is. Cadwal, this isn't anything to which I can say yes or no, but . . . I still feel that there's more use to be made of these folk."
Cadwal lay back with a sigh. "Saesnig. Morfren. Tylwyth Teg. And now Lochlannach. God and all you saints up there, if ever I let even the smallest of words of boredom slip my lips, I'll not blame any of you for striking me mute on the spot!"
After a time, his breathing steadied, slowed. Asleep, Ardagh thought, and hopefully finally with a calm stomach.
The softest of wary sounds made him straighten, then get to his feet. Leaning lightly on the ship's rail, he said over his shoulder, "Jarl Thorkell."
The jarl moved carefully to his side, a nervous sideways glint of eye showing that he was impressed that Ardagh hadn't needed to turn to see who it was. "A pleasant night."
Now Ardagh did turn to him. A pleasant night was hardly accurate; the wind had died to a faint breeze, and the air was dank and heavy. "You did not come to me to discuss the weather."
"Ah . . . no." Thorkell hesitated a long while, leaning on the rail. "Awkward," he said at last, very softly. "But . . ."
"But you wish me to aid you in something. What?"
"I . . . you . . . you can guess that things have not been too easy for me lately." It was barely more than a wary whisper.
"After the failed raid."
Keen Sidhe night-vision saw the human's face redden. "Exactly," Thorkell said shortly. "I was able to man this ship again, but—"
"But you must have a successful raid or lose status. And so you are exploring new territory, seeing what you can find. What do you want of me, Jarl Thorkell?"
"I'm not ordering you, you understand; I wouldn't do anything that foolish, not with you being . . . what you are. But if you could somehow see your way clear to bringing us to something worthwhile . . ."
"To loot, you mean. I will," Ardagh said with great dignity, "do what I may." And there, you barbaric sea-thief, is a vague statement you may take as you will.
Thorkell, of course, took it as a guarantee of aid. "I knew my luck had turned again," he said, and his teeth flashed in a quick grin.
Ardagh, staring out over the sea, his face a mask of Sidhe calm, said nothing. But his thoughts were far from tranquil. He certainly wasn't about to help the Lochlannach find a target for their piracy. How long, though, before they realized his magic wasn't helping them? It was no easy thing to learn a new form of Power; even with the Language Spell hastening his understanding of Einar's runic spells (always assuming the would-be scald actually knew any), it would take some time to absorb them. And in such a finite, crowded space, just how much time did he have?
See the mighty Ljos Alfar. See his awesome Power.
Hah.
King Egbert of Wessex woke in wild alarm, for one panic-stricken moment sure he was under attack—
No. What had sounded in his sleep like screams of terror was nothing more than the muffled sobbing of his mistress, Leofrun, curled up there beside him like a frightened child.
And like a child, still asleep. Not sure if what he was feeling was pity or annoyance, Egbert touched her shoulder, shook her gently.
She came awake with a startled shriek.
"Hush, Leofrun. Hush, now. You're safe."
Leofrun fell into his arms, sobbing into his shoulder, "His eyes! His eyes!"
"Whose eyes?"
"His! The—the—the—Octa!"
Octa! Egbert felt a chill of pure atavistic terror race through him. Very carefully, he said, "Octa is dead, Leofrun."
"I know! He—he told me!"
Now Egbert sat bolt upright, pulling Leofrun up with him. Everyone knew that it was fools and saints who were visited by the Other World, and Leofrun, poor innocent, was hardly a saint. What if it really had been Octa? What if he was using Leofrun as his messenger?
"Stop snivelling, woman," Egbert commanded. "Stop it!" He waited an impatient moment while Leofrun struggled to control herself, then asked sharply, "What did you mean, he told you?"
"It w-was a dream. But it wasn't a dream! I mean, I— I saw him so very clearly. He told me he was dead, he told me that—that someone killed him!"
"That's ridiculous." Is it? Is it? The dead do sometimes point out their killers; even the Church doesn't deny such things can happen. But . . . Octa? He had no enemies! "Who would have done such a thing?"
"He—he—he wouldn't tell me."
Egbert let out his breath in a long sigh
of relief. "He wouldn't tell you. Octa came all the way back from— from wherever, told you he'd been killed—-then wouldn't tell you who had done it."
"Th-that's right."
Her eyes were innocent of any deceit. "Ach, Leofrun," Egbert said with helpless affection, and ruffled her hair as he would have played with a hound's ears. "My poor, dim Leofrun, look at me. Look." He took her head between his hands. "It was a dream. No more than that. Nothing but a dream."
"But . . ."
"Before you kill someone, my dear, you need to have a reason. No one would have had a reason to kill Octa." "But . . ."
"Think about it, Leofrun. Did anyone hate Octa? Did anyone ever, ever say anything bad about him?"
"No."
"See? A dream. Octa died in an accident. No one killed the poor fellow."
"But . . ."
"Enough." Egbert pulled Leofrun into his arms, not sure if he wanted to comfort her or cast her from his bed. And he felt her lips form a name against his shoulder:
"Osmod."
Egbert drew back, staring. "What?"
"I—I didn't say anything! I didn't!"
Looking into those innocent eyes, the king sighed again. "Of course you didn't. Never mind, Leofrun. I must have been mistaken."
Osmod? Osmod a murderer? God, if he believed that, he was as stupid as Leofrun. "Come here, woman," Egbert commanded, forcing a smile. "There are very pleasant ways to banish dreams."
Giggling, she fell into his arms.
Osmod sat alone in his bedchamber, stolen vitality hot as strong drink within him, and thought of all the work facing him. In the few short days that he'd been ill, Egbert had pulled almost totally free of his control.
My luck, he thought with dark humor. First an easygoing king with no ambition, now an ambitious king with a will of iron.
Forging the Runes Page 29