The Sword and the Chain

by Joel Rosenberg

  Karl quelled a smile. That was true, as far as it went, but Ahira's rendition left out a few critical facts. For one thing, Ohlmin had been a better swordsman than Karl; Karl had won only by a judicious application of a hole in the rules of the swords competition.

  Ahira went on: "For that reason and others, Ohlmin hunted our party down, and caught us in the Waste of Elrood. Along with a hired wizard, Ohlmin had fifteen slavers with him, all good with their swords.

  "Ohlmin put Karl, Walter Slovotsky, and me in chains. He spent a bit of time working Karl over with his fists, as well. After a number of hours, we managed to break free."

  "How?" Furnael raised an eyebrow. "Slavers' chains are too strong to be broken, even by a dwarf."

  Ahira smiled. "Trick of the trade. In any case, break free we did. I managed to account for four of the slavers before a crossbow bolt struck me down. The wizard who was with us killed their wizard. For the sake of the injured among us, Karl put us all in a wagon and fled, leaving one of their wagons aflame, and half of the slavers dead."

  "Most impressive," Furnael said. "But I already knew that Karl Cullinane is a great swordsman."

  "I'm sure you did, Baron." The dwarf inclined his head. "What you didn't know is this: Eight of the slavers were alive when we fled. Ohlmin was among them."

  Ahira sighed. "I wanted to leave it at that. We were away, and free, and alive. We all hurt a bit. Karl had used the last of our healing draughts to save me. And Karl wasn't at his best; having your arms chained over your head for hours leaves your shoulders weak and stiff. I wanted to call it a day, leave the slavers behind."

  The Baron cocked his head to one side. "But Karl Cullinane didn't." The pallor of his skin belied his calm tone.

  "No. With another of our party, Karl went back for Ohlmin and the rest. Two against eight."

  "I suppose Karl Cullinane and his companion gave a good account of themselves."

  "Karl left seven of them lying dead on the ground. All save Ohlmin."

  "But Ohlmin got away." Furnael started to rise. "Nevertheless, a very impressive feat. I thank you for telling me, friend Ahira. Now, Karl Cullinane, if you would walk this way?"

  Ahira laid a hand on the Baron's arm. "No, Baron, I said that he left seven of them. He didn't leave Ohlmin; Karl brought Ohlmin's head back, as a remembrance." The dwarf removed his hand, and smiled amiably. "Have a nice talk."

  * * *

  The night was bright, lit by the shimmering of the million stars flickering overhead and the score of smoking torches along the ramparts of Furnael's keep.

  Sitting comfortably in Carrot's saddle, Karl rode beside Furnael. The Baron was mounted on a slightly smaller, snow-white mare whose black marking over her right eye made her look like an equine pirate.

  As they rode slowly along the narrow dirt road outside the keep, Furnael paused beneath each of the four guard stations. At each station the noble silently raised a hand to greet the watchman peering out through an embrasure, leaning lazily against a jutting stone merlon. Each guard nodded and waved in response.

  By the time they reached the Prince's Road, Karl was tired of Furnael's silence.

  "Baron?"

  "Bear with me awhile longer, Karl Cullinane." With a flick of the reins, he turned his horse east onto the Prince's Road, Karl following.

  Soon, the walls of the keep were far behind; Furnael picked up the pace as they topped a hill, then started down toward a cluster of low wooden buildings, half a mile away, wisps of smoke rising from their chimneys and twisting into the night. "Those are the slave quarters of my own farm," Furnael said. On both sides of the road, fields of chest-high cornstalks waved and whispered to themselves in the light breeze. "I have been keeping loose security," he said, with a deep sigh. "No passwords; I have a few armsmen, and no soldiers at all. But that's going to have to change. Everything's going to change."

  "Things look peaceful enough, Baron," Karl said. "If you'll forgive the contradiction."

  "If I wouldn't forgive being contradicted, would that make things look one whit less peaceful?" Furnael smiled. "Enough of this formality: if I may call you Karl, I would be honored if you would call me Zherr. When we are by ourselves, that is." At Karl's nod, Furnael smiled, then pursed his lips, shaking his head. "And it is truly said that looks can be deceiving. Do you know the Middle Lands well?"

  "Not at all."

  "Except for some problems with the Therranji, it's been peaceful for most of my life, and unless the Therranji push much harder than they have been, they're not going to threaten Nyphien, much less Bieme.

  "It's been peaceful for a long time. For all of His Highness' reign, for that matter. His father and mine settled the boundary disputes with Nyphien to the west; our grandfathers fought Holtun. Most of His Highness' soldiers have long settled down to their farms. In all the country, it'd be hard to find a score of Bieme-born men who've been blooded in combat. Displaying a shiny, well-honed sword on Birthday or Midsummer doesn't make a man a warrior."

  Furnael indicated the keep behind them with a wave of his hand. "I have forty armsmen. Only Hivar is native to Bieme—his father served mine, as did his grandfather. The others are slephmelrad, too, but originally outland mercenaries. I'd thought we could grow fat and happy through my life, and that of my sons. I'd thought that. And I still hope so."

  "But you don't believe it anymore?" Karl shook his head. "The reasons don't show, Baron."

  "Zherr."

  "The reasons don't show, Zherr. I haven't seen any signs of war or any sort of deprivation in all of Bieme."

  "Ahh, you see war and deprivation as linked?"

  "Obviously, Zherr. War causes deprivation."

  "True. But it can be the other way around, as well." Furnael pursed his lips. "There is danger in wealth, even if it's only enough wealth to keep your people well fed, clothed, with perhaps a bit more to pay the cleric. What if your neighbor isn't wealthy?

  "The border wars with Nyphien started because of a two-year case of dustblight that hit western Nyphien and part of Khar. The first year, they paid the Spidersect to abate the blight, but barely recovered half their corn, less of their wheat, and none of their oats or barley; the second year, there was no money left for the Spiders, and the Nyphs tried to push their borders east, into Bieme.

  "By the third harvest, the war was fully underway." The Baron shook his head. "I've heard tales of it. Not a pretty war. Not pretty, at all."

  "And that's happening again?"

  "No, not exactly. Mmm, hold up a moment." Furnael stopped his horse, then bent to pick a fist-sized stone from the road. He threw it onto the road's rough shoulder, then remounted. "A different direction; a different problem. Less than a day's ride to the east, both barony Furnael and the Principality of Bieme end, and Holtun and the barony of my good friend Vertum Adahan begin. And Vertum Adahan is a good friend, though I've never crossed his doorstep, or he mine."

  "Why?"

  The Baron shook his head sadly. "There was a blood feud between our families. Depending on which side you believe, my great-grandmother was either stolen from her husband, Baron Adahan, or left him voluntarily. The Baron took another wife, but Adahan men raided into Furnael throughout the rest of my great-grandfather's rule, and into my grandfather's."

  "Which side do you believe?"

  Furnael smiled thinly. "Sir, I will have you know that I am a dutiful great-grandson; of course great-grandmother left her husband of her own free will to go to my lecherous great-grandfather, and even insisted that he give her a room in the keep that locked only from the outside, in order to reassure him that she didn't want to go back to Adahan." He shook his head. "I'll show you her room, if you'd like. You can decide for yourself.

  "But, as I was saying, while the feud died down during my father's time, the old feelings still run deep; there are family graveyards on many of my freefarmers' holdings with tombstones that read 'murdered by the swine Adahan.' I'd hoped that in the next generation . . ." He caught himself. "But
I talk too much. I hope you'll forgive me, Karl, but it's so rare that I see anyone who isn't either one of my slephmelrad, or slaves, or a foreigner trying to grub a few extra wagonloads of corn for his coin; it's a pleasure to speak freely."

  "I . . . appreciate that, Zherr." Karl didn't believe for a second that Furnael was speaking freely. The Baron was trying to gain his sympathy. Why? Was it just that Furnael didn't think he could intimidate Karl into taking on whatever job Furnael had for him? Or was there something more?

  As they neared the cluster of wooden shacks, each about twenty feet square, the door of the nearest swung open and a woman and three children walked out, smiling and calling out greetings.

  Though calling them all children might have been an overstatement; the tallest was a black-haired boy of sixteen or so, who looked much like a younger version of Furnael, although he was, like the other two children, dressed in a farmer's cotton tunic and loose drawstring pantaloons, instead of leather and wool. He ran up and took the reins of Furnael's horse in hand, gesturing to another to do the same for Carrot's.

  Furnael dismounted, urging Karl to follow him. "Karl Cullinane, it is my honor to present my eldest son: Rahff, the future Baron Furnael. Rahff, this is Karl Cullinane. Yes, son, the Karl Cullinane."

  What was the son and heir of a baron doing in the slave quarters, dressed like a peasant, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, his hands blistered?

  Karl didn't ask; when Furnael was ready, he'd tell Karl whatever he wanted Karl to know.

  Rahff bowed stiffly, his eyes wide, his jaw sagging. "The outlaw, sir? Really?" An expression of awe flickered across Rahff's face.

  Karl was uncomfortable; he'd never had to deal with a case of hero worship before. "That depends on your definition of outlaw," Karl said. "But I'm probably the one you're thinking of."

  "It is a . . . pleasure to meet you, sir," Rahff said, the formality of his manner in comical contrast to his humble dress and grimy face.

  The smallest of the children, a boy a year or so shy of Aeia's age and a few inches short of her height, ran up and threw his arms around Furnael, burying his face against the Baron's waist. With a warm smile, Furnael ran his fingers through the boy's hair. "And this is Rahff's brother, my son Thomen. Don't be offended at his silence, Karl; he is always shy around strangers."

  "Of course, Baron. I am pleased to meet you, Rahff. And you, Thomen."

  "Not 'Baron'—Zherr, please," the baron said, picking Thomen up with a sweep of his arm. "This isn't a formal occasion."

  "Zherr."

  The woman walked over. She looked something like a slightly younger female version of Furnael, with the same high cheekbones, though she had a more rounded jaw. Her hair was the same raven black.

  "Karl Cullinane," Furnael said, "my cousin, wife, and the mother of my sons: Beralyn, Lady Furnael." Furnael's voice was more formal now, carrying in it a hint of distaste. Or anger, perhaps.

  "Karl Cullinane," she said, taking his hand in both hers. In the light streaming through the open door, her hands were red and swollen; some of the blisters on her fingers had broken open. "I hope you will forgive me for not greeting you at our home."

  "Of course, Lady." He bowed over her hands. "Of course." What the hell is a baroness doing here?

  "And," Furnael went on, casting a quick frown at Beralyn, "the youngster holding your horse is Bren Adahan, son and heir of Vertum, Baron Adahan, of whom I have spoken." Furnael set Thomen down and walked over, clapping a hand to Bren's shoulder. "Good to see you, Bren. Is your tenday going well?"

  "Very well, Baron." Raising an eyebrow to ask for permission, Bren reached up to stroke Carrot's neck the moment Karl nodded. "A fine horse, Karl Cullinane." He ran sure hands over her withers, patted at her belly and flank, then gently felt at her left rear hock.

  All the while, Carrot stood proudly, her head held a bit higher than normal, her nostrils flared, as though daring Bren to find any hint or trace of a flaw.

  "She's Pandathaway-bred, isn't she? What's her name?"

  "That's where I bought her. And her name is Carrot," Karl said. "I take it that you like horses."

  "Oh, very much." Bren was a sandy-haired boy of about Rahff's age, with a broad, easy smile. "My father has a stallion I'd love to see cover her. Has she foaled yet?"

  "No. She's been a bit too busy to take time out for that." Like an assassin in the night, longing for Andy-Andy stabbed at him. God, how I miss you. It was hard to think of her visibly pregnant, her belly swollen, and know that he wouldn't see her, wouldn't touch her for months. At best.

  In the back of his mind he could almost see her standing in front of him, hands on hips, her head cocked to one side, a whimsical smile playing over her lips. So? Who told you this hero business was supposed to be easy?

  Bren went on: "If we have time, later, would you listen to some advice? I think breeding Carrot with a Katharhd pony might produce a—"

  "Your manners, Bren," Furnael said, shaking his head, a warm smile making his stern tone a lie. "You're forcing me and my guest to stand outside in the cold wind." He shivered violently, although the breeze from the north was only refreshingly cool. "Would you like to unsaddle and curry the horses, and then join us inside?"

  He turned to Karl. "May I? Please?"

  "Certainly. No need to tie her; she'll stay around as long as she knows I'm inside."

  "Of course," Bren said disapprovingly, miffed at being told something so patently obvious.

  Furnael led him into the shack. It was small, but well kept: The stone floor was smooth and clean; the spaces between the wallboards had been filled with fresh clay by a careful hand. No draft disturbed the fire that blazed merrily in the stone hearth, with its cast-iron stewpot bubbling as it dangled over the flames.

  Furnael unbuckled his sword and hung it on a peg before pulling a stool to the rough-hewn table that stood in the center of the room, beckoning Karl and the others to join him. There were only three remaining stools; Karl, Rahff, and Thomen sat, while Beralyn stood next to her husband, frowning down at him.

  Furnael chuckled. "You must forgive my wife. She doesn't approve of this."

  "And why should I?" Beralyn sniffed. "It's nothing but nonsense. My beloved husband," she added, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  The Baron threw his arm around her waist and patted at her hip. "You'll forgive me. As usual."

  "Until the next harvest."

  Rahff frowned; Furnael caught the expression and turned to the boy. "And none of that, not in front of our guest. You will show proper manners, boy." He gestured an apology to Karl. "This is a family tradition. Before each harvest, the sons of the Baron spend three tendays in slave quarters, working the fields as hard as the slaves—"

  "Harder, father," little Thomen piped up. "Rahff says we have to show we're better."

  "—eating the same food, wearing the same clothes as do the field slaves. Gives a sense of proportion. Vertum thinks well enough of it that he's sent Bren to join our boys this year. I think Bren is profiting from it."

  "Nonsense," Beralyn said. "You should listen to your children. When Rahff is the Baron, he won't put his sons through this."

  Furnael snorted. "Which is exactly what I said when I was his age. Karl, feel free to wander around, later; you'll see that this cabin is no better than any of the others. We treat both our fealty-servants and slaves well, here."

  "This cabin is worse," Beralyn said. "You sent your men down to chip the clay out of the walls. Again."

  "As I will, each and every time you clay the walls for the boys. If Rahff or Thomen want to do it for themselves, that's fine. I've tolerated your living with them to cook for them; don't test my patience further."

  He shook his head. "Karl, my wife thinks to blackmail me into giving up the tradition, by living down here when our sons do."

  "Zherr, you wanted to talk about some problem?" Karl asked, uncomfortable at finding himself brought into a family argument.

  "Indeed." Furnael lea
ned on the table, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "There have been raids into Holtun. A band of outlaws has taken up residence somewhere on the slopes of Aershtyn. Perhaps two, three hundred of them. They ride down at night, punching through the idiotic line defense the Holtish—" He cut off as Bren opened the door.

  The boy shook his head sadly. "Please don't stop on my account," he said. "I don't have any delusions about Prince Uldren."

  Furnael smiled a thank-you at the boy. "They carry off women and food, killing any who raise a hand against them. Behind them, they leave the farms ablaze, cutting the throats of all the cattle and sheep, like a dog covering with vomit that which he can't eat. It seems they've found a large cache of salt, somewhere, and they have lately taken to salting the ground behind them."

  He shook his head. "I've talked to Sammis about it, and there is nothing his magic can do. He could kill the weeds, of course, as he does for the farms in my barony. But salted land will grow no grain, whether the weeds are left standing or not.

  "If this goes on, Holtun will find itself in the midst of a famine. To the west lies the soda plain; they will have to turn east. They will have to invade Bieme, just as the Nyphs did in my father's time. These two friends"—he gestured at Bren and Rahff—"will find themselves blood enemies. And not just in theory, but in fact."

  "And you can't take on the raiders yourself." Karl nodded, "Holtun wouldn't stand for it."

  "At the first sign of Biemei soldiers crossing into Holtun, the war would start. Already, there have been a few clashes along the border. I know that this sounds disloyal, but if only the raiders had ventured into Bieme . . . perhaps Prince Uldren would have swallowed his pride and seen the wisdom in some sort of alliance."

  "I doubt it, Baron," Bren shook his head. "His Highness is, as my father says, a pompous ass. And one who'd be as likely to grip his sword by the blade as by the hilt. Fancies himself a great general, though."

  Furnael nodded. "Karl, I'd like you to stop that. I hope you'll see that we are good people here. And we are people who are willing to pay, and pay well. Perhaps you could pretend to join the raiders, lead them into an ambush? Or track them to their lair, take them on yourselves, chase them into my barony, where we could deal with them? Or something—anything."