The creatures let out clattering shrieks and scattered at once, fleeing from the seemingly rabid black bear that raged toward them. But the Rashemaar warrior was faster still, falling upon the fish-men with rending claws and slashing fangs.
A wild shout went up behind him as the Northmen rallied. The uncanny frenzy that claimed Fyodor seemed to touch them as well, speeding their movements and bringing them onward in a valiant rush. For many moments the courtyard was a blur of flailing swords and axes as the Northmen cut down the invaders with relentless glee.
Meanwhile, behind the line of battle, Wedigar stirred, groaned, and wiped the merrow’s blood from his eyes. The sight in the courtyard beyond both thrilled and worried him. A new shapeshifter had come to Ruathym; his people would overcome the enemy—although with little credit to him. But the fighter put aside personal pride at once, for as he studied the young Rashemi’s unnatural rage, he realized this was no usual hamfariggen warrior. Wedigar was not at all certain the battle would stop when the sea creatures had been overcome.
The First Axe dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the thick wooden gate in the outer wall. For several long moments he strained at the bolt; it gave way with a shriek of metal. He tugged until the heavy door swung inward.
The surviving merrow and their sahuagin allies fled at once toward the offered escape. Still in bear form, Fyodor pursued, galloping after them and roaring in inhuman rage. Behind him roiled the Northmen berserkers, intent upon driving their enemies back into the sea.
Wedigar’s wife, Alfhilda, came running to him from the keep, her eyes frantic and her skirts flying. Her keen eyes swept over him, noting his sluggish movements and the shivering he could not control. She had been a warrior’s daughter before she was a warrior’s wife, and she knew well the signs of the numbing illness that came after battle wounds. She shrugged off her cape and wrapped it around her husband’s shoulders.
“It is done; it is enough,” Alfhilda pleaded. “Come and let me tend your hurts.”
“My sword,” he grated out.
The woman hesitated only a moment; then she hastened back to fetch the fallen weapon. Wedigar sheathed it, then put one arm around Alfhilda’s shoulders, accepting her offered strength. “I must get down to the water’s edge,” he said, grimacing as a new wave of pain struck him.
Alfhilda had heard the story of the Rashemi’s curse, and she followed her husband’s reasoning at once. The frenzies of Holgerstead’s warriors would cease when the enemy disappeared; Wedigar intended to ensure that Fyodor stopped fighting as well.
Alfhilda’s eyes were bright with a pain deeper than Wedigar’s as she helped her husband toward the coming battle, and perhaps toward death. Although she was justly proud of her husband’s battle prowess, she had seen the young Rashemi fight, and fear chilled her to her soul. But Wedigar had his duty, and she had hers. She would accept her husband’s choice and give him what aid she could.
By the time the struggling pair reached the shore, the last of the sahuagin were splashing frantically into the waves. The Ruathen berserkers ceased at once, some of them drooping with exhaustion, others chanting out victory songs. Only Fyodor was not appeased by the disappearance of the sea folk. Still in bear form and snarling with battle lust, he prowled back and forth along the shoreline.
“All of you, back to the fortress!” Wedigar commanded. The men eyed the raging shapeshifter and hesitated, made uncertain by their love and loyalty to their First Axe.
But the Northwoman seized the axe from her husband’s belt and brandished it. “Obey the First Axe, or die by a woman’s hand,” she shouted at them, her eyes blazing.
The men nodded and fell back, shamed into compliance by Alfhilda’s devotion and fortitude. Without a backward glance, she followed them into the fortress and threw her weight into helping to close the massive door that would bar her husband from the safety of the fortress.
Wedigar waited, his sword still in his scabbard, until the Rashemi in bear form at last turned away from the sea. The bear’s eyes, a bright and incongruous blue in his dark-furred face, burned with killing rage as they settled upon the wounded warrior.
For a long time they stood so. Then a shudder ran through the massive form of the bear, and the fur began to recede, disappearing into the pale-skinned body of a man. In moments Fyodor of Rashemen stood before Holgerstead’s First Axe, naked and white with exhaustion, but otherwise unhurt.
He looked at Wedigar with puzzlement, taking in the man’s many wounds, the hand poised on the hilt of his sword. Then understanding came, and he nodded slowly.
“You came here to kill me,” he whispered.
“Yes.”
The young berserker drew in a long, shuddering breath. “For this, I thank you,” he said simply.
Wedigar responded with a grim smile and shrugged off Alfhilda’s cloak. He handed it to the young warrior. As Fyodor wrapped it around himself, the First Axe swayed. “I am glad it was not needed,” he said in a fading voice. “You are now a true hamfarrigen, my friend, and trusted in this as in all other things.”
Fyodor caught Wedigar as he fell and slung the unconscious man over his shoulder. Slowly, painfully, he climbed the steep and rocky path that led back to the fortress village.
The door swung open to admit them. Several men rushed forward to take Wedigar from Fyodor’s hands, and they carried him into the keep to be tended by the village shaman. Following Alfhilda’s calm direction, the other villagers fell to work tending the wounded, building a funeral pyre for the dead, dragging the dead and wounded sea creatures down to the shore to be fed to the sharks—no honorable fire for them.
Garbed in shirt, breeches, and boots donated by some of his berserker brethren, Fyodor worked steadily beside them. His thoughts, however, were with his wounded friend. When Alfhilda came again into the courtyard to bring a report, Fyodor listened as avidly as any Holgersteader to her words.
“The shaman says Wedigar will live. His wounds, however, are many and grievous, and he will not fight for many days. He asks, therefore, that you accept Fyodor of Rashemen as First Axe in his stead, to lead you in battle until such time as he can resume his post. And there is more,” she said, lifting a hand to still the rising murmur of astonishment. “Wedigar names Fyodor as the heir to Holgerstead, according to the law and custom of this village, until the day the girl Dagmar bears him a shape-strong warrior son. I accept the customs of this land and the duties given my husband and lord,” she concluded softly. “Can you, his sworn men, do otherwise?”
Her face was regal; her eyes defied them to pity her. The men fell silent before the force of Alfhilda’s words and the depth of the proud woman’s devotion. Then, as one, they drew their weapons and laid them at Fyodor’s feet. In solemn unison, they echoed the pledge spoken by the stalwart Northwoman.
“To the First Axe of Holgerstead, all blades be pledged. In peace and in battle, we will follow.”
Fyodor stood, silent and stunned, as his berserker brethren pledged fealty. He could not repudiate the charge that Wedigar had laid upon him, but neither could he bear this burden for long. Although he had not turned on his comrades in his latest and most terrible battle frenzy, the sheer power of it horrified him. He had listened to Wedigar’s stories of the shapeshifting warriors, but it had never occurred to him that he himself might take on animal form. It was bad enough that he fought without consent of his will. This utter and complete loss of self was more than he could abide.
The Rashemi knew he would have to travel to Ruathym village the next day and tell Liriel all that had transpired. Unless the drow wizard could cast the rune successfully and soon, Fyodor felt he would have no choice but to seek out Wedigar and beg him to finish the task he was prepared to do at the water’s edge. The young berserker could not take his own life; this was strictly forbidden a warrior of Rashemen. Death was a gift that could come only at the hand of a trusted friend, or, perhaps, a swift and treacherous foe.
When the night’s gri
m work at last was done, Fyodor went to the room given him in the warriors’ lodge. He stripped off his borrowed clothing and fell gratefully into bed, too tired to care that the faces of slain multitudes would haunt his dreams.
A soft tap at the window roused him from slumber. Despite his exhaustion, Fyodor responded with a warrior’s reflexes. He was on his feet at once, his cudgel in hand. He hauled it high overhead as the shutter swung inward.
A pale head poked into the room, and light blue eyes grew wide as they fixed upon the ready weapon in his hands. Fyodor recognized the shaman’s daughter, and as he lowered his cudgel, he heaved a sigh of mingled relief and exasperation.
Dagmar crawled in through the low window and sank at once into a deep curtsy. “You saved my new home, Fyodor of Holgerstead, and no doubt my life as well. For this I thank you.”
“I accept your thanks,” he murmured with a wry smile, “but could they not have waited until morning?”
The woman rose swiftly to full height and met his eyes. “Not as I would wish to express them,” she said frankly.
Her meaning was unmistakable. Fyodor fell back a step, and suddenly he remembered he was unclad. He reached for Wedigar’s cloak and wrapped it around him.
“The mantle of First Axe suits you well,” she said, “but it is not needed just now.” With these words she parted the folds of the cloak and laid both palms upon the young man’s chest.
Fyodor caught her wrists and put her hands gently away. “You are Wedigar’s pledged bride,” he said softly.
“And you are his pledged heir. It is expected.”
Fyodor dug a hand into his hair and stared helplessly at the girl. He had not imagined anything like this might come with the role he’d accepted! And yet, it seemed to him that the Northwoman’s words held little truth. He lifted one eyebrow and fixed a skeptical gaze upon her.
The young woman sighed and then shrugged. “Very well, perhaps it is not the expected custom. But there must be an heir to Holgerstead—a hamfariggen warrior who can lead the berserkers in battle. The oracles say I can bear such a son. If you give me a child, I could leave this household and go back to my village with honor. It would be a gift,” she said softly, her pale eyes pleading. “To Holgerstead, to all of Ruathym. To me. Even to Wedigar,” she concluded with a touch of bitterness.
Fyodor knew a surge of pity for the young woman, for Wedigar was not a man for pretense, and it was clear to all that the First Axe was not happy about the need to take a second wife. And having witnessed Alfhilda’s courage and loyalty, Fyodor did not wonder that Wedigar had eyes for no other woman. Not even one as undeniably beautiful as Dagmar.
As if sensing the path Fyodor’s thoughts had taken, the young woman stepped away from him and began to tug at the laces that fastened her overtunic. She stripped off gown and blouse quickly, then raked her hands through her braids until her hair fell into long golden waves. The faint light of a crescent moon filtered in through the window, glimmering on her pale hair and white skin. She went to his bed and lay down upon it.
“A gift,” she repeated softly.
For a moment the young man was honestly tempted. But an emotion stronger than sympathy, deeper than desire, ruled Fyodor’s heart. He reached for his discarded clothing. Dagmar watched with despairing eyes as he dressed and gathered up his belongings.
“But why?” she demanded. “Why do you leave? Are you not like other men, that you do not take pleasures freely offered? Or am I displeasing to you—is that it?”
“You are most beautiful; no one who is truly a man could deny that. But I cannot betray a friend,” he responded as he walked to the door.
“But you would not! Wedigar would surely thank you!”
Fyodor paused in the doorway and turned back to face the Northwoman. “I was speaking not of Wedigar, but of Liriel.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE PRICE OF POWER
It was nearly dawn when Fyodor caught sight of the roofs of Ruathym village. A rustle in the bushes along the path caught his attention and, before he could draw a weapon, Liriel sprang out onto the path, her dark face joyful. She ran to meet him and threw herself into his arms.
Fyodor was accustomed to such gestures from the impulsive drow. She always drew away quickly, like lighting that flares and retreats. But this time she seemed to be in no hurry to part. Her arms were flung tightly about his neck, and her breath felt warm through the linen of his shirt.
Although he was loath to end the embrace, Fyodor buried his hands in the drow’s wild, snow-colored hair and tilted her face up so he could meet her eyes. “There are things I must tell you,” he said somberly.
Liriel responded with a smile that warmed his blood and sent it singing urgently through his veins.
“There are those who think, and those who dream,” she mocked him softly, “and then there are those who talk too damn much!”
Fyodor’s answering smile was slow and incredulous. “It seems we have even more to talk about than I imagined.”
“Words can wait,” she murmured, and the young man found himself in complete agreement.
Impulsively he swept the dark-elven girl into his arms and carried her off into the forest. To his surprise Liriel did not object. Indeed, she guided his path with whispered directions and sped his step with promises that would have seemed improbable had he not witnessed some of the other wonders of which she was capable. And in the moments when she did not speak, her lips and teeth found keenly sensitive places on his neck and throat and ears that he had not known he possessed. Sometimes gently, sometimes not, she teased him to near madness. Fyodor did not know how far they traveled—a few steps would have seemed as endlessly long to him as a league—but at last Liriel wriggled free of his grasp.
They came to each other at the foot of an ancient oak. For once Fyodor did not think of the vast differences between them or of the unresolved emotions that had haunted him since their last, ill-fated encounter. He cared only that this time there was no fear in Liriel’s golden eyes. Their union was like nothing he had ever known or imagined—a fierce and joyful thing that in its own way rivaled the abandon of his berserker rage. But this he chose, and with all of his heart.
Much later, Fyodor stroked Liriel’s damp curls and watched her as she slept. He himself had no desire to sleep. Never had he felt so alive. For the first time, he allowed himself to admit that he loved this little elf woman, and he even dared to hope she might return his love.
There was also something about this place that quickened Fyodor’s fey senses. He knew nothing of wizardly spells and did not pretend to understand the magic that Rashemen’s Witches wielded with such fearful authority, but he could feel the natural magic that lingered in certain glades and springs. Never, not even in the Witches’ spelltower that overlooked the enchanted Lake Ashane, had he felt such power in a place. His eyes lifted to the soaring branches of the oak tree overhead, and suddenly he understood why Liriel had chosen to bring him to this place.
“Little raven,” he said softly. The sleeping drow’s eyes flashed open, and she regarded him alertly. “This is Yggsdrasil’s Child, is it not?”
She sat up and regarded him with a brilliant smile. “You can feel it, then. That is a good sign.”
Fyodor reached out and took her hands. “This I must know: what happened, to make such a change in you?”
The drow did not need to ask what he meant. “I tried to cast the rune and could not. Until then I’d thought of myself as the keeper of your quest and mine. That lesson was hard enough to learn,” she added wryly.
Fyodor nodded, recalling how difficult it had been for the drow to expand her dream to include his. “And now?”
“I realized we must be as one if either quest is to succeed. The rune is not mine only. There are things I need of you,” she admitted.
“Whatever you need, the same is yours,” he promised softly. “And now that you know this, you are ready to cast the rune?”
Liriel did not miss
the note of concern in Fyodor’s voice. Something had happened to add urgency to their quest. “Tell me,” she demanded.
And so he did, leaving out nothing. The drow listened thoughtfully, her dismay mounting as he described the new turn his curse had taken. She had fought Wedigar in the form of a giant hawk; she did not want to know what sort of destruction a shapeshifting Fyodor could leave behind.
“I will cast the rune,” she said with more conviction than she felt. She cast a glance up at the sky; already the sunset colors stained the west. “But I will need time to prepare. If the lore books speak true, a trance will come upon me, and I will carve the rune upon the tree unknowing. Will you stand guard?”
“As long as you need,” he agreed.
The drow nodded and began the concentration needed for the casting. She sought the power of the ancient oak, the symbolic embodiment of all life, and sank into it. As she went deeper, the days and nights of her rune quest came back to her in vivid detail, each event and sorrow and joy giving shape to the rune she must use. But try as she might, she could not envision the rune in its entirety.
After a time—perhaps a short time, perhaps not—the drow abandoned this attempt. She did not try to shape the rune, but focused instead on the powers she wished to reclaim, and the need to exorcise the errant magic that kept Fyodor from being the warrior he was meant to be. She chanted her goals silently, and the chant grew in intensity as something dark and compelling slipped into her silent voice. The magic of Rashemen, the magic of the drow. Fearful things both, they combined in a way that Liriel did not understand, sweeping her away into a trance that went beyond mere meditation, beyond spellcasting.
No longer ordering her own movements, Liriel watched as if from a high place—as if from all places—as her physical being took the Windwalker amulet from its chain and placed the tiny chisel against the tree. Her hands moved swiftly, surely, but she did not know what marks she made. All she knew for certain was that the faint blue light emanating from her amulet’s sheath—the captured magic of the Underdark—faded steadily as she worked. Her conscious thoughts ebbed slowly away, too; this she expected, for in her mind she and her dark-elven magic were inseparable parts of one whole. At last the blue light flickered and died. The empty amulet dropped from Liriel’s nerveless hands, and the drow followed it into the darkness.
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