Forging the Runes

by Josepha Sherman

  They'd escaped.

  "At least we're not out-and-out thieves," Cadwal muttered, his face faintly green from the boat's motion. "At least we've given the villagers some repayment by rousing them; they'll be ready for the Lochlannach."

  But Ardagh, trimming the sail, wasn't really listening.

  Be wary, Osmod. Be wary, for what good it will do you, for I am coming after you at last.

  They came ashore on a rocky little stretch of beach, landing so roughly that Cadwal nearly went right over the side onto the rough sand. "We're here," he said dryly, pulling himself back on board with Ardagh's help. "But where here may be—somewhere back in Cymru, I'd guess."

  "Probably."

  "Now what? It's going to be a long walk to Wessex."

  "Now," Ardagh said, leaping lithely down onto the beach with a crunching of sand, "we go hunting suitable branches so that I can carve myself a set of runes. After that, ae-yi, the way things have been going, I'm sure we'll find some swift and unexpected means of transport!"

  "Wonderful. Can't wait."

  The prince raised an amused eyebrow at that flat sarcasm, but said only, "Enough speculations. Come, friend Cadwal, let us go hunting branches."

  Osmod swept a sly sideways glance over his ealdorman fellow as they strolled together through the royal enclosure. Big, loud and full of bluster, this Eadwig—and usefully weak of will.

  ". . . and so," Osmod continued, dipping his head courteously to this lord and that lady as they went, "we must consider not only the insult to the kingdom but the insult to you as well."

  He put only the smallest trace of emphasis on that "you," knowing that was all he needed, and managed not to smile at his target's sudden frown.

  "Insult to me?" Eadwig blustered. "How so?"

  Look at him, large and florid as some pagan warrior of Wotan. No, no, like an ox from Wotan's feasts. "It's very clear," Osmod said, one man of the world to another. "Any insult to Wessex—and Mercia, by its sly, dishonorable actions has definitely offered insult—any insult to Wessex is an open offense to the Witan—to you."

  There, now, that was convoluted enough to nicely confuse Eadwig. The man could only seize upon the most obvious: that his honor had been insulted and must be avenged. Osmod listened to him splutter, and smiled inwardly.

  He is mine. "No. We can't act, not quite yet. You understand, ealdorman, of course you understand, that the Witan and the king must be ready to act as one."

  Ha, yes, look at this. Eadwig was promising to do his best, and meaning what he said. Not the most politic of tools, maybe, but as useful as any other tool. The work of swaying the Witan, man by man, was going painfully slowly—but by all the Lords of Darkness, it was going well.

  No more work with this tool, though, at least not right now. Push too hard, Osmod had already discovered, and his delicate web of a spell tore apart. Excusing himself with a cheerful smile, leaving Eadwig to ponder and try to understand what had just happened (or what he thought had just happened, which was far from the same thing), Osmod returned to his hall.

  One more divination, just to be sure things continue going well.

  He set the proper Wards then spread the white cloth in his bedchamber. Holding the runes in his hand, Osmod murmured the proper spells, then cast the runes and bent to read what he had cast. . . .

  Prince Ardagh. Bah, of course Prince Ardagh! The man seemed determined to thrust himself into every divination. But it hardly mattered, since Prince Ardagh was safely somewhere out at sea—

  No. Osmod stared at the runes, then gathered them up and cast them anew. And got an almost identical reading.

  He was coming back. Prince Ardagh was coming back to Wessex.

  "Damn him, damn him!" Osmod gasped, all at once so overwhelmed by a blazing storm of rage that he could barely breathe. No, no, he mustn't let himself lose control, not now, not with the runes still so charged with Power!

  Struggling out of the hot red madness, Osmod forced himself, shaking, heart racing, back to some measure of calmness, amazed and terrified at his own overreaction.

  And then he knew in a sudden wild flash of comprehension what all this meant, just why he was feeling this all-out-of-proportion rage, why he felt it every time the runes showed him the prince.

  It's not just me, but the Lords of Darkness, it has to be the Lords of Darkness or Whatever They represent. They're—Something—is real. He started to his feet, fell back, still too stunned to stand. It's the Lords of Darkness who hate the prince so terribly, so—so irrationally. No, not irrationally, inhumanly. That's it, almost—almost as though They see the prince as a barrier to Their plans— which, he prayed, coincided with his own—no, no, more than that, it's as though They know that Prince Ardagh isn't even human, as though he doesn't even belong in this world!

  Ach, no and no again. That was ridiculous, that was more than ridiculous, that was just too impossible to even consider, and he was not going to let himself keep babbling like some hysterical woman.

  But . . . the Darkness . . . a sentient force or forces . . . this explained so much. Osmod, struggling again to rise, sat back down with a jolt as he took in what could only be total truth:

  The Lords of Darkness were, indeed, real, and he— ach, he was their vessel. Or maybe vassal? The Lords of Darkness certainly did seem to agree with him that his plans for conquest were well and right—or maybe it was the Darkness itself that had put the ambition into his mind.

  No, no, he wasn't going to start wondering like that; such dithering over details led to madness.

  Dithering, yes. No wonder I was hesitating so long under Beortric's reign. No wonder it took me such a time to focus my will, my desire. It could not have been an easy thing for the Lords to merge Their so much more than human will with mine.

  That stunned him anew. For a moment, Osmod could do nothing more than try to accept that what this all meant was that the Darkness owned him, that the Darkness lorded over him even as he lorded over the common folk, for that one moment it was so terrifying, so alien that the blood thundered in his ears and his breath caught in his chest.

  But as suddenly as it had come, the horror was gone. Still sitting where he'd collapsed, Osmod began to laugh, weakly at first, then with genuine humor. Terrifying?

  Horrible? Oh no, nothing could be further from terror! Think of it, think of it! Who else in all the history of the world had ever had such allies? With Power such as this behind him, who could possibly ever fail?

  Partial Power, Osmod thought with sudden slyness. After all, if the Lords of Darkness were so almighty, why oh why couldn't They act directly? If They were so all-powerful, why did They need a human to act for Them?

  There we have it. Not a slave, not me. An ally, indeed. They need me and I need them. Fair enough.

  "Let the prince return." It was said both to himself and to Whatever might be listening. "He has no Power here. Let Prince Ardagh return. And let him," Osmod added, this time welcoming a new surge of that hot, definitely inhuman rage, "let him once and for all, die!"

  This was, Ardagh thought hopefully, perched halfway up an oak, legs locked about the trunk and dagger in hand, the last branch he was going to need for the runes. He was growing thoroughly weary of playing squirrel, particularly in this continual gentle drizzle that made the trees treacherously slippery. Yes, and he was weary of constantly rousing then quenching his Power all the while chanting the necessary ritual with each cutting. This was oak, now, a good, useful, magical tree, and yes, only one rune left:

  "Hail to thee, oh mighty oak. I bid thee give this branch And into to send thy strength, To bind the might of bright rune . . ."

  Which one? Which one? "Algiz!" the prince finished triumphantly.

  He cut the mercifully small branch free with a determined slash of his dagger, feeling the little prickle of Power working right, thinking at the same time with a touch of Sidhe indignation that a royal blade was never meant for such menial work as this. Fortunate that its silver alloy was,
like the blade of his matching Sidhe sword, remarkably resilient even in this human Realm.

  Ae-yi, now to actually carve the runes. The prince scrambled down to the ground, leafy prize in hand. Einar had implied that the carving should ideally be done with the season and phase of moon in mind. Ardagh shrugged. There wasn't much he could do about the former, and as for the latter, ae, well, he'd just have to trust that his Sidhe heritage outweighed any such obstacles.

  For a long while the prince lost himself in his carving work, sheltered from the drizzle under the oak's wide branches, unaware of anything but the cutting of the runes into green, slippery wood without cutting his own flesh as well.

  This is complicated enough as it is. I don't want to risk adding blood—particularly not my own—to it!

  Ah, there. At last. Ardagh wiped his dagger clean, sheathed it, and looked up from his work with a satisfied smile.

  "Done?" Cadwal asked.

  "Done." Granted, the runes he'd cut were rather unpolished, offending his Sidhe sensibilities by their crudeness, but they were as accurate as his Sidhe memory could make them. "According to Einar," he added, turning the bits of wood over in his hand, "I'm supposed to stain them with something permanent, preferably red paint, but the carvings alone will have to do."

  "Now what? Any more ritual?"

  Ardagh glanced up from the runes at the brittleness all at once in the human's voice. "Cadwal, I'm sorry," he said suddenly, rather surprising himself. "I never meant to drag you through all this madness."

  "Och, well, doesn't look as though either of us had much choice in the matter. But thank you."

  "You . . . could leave. Return to Eriu. You'd know better than I about such things, but I'd guess that there are fishing boats along this coast that could be hired."

  "What, and miss seeing how all this craziness comes out? Besides," Cadwal continued much more seriously, "if I hadn't come with you, I never would have learned the truth about. . . you know . . . about Gwen. Yes, and sired a—a son, either. And as for Eriu, it's my sanctuary threatened as well as yours, remember." He shrugged. "Who knows? You just may need someone guarding your back while you're battling the sorcerer."

  "Ah. Good point."

  "Tell you what," the mercenary added with a sudden grin. "When we get back to Eriu, we'll have ourselves a good, rousing drunk."

  That startled Ardagh into a genuine laugh. "I must admit that sounds positively splendid." He uncoiled back to his feet, scooping up the runes in both hands. "Right now there is one more ritual to be done: the one that sparks these things into life—or in this hybrid case links them with my Power."

  "You sure it will work?"

  Ardagh hesitated. "Not at all. But life is, after all, one big experiment, isn't it?"

  "Heh."

  The prince turned away. This was, for all that he was trying to make it sound reassuringly easy for Cadwal's sake, the most perilous point: the linking of two disparate forces into one. It might well work. But if it didn't, if the two forms of Power tore free—

  If that happens, Ardagh told himself with Sidhe pragmatism, I won't be around to worry about it.

  So be it. He might as well use his native language rather than trying to work with the double strain of unfamiliar magic and a foreign tongue. He was already changing the basic wording as it was. If this added an additional element of peril—

  Again, so be it.

  Taking a deep breath, emptying his mind of everything but the runes and his own will, Ardagh began his chant.

  "I am a staff for rays of runic might.

  I shape the might from the depth of the sea

  I shape the might from the womb of the earth

  I shape the might from the highest heights."

  He took a second steadying breath and continued:

  "Fiery Fehu flow through me,

  Ur shape my rune-might,

  Madr unbind the flow of Power,

  Rune-might meet in me and blaze

  where I will it sent,

  Rune-might stream from me,

  Rune-might stream to me,

  Rune-might work in me!

  Rune-might work through me!

  Rune-might be mine!"

  Ae, Powers, Powers, the wildfire blazing through him! It was agony and fierce delight, light, dark, fire, ice, all in one insane, wondrous rush. Ardagh stood with head thrown back, arms flung up, feeling strength flying from sky to earth, from earth to sky, with himself in the midst of it all, the center, the focus, the—

  —sense that Something was aware of him, Something of the Darkness and—

  —the next clear realization was that he lay crumpled on the ground with not the slightest memory of having fallen, with a panicky Cadwal standing over him, not quite daring to touch him.

  "I'm all right," Ardagh gasped out, hearing his voice come out strained and harsh. "Give me . . . give me a moment . . . catch my breath."

  "Right. Anything you say."

  Slowly the prince's swimming senses cleared. Slowly he came back to himself and left the wildness of the elements behind. And the . . . Darkness? Had that really been a touch of living Darkness he'd sensed? Ardagh could remember far too well his encounters with the demon Arridu. Had that one . . . ?

  No. Impossible. There was no linking spell or ring or anything else between that ugly non-Realm and this. The sudden unexpected blaze of wildfire Power had confused even Sidhe senses.

  Powers. Just how close did I come to burning out my mind? He ached not so much in body as in being, and the new knowledge of the runes and how to use them lay like coils of fire along his nerves. Ardagh shuddered, shuddered again, willing himself back into peace with himself, sending a tentative wisp of will into his being, puzzling out what was changed.

  Ah. Unfortunately, it wasn't that he had actually gained any Power; there wasn't that much new Power to be gained from this Realm. But what he had gained, Ardagh realized as his mind and body and self came back together, was a very real, very new way of using what magic there was.

  It works, he knew without having to test that knowledge. What Einar taught me works. This strange new runic weapon is mine. Granted, he would have to practice its use, get used to the feel of it; he wasn't vain enough to think himself totally proficient overnight. But I do, at least, hold the weapon. I am armed against Osmod at last.

  Old Friends

  Chapter 33

  Sorcha ni Fothad took a deep breath there in the fields of Fremainn, trying desperately to calm herself, very much aware that King Aedh was watching her, waiting with regal patience. This was the most suitable place for them to meet; king or no, it would not have been proper for them to be closeted together, no matter for what purpose. Aedh also had made it clear that he didn't wish anyone to think Sorcha a spy reporting to her employer.

  Knowing the royal consideration for her status didn't make this any simpler to say. "It's true," she managed at last. "I've just come from speaking with him, with Ardagh, and—and—I know this sounds impossible, but he and Cadwal have left the Lochlannach ship after a storm that everyone thinks Ardagh caused but of course he didn't because—"

  "Slowly, lass, slowly. You're overwhelming me."

  "I—I'm sorry. I was a bit overwhelmed myself." She took another hopefully steadying breath, brushed a straying red braid back over her shoulder, then began again. "Ardagh and Cadwal left Cymru aboard that Lochlannach ship."

  "Yes. You've already told me that much."

  "Och, of course. But the ship was becalmed, and the raiders called on Ardagh to conjure a wind—"

  "Which, I take it, he can't do."

  "No."

  "A pity," the king said blandly. "It would be so convenient to have him just . . . blow my enemies away. But please, continue. I assume they got their wind." He raised an eyebrow at her reaction. "More than a wind?"

  "A good deal more. A storm, one that wrecked them. Ardagh and Cadwal escaped during the rebuilding, and as far as I can tell, are now back in Cymru." She waved a
helpless hand. "Something about a stolen fishing boat."

  "Cymru. They're not planning to return to Wessex and try a second shot at swaying King Egbert, are they?"

  Sorcha shivered. "It's far more complicated than that. You see, after the storm, the Lochlannach were in awe of Ardagh."

  "I don't blame them! The great and terrible sorcerer who can call down the storm winds—I'd be in awe of such a fellow, too. Perilous game, though; You're only as important as your last—no sacrilege meant," Aedh added with a wry glance heavenward, "miracle."

  "Yes, well, Ardagh took advantage of it. And he— they—he—och, let me try this again. Ardagh got the Lochlannach to agree never to attack Eriu again."

  That gave Sorcha the doubtful satisfaction of seeing Aedh actually stunned into openmouthed silence. At last he asked, very carefully, "Does he think this . . . ah . . . treaty will hold?"

  "For a time, yes. The Lochlannach attitude seemed to be that it was no difficult thing to raid other lands instead."

  Aedh let out his breath in a slow sigh. "He asks them to stop raiding us, and they agree. Raiders who have no fear of God or man, he asks them to stop, and they just up and agree." The king shook his head. "Bizarre. God, yes, but I can believe it. It's just bizarre enough to be true." He shook his head again. "Then our peripatetic prince will be heading back to Eriu after all."

  "Ah . . . no," Sorcha said, and to her mortification, felt her eyes well up with tears. "He—he really is headed back to Wessex."

  "Wessex! Why? If what he says about the Lochlannach is true—yes, yes, I know Prince Ardagh cannot lie. But doesn't he see that if those sea-thieves really are going to leave Eriu untouched, there's no need for a foreign alliance?"

  "I don't think that's why he's returning."

  "God in heaven," Aedh erupted, "now what? A feud. He's started a personal feud. Tell me I'm wrong."