Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi)

by Ann Marston

  Even as the guard behind us began to draw his sword, Cullin had his own out. Mine came out nearly as quickly. Glaval stepped back, his eyes going wide in shock for an instant, as the point of Cullin’s sword rested gently against the hollow of his throat. I turned to face the guard behind us, my sword pointed loosely at his belly.

  I smiled politely. “‘Twould be a foolish thing to do, drawing that blade,” I told him. “The gesture might be completely misunderstood. We wouldna want that, now, would we?”

  He swallowed hard and shook his head, glancing nervously at Glaval.

  Cullin smiled. Glaval stepped back from the point of the sword, his eyes narrowed. Cullin swung the sword so that the flat of the blade slapped into the palm of his left hand. “You were admiring the workmanship, my lord? They say that Tyran weaponsmiths turn out the finest blades on the continent.”

  “Very fine, indeed,” Glaval said warily.

  Cullin grinned. “Aye, one of the finest, this.” He made no move to sheathe it. “My father carries one much finer.”

  “As befits a powerful man.”

  “Unfortunately, like many Tyrs, he might be mayhap a bit rash in the use of it on occasion.”

  “It would be a fine thing if he and my father come to an agreement whereby that fine sword might be used against the Maeduni.”

  “That would be good,” Cullin agreed gravely.

  “When next you see your father, pass on my greeting,” Glaval said.

  “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  “Mayhap one day you might avail yourself of our hospitality,” Glaval said smoothly.

  “Mayhap,” Cullin agreed. “You will, of course, convey our apologies to the Ephir.”

  “Naturally,” Glaval said. “I regret that my previous offer might have been misconstrued.”

  “A most courteous offer,” Cullin said. He glanced at me. “Are we ready to go, ti’rhonai?”

  “I believe so, ti’vati.” I sheathed my sword.

  Glaval escorted us out of the tent. Kerri gave him her dazzling smile as we moved out into the strong sunlight. “You certainly are different from your father, my lord Glaval,” she said. “Might I be correct in assuming you resemble your lady mother?” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “She must be an extremely handsome woman.”

  Glaval looked down at her, his expression shuttered and unreadable, obviously not nearly as gullible as Tergal. “And you are a most devious and clever woman, my lady Kerridwen,” he murmured.

  We left him just outside the pavilion. Kerri was wrong. He very much resembled his father.

  I turned toward the tower, Cullin and Kerri close on my heels. Kerri glanced back over her shoulder as we walked away, but there was no sign of pursuit. “You’ve made a bad enemy there, Cullin,” she said.

  “Aye, perhaps,” Cullin replied. “He didna look too happy when we left. I expect he’s rather cross with us.”

  I looked back. Glaval had gone back inside his pavilion. Two guards stood stiffly on either side of the entrance. Neither of them were looking at us. “I wonder if that was his own idea, or whether he had his orders from the Ephir?”

  One corner of Cullin’s mouth lifted slightly. “If it was the Ephir’s orders, then the Ephir will be cross with him.” He laughed outright. “And my father is going to be cross with them both when Sion’s spies tell him about this. The Ephir might discover how difficult it is to deal with an irritated Tyr. As I told Glaval in such a roundabout manner, my father does not take kindly to threats of blackmail, no matter how good the cause seems to be to the other side.”

  Kerri smiled. “You mean negotiations might become bogged down?”

  I grinned. “Indeed. But only if my grandfather is in a good mood when he hears the news. If he’s a tad out of sorts, the Ephir might find an army of very annoyed Tyrs on his north border.” I glanced at her. “What would Kyffen’s reaction be to a threat like that?”

  Kerri laughed. “You mean before or after he burned down the Ephir’s palace?” She paused, considering. “Preferably while the Ephir was within it, and in an awkward position.” Then she became serious. “We had better hope neither Glaval nor that guard fancy themselves in need of Falian or Maeduni gold pieces. I wouldn’t trust either of them not to seek that sort of revenge.”

  “Nor I,” Cullin said. “You’ll want to speak with Jeriad, Kian. I’ll fetch the horses and join you shortly.”

  Kerri and I came to the first tumbled stones around the broken tower. I scrambled up over the jumble into the ruins of the main room. There was no sign of Jeriad. I called his name, but there was no reply from within the tower.

  “Kian?”

  I turned. Kerri stood with one hand to her mouth, staring down at something in the tangle of grass and bracken near the foot of the tower. Her attitude told me everything. Reluctantly, hopeless resignation lumping hard in my belly, I made my way slowly back across the weed-choked rocks to her side. As I reached her, she turned mutely to me and pressed her face into the hollow of my shoulder. My arms went instinctively around her as I looked down.

  They had caught him running, from the position of the body in the grass. One blow from the sword of a horseman sweeping past had caught him across the throat. Most likely, he was dead before he fell to the ground. Whether it had been a Maeduni sword, or an Isgardian blade, was impossible to tell.

  “Hellas-birthing,” I muttered. I closed my eyes and lowered my head so that my cheek rested against soft hair on the crown of Kerri’s head.

  “Kian, he looks so—so uncomfortable there,” she said, her voice choked with grief. “Can we do anything for him?”

  “We’ll bury him as befits a friend,” Cullin said. I hadn’t heard him come up. He had tethered the horses a short distance away.

  Kerri stepped away from me. “We’ll give him a Celae burial,” she said softly. “Tonight, shortly after moonrise. That’s the way we do it at home.”

  Cullin stooped and picked up the broken body, cradling it in his arms as he might a child. “He’d like that,” he said. He turned and made his way over the jumble of broken rock to the tower.

  Kerri and I followed. Cullin laid Jeriad carefully in the ruined main room and straightened his limbs. Kerri darted down the hidden steps and returned moments later with one of Jeriad’s fur robes. She covered him gently, then scrambled over the broken stones and began gathering strands of ivy and wildflowers. When she had enough, she sat cross-legged at the foot of the tower, weaving the greenery into a hoop to grace Jeriad’s cairn.

  ***

  Toward evening, Glaval’s troops moved on. They took their wounded with them in large, clumsy wagons. Their dead they left behind in neat rows of graves. They had not been so careful with the Maeduni dead, nor with the late Lord Balkan. The Maeduni dead lay tumbled into a pit and covered with raw earth. Balkan’s body lay with them. His head went with Glaval in a leather sack to decorate a pole over the gate of what had been his country estate as a warning to discourage any other minor Isgardian lords who might think to aid the Maeduni. With the dead safely buried, the ravens dispersed, too.

  I watched them go, resting for a moment as Cullin and I dug a grave for Jeriad. Once the last wagon had rumbled over the crest of the hill, and the last horseman disappeared, the quiet peace of a summer early evening descended once more over the valley.

  A random thought occurred to me. “I wonder if Mendor and Drakon fought under Balkan’s banner here,” I said. I was more or less just thinking out loud.

  “I would doubt it,” Cullin said, turning back to the grim task of digging.

  “We would never be so lucky,” I agreed and picked up my shovel again.

  We buried Jeriad just as the moon rose above the horizon, huge and yellow as a pumpkin. When we had placed the last stone on the cairn, Kerri brought the hoop of ivy and laid it carefully on top.

  “May your soul be brightly shining so the Duality find you quickly, Jeriad, son of Amalida,” she said softly. “Your days are counted and to
talled, and the Counter at the Scroll will know you. Find peace, my friend.”

  XXVI

  They came on us in the half-light just before dawn, that hour when sleep is deepest and the spark of life is at its lowest ebb. They came on foot, silently, so they would not warn us by the clatter of iron-shod hooves on stone, or the rattle of bridle-metal, so no nervous whicker from their horses would bring a startled response from ours. By the time Cullin’s shout roused me from the depths of a dream, they were upon us.

  Instantly awake, I leaped to my feet, sword in hands. Cullin already stood, blade flashing quick and deadly about him, surrounded by a knot of a half dozen of Mendor’s mercenaries. I had time only to see a flicker of movement from the opposite side of our camp—Kerri plunging forward—before three of them converged on me, faces intent in the feeble glow of the fire. And hovering on the fringe of the fight, Drakon and Mendor, Dergus between them, stood shouting orders to the mercenaries. Then I lost myself in the frenzy of the sword in my hands.

  Lost in the clash and slither of weapons meeting. Unlike the fight in Honandun where I merely sought to disarm, here I coldly raged to kill. All the lust and thirst for revenge for Rossah’s death buried deep in my soul erupted and screamed for fulfillment. My body moved automatically, schooled through the years by Cullin’s patient teaching. Arms, wrists and hands became extensions of the sword, all parts moving as one in thrust and parry and slice. Blood ran red on the blade, filling the deeply carved deeply carved runes.

  The three Maeduni mercenaries fell, but I hardly noticed. I was peripherally conscious of Cullin wading through the knot of mercenaries around him to engage Mendor, and Kerri inexorably beating back two mercenaries near the ruined tower. I turned to meet another foe and found myself face to face with Drakon himself. Grunting with effort, he lunged forward, swinging his sword in a two-handed slice at my belly. I got my blade up in time to parry the stroke, then reversed my sweep to slash at his throat. He leaped back out of the way, feinted toward my head, then deftly changed the direction of his thrust to stab at my belly again. His rapid movements swung his hair away from his deformed ear, exposing the ugly, puckered scar.

  “I damaged you, didn’t I?” I taunted, then lunged at him, and laughed as he leapt back. “You’ll carry that scar to your grave, Drakon. No matter whether I live or die, you’ll carry my mark to your grave.”

  He made an inarticulate sound, and attacked furiously. I ducked away from him and laughed again, infuriating him even more. He sprang at me, missed, and stumbled past.

  “Kian! Your back!”

  Cullin’s voice sounded clear over the tumult and confusion. The stench of magic thickened the air and the hair on my arms and neck prickled as it rose like the hackles of a wolf rose. Too late, I spun to see Dergus, still hovering near the edge of the fight, gathering his magic, his dark eyes smouldering as he watched me.

  Cullin spun away from Mendor and leaped toward me. The dull red bolt of searing light lanced from Dergus’s hand, meant for me. But Cullin had thrown himself between us. The flash exploded against his back and I saw his eyes widen with the sudden shock of pain. Writhing in agony, he staggered, half bent over, toward me, and Mendor lunged forward to plunge his sword into Cullin’s belly.

  As Mendor stepped back, yanking his sword free, Cullin fell to his knees, then slowly bent forward, both hands pressed against his belly. He looked up at me as he knelt there, an odd, listening expression on his face. Then he closed his eyes and fell onto his side.

  “No-o-o-o!” I shouted. “No!” Not so soon after believing him dead and finding him still living. Not now. Gods, not now. Not like this.

  Grief tore through me like the god’s wildfire. Howling with rage, my throat raw from it, I turned my back on Drakon, my left hand groping frantically for the dagger at my belt, my right still clutching the sword. There was little time to aim, but the dagger left my hand to fly straight and true. I saw it bite into Dergus’s chest, saw him clutch at it with both hands, then topple to the ground.

  Kerri shouted a warning. I spun back to face Drakon. Even as his sword sliced deep into my side and caught on my ribs, I swung the Rune Blade. It resonated with a life of its own, a strength of its own, as it bit into the side of Drakon’s neck and cleaved down through his body, to separate both head and shoulder, together with the arm, from his torso. The two pieces fell together and I staggered around in time to see Kerri, her face contorted with rage and grief, duck under Mendor’s swing and thrust her blade up through his belly, deep into his heart.

  There were only a few mercenaries still on their feet. With Mendor, Drakon and Dergus now dead, they had little stomach for continuing the fight. Within moments, they were gone, melting away like spring snow into the strengthening dawn.

  I could no longer stand. Blood poured from the wound in my side, but strangely, there was no pain, just a cold numbness that encompassed the whole left side of my body. Still clutching my sword, I fell to my knees and crawled to where Cullin lay crumpled in the grass. I laid the sword carefully on the ground, then gently turned Cullin to lift him, holding his shoulders in my arm, cradling his head against my breast. Even as I started to gather my will to send it into him, he opened his eyes and looked up at me.

  “No, lad,” he whispered. “‘Tis a mortal wound. Save your strength for yourself….”

  I put my hand to his belly, then gasped as I felt the empty numbness there. He had no strength left to draw on, and my own was not enough. I was unable to reach into the wound with the healing force. Even as I tried, I felt him slipping farther from me.

  Kerri dropped to her knees beside us. Her hand went to Cullin’s forehead. “I have some skill as a Healer,” she said. “Please, Cullin. Let us try. We have to try—”

  “No,” Cullin murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “It will do me no good.” His right hand came up and I grasped it with my left. “Am I avenged now, Kian?”

  “Aye,” I replied hoarsely. “Twice over. I accounted for Dergus, and Kerri’s sword took out Mendor.”

  He laughed softly, then coughed. A trickle of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth, and Kerri gently wiped it away. “I don’t know if that will make this business of dying any easier or not,” he said. “You’ll see me home, then, Kian?”

  “Aye,” I said. “Aye, that I will, ti’vati….”

  He smiled. “You’ve been a good son to me,” he whispered. “You’ve been such a son as any man could wish, son to me as much as the girls are my daughters, for all you sprang not from my seed.” He groped for the pouch at his waist. “The parchment….”

  “I’ll see to it,” I said.

  “It’s uncommon cold for summer,” he murmured. “I can barely see you, Kian. It’s so dark here...” He closed his eyes and I felt his spirit gently part with his body, painlessly at the end and in peace.

  I laid him back against the grass and bent to touch my lips to his forehead. It was the last thing I remember before darkness closed in around me.

  ***

  Pain was everywhere, surrounding me, a solid presence in the dark. I couldn’t breathe for the agony ripping through my chest. I tried to reach for that centred well of quiet deep within my spirit, but the torment was too much. I couldn’t find it, couldn’t grasp it with the pain slashing and tearing at me like knives.

  Kerri was there with me in the flickering darkness. Her voice came to me faintly through the haze of agony. “Work with me, Kian. I can’t do this alone.” Her hands were cool on my fevered forehead and cheeks. “Please, Kian. You have to work with me….”

  Gradually, after a lifetime—a hundred lifetimes—the pain diminished. Breathing still hurt, but no longer felt like monstrous jaws crushing my chest. Kerri faded from the darkness and receded until I could no longer sense her presence.

  Then there was an old man. No, not old. Young seeming, but with hair and beard silvered and patriarchal. Behind him, faint and indistinct, rose the columns of a temple. Not a temple. Rock. Living rock, in a ci
rcle…. The Watcher on the Hill. I recognized him and despair washed through me as I waited for the appearance of the opponent who had met me twice before in the dream. I was unarmed now, weakened and hurt. I could not defend myself against anyone. But my opponent did not appear, and when I turned as stiffly and painfully as an old man, I saw why.

  Cullin stood there behind me, dressed in his plaid and kilt, his sword held ready in his hands, guarding my back as I had guarded his so many times. His white teeth flashed in the grin I remembered so well. Then, when I knew finally my opponent would not come this time, I turned to see Cullin watching me, his eyes sorrowful and grave. When I reached out to take his hand, he shook his head and faded into the darkness. “Not yet, Kian.” His voice came from a terrible distance, so faint, I hardly heard it. “Not yet….”

  ***

  I awoke on the pallet in the ruined tower. Kerri knelt beside me, her attention on a cloth she was dipping into a bowl of water. She wrung it out and placed it on my forehead. My side was stiff and sore and each breath hurt enough to make me dizzy. I groped with my right hand and found a thick padding of bandage. Kerri gently pulled my hand away and laid it back on the pallet.

  “Lie still,” she said quietly. “You’re healing now. For a while, I was afraid you were lost, too.”

  Very slowly, moving myself piece by piece, I managed to sit up. The pain in my side was like a knife. Kerri put her hands to my shoulders and tried to force me back down onto the pallet.

  “Kian, no,” she said in alarm. “Lie down. You must rest.”

  “No.” I warded her off and fought my way to my feet, swaying as dizziness and pain swept through me.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. “You’re gravely wounded. You have to rest—”

  “I live,” I said shortly, pushing her aside. “And while I live, I have a duty to perform. Where is he?”