by Angus Wells
Both ghost-talkers interposed themselves between Jehenne and Bracht. Beyond them, Calandryll saw Katya return to the Kern’s side, kneeling to fold his hands across his chest, clutch his head to her bosom.
“Slay them. I am ketomana of the ni Larrhyn and I say you shall slay them.”
“No!”
The ghost-talkers stepped a pace forward, their arms raised in denial as Jehenne wailed, struggling to break free. It seemed to Calandryll they spoke in unison, though perhaps their words only came too fast, pitched in tones too similar to distinguish one from the other.
“Ahrd’s holy oak rejects the nails—would you deny the judgment of our god?
“This man is saved, and no Lykard may raise hand against him for fear of damnation.
“Ahrd has judged him and found him true. Let all know this. Let word be passed to all the camps—that Bracht ni Errhyn rides innocent across our grass.
“None may deny our god.
“See! Are his wounds not healed? Does Ahrd not give him back his life? This is a mighty thing we have witnessed, and who would deny it would deny Ahrd himself.”
“I would deny it.”
Sudden, horrified silence fell at Jehenne’s words. So shocked were the warriors holding her that they let loose their grip. A voice cried, “Blasphemy!” Outrage showed stark on the faces of the ghost-talkers. The woman moved a step toward them and they fell back a pace, as if afraid she would somehow contaminate them.
“You voice blasphemy.”
“Still I’d slay him. Them!”
“This cannot be.”
“It can. It shall be.”
Calandryll felt the hands upon his own arms fall away, saw disbelief on all the staring faces. Jehenne stooped to retrieve her sword.
“Do you deny Ahrd, then you are no longer ketomana of the ni Larrhyn.
“Put up your blade and let these three ride free.”
The ghost-talkers were echoed by the rest: “Aye. No blasphemer may lead us.”
“She’d deny Ahrd himself.”
“Madness, as the ni Errhyn said.”
“Werecoin was taken.”
Jehenne flourished her blade, turning in a slow circle, her eyes challenging. Calandryll tensed, ready to spring again, wondering if he might first snatch a sword, his wound-weakened shoulder forgotten.
“Do you this, Jehenne, and you are damned.”
“Then I shall be damned.”
The ghost-talker paled. His fellow said, “This woman may lead us no longer.”
“Then I shall lead you no longer. But I shall have my revenge!”
“To slay a helpless warrior?” The voice came from over Calandryll’s shoulder. “You are bereft of honor, woman.”
Another said, “I took his werecoin e’en though my son was slain. Agreement was made.”
“Aye,” said all the crowd, speaking now with one voice.
“You deny our god and steal our honor.”
A ghost-talker thrust an accusing finger at Jehenne, who barked scornful laughter and said, “You speak of honor? What of my honor, that Bracht ni Errhyn sullied?”
“Of that, Ahrd has delivered holy judgment,” the ghost-talker replied, his voice hoarse with the shock that sprang his eyes wide, cracking lines through the paint upon his face.
“But I have not.”
The falchion Jehenne held darted out; the ghost-talker drew back his hand, a heartbeat before his finger was sliced off. From the gathered Lykard there came gasps of stark disbelief, close followed by an angry grumbling, and Calandryll thought they might fall upon the woman, the tables firmly turned.
“Does she thirst so for blood, then let her try for mine.”
Katya spoke in the Envah, her voice cold, steely as the fury that clouded her grey eyes, as though a storm raged there, flashing dangerous lightning. It silenced the mumble of protest, drawing all eyes in her direction. Gentle as a mother lowering child to cradle, she set down Bracht’s head, rising to stride forward, glaring at Jehenne.
“This . . . creature . . . would refuse the judgment of your god; she’d slay a man unable to defend himself; she’d renege the promise of werecoin. She sullies the honor of the ni Larrhyn.” The words came hot and clear, answered with a nodding of heads, muttered agreement. “Aye—Bracht warned of that, and he spoke the truth. No less when he told of Rhythamun, who has seduced this foul woman. Remember that when I have defeated her—that the body of Daven Tyras is but a mask worn by a sorcerer, who’d raise the Mad God and bring all the world down in chaos. Do you pursue the crazed dream he sowed in her mind, then you league with madness—with a god damned by his own parents, who’d see Ahrd, and all the Younger Gods, destroyed. Do you as Jehenne would have it, then you folk of Cuan na’For lend yourselves to Tharn’s design.”
She paused, her body tense, her eyes angry and defiant. Calandryll applauded her subtlety—that she thought, even then, to turn the moment to advantage, to thwart Rhythamun. On the faces of the Lykard all about him, he saw doubt grow, becoming certainty, a rejection of Jehenne’s proposed alliance.
“It shall not be,” said one ghost-talker.
“Word shall be passed,” said the other. “To warn of this mage.”
“There shall be no alliance,” promised the first.
Katya nodded. “Then give me my sword and let this be settled,” she said. “Let this creature try for her mad vengeance.”
There was a moment of silence, of confusion, then one of the ghost-talkers cried, “So be it,” and a warrior hurried to fetch Katya’s saber, passing her the blade with a respectful bow. She hefted the weapon as a circle formed, she and Jehenne at the center, eyeing each other with unfeigned loathing.
“Your life is mine,” snarled the flame-haired woman.
Katya tossed her flaxen mane and smiled coldly. “Then try to take it,” she challenged.
Jehenne needed no further prompting: swift as a stooping hawk she sprang forward, the falchion weaving a glittering pattern before her.
Katya stood her ground, the saber rising bright, deflecting the Lykard woman’s attack, returning it so that Jehenne’s advance halted and they moved a little way apart, circling, testing each other with feints and thrusts, parry and riposte. Steel clashed on steel, each woman seeking the other’s measure, Jehenne driven by rage, by the madness that blazed in her eyes, Katya by bold determination, in defense of the man she loved and the high purpose of their quest.
Calandryll could only watch, one among the fluid ring of onlookers, moving back, to the side, granting the combatants room as they shifted, this way and that, seeming for the moment evenly matched, the outcome unguessable. He saw Jehenne feint a cut at Katya’s head, turning the blow to launch a darting thrust at the chest, and the Vanu woman parry, riposting a sideways slash at the Lykard’s belly. Jehenne danced back, undaunted, her smile savage as she sprang away, seeking to use Katya’s momentum to turn the flaxen-haired warrior woman and hack the falchion across her momentarily exposed spine. Katya, in turn, leapt clear of the blow, answering it with her own, so that Jehenne’s blade was flung out, only her speed saving her from the return stroke.
They each stood their ground awhile then, trading blow for blow, the day loud with the sharp clatter of blade on blade. Then, as Katya brought up her saber to oppose a descending cut, Jehenne stepped closer, her left hand reaching down, to the dirk sheathed on her right hip. Calandryll shouted a warning, though he had no need, for Katya saw—or sensed—the movement and locked her left hand about Jehenne’s wrist before the dirk could slash across her lower belly. For long moments they stood face-to-face, the Vanu saber raised, holding off the Lykard falchion, Jehenne straining to bring the dirk into play, Katya pinning the weapon between them. Then she hooked a boot about Jehenne’s ankles and pivoted, leaning away as the falchion came down, letting Jehenne’s own strength unbalance the redheaded woman.
Jehenne yelled as she fell, Katya still holding her left wrist trapped, the Vanu woman’s boot slamming down against
the right. The tip of Katya’s saber rested against Jehenne’s throat, lightly, but sharp enough a pinprick of scarlet showed there. Jehenne’s face contorted, no longer lovely, and in a hoarse voice she snarled, “Do you end it, then? I’ll not plead for mercy, be that your thought.”
Katya shook her head, the sun striking points of brilliance from the silvery gold mane, and her full lips twitched in a small smile. “I’d not expect it,” she said, in the Envah still, so that, Calandryll realized, all there should understand her and not, afterward, have chance to claim the duel unfair, or won with trickery. “No—I’d not slay a helpless enemy. Such is your province.”
She loosed her grip and sprang back as Jehenne spat insane fury and leapt to her feet, falchion and dirk, both, extended. From the crowd, Calandryll heard a murmur of approval; for his own part, he thought, he would have driven the blade in and sundered Jehenne’s head from her neck, without such honorable display of clemency.
Katya, though, seemed confident, and, indeed, her action appeared to have rendered Jehenne less, rather than more, cautious. It was as if that sparing of her life served to stoke the furnace of her rage, provoking her to careless desperation, for she now attacked with a wild disregard for defense, seeking to drive Katya back and batter down the Vanu woman under the sheer fury of her onslaught. Falchion and dirk swung and probed, Jehenne seeking an opening denied her by Katya’s self-control, by the flaxen-haired woman’s sword skill. Each thrust, each stab, was parried, and as they circled, Calandryll saw that Katya led her opponent on, persuading Jehenne to expend her strength, while husbanding her own. It seemed she fought entirely defensive now, looking only to hold off Jehenne’s enraged assault, but Calandryll saw that she moved only a little, reserving herself, while Jehenne paced and darted and hacked in a fury of energy that painted her face with sweat and brought the breath in heaving gasps from between her stretched lips.
Once, it seemed the dirk had found a home in Katya’s ribs, but she shoved Jehenne away, smiling still, even though a fine line of red coursed over the silver of her mail. Once, the falchion scored a cut upon her thigh, but not deep. And the saber scored its own wounds—over Jehenne’s ribs, the tunic parted, stained with a red brighter than the leather; blood ran from a forearm, over the fingers that held the dirk; platelets hung loose, jangling, below the thrust of Jehenne’s breasts—but none serious, small hurts that went unnoticed in the fury of combat, ignored as the Lykard woman pressed in, seeking to drive through Katya’s defense.
They shifted toward the tree and Calandryll moved to place himself between them and Bracht, who still lay unconscious, thinking that perhaps Jehenne might sacrifice herself to slay him, or that a random blow might strike the Kern. He was surprised to find that the ghost-talkers, too, and the warriors who had wielded the hammers set themselves as living barrier against such accident. He chanced a look at Bracht and saw his comrade as though asleep, his features tranquil, his hurried glance drawn back to the duel by a sudden gasp from those still intent on the fight.
The two women were closed again, Jehenne’s dirk held back from Katya’s throat by the saber, the falchion trapped between ribs and the Vanu woman’s left arm. Then Jehenne twisted, drawing back the dagger, so that Katya’s blade sliced down through empty air even as the dirk was rammed forward, not seeking to stab, but slamming the fist that held it against Katya’s jaw. Calandryll saw her eyes start wide, unfocused for an instant, and Jehenne leer in feral triumph as she snatched her sword arm clear and swung the falchion back, then forward again, at Katya’s neck.
It seemed that Katya, stunned by the blow, must stagger helpless, as the falchion hacked down her life. It seemed to Calandryll that time slowed in that instant, each minute detail enacted with agonizing languor. He saw the bright steel of the falchion swing toward Katya’s throat; saw the warrior woman take one horribly protracted step backward: not enough to save her life. He saw her take a second, her knees bending, and thought the blow to her jaw had unwitted her. Then, still slow as dream’s inertia, he saw the falchion pass close over her head, so close the flaxen hair was ruffled and long strands drifted, severed, on the blade’s passage. He saw Jehenne turned by the force of it, the dirk moving forward and across, instinctive defense, even as she shifted her weight to reverse the stroke. He saw Katya gather herself, no longer falling, but lunging forward, the saber out-thrust, propelled by her straightening legs and all the carefully harbored strength in her slim body.
It took Jehenne in the side; before the dirk could move to fend it off, before the falchion could riposte.
Time resumed its normal pace then, as the saber slid half its length between Jehenne’s ribs and the flame-haired woman’s scream split the silence. It seemed to Calandryll the sound held less of pain than outraged anger. Katya twisted the blade as she withdrew the steel, no longer gleaming silvery, but dulled now. Jehenne swayed, coughing crimson bubbles that burst and spattered over her lips and chin. Her face was haggard as she raised her blade, taking one unsteady step toward Katya. Almost casually it seemed, Katya swung the saber across the Lykard woman’s belly, and Jehenne grunted, spitting blood, and doubled over, sword and dagger both falling from her grasp as she crumpled. She fell on hands and knees, and for a while rested there, her face hidden behind the curtain of her sweat-lank hair, her breathing a horrible, bubbling exhalation. Then she shook her head and moaned something none could hear, and sank down with a final, heaving sigh, and lay still.
There came a silence then that stretched out, as if none present could quite believe Jehenne ni Larrhyn was defeated, was dead. It seemed as though even the insects buzzing over the grass, the birds in the woodland, the waiting horses, were stilled; the wind itself seemed muted. Katya stood, head lowered, the bloodied saber at her side, her face solemn, even grim, no triumph, nor satisfaction, in her expression. It was as if she honored her slain foe.
Then the drachomannii spoke, again in singsong unison: “The combat was just.
“Jehenne ni Larrhyn was tested and found wanting.
“From her own mouth she damned herself.
“By blade was she tried, by blade was she defeated.
“Let all who saw know this, and tell it—that Katya of Vanu fought with honor, and in honor was victorious.”
Calandryll saw that Katya frowned as the shamans intoned their ritual chant, and moved to her side, translating the words. She nodded, tearing a handful of grass with which to cleanse her blade, sheathing the weapon. “And now?” she demanded. “Shall they send us on our way, or grant us shelter until Bracht recovers?”
Calandryll could offer no answer, but one of the ghost-talkers approached then, his expression tentative as he ducked his head and said, “I speak your language. No Lykard will offer you harm, for we shall send word to all the camps of what has happened here, and all shall know of Jehenne ni Larrhyn’s blasphemy, and that Ahrd looks with favor on Bracht ni Errhyn. Be it your wish, we shall carry him back to our camp, and he shall rest there until he wishes to leave. The sap of Ahrd’s holy tree is in his veins now, but be our healing skills needed, then they are his. And yours.”
He paused as Katya glanced down, seemingly aware for the first time of her own wounds. She dismissed them with a careless gesture, fixing the shaman with her stare.
“And shall you pass word of Rhythamun? Daven Tyras?”
“That shall be done,” the drachoman promised. “From camp to camp the word shall go—that Daven Tyras is outcast, to be slain on sight. Ahrd has judged Jehenne, and all shall know her dream of alliance was a madness, born of this Rhythamun’s seduction.”
“Still we’d pursue him,” Katya said. “For he carries with him a book that we are vowed to bring to Vanu.”
“None shall prevent you,” answered the shaman, “and be he slain, then all he has with him shall be delivered to you, wherever you may be on the grass of Cuan na’For.”
“So be it, and our thanks for that.” Katya inclined her head. “But for now, do we bring Bracht back to y
our camp?”
“As you wish it.” The ghost-talker bowed, turning to call in his own language, sending men hurrying to fashion a litter from the pollarded growths that flanked the edges of the hurst.
THEIR return was met by all the camp, and a great cry went up as Jehenne’s body, slung across her white horse, was seen, another at sight of Bracht, still unconscious, on the litter. The ghost-talkers rode ahead, shouting news of the crucifixion and its outcome, of the combat, and of Daven Tyras. Word spread fast and awed faces looked up at Katya as she rode between the wagons, her eyes intent on Bracht, troubled.
They were brought to Jehenne’s wagon, which, by custom, was now theirs to command, and Bracht was laid upon a bed of silk. Impatiently, Katya allowed the ghost-talkers to dress her wounds, going, once they were done with their ministrations, to Bracht’s side. The Kern appeared unharmed. The wounds in his hands were mended, the flesh there sound, no longer even shaded with the greenish hue of the sap that had flowed out to expel the nails and heal him. Save he had seen it happen, Calandryll would not have known his friend had suffered any hurt. But still, as dusk fell, Bracht slept, and none could say when—or if—he would awake, for none had ever seen a man survive that ordeal.
“He lives,” Calandryll said, as Katya gently bathed the peaceful face, her own creased with worry, “and we—you!—won an advantage this day.”
“Save he wakes, that shall be lost.” Katya set aside the cloth, not looking at Calandryll, her voice defiant. “For I’ll not leave him, and Rhythamun is powerful. I know not what magicks these ghost-talkers command, but I wonder if they own such gramaryes as may halt that mage.”
“Aye,” granted Calandryll. “And so we can only wait.”
“Until he wakes,” said Katya, smoothing Bracht’s hair.
BRACHT slept on, peaceful as a babe, as dusk darkened into full night. Lykard came, their silence respectful now, to show where lamps were stowed in compartments ingeniously built into the wagon’s walls, containing food and wine, to offer invitation to the communal feast that would decide the clan’s new leader. Katya refused to leave the Kern’s side, but Calandryll elected to attend, aware an honor was done them and thinking the ni Larrhyn might be insulted did they both refuse, and also that he might well learn something of value.