by Angus Wells
“There’s a party of twelve will be here later,” the ambassador called. “We’ll require stabling and beds.”
“I’ll see to it, my lord,” the man promised.
“Now,” Varent looked around, “is the Kern here?”
“There.”
Calandryll pointed to the farther wall, where a black-clad figure lounged, boots resting on a stool. The Kern had a pot of ale before him and his falchion at his side, and he was studying them with a mixture of surprise and irritation.
“You did as I asked,” beamed Varent.
“You paid me,” said Bracht.
“A man of honor.” Varent drew up a chair.
“You expected less?”
“No!” Varent shook his head. “A Kern’s word is his bond, don’t you say?”
Bracht studied the ambassador with cold blue eyes. Calandryll sat, sensing anger in the freesword. Unbidden, the landlord brought two pots of ale.
Varent raised his to his lips and drank. Calandryll said, “Greetings, Bracht.”
The Kern ignored him. Varent murmured, “Excellent. A fine ale.”
“You said nothing of him.” Bracht indicated Calandryll with a jut of his chin.
“I told you you were hired to guard a traveler,” Varent said. “Calandryll is the one.”
“The son of the Domm of Secca?” Bracht shook his head. “How long before his father comes looking? And if he finds me with Calandryll I’m gallows meat.”
“The Domm has no idea where he is,” said Varent placidly. “Nor any reason to suspect that I secreted him from the city.”
“Even so,” said Bracht.
“Even so, you have taken my money,” said Varent. “And can earn a great deal more.”
“There is that,” Bracht allowed.
“A thousand varre,” said Varent. “A great deal of coin.”
Bracht stared at his mug as though weighing choices, then shrugged.
“So be it.”
“Good,” Varent smiled. “Now, shall we eat?”
“WHY do you object to me?” Calandryll demanded.
He had seized the chance to speak to Bracht alone when the Kern went to the stables to check his horse. Throughout the wait for Varent’s men, and the subsequent meal, the mercenary had exhibited a cool antipathy toward him, despite agreeing to Varent’s terms, and Bracht’s hostility disturbed him: he had anticipated a warmer welcome.
Bracht shrugged without speaking, sweeping a currycomb over the glossy black hide of his stallion; Calandryll refused to go unanswered.
“We’ll be spending enough time together—if you’re unwilling, perhaps you should speak up.”
Bracht swept the comb over the horse’s crupper and surveyed his handiwork.
“I took Varent’s money; I agreed to accept the commission. Is that not enough?”
“No!” Calandryll was vaguely surprised by his own self-assurance: it seemed to grow momentarily. “It is not enough. I’d not have ill-feeling between us.”
Bracht smoothed the mane and shouldered the stallion aside, doling oats into the manger. He dropped the currycomb into a pouch and tossed that to the straw outside the stall, then, leaning against the rails, he studied Calandryll critically.
“I have no ill-feeling toward you, Calandryll; not in the way you think.”
“Then in what way?”
Bracht grinned tightly. “Varent came to me with an offer,” he said. “He offered me one thousand varre to act as bodyguard to a traveler bound for Gessyth. That’s more than I could hope to make in three, four years as a free-sword. I accepted, and so I am bound—as Varent said, by my word. I know little of Gessyth, but what little I do know suggests it is a dangerous land—I assumed I was to guard some merchant enterprise, but I find I am to escort you.”
“And you would sooner hire out to some fat-bellied trader?”
Bracht shook his head, chuckling softly. “A trader bound for Gessyth is unlikely to be fat-bellied; more likely a merchant-adventurer. A man who knows how to use a blade. I find my charge is the son of Secca’s Domm—who will likely be sought by his father, but more important, a …” He caught himself, looking directly into Calandryll’s angry eyes, “… a young man who knows little of swordwork; by preference a scholar.”
“That’s why Varent needs me,” Calandryll snapped. “Because I am a scholar. Because I can read the Old Tongue, I can recognize the …”
He broke off, aware that he gave away perhaps more than Varent wanted the mercenary to know.
“Recognize what?” asked Bracht, and he realized he had gone too far: the Kern’s blue stare demanded explanation.
“A book,” he muttered, as angry with himself now as with the Kern. “A rare, antique document that Lord Varent would acquire for his collection. And I can use a sword.”
Bracht ignored that, his eyes narrowing.
“Varent pays me one thousand varre to acquire a book?”
Calandryll nodded: “A very rare book. A unique book. Lord Varent is,” he extemporized, “a collector.”
“How much does he pay you?” Bracht asked.
Calandryll shook his head. “Nothing. I undertake the mission because I am a scholar. And he helped me escape Secca. Dera, Bracht! My father would make me a priest.”
“I can understand your reluctance to accept that office,” the Kern allowed, “But to venture to Gessyth without pay?”
He shook his head, grinning his disbelief. It seemed he considered Calandryll a fool to undertake such a mission without reward and the younger man felt his cheeks grow warm, embarrassment and anger mingling. “There are more important things than money,” he said irritably.
“Of course,” Bracht agreed. “But not many.”
“I am not a mercenary!”
“No.” The Kern went on grinning. “That’s for sure.”
“What do you imply?” Calandryll demanded.
“I watched you beaten in the tavern,” came the answer, “and saw that you cannot defend yourself. From what I hear, Gessyth is a land of monsters, fraught with danger—I’d prefer my charge was able to use a sword at least a little.”
“I can use a sword,” Calandryll repeated.
Bracht’s thick eyebrows rose in unspoken doubt.
“I can!” said Calandryll, red-faced with anger now: the Kern’s calm stare was as infuriating as Tobias’s mockery. “I’ll show you! Wait here.”
He spun round, intent on borrowing a blade; Bracht’s even voice halted him at the stable door.
“This is no place to demonstrate your swordsmanship: I’ll wait for you in the barn.”
He jutted a thumb in the direction of the adjacent building: Calandryll nodded curtly and stalked across the moonlit courtyard toward the common room. Varent and his men sat drinking there, the ambassador’s dark eyes curious as Calandryll approached.
“I need a sword,” he said.
“Why?” Varent asked, curious.
“Bracht doubts my ability to survive our journey—I’d show him I can protect myself.”
“He’s a freesword,” Varent murmured, “You’ve no hope of defeating him.”
“I’d convince him,” Calandryll snapped, impatient in his anger. “He awaits me in the barn. Will someone lend me their blade?”
The ambassador’s men looked to their master for instruction; Varent pursed his lips in thought, dark eyes enigmatic, then slowly nodded.
“Very well—take mine.”
He slid a saber from a sheath inlaid with silver chasing, the slanted quillons carved with ornate scrollwork, the pommel a globe of gold. Calandryll nodded his thanks, hefting the weapon; it sat easily in his hand. Varent’s men moved to follow him as he turned for the door, but Varent waved them back. “This needs no audience,” he murmured, too soft for Calandryll to hear, “leave them be.”
“The Kern’ll cut him to pieces,” the man called Darth protested.
“No.” Varent shook his head. “The Kern may teach him a lesson, but hell not ha
rm the boy. Leave them to it, and let us find our beds—the hour grows late and I’d leave this place early.”
Calandryll breathed deep as he recrossed the courtyard, seeking a measure of calm. Realistically, he knew that he was no match for Bracht: he was no soldier, let alone a swordsman of the mercenary’s standard, but he had been required to practice often enough on his father’s orders, and he hoped at the least to show the Kern he was not entirely helpless.
He entered the barn. Bracht had lit several lanterns and moonlight penetrated through the high windows at front and rear, providing sufficient illumination that they might fight without excessive difficulty. Heavy pillars supported a hay-filled loft, the aisle between them wide, stretching unhindered down the length of the building. The Kern waited by the door, kicking it shut behind Calandryll. He held his falchion loosely in his right hand.
“Put this on.” He tossed a heavy gambeson of the kind worn in practice to Calandryll.
The younger man caught the jacket, scowling, setting Varent’s saber aside as he slid his arms into the padded sleeves, lacing the chestrings tight. Bracht wore a similar garment over his black leather shirt, and an infuriating smile.
“Remember, we do not fight for blood,” he warned, “Let there be no cuts to the head.”
“I have fought in practice before.” Calandryll assumed the stance of a duelist. “On guard!”
Bracht shook his head, though his eyes did not leave Calandryll’s face.
“Your first lesson—if you intend to kill a man, don’t warn him.”
“I do not intend to kill you.”
“No.” Bracht smiled. “But still.”
“It seems hardly honorable to attack without warning,” Calandryll said.
“Sometimes honor takes second place to staying alive,” murmured Bracht; and sent the falchion darting at Calandryll’s chest.
He jumped back, bringing the saber across in a defensive sweep. Bracht’s blade floated over the sword, forcing it to the side, exposing Calandryll’s ribs. The falchion landed flat: the blow stung and Calandryll grunted. He sidestepped, anticipating a second blow, and feinted an attack. Bracht riposted, this time lifting Calandryll’s weapon high, the falchion slapping across his belly.
“I think,” the Kern said mildly, “that you’d be tripping on your entrails now.”
Calandryll forgot his discipline as he saw the free-sword’s smile. Teeth clenched, he brought Varent’s saber down, turning the cut as Bracht’s sword moved to block it, seeking to drive in over the mercenary’s guard. Bracht was too fast: his blade shone in the lamplight, twisting, rolling over Calandryll’s to touch the younger man’s chest.
“Another lesson—control your anger. Anger makes a swordsman reckless.”
He backed away, letting Calandryll come to him, thwarting each attack with an effortlessness that infuriated Calandryll. It seemed there was no way past his defense, each attack met with a counter, parry and riposte, the falchion a living thing in his hand, darting with a serpentine ease that left Calandryll panting.
“Also,” he declared amiably, “you should seek to learn your opponent’s limits. Not simply charge him.”
Calandryll dragged a hand across his sweating brow and raised the saber in a defensive stance. Bracht advanced and the blade met again. Calandryll was unsure this time how the falchion found his ribs.
They fought on, Calandryll’s breath becoming ragged, perspiration shining on his face, the saber growing heavier in his hand. He would have given up, acceded victory, had pride not fueled his anger. Several times he thought he must win through to score a hit, but somehow his blade was always turned, his attack ending with the mercenary’s blade slapping anew against side or chest or belly.
“I think,” Bracht said after a while, still smiling, his breathing even, “that by now you’d be dead.”
Calandryll nodded despite himself and extended his sword. Bracht raised his left hand.
“Enough, my friend. I’ll concede that you’re not without some talent.”
“What?”
Calandryll lowered the saber, gaping: it seemed Bracht had taught him how little he knew. The Kern chuckled and said, “You’ve much to learn, but the makings are there. Perhaps I can make a freesword of you before we reach Gessyth.”
“You withdraw your objections?”
Bracht bowed and for a moment Calandryll thought he was mocked by the courtesy, but then the Kern said, “You’re not the milksop I thought—yes, I withdraw my objections.”
“And you’ll teach me bladework?”
“I’ll do my best,” the Kern promised. “Now, let’s drink some ale together to seal that bargain.”
Calandryll nodded: he had, he felt, passed a test and now the freesword offered a measure of friendship. He sought to accept the offer.
“I’ve a thirst,” he admitted.
“Then let’s slake it,” Bracht said, sheathing his blade.
They began to douse the lanterns, working their way from the rear of the barn toward the door. They were halfway along the wide aisle, the rearward portion shadowed, when Calandryll caught the waft of almonds on the dusty air. He turned, staring about, anticipating the appearance of Varent, but the ambassador was nowhere in sight. The odor grew stronger and he saw the air between his position and the door shimmer, the silvery moonlight rippling with a mercurial insubstantiality.
“What is it?”
Bracht appeared to sense his apprehension, swinging to face him with a hand on the falchion’s hilt, his swarthy features alert.
“I am not sure.” Calandryll pointed to where the shimmering air began to coalesce. “Magic, I think.”
Bracht followed his gesture and mouthed a low-voiced curse as his sword slid free; Calandryll gasped, raising Varent’s saber.
The air no longer shimmered, but grew solid, figures fashioned from the depths of darkest nightmare taking form. There were four of them, shaped in obscene semblance of men, but lacking any element of humanity. Wolfish heads sat on bullish necks, those columns descending into massive shoulders, like the arms, corded with muscle that bulged the grey, reptilian skin. From the hips extended long legs, feathered and birdlike, ending in scaled yellow feet from which jutted curved talons. The creatures’ eyes were red, and their jaws were lined with fangs, parting to emit slimy streamers of luteous drool. Each one held a long, black-bladed sword. The smell of almonds gave way to a midden stink as the hideous quarter advanced.
Calandryll stared, horrified. Bracht snatched the lantern he had been on the point of dousing and hurled it at the centermost abomination.
The fragile glass shattered, bathing the monster with oil that ignited, flame washing over the grey torso, wreathing the furred skull in a corona of fire. The thing flung back its head and roared an earsplitting bellow of pain and fury, its midnight blade scything wildly as it stumbled against its companions, interrupting their advance. Bracht shouted a challenge and sprang to the attack, his falchion slicing deep across the chest of the closest monstrosity, the cut sending a spray of black blood high into the air. The beast ignored the wound, bringing its sword round in a sweeping arc that would likely have severed the Kern’s neck had he not ducked beneath the swing to drive his own blade into the feathered abdomen. His wrist twisted as he withdrew the falchion, opening a gaping wound in the apparition’s belly, the black blood pulsing in thick gouts that seethed where they splashed over the floor.
The burning horror still staggered, still roared, as its skin crisped, peeling from the bones, and for long moments Calandryll could only stare, frozen in disgust. Then a black sword swung toward his face and he reacted without thought: the saber rose, deflecting the blow, though the force of it jarred his arm. He cut again as the sword was swept to the side, gagging on the stench of the awful thing as he stepped close, slashing across the ribs. Saliva splattered his cheek, burning, and he ducked, dancing clear of a blow that shivered great splinters from one of the barn’s uprights. Red eyes empty of any emotion save
hate stared at him as a third cut arched at his chest. He parried, feeling his blade knocked away, and the creature snarled in triumph as it drew back its massive arm, prepatory to spitting him. He flung himself to the side, barely evading the thrust, and the ebon sword imbedded deep in the splintered pillar. Faster than he had believed he could react, he brought the saber up in a two-handed grip; and down as if the sword were an ax.
The thick wrist was severed, the hairy grey hand still clutching the hilt as it was parted from the arm. A thick jet of the black blood spurted from the stump and the monster, propelled by its own inertia, staggered forward. Calandryll reversed his stroke, the saber rising to intersect the rib cage. A shriek of outrage dinned against his ears as the beast toppled; then became a grunt as he drove the saber into the exposed back, twisting savagely, experiencing a fierce, bloody pleasure as he felt the blade grate on bone.
He spun, seeing Bracht carve a gory wound across the chest of the fourth monstrosity, dancing back as the gutted beast attacked from the side. The thing should have been dead: entrails hung stinking from the raw-lipped opening in its belly and its leathery torso was curtained with the outpouring from Bracht’s first stroke. It still moved, however, joining its companion to press the Kern hard, back along the barn. The burning creature stood in flames, howling, its sword dropped as it clawed at its chest and face, blunt nails tearing loose long strips of hide, its blood sizzling noisome. Calandryll ignored it, darting to Bracht’s aid.
He saw the mercenary parry an attack and hack his falchion viciously across a reptilian belly, spinning as the second blade angled at his skull, turning that blow to step inside the monster’s reach and ram his sword between the ribs. He pivoted, dragging the abomination with him as he yanked his weapon clear, point darting between opened jaws to plunge deep into the throat. Calandryll attacked from behind: a double-handed blow that clove down into the shoulder. His victim snarled and spun to face him: the saber was torn from his grasp, point jutting from the thing’s chest. He leaped back. Bracht, still engaged with the hideously wounded brute, shouted, “Behind you!” and he turned again to find the aberration he had thought he had slain advancing.