by Andre Norton
Perhaps because during all this period of waiting he had been half expecting it, Simon identified the source first, and sped for the stair which, three floors higher, gave upon the sentry go of the roof.
He did not reach that level. Screams and cries from above, the clash of metal against metal was warning enough. Slowing his pace, Simon drew his gun. And it was good he was cautious for he was midway to the second level when a body rolled down, missing him by a scant inch. It was a Sulcarman, his throat a ragged wound still pumping blood to spatter wall and stair. Simon looked up into a wild confusion.
Two Guardsmen and three of the seafarers still fought, their backs against the wall on the landing of the next level, keeping at bay invaders who attacked with the single-minded ferocity their kin had displayed at the road ambush. Simon snapped a shot, and then another. But a wave of beaked helms poured unceasingly from above. He could only guess that in some way the enemy had come by air and now held the top floors of the keep.
There was no time to speculate upon their method of getting there — it was enough that they had managed to break through. Two more of the seafarers, one of the Guard were down. The dead and wounded, friends and foe alike were disregarded by the beaked helms. Bodies slipped downstairs — they could not be stopped there. The plug must come below.
Simon leaped for the first landing, kicking open the two doors fronting on it. The furniture favored by Sulcar was heavy stuff. But the smaller pieces could be moved. In that moment Simon summoned up strength he did not know he possessed, jerking and pushing articles out to choke the stairwell.
A beaked head faced him through the upraised legs of a chair used to top his efforts, and a sword point struck for his face. Simon crashed the chair over on that helm. There was a smarting cut on his cheek but the attacker was not a part of the barricade.
“Sul! Sul!”
Simon was elbowed to one side and he saw Magnis’ face, as red as its tawny bristle of mustache, loom up as the trader chopped down, smashed up at the first wave of invaders to reach the stair barrier and claw at the stuff which formed it.
Aim, fire, aim again. Throw away an empty dart clip, reload to fire anew. Straddle a Guardsman down moaning, until the man could be dragged back into whatever safety anyone could find in the keep now. Fire — Fire!
Somehow Simon had come back into the hall, then the party of which he was one were on another stairway, selling each flight dearly as they descended. There was a thin smoke here — tendrils of fog? No, for when it wreathed them its acrid bite stung nose and throat setting them coughing. Aim — fire — grab dart packs from the belt of a fallen Guardsman who could no longer use any weapon.
The steps were behind now. Men shouted hoarsely, and the smoke was worse. Simon smeared his hand across his watering eyes and pulled at the throat scarf of his helmet. His breath came in shallow gasps.
Blindly he followed after his companions. Doors of five-inch thickness swung after them, were barred and locked. One… two… three… four of such barriers. Then they stumbled into a room facing an installation housed in a casing taller than the giant of a man who leaned against it, dull-eyed. The Guardsmen and the seafarers who had made it rimmed the room, leaving the strange machine to the master of the city.
Magnis Osberic had lost his bear-crested helm, his fur cloak was a tattered string trailing from one shoulder. His ax lay across the top of the casing, and from its blade a red line dripped sluggishly to the stone pavement. The ruddiness of his coloring had faded, leaving his skin with a withered look. His eyes were wide, staring at men and not seeing them — Simon guessed that the man was in a state of shock.
“Gone!” He picked up the ax, slipped its long half back and forth in his rope-calloused hand.”From the air like winged demons! No man can fight against demons.” Then he laughed softly, warmly, as a man might laugh when he took a willing woman into his arms. “But there is also an answer to demons. Sulcarkeep shall not serve that spawn for a nesting place!”
His bull head lowered for the charge once more, swung slowly as he singled out the Estcarp men from among his own followers. “You have fought well, you of the witch blood. But this last is no doom laid upon you. We shall loose the energy which feeds the city powers and blast the port. Get you forth that you may perhaps settle the accounting in a way those air-flying wizards can understand. Be sure we shall take with us such a number of them that they shall have thinned ranks against that day! Go your way, witch men, and leave us of Sulcarkeep to our final reckoning!”
Urged by his eyes and his voice, as if he had caught each of them in a bear’s grip and thrust them away from him and his, the remnant of the Guard gathered together. Koris was still with them, his hawk helm lacking a wing. And the witch, her face serene, but her lips moving as she walked quietly across the chamber. Twenty more men and Simon.
As one the Guards drew to attention, their stained swords swinging up in salute to those they left. Magnis grunted.
“Pretty, pretty, witchmen. But this is no time for parade. Get out!”
They filed through a small door he indicated, Koris through last to slam and bar it. At a dead run they took that passage. Luckily there were globe lights set in the roof at intervals and the floor was smooth, for the need for haste burned in them.
The sound of sea and surf grew stronger and they came out in a cave where small boats swung at anchor.
“Down!” Simon was pushed aboard with others, and Koris’ hand slapped between his shoulders, sending him face down. Men landed on him and about him, pinning him flat to the rocking bottom. There was the slam of another door — or was it a deck shutting over them? Light was gone and with it air. Simon lay quiet, having no idea of what would happen next.
Under him the boat moved, men’s bodies rolled, he was kicked, prodded, and he buried his face in the crook of his arm. The craft which held them swung about and his stomach fought against that motion. He had never been too good a sailor. Mainly occupied with his fight against sickness, he was not prepared for a blast which seemed to end the world with one blow of sound and pressure.
They were still rolling in the waves, but when Simon lifted his head he gulped clean air. He wriggled and strove, paying no attention to the grunts and protests of those about him. No more fog was his first dazed thought — and then — it was day! The sky, the sea about them, the coast behind were clear and bright.
But when did the sun rise from the shore, leap up in sky-touching flames from a land base? He had been deafened by the blast, but not blinded. They were heading out to sea, leaving the source of that heat and light behind them.
One… two… three cockshells of boats he counted. There were no sails, they must be motored in some way. A man sat erect in the stem of theirs, his shoulders identifying him. Koris held that tiller. They were free of the inferno which had been the port of Sulcarkeep, but where did they head?
Fog gone, and the fire on shore giving them light. But the waves which swept them along were not born of any calm sea. Perhaps the shock of that blast with which Magnis had destroyed the keep had been communicated to the ocean. For a wind drove down upon them as if a hand strove to press them beneath the surface, and those on board the featherweight ships began to realize that they had gained perhaps only a few minutes of life rather than full escape.
PART II: VENTURE OF VERLAINE
I
AX MARRIAGE
The sea was dull and gray, the color of an ax blade which would never take on a sheen no matter how much one polished, or a steel mirror misted by moisture one could not rub away. And above it the sky was as flat, until it was hard to distinguish the meeting line between air and water.
Loyse huddled on the ledge beneath the arrow-split window. She dreaded the depths, for this turret, bulging roundly from its parent wall, hung directly over the wicked, surf-collared rocks of the shoreline, and she had no head for heights. Yet she was often drawn to this very seat because when one stared straight out into the emptiness, which was sel
dom troubled save by a diving bird, one could see freedom.
Her hands, long fingered, narrow of palm, pressed flat against the stone on either side of the window as she did lean forward an inch or so, making herself eye what she feared, as she made herself do many things her body, her mind shrank from. To be Fulk’s daughter one must grow an inner casing of ice and iron which no blow to the flesh, no taunt to the spirit could crack. And she had been intent upon that fashioning of an interior citadel for more than half the years of her short life.
There had been many women at Verlaine, for Fulk was a man of lusty appetite. And Loyse had watched them come and go from her babyhood, cold-eyed and measuring herself. To none had he given wifehood, by none had he sired other offspring — which was Fulk’s great dissatisfaction and so far her own gain. For Verlaine was not Fulk’s by blood, but by his one and only marriage, with her mother, and only as long as Loyse lived could he continue to hold it and its rich rights of pillage and wreckage, ashore and afield. There were kinsmen of her mother’s in Karsten who would be quick enough to claim lordship here were she to die.
But, had Fulk sired a son by any of the willing — and unwilling — women he had brought to the huge bed in the lord’s chamber, then he could have claimed more than just his own life tenancy for the male heir under the new laws of the Duke. By the old customs mother-right was for inheritance; now one took a father’s holding, and only in cases where there was no male heir did the old law prevail.
Loyse cherished her tiny thread of power and safety, held to it as her one hope. Let Fulk be chopped down in one of his border raids, let him be sought out by some vengeful male of a family despoiled, and she and Verlaine would be free together! Ah, then they would see what a woman could do! They would learn that she had not been moping in secret all these years as most of them believed.
She drew back from the ledge, walked across the room. It was chill with the breath of the sea, gloomy with lack of sun. But she was used to cold and dusk, some of both were a fast part of her now.
Beyond the curtained bed she came to stand in front of a mirror. It was no soft lady’s looking glass, but a shield, diamond-shaped, polished through patient hours until it gave back to the room a slightly distorted reflection. And to stand so, facing squarely what it told her, was another part of Loyse’s strict self-discipline.
She was small, but that was the only feminine characteristic she shared with the blowsy women who satisfied her father’s men, or with the richer fare he kept for his own enjoyment. Her body was as straight and slender as a boy’s, with only shadow curves to hint she was not a lad. The hair which lay in braids across her shoulders, and then fell below waist level, was thick enough. But it was lank and of so pale a yellow that except in direct sunlight it was white as a beldame’s, while lashes and brows of the same colorless tint made her face seem strangely blank and without intelligence. The skin pulled tightly across the fine bones of her face and chest was smooth and also lacking in any real color. Even the line of her lips was of the palest rose. She was a bleached thing, grown in the dark, but a vitality within her was as strong as the supple blade a wise swordsman chooses over the heavier hacking weapon of the inexperienced.
Suddenly her hands flew together, gripped tightly for an instant. Then she as quickly snapped them apart and to her sides, though under her hanging sleeves they were still balled into fists, nails biting palms. Loyse did not turn to the door, nor give any other outward hint that she had heard that rattling of the latch. She knew just how far she dared go in her subtle defiance of Fulk, and from that limit she never retreated. Sometimes she thought despairingly her father never recognized her rebellion at all.
The door slammed back against the wall. Verlaine’s lord always treated any barrier as if he were storming an enemy fortress. And he tramped in now with the tread of a man who has just lifted the city keys from the sword point of a vanquished commander.
If Loyse was the colorless creature of the dark, Fulk was lord of sun and flamboyant light. His good body was beginning to show traces of his rough living, but he was still more than handsome, his red-gold head carried with the arrogance of a prince, his well-cut features only a little blurred. Most ofVerlaine worshipped their lord. He had an openhanded if uneven generosity when he was pleased, and his vices were all ones which his men understood and shared.
Loyse caught his reflection in the mirror, brave, bright, turning her even more into a night taper. But she did not face about.
“Greetings, Lord Fulk.” Her voice was toneless.
“Lord Fulk, is it? Is that the way you speak to your father, wench? Come show a little more than ice in your veins for once, girl!”
His hand slid under one of the braids on her shoulder, and he forced her around, gripping with strength which would leave her bruised for a week. He did it deliberately, she knew, but she would give no sign of feeling.
“Here I come with news as would send any proper wench leaping with joy, and you turn me that cold fish face of yours with no pleasure,” he contemplated jovially. But that which looked out of his eyes was not born of good humor.
“You have not yet voiced this news, my lord.”
His fingers kneaded into her flesh as if seeking to find and crush the bones hidden there.
“To be sure I have not! Yet it is news as will set any maid’s heart to pounding in her. Wedding and bedding, my girl, wedding and bedding!”
Purposely Loyse chose, but with a fear she had not known before, to misunderstand him.
“You take a lady for Verlaine, my lord? Fortune grant you a fair face for such an occurrence.”
His grip on her did not loosen, and now he shook her, with the outward appearance of one playfully admonishing, but with a force which brought pain.
“You may be a wry-faced nothing of a woman, but you are not stupid of wit, no matter how you may think to befool others. You should be properly a female at your age. At least you will now have a lord to make trial of that. And I’d advise you not to play your tricks with him. By all accounts he likes his bedfellows biddable!”
What she had long feared most had come upon her and it brought with it a betrayal of feeling she could not bite back in time.
“A wedding needs free consent—” She stopped then, knowing shame for her momentary breaking.
He was laughing, relishing having torn that protest out of her. His hand moved across her shoulder to vise upon the back of her neck in a pinch which brought an involuntary gasp out of her. Then, as one moves a lifeless puppet, he whirled her about, pushing her face toward the mirror shield, holding her helpless there while he pelted her with words he believed would hurt worse than any beating his hands could inflict.
“Look upon that curdled mass of nothing you call a face! Do you think any man could set his lips to it without closing his eyes and wishing himself elsewhere? Be glad, wench, that you have something besides your face and that bone of a body to lure a suitor. You’ll consent freely to anyone who’ll take you. And be glad you have a father who can make a bargain as good as I have for you. Yes, girl, you’d better crawl on those stiff knees of yours and thank any gods you have that Fulk looks after his own.”
His words were a mutter of thunder; she saw no reflection in the mirror, save certain misty horrors of her own imagining. Which one of the brutes who rode in Fulk’s train would she be thrown to — for some advantage for his lord?
“Karsten himself—” There was a sort of wonder underlying Fulk’s rising exultation. “Karsten, mind you, and this lump of unbaked dough squeaks of consent! You are lacking in wits!” He released her with a sudden push which sent her flying against the shield and the metal rang against the wall. She fought for her balance, kept her feet, and turned to face him.
“The Duke!” That she could not believe. Why should the ruler of the duchy ask for the daughter of a shore baron, old and proud as her maternal lineage might be?
“Yes, the Duke!” Fulk seated himself on the end of the bed, swinging his
booted feet. “Talk of fortune! Some good providence winked at your birth, my girl. Karsten’s herald rode in this morning with an offer of ax marriage for you.”
“Why?”
Fulk’s feet stopped moving. He did not scowl, but his face was sober.
“There are a bristle of reasons like darts at his back!” He held up his hands and began to tell off the fingers of one with the forefinger of the other.
“Item: The Duke, for all his might, was a rider of mercenaries before he set his seal on Karsten, and I doubt if he can rightly name his dam, let alone his sire.
“He crushed those of the lords who tried to face him down. But that was a good half-score of years ago and he no longer wants to ride in mail and smoke rebels out of their castles. Having won his duchy he wishes now some easy years in which to enjoy it. A wife taken from the ranks of those he opposed is a gift offering for peace. And while Verlaine may not be the richest hold in Karsten, yet the blood of its lords is very high — was not that often made very plain to me when I came a-wooing? And I was no blank shield, but the younger son ofFarthom in the northern hills.” His lips twisted as if he remembered certain slights out of the past.
“And since you are the heiress of Verlaine you are very suitable.”
Loyse laughed. “It cannot be true, lord, that I am the only marriageable maid of gentle birth in all Karsten.”
“How right. And he could do very well elsewhere. But as I have said, my dearest of daughters, you have certain other advantages. Verlaine is a coast holding with age-old rights, and the Duke has ambitions which run in more peaceful lines now than sword conquest. What say you, Loyse, if there was to be a port here to attract the northern trade?”
“And what would Sulcarkeep be doing while such a port came into being? Those who swear by Sul are jealous of their holdings.”
“Those who swear by Sul may soon be able to swear by nothing at all,” he returned with a calm certainty which carried a note of conviction. “They have troublesome neighbors who are growing more troublesome yet. And Estcarp, where they might look for aid, is a hollow shell eaten out by its preoccupation with witchery. One push and the whole land will fall into the filthy dust which should have buried it long ago.”