by Ann Marston
Originally, I’d had no intention of becoming embroiled in the fray. The day has not yet dawned when one Tyran clansman could not handle at least four Isgardian troopers in a tavern brawl. If Cullin had need of my assistance, he’d call for it. So I had snatched my ale mug and the full flask out of danger, and hopped up to sit on the bar. I tucked my feet under me, sitting tailor-fashion, content to watch the entertainment.
Cullin dav Medroch was an impressive sight when annoyed. Grace and economy of motion in action, and worthy of admiration. I was enjoying myself immensely until I suddenly caught a whiff of a distinctive stench in the air, sharp and unmistakable as the scent of impending lightning and thunder before a storm. I straightened and glanced around, frowning.
Magic. I hate magic. It set the hair on my arms and the back of my neck prickling, a deep chill knotting in my belly.
Hackles rising like a wolf, I looked quickly for the source, and found a young Maeduni hedge wizard, little more than a boy, unsure and hesitant, yet eager to prove himself. Young and untried he might be, but he was fully capable of weaving magic enough to put paid to Cullin’s fighting ability. The boy hurriedly fashioned his spell even as I watched. Swearing, I carefully set down the mug and flask, and slid off the bar top with reluctant resignation. Cullin would doubtless be upset with me if I let a half-grown Maeduni spell weaver deprive him of a good brawl. I picked up a convenient tin mug and dented it against the back of the young hedge wizard’s head, wasting a pint of sour ale in the process. It discouraged his enthusiasm for joining in on the excitement. That was when the Isgardian trooper chose to try to decapitate me. So much for my resolve to let Cullin have the pleasure of redressing his own insults.
I ducked under the Isgardian’s arm as his sword swung in a wide arc that surely would have removed my head had it landed. But swords are notoriously unhandy weapons for close fighting, and the trooper was off balance and not seeing too clearly, being awash in sour ale.
“Kian! Your back!” Cullin’s voice sounded clearly over the uproar in the tavern.
I grabbed the Isgardian’s wrist as he stumbled by me and swung him around. As he lurched past, I caught him by the neck of his jerkin and the seat of his breeks, and tossed him into the Maeduni mercenary who had launched himself at my back. The Isgardian met the Maeduni in mid-leap and both of them went sprawling to the hard-packed dirt floor in a tangle of arms and legs.
Kilts flying, Cullin leaped over the two spraddled bodies, and sailed past me to bury his shoulder in the belly of another Isgardian soldier. The soldier made a strangled sound as all the air exploded out of his lungs, and he crashed back onto the only unsmashed table in the tavern. The flimsy table, like the others, did not weather the collision well. It collapsed under the combined weight of Cullin and the soldier. I winced and put a hand to my own belly in sympathy. I wouldn’t want sixteen stone of joyously irate clansman barrelling into me like that. It was likely extremely uncomfortable. Mayhap even a trifle painful.
Cullin extracted himself from the resultant kindling, climbed to his feet and meticulously straightened his kilt and plaid. Except for the tavern keeper and the barmaid, we appeared to be the only two people in the tavern still standing. The dismayed tavern keeper, huddled safe with the barmaid behind the bar, looked to be near apoplexy as he surveyed the ruin of his tavern.
I snapped the hair out of my eyes and grinned at Cullin. “You’d be getting old I expect, ti’vati,” I said. “Five years ago, you could have handled twice as many all by yourself.”
Affronted, Cullin assumed a pained expression. He drew himself up to the full of his considerable height. Even dishevelled and disarrayed as he was, Cullin dav Medroch was impressive. Any Tyran clansman looks imposing in kilts, full-sleeved shirt and knee-length soft boots, his plaid pinned at his right shoulder by a clan badge, but Cullin looked fiercer than most. His bright red hair falling loose to his shoulders except for the single braid at his left temple, the light of battle still illuminating his face, he looked magnificent. The emerald dangling from his left ear glittered the same colour as his eyes in the dim, smoky light. He breathed only a little deeper than usual.
“Were I not drunk,” he said with great dignity, “I should not have needed any intervention on my behalf from a mere lad like yourself.”
“Mere lad,” I said in disgust. I was just barely shorter than he, although I weighed slightly more than two stone less. I was certainly no mere lad.
“It was, after all, my kilt he scoffed at,” he said. “It was my fight.”
“Aye. It was. Until that hatchling wizard decided to addle what wits you still retain.”
He considered that information gravely, then dismissed it. He shrugged. “He failed.”
“Only because he found my argument persuasive.”
“Aye. Or mayhap powerfully distractive.”
“Aye. Mayhap.” I straightened my own kilt and settled the plaid aright on my shoulder, then grinned at him. I stooped to pluck an unbroken ale mug from the debris, filled it from the rescued flask and handed it to him. “What do you intend to do about this mess?”
He nudged a limp Isgardian with the toe of his boot. The man made a snoring sound and Cullin grinned. “They will no doubt in good time be collected by someone whose appointed station in life is to take care of such disagreeable tasks,” he said. “Leave them. They look comfortable enough, do they no?” He drained the mug and let it fall to the floor.
“Oy!” the tavern keeper cried as we turned to leave. “What about this damage to me place? It’ll cost me twenty silver to fix it.”
Cullin crossed the room to lean negligently on the bar. He grinned and, in the face of that vast display of white teeth, the tavern keeper shrank back among the casks of ale and wine stacked behind the bar.
“Little man,” Cullin said softly, “for twenty silver, I could buy this palatial establishment and, no doubt, your toothsome daughter there.” He jerked his chin at the barmaid. The girl took a startled step backward, turning first white at the threat, then pink at the compliment.
Not to be diverted when the subject was chiming silver, the tavern keeper bared his own teeth in an ingratiating grin. “Sir, your pardon I beg of you. But this poor tavern be all I have to support a wife and eight squalling young’uns.”
I bent and relieved three of the inert bodies of their slender purses, and tossed them to Cullin. He plucked them out of the air with one big hand, hardly bothering to look, and spilled their contents on the scarred and stained planking of the bar. He frowned at them, stirring the pile of mixed coins thoughtfully with a blunt forefinger, then took two silver from his own purse and added them to the pile of coppers and silvers.
“That should be enough,” he said. “I’m loathe to think I be the cause of a man’s brats crying hungry.”
The tavern keeper’s hands were but a blur of motion as he scooped the coins from the bar and stashed them safely. “I thank ye, kind sir,” he said with another obsequious smile. His teeth were bad and showed black gaps. “Be sure I’ll tell of the generosity of Tyran clansmen.”
“Ye’ll no see verra many of us if ye dinna stop selling that horrid sour ale,” Cullin said. He pushed himself away from the bar and grinned at me. “A decent inn, I think, Kian,” he said. “With good food and excellent wine. What say you to that?”
“I’m agreeable,” I said.
He flung his arm about my neck and laughed as we stepped over the clutter of broken tables, shattered stools and sprawling bodies to the door. “And a woman or two,” he said. “A couple of soft, tender, sweet-smelling women.” He laughed again. “That’ll do for me, then. Ye’ll have to find your own.”
We found a good inn. It was expensive as were all good inns in any seaport, and Honandun was no exception. But we were heavy with silver paid by the merchants for delivering the goods train safely to the city. It had been a long trip from Banhapetsut, and a hectic one. I bore a new scar on my ribs from a bandit’s arrow, and Cullin’s hardened leather
left wrist guard was ruined by a lucky knife thrust. The bonus in gold had been well and truly earned this trip.
We had just finished a well-prepared meal with a fine Borlani wine when I heard Cullin make an appreciative soft whistling sound. I turned toward the door in time to see a woman enter the common room. The man who accompanied her was as nondescript as the woman was memorable.
Oddly enough, I had seen her before. Only that morning as we escorted the goods train to the waiting ship. Tall and richly dressed, she had been disembarking from a newly arrived ship as Cullin and I rode past behind the string of pack animals. What struck me about the woman was not her beauty, for beautiful she was not. Her features, even though regular and well defined, were far too strong for beauty. Handsome, mayhap. Certainly striking. She carried herself with an ease and a competence more common in a man than a woman. She was tall for a woman, as graceful and purposeful when she moved as the wing of a seagull.
As I guided my horse through the throng, she had looked up and our eyes met. A shock of startled recognition quivered through me. Those eyes were the same colour as my own, a deep, golden brown, as uncommon in these parts as blue pearls. But her hair was a rich, dark honey gold with no trace of the rust-red of mine in it. She wore it braided and drawn severely back from the bold planes of her face, caught up in a netting of woven gold thread.
She did not smile, nor did she drop her gaze as a modest Isgardian woman would. Neither did she look away. Instead, her gaze held mine for a long moment. I felt a sense of challenge in her. I was the one who finally broke the contact. When I looked back moments later, she had vanished into the crowd.
Cullin’s chuckle brought me out of my reverie with a start. I realized I was still staring at the woman, who had been escorted to a table by her companion. She looked up, caught me watching her. Her expression didn’t change as she looked away without haste, obviously dismissing me as a negligible annoyance.
“Not that one, lad,” Cullin said with quiet amusement. “That one’s too like my lovely wife. You’d abrade yourself on her inflexible will if you tried holding that one on your lap.”
Cullin had left Gwynna at the Clanhold six seasons ago with a passionate embrace, but more than happy enough to leave her to go on about his own affairs. Gwynna, he often remarked, had the face and body of a goddess, and the disposition of a mountain cat. “A pity, that, and I’m too often like a bear too soon out of hibernation,” he said. “But between us, we make beautiful daughters.”
He raised his hand casually. One of the serving girls darted over to refill his cup with the pale, crisp wine. Her pert and saucy mouth curved upward as she bent closer to him than was strictly necessary. Before she straightened, she flipped back her profusion of dark curls and whispered something I didn’t catch into Cullin’s ear. He smiled and shook his head. She stepped back, and he picked up a half-silver and flipped it to her. She caught it, laughing, and walked away, her hips swinging outrageously.
Presently, he stood up and stretched. “Bed for me, I think,” he said. “Are you coming?”
“In a moment,” I replied.
The serving girl hurried across the room to intercept him as he headed for the stairs to the sleeping rooms. She caught his arm, smiling impudently at him. He laughed, then turned her around and gave her a gentle swat on the bottom. She walked back to the serving counter, pouting, and Cullin climbed the stairs, still laughing.
I had another flask of wine, watching the serving girls. They were all pretty, but I decided I was too fuzzy around the edges to trust my judgment. I might not be able to pick a woman who would not try to leave with my silver in the small hours, so I simply made my way up to the room, pausing only briefly on my way up the stairs to glance again at the woman with the strange eyes. She did not look back.
The room was clean and comfortable, the bed linen freshly changed. I ordered a hot bath to rinse away the dust of three seasons travel that the bitter cold water of river and pond had missed, then slipped naked between the sheets of the bed. Before I became too comfortable, out of habit, I made sure my sword and dagger were within easy reach of my hand, then closed my eyes and let sleep take me.
VIII
For the first time in many years, I dreamed again of a gently symmetrical hill, lush with grass, rising against a sky streaked with the brilliant colours of sunset. At the top, settled like a crown on the brow of the hill, stood a dance of stones. Tall, blunt menhirs, crowned in pairs by massive capstones, rose starkly against the vivid sky. Within the outer circle of the ring stood a second one, the stones shorter, but crowned all around. And within the second circle, an inner horseshoe shape of taller, narrow stones, enfolding within it a polished black altar stone, like a jewel cradled safely in cupped hands.
The scent of fresh, growing things rose around me like a haze—the crushed grass I stood upon, the perfume of moving water nearby, the fragrance of wildflowers. I breathed the air deeply into my lungs, drawing strength and life from it.
Power radiated from the Dance. Power that flowed into my bones, into my flesh, into my sinews like music. There was magic here, but it was a gentle magic, a magic that sang in my blood. It reached into me and tapped the same centred well I drew on when I needed healing power to visualize my hurts—or those of others—as whole again. It resonated with that inner energy as flute and harp combine into harmony. Surrounded and wrapped by peace and contentment, I watched the sky fade to dusk behind the circle.
As the last light faded, for the first time, I noticed the man by the altar. He stood with his back to me, paying me no attention at all, giving no sign he realized I was there. He stood casually and easily, relaxed and comfortable, yet straight as one of the menhirs. He gave no outward signs of either patience or impatience, but I knew he was waiting, and had waited a long time there by the altar. He simply stood in communion with the power of the circle and waited.
A soft footfall sounded in the grass behind me. Expecting to see the Swordmaster, I turned slowly and raised my sword to meet the challenge. The dark figure of a man stood silhouetted against the timeless glow of the sky. A brief jolt of surprise shot through my chest. Not the Swordmaster, this figure stood bathed in an aura of menace. The sword in his hand radiated darkness, spilling it like water around the man.
“So I have found you at last,” my opponent said, his voice flat and uninflected.
I drew in a deep breath, the fresh scented air filling my lungs. The smile that pulled my lips back from my teeth had nothing to do with amusement. I felt light and ready, anticipation an airy evanescence in my blood. Something long outstanding was about to be resolved, something important.
“Perhaps I have found you instead,” I told the dark figure.
“Perhaps, indeed,” he replied. “We shall see how well the sword fights for you.”
I flexed my hands on the plain, leather-bound hilt. “Or I fight for it?” I asked evenly.
“As you say.” He leaped forward forcefully and I found myself fighting for my life.
Time had no meaning in this strange dreamscape. Tirelessly, back and forth across the flower-strewn green-velvet of the grass, the dark stranger and I battled each other. At first, we seemed evenly matched, our skill equal, neither of us able to find a weakness in the other and exploit it. Then gradually, I became aware that it was I who gave ground more often, that it was I on the defensive more often than on the offensive. Desperately, I sought the reserves of strength and stamina the years of training with Cullin had given me. But they were not there.
A strange combination of helpless despair and desperate, fatalistic determination filled me. I lunged forward aggressively, thrusting recklessly at the stranger. The tip of the blade caught against the crosspiece of the hilt of his sword. The follow-through snap of my wrist wrested the sword from his hand. It glittered as it spun away, high into the air, then suddenly vanished as if swallowed up by its own darkness.
The stranger stepped back and saluted me ironically with his empty sword
hand. “This round to you,” he said softly. He turned abruptly and faded into the darkness.
I looked up at the Dance at the crown of the hill behind me. The Watcher on the Hill stood as motionless as the menhirs around him. Then, slowly, he turned to drift silently toward the altar in the centre of the Dance.
Even as I began to move my foot to climb the hill, the dream faded and was gone.
***
Something making a Hellas of a racket in the street below my window woke me abruptly. Getting roused suddenly and noisily out of a sound sleep is not my favourite way of beginning a day. Cullin tells me that I tend to become cranky and difficult to get along with when awakened too abruptly after a night in the tavern. My response has always been that it is a character flaw I learned from him.
This particular morning was no exception. I rolled off the bed and staggered to the window, cursing under my breath as I buckled my kilt around my hips. I leaned out to see what was causing the din.
The commotion appeared to centre around a knot of men directly beneath my window. The sun flashed on drawn blades as four people circled warily in the middle of a cluster of avidly shouting spectators.
Hellas. A fight. And a completely lopsided fight at that.
I stared blearily down at the seething mob and tried to sort it out. It seemed to be three Maeduni mercenaries against one slender, fair-haired youth who wielded a hefty longsword with a skill sharpened by sheer desperation. I watched for a moment or two. No one in the crowd of avid spectators was inclined to step in and even the odds on the patently inequitable contest, and some were obviously laying bets on the outcome. At the edge of the crowd stood a small group of Honandun city guards. They, too, gave no indication of putting a stop to the entertainment. But then, city guards don’t care much who gets slaughtered in the streets as long as it isn’t an important Honandun citizen.
It offended my sense of fairness, or aroused my foolhardy notions of justice. Or something. Or mayhap I was merely irritated because the noise had awakened me. Or perhaps I still suffered from just a titch of wine fever.