Forty-two
I SCRABBLED IN THE rear of the cave where I’d sensed dampness, hurling aside handfuls of small stones that I might crawl under the ledge. Had I led myself astray? How much energy was my frantic search consuming, that afterward I’d lament?
No matter. I was beyond frenzy, near madness. King of Caledon, wielder of the fabled Still, I was nonetheless a callow beardless youth whose voice still cracked in excitement. And I was walled into a black cave, for eternity.
I squeezed myself under the ledge, extended my arm. Surely it must be ... right about ... there.
It wasn’t.
My arm outstretched to its fullest, I flung my hand about. Did Tryon toy with me?
Nothing.
Back to the seat, then, and its foul medium? Ask anew? Reach blindly about, until I saw what they’d have me see?
What was that?
I yanked out my finger, brushed it against my cheek.
It was wet.
Frantically, I squirmed as close to the ledge as I might, reached out again, cupped my hand palm upward.
Drip by slow drip, I let the droplets splash.
When my tight fingers had a spoonful of water, I eased it out, and lost my treasure.
Cursing mighty oaths, I struggled to cast aside loose rock. When at last the hole was enlarged, I squeezed under, held out my hand anew.
Eons later, I withdrew a precious iota of water, slurped it into my dry, cracked mouth. A long, impatient wait. Another handful.
And again.
How long I lay there, letting the precious drops fill my hand, I knew not. At length, I was, if not sated, eased. What next?
I made my way back to the rock that had been my seat. I ought tell Tryon of my success.
No, there was time. Time was the one commodity I didn’t lack.
The concavity I’d filled first with spit, then bile, wasn’t all that deep. I felt about for a loose stone, found one that would do. With care, I positioned myself, made sure my fingertips were clear, and began to pound the basin.
After a time my forehead was damp with sweat. I blew out the dust and chips. Was the basin any deeper? Perhaps; it was hard to judge in dark. I crawled once more to the ledge.
“It’s just a trickle. A drop at a time.”
“Does it suffice?”
“Yes.” My tone was reluctant. “Aye, Grandsir. If I don’t move about and sweat.” I stared moodily at the embers. “What about air?”
“If you’re not panting, there’s a source.”
“An escape hole?” I could barely contain my eagerness.
“Have you seen such?”
I shook my head.
“Then I doubt you’ll find it. Some caves go far.” Tryon’s tone was dreamy. “When I was a boy, the Warthen showed me a cave you might walk in for hours. He—”
“I could bash at the wall; there’s enough small rocks for hammers. In time ...”
Cayil, behind us, snickered. “You must think him a fool.”
“Who?”
“Your Hriskil. As if he’d leave a cave unguarded, with his rival within. Faugh.”
“But I must have out.”
Tryon said gently, “I fear Cayil’s right. The clap of your rock on stone will alert the guards Hriskil surely placed. He’ll have no need to stint. You’ll be met with spears and arrows, and die for naught.”
I gulped. “What, then?”
“Wait for rescue.” Tryon held up a hand to forestall me. “Fifty saw you immured, you say. Then a hundred more will know, and soon all Caledon. If your liege men love you, they’ll make the attempt.”
“Better I free myself than my vassals die in the effort!”
“Nobly said, but ... impractical. You can’t free yourself.”
I sputtered, “Damn Hriskil to the lake! May his bones rot! May imps chew—”
“Yes!” From the corner, a rumble. “Gather the hate. Shape it, And ...”
“Yes, Father Varon?”
“And wait.”
Of the time that followed, what is there to say?
Hours passed. And more.
Much more.
I crouched silently, as day and night entwined in black affliction that could only be endured. In Mother’s cave I could see my own, and fixed in my memory every rock, every low spot, every twist that might trip my unsteady feet.
From time to time I grew thirsty and felt my way to the ledge, crawled beneath, stretched out my palm and took sustenance. Eventually I would crawl back to my rock, kneel with hands cupped, to commune with my forebears.
As venture succeeded venture to the ledge, I felt myself ever more lightheaded. My legs grew unsteady. After a time, I crawled all the way, rather than daring to stand.
Slowly, my stomach shrank to a hard knot. At first, I dreamed of roast fowl, dripping with juices, fresh eggs, hot steaming bread, tall mugs of beer, Uncle Raeth’s dainty pastries. Eventually, in desperation, I quelled my self-torture. Now and then I chewed on my discarded thongs in hapless effort to relieve my misery.
I still urinated, in a far corner. After a while I produced no other waste. I cinched my belt rope ever tighter.
Sitting on a somewhat flat stone I’d dragged across the floor, I hunched for endless hours over my improvised vessel, my thoughts on Hriskil. In the far cave, Mother and Tryon edged away, as if troubled. But, rigidly courteous, I coaxed them back. They squatted at their fire, and helped me mold my Power.
The time came when I could barely crawl to the distant ledge. I drank long, knowing it was likely my last journey. With great care, I cupped my hands, waited an eternity, filled them with water, brought it down the well-memorized path to my basin. I slumped on my rocky stool, facing the mortared wall, and waited.
Rustin, it will be soon. I’m near spent.
Why is it you I seek for comfort? Why not Tresa, whom I yearned to wed?
You knew me long, my prince.
Aye, but not my lady. Would we have made a fair couple, do you think?
Silence.
If not for the Norland beast, I might have had answer.
I dozed, palms spread, swaying until I nearly fell. Wake, dolt! To sleep is end. Nurse the hatred that pervades you. Grandsir says to bet on the die that fate casts. Bet all: your Caleds will rescue you, or they will not. Your task is but to live.
Slumped over the vessel, I licked dry lips and impaled imagined Norland foes with pretended swords. With a cruel twist, I wrenched them free. I seized fiery brands, thrust them at wide staring eyes.
Die, all of you.
I was a wraith built of hatred.
Somewhere, a pebble clattered.
My lips twisted. Do you come for me, imps? I don’t say I’m your match; I say only, lay claw on me, and I will teach you of the Still of Caledon.
More pebbles. The sound was from the cave’s mouth.
I ought get up, feel my way, but for two reasons I did not.
If my palms left the basin, I would lose my Power.
And I couldn’t force my body erect. I doubted I could crawl. I lay across the basin, my bony torso pressing my palms to the puddle of clear water. My head sagged.
You’ve won, Hriskil. I can wait no longer. If my spirit survives, I’ll haunt you, I swear by—
Thunk.
My heart fluttered, beat more strongly.
Thumps and clatters.
A blast of searing light. I squeezed shut my eyes.
The shaft of fire grew brighter.
“Mother?” My lips barely moved. “Is it time? How do I make passage?”
“You live.” Her voice was taut. “Harken.”
The crash of rock. A shadow. Then, “Sa mord!” He is dead.
Yes, Rodrigo’s dead. Only his draughts remain.
Thoughts he’s gathered for eons, unexpressed.
“Hae vestre!” Come see!
Thoughts he can no longer contain.
Mother’s cave faded to naught.
So be it.
I forced
open an eyelid.
They’d pounded out a doorway of sorts. Two Norls were in the cave. Behind, a half dozen peered eagerly through the opening. All had spears. Swords were drawn.
I bared my teeth. A bolt of pure hate escaped me.
The nearest Norl hissed, arched his back, dropped to the cave floor, cracking his skull.
The others gaped.
“Aiyee!” The second invader stiffened. He fell, convulsing.
“Bowmen!” A frantic cry.
Which of you is Hriskil?
Eyes shut, I searched past the opening to the slope beyond. One by one, methodically, I squeezed the souls I chanced upon.
Brave archers took a stance a hundred paces distant, across the stream. A few badly aimed shafts were loosed. In turn, each bowman stiffened, twitched, fell unmoving.
After a time, the frantic clatter of horses.
I let myself rove, choking off life where I found it.
Forever passed, and I fed on no more souls.
“Roddy.” Someone shook me.
Let me sleep.
“Sleep ends all!” Mother’s voice was sharp. “Now, King! Leave us.”
Wearily, I forced open my eyes.
I lay slumped across my stone basin. My palms ached. I cast about, felt no one near. Slowly, reluctantly, I dragged stiff aching fingers from under my belly.
Mother’s cave faded. I looked about my own cavern, unaccustomed to the sight of it.
The doorway framed a blaze of light, furlongs distant.
Life.
But too far ever to walk.
Crawl, then.
I thought to try, and toppled. A protruding stone drove air from my lungs. I lay gasping. A faint echo of rage overwashed me. I would not die thus! Grimly, I inched my way to the door. The light grew ever brighter.
I heaved myself through, to day.
A dozen Norlanders lay dead among trampled brush. Weakly, I thrust aside twigs and branches, peered about. Below, the stream chuckled. On the far side, a lone tree. A pudgy body hung from a rope, abandoned even by crows.
Above was the road, but that was hopeless. I hadn’t the strength, and never would.
I dragged myself to a staring, still Norlander. In his sheath, a dagger. He must be a horseman; he carried no pack with morsels of food that might revive me. With a feverish burst of energy, I thrust my hands into his clothing, searching for I knew not what.
Coins. A knotted cloth.
A flint.
I thought a long moment.
It would do.
I stretched unsteady fingers toward the brush, began to gather twigs and leaves.
“Fea hae cerc, Rez?” May I come near, King?
I didn’t bother to turn. “Qay.” Yes.
Danzik edged closer. “Truly, you live.” His voice was awed.
“Qay.”
As the Norlander studied me, his eyes widened. “Look at you, Rodrigo!” He pursed his lips. “Bones and no more.” He unslung his pack. “I have rations.”
My voice grated. “I’ve... eaten.” Not much, but all I dared. A few bites and my stomach felt full to bursting. All the while, I struggled not to vomit.
“What found you—oh!” Danzik stared with dismay at the bloody haunch. He swallowed.
In the growing dusk, I met his gaze, unashamed. It had sustained life, and until Hriskil were dead, I must need live.
It was growing chill. With gaunt forearm, I nudged the last of my sticks into the fire. “How long was I ... ?”
“Sixteen days.”
I marveled. “That, long.” Then, “Why did they break through the wall?”
Danzik lumbered to his feet, gathered handfuls of brash, began feeding it to the greedy flames. “When you were taken, and your band dispersed, I rode to Norl camp at Soushire.” He spoke slowly, clearly, that I might follow. “King greeted me, civilly enough. Asked if my pilgrimage was done. With your death, I told him.”
A pause. We stared at crackling flames.
“You were dead, said Hriskil.”
My smile was grim. “Soa Rez Caledi, qa han vos modrit.” I am the Caled king, whom you cannot kill.
Danzik merely nodded. “Dicha Hriskil qa veztrez coa tern.” I told Hriskil I would see how it ends. “Until seeing it, I was not done. He bade me unseal your crypt and look upon your rotting flesh. It had been half a month.” After a time he added, “Hriskil asked me to bring back your head.”
“Will you?” I shivered. It was growing chill.
“Han, Rez.” He shook his head.
“They will, then.” I gestured to the rise, and the Norland host who must wait beyond.
Danzik snorted. “They’re long gone.” He made himself busy. “I rode from Soushire with Sanchu’s regiment of cavalry. Officers joked we’d find your corpse hrutu, dried, only skin and bones.” His broad face darkened. “Not kevhom, to jeer at foe so brave. And—and—” He bit it off. Then, “Gallant.” His eyes refused to meet mine. “Guards here told Sanchu that for many days there were no sounds from cave. But while they broke the wall, I waited across stream. Not sure why. Part, I didn’t want to see you dead. And part ... I not stupid-brave.” The Norl word for foolhardy.
“Guards used hammers and steel to open cave. Sanchu’s men helped. Suddenly, Norl kevhom began to fall. I grabbed reins, threw myself on saddle, rode as fast as mare go. Flanks bloody from whip.”
We sat in silence.
“Everyone who stayed near cave died. Spearmen. Bowmen across stream. Sanchu himself. Did you know your Still so strong?”
“No. I ... nursed it. Shaped it. I had a long while.”
“A fearsome day. So sudden, from jokes to death. Above that rise, Sanchu’s regiment was milling about. Few at a time, men lost their nerve. Suddenly, a dozen rode off. Rest raced after.”
Then I’d live for a time. I shook my head at the marvel of it.
“I fled too,” said Danzik, “a few hundred paces. But I turned back.”
I said dryly, “To see how it ends.”
“Qay.” Abruptly Danzik rose and trudged down the slope to the stream, near the lone tree. In a moment he climbed back up with a skin of water. He crouched by my side, helped me drink of it. “This no place to stay. Morrow, they regain courage. Perhaps even this night, when Hriskil hears of it. He’ll send whole army.”
It mattered not. I hadn’t the strength to climb the rise.
As if Danzik read my thoughts, he stooped, thrust his mighty arms under me, lifted me gently, like a babe. With stolid care, he waded across the stream to climb the far hill.
We passed under the tree, with its taut rope. Lady Soushire’s empty eyesockets gazed past me to eternity.
I swallowed. “But who did ... why?”
“Hriskil’s orders, after she was captured. For slipping out of castle to join you.”
Danzik’s horse grazed patiently, reins tied to a branch. A half dozen other mounts wandered nearby. Their masters wouldn’t need them. The Norlander gathered the reins of a gray gelding. He lifted me high, helped me into the saddle. I was too weak to be of much help.
“Where, Rez?”
My hand fell on his. “Danzik ...” I hated to injure my cause, but I owed him much. “Guiat ... this is beyond vestrez coa tern. You aid your king’s foe.”
A shamefaced look stole across his features. “Only in little things. I not fight Norls.”
“Will Hriskil forgive it?”
“I don’t know. Where, Rodrigo? I’d not want to be here at dawn.”
“Who of my band lives?” I clung to the pommel, fighting a wave of dizziness.
“Most, I think. You waited apart, with your guards, while Anavar and Groenfil and all your riders attacked wagons. Wagons were decoys. Not much of a fight there. When Caleds knew you were taken, too late.” His eyes narrowed.
“Trap was clever. Hriskil’s way. Sacrifice drovers, but ...” He shrugged. “War.”
“I would not fight so.”
“I know. Norl horsemen held off Gro
enfil while others took you east. Then they retreated north to lead your men off trail.”
“Where were you?”
“With Groenfil, after fight. Anavar wanted to attack, attack, ’til you found, but Groenfil had older, cooler head. He decided to retreat near Stryx, and regroup. I left him.”
I considered. “We’ll go to Stryx, then. But surely your men guard every path.”
“If not now, as soon as Hriskil hears.” Danzik studied me. “You can’t ride.” He gathered a string of horses, tied their reins to his pommel, and mounted. He nudged his mare closer to my gelding. Before I knew it he swept me from my mount, set me in front of him on the generous seat, nudged his mare into a walk.
Stunned speechless, I almost struggled to loose myself. Then, surrendering, I leaned back, let my head loll against his chest.
Bushes, trees, brooks inched past. I had vague memories of a peasant’s hut, and soup forced between my lips. A straw bed. More soup.
Two days came and went. Danzik fed me bread and apples and dried smoked meat from his pack. My interest in the world began to revive. I transferred to a mount of my own.
We rode slowly, often forsaking roads for hilly paths and goat trails.
Long before we reached Stryx, we blundered into one of Groenfil’s outguards. Nearly, they skewered us. Danzik and I cried out, in Norl and Caled. Lord of Nature stayed their swords.
Groenfil paced, his eyes darting from me to Danzik, and back. Again, he shook his head. “An apparition. You cannot be else.”
Anavar’s voice was muffled. “He’s real.” His forehead nestled in the crook of my shoulder. His fingers still clutched the saddlebag he’d so proudly presented me, that contained my coronet and vessels. I’d thought it lost on my capture, but in the melee my mare had run off, and my gear was found intact.
Absently, I patted the young Eiberian’s back, glad his tears had subsided. “Real enough.” Thanks to Danzik, who’d helped me dismount in Groenfil’s makeshift camp and calmly curled himself against a leafy elm to snooze, while around him astonished horsemen crowded to see the king returned from the dead.
Groenfil eyed my gaunt form. “Come, my liege. Sit.”
“In a moment Though, if you have any broth ...”
“They’ve skinned a rabbit. Be patient.”
My lips tightened. In recent days I’d learned patience, if nothing else. I rubbed my scar. “What know we of Caledon?”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 56