“Ganath sent a message . . .” came Linne’s thought. “You remember, he’s one of the lads who studied with you on Avalon. I had placed him on the coast near the river Stour where the traders from the Great Land come.”
When the raiders let them, thought Anderle.
“A ship came from the City of Circles. They say the City is drowning, but this ship escaped. Ganath’s old friend Woodpecker was on it! Would you believe he has turned up alive after all these years? But now he calls himself Mikantor!”
Once more the contact wavered as blood drained from Anderle’s head and surged back again. She trembled, caught between shock and joy.
“Where is he?” she sent a mental cry.
“Ganath got supplies for them. They’re on their way to Avalon!”
“Fine news! The best of news, my sister. You have my endless thanks!”
“Then I must go. You will have things to do, and so do I.”
As the contact broke, Anderle sank back into her body, uncertain whether to laugh or to cry. This was the confirmation of their vision on the Tor. This was the reward for all her labors. He was alive!
She stood, stretching limbs stiffened by sitting too long, and took a small dance step of delight. She saw a figure in priestess blue in the doorway and smiled radiantly as it moved into the light and the sun glistened on her daughter’s bright hair.
“Tirilan! Listen—” Now she could share her joy—
“Mother, why didn’t you tell me!” Tirilan’s accusation cut across her words.
“How could—I only just learned—what do you mean?”
“Ellet says you saw Mikantor in your ritual!” Tirilan exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s alive?”
Anderle’s joy congealed as she saw her daughter’s face, contorted in the image of the goddess of wrath. But why?
“Tirilan!” She put all her authority into the snapped command. The girl gasped, stopped in midword, and fell blessedly still. “What do you mean?”
“Ellet told me,” Tirilan replied. “Now that I’m safely pledged, as a fellow initiate, she thought I should know about your little ritual on the Tor.”
“Yes, of course,” Anderle began, “but—”
“You saw Mikantor,” repeated the girl. “Didn’t you think what that would mean to me?”
“It was a vision . . .” stammered Anderle, wondering how her daughter had managed to put her on the defensive. “We hoped, but we didn’t know. . . .”
“Hope! That’s just what it would have been! Do you think I would have shackled myself to Avalon if I had known the man I love still walked the world?”
So that was it. “You still fancy yourself in love with him? You were children. You have changed. He will have changed. What makes you think that whatever was between you will not have altered as well?”
“That’s not the point,” Tirilan countered bitterly. “By tricking me into taking vows, you have denied me the right to find out if I still love him. You denied me the right to choose . . .”
Anderle felt her own wrath kindling. How dare her daughter accuse her, when she had given her the greatest gift in her power?
“Until Mikantor returns, how can I know?”
“You won’t have to wait long, then,” Anderle said coldly. “He will be here before another moon grows old. Weep now if you must, but when he arrives, be ready to greet him with a smile. If Ellet has told you what we saw, you know that the gods have granted him no easy destiny.”
SIXTEEN
Maidenhills consisted of several roundhouses clustered below a spur of the downs where a lumpy line of barrows crowned a hill. A crowd of people waited to greet them. Mikantor sighed. He had hoped that they might pass unnoticed, one more anonymous band of refugees wandering across the land, but Ganath seemed determined to turn his homecoming into a parade. In all this winter- and war-battered countryside, there were bound to be some who would report his presence to Galid and his wolves. He could only hope to outrun the rumors, which seemed to be growing with every league.
Mikantor braced himself against the naked need he read in their eyes. There were seven men and three women, a gaggle of children peeking from behind their skirts, and one individual grown genderless with age. But the buildings were in better repair than many he had seen; in fact two of them seemed to be new. An eye educated by his recent travels noted the size of the livestock pens—empty at this season, when the beasts had been driven up to graze on the hills. Beyond the houses long fields were veiled with the hopeful green of emmer wheat, and gardens sprouted poles to support the first spiraling stems of beans.
When he looked back at the people, another figure had joined them, a tall young man in a tunic like Ganath’s whom he surely ought to recognize.
“Ah, there he is!” Ganath was grinning broadly. “Do you remember? He always was a long lad, though we never thought he would turn into a young tree . . .”
“Beni—Beniharen . . .” the name surfaced. Mikantor’s gaze traveled up and up as the newcomer hurried toward them. My old companions have all grown, thought Mikantor, but that’s excessive . . .
“So you’re back,” said Beniharen. “It’s about time. They said you’d been killed, but I never believed it.”
“Why not? There were surely enough times when I thought I was going to die—or wished I had!”
“You have luck,” Beniharen said simply. “Noticed it when we were at Avalon and you always seemed to end up with the last piece of bannock. And you usually have a plan.”
Mikantor flushed. But perhaps it’s just as well. I think we’re going to need both luck and a plan very badly soon.
“This is your village?” he said aloud.
“This is where Lady Shizuret put me when we were all scattered after the plague. We haven’t done too badly. I thought people might be safer if we lived closer together. There’s more to tempt a robber band, but they have to be larger and better armed to take us on. It has worked so far.” He shrugged, the unspoken “And if a real war band attacks, we are doomed anyway” hanging between them.
“You might build a fence of brush and bramble,” Mikantor said aloud. “It would not stop a determined attack, but it would slow them.” He had seen such defenses in the countryside beyond the North Sea. “Even a poor archer can hit a man pinned by thorns.”
Beniharen nodded. “A plan—didn’t I say it? We’ll try that when summer comes. Now let me introduce you,” he went on. A wave brought forward the two couples and the extra men, and finally the elder, who proved to be an old woman, the grandmother of one of the wives.
Mikantor took her hand carefully. He did not think he had ever met anyone so old. “A blessing on you, good mother. I hope you are well.”
The woman fixed him with an eye still bright and gave a snort of laughter. “At my age, young man, to be up and moving is enough to hope for. When it is damp, my joints pain me, and in these times wet days are all we seem to have. These hands will no longer serve for spinning—” She held out fingers gnarled into claws. “But I am still lively enough to stir the pot and bore my granddaughter with tales of how much better things were when I was her age.” She gave the younger woman a gap-toothed grin. “Still, sixty-seven winters should earn one some respect.”
Mikantor nodded, remembering that Kiri had been that age when she died of the plague. They had thought her old, but she had seemed much younger than this woman appeared. He had never before appreciated the advantages of living at Avalon. Their food had been simple, but they did not have to grow or gather it themselves. Ganath and Beniharen, too, were bigger and stronger than other men their age. Perhaps there was a virtue in the very air of Avalon.
But why couldn’t everyone live so long and so well? Even when the seasons were harsh, if properly managed, the land could feed the people. At least it could if they worked together.
The granddaughter was next, a sturdy young woman with an infant held against her breast who refused to meet his eyes. Her granddam had been bolder
, but perhaps the old had less to lose. Still, he did not understand why she should be afraid.
“Will you give a blessing to my babe?” she whispered.
Mikantor blinked. “Sister, you and yours have all my goodwill, but I am no priest to give blessings!”
“You are something more—” Now she did look up, and he flinched before the hope in her eyes. “You are the child of the prophecy who will lead us against the evil ones!”
I am only a man . . . I am only a man . . . cried a gibbering voice within, but from somewhere deeper came the answer, Only a man can help them, and if you do not stand forth, who will? The worst that could happen was that he might fail. At least, he thought, if I die helping my people, there will be a reason!
“If you believe that,” he found himself saying, “then I will try.” He touched the baby’s hand, and jumped as the tiny fingers gripped his own. “If you are as strong in manhood as you are in infancy, you will make a mighty warrior!” he said to the child. “Whatever blessings I have to give are yours with my goodwill!”
The young mother turned away to join the other women, who were already welcoming Buda. Velantos and Aelfrix, who was leading the pack pony, stood with Ganath, looking around them with interest.
“Well said!” Beniharen laughed. “Now come and talk to the men about that thorn fence.”
“It’s a simple idea,” he said when they were all gathered around the fire in the largest of the roundhouses. “You make a framework of willow withies and thread bramble through them, or you can use branches from hawthorn or the like. Make it high enough so that anyone trying to get over will make a good target, and have some wicker hurdles handy to hide behind when you shoot. You do have bows, yes?”
The men nodded, but they did not look confident. Mikantor tried to remember what Bodovos had dinned into the heads of the guards.
“Well, then, practice! Every day, with different targets and distances, until you can hit something the size of a man every time. If your bows are not strong, we will try to find someone who can teach you to make better. Spears are good, but it’s best if you never have to come within arm’s length of your enemy.”
“Flint will punch as good a hole as bronze,” growled one of the men, “and there’s more of it.”
“The ancient ones who lie in the barrows up there used flint,” said another.
“Then ask their blessing,” agreed Mikantor, “and their curse upon your foes.” That got some grins, and he gratefully accepted a beaker of beer while the discussion shifted to the health of the cattle and the state of the fields.
“There are other hamlets that might do the same,” Ganath said thoughtfully, taking a seat beside him. “If someone were to show them how.”
“I can’t be everywhere—” Mikantor began, with the same sense of being carried along by unknown forces that he had at sea.
“Of course not, and besides, I expect you’ll be training fighters. But we could bring people to Avalon, teach them all at once, and send them back again.”
“While I train fighters . . .” Mikantor sighed. “You, or Someone, seems to have my future all planned out for me.”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about this.” Ganath lifted one eyebrow.
“In my nightmares,” muttered Mikantor. “You have to understand—I’ve seen the sack of a great city, and I’ve fought marauders as bad as any of Galid’s men or these other bandit chieftains you say his example has spawned. Do you really think that if we take up arms against him, it will be one joyous romp to victory? The people here are not living well, but they are living. There are seven grown men in this hamlet. Leave three to work the land and send the other four to fight and how many will return home? Men die in battle, Ganath. I’ve gotten used to the idea of fighting myself, but leading other men to death still scares me.”
“Mikantor . . . men die. No care of yours can prevent that. Will you not allow them the same choice that you have made, to die for something, instead of without meaning?”
Mikantor stared. It was so exactly what he had been telling himself not long ago. “Who taught you to strike so shrewdly?” he said finally. “You never used to be like this when we studied together at Avalon.”
“You never used to stride like a warrior,” Ganath replied. “We grew up, Woodpecker. If the gods are good, we will live to grow old.”
Mikantor glanced across the fire at Velantos, who was sitting with the men, attempting to communicate with his fragmentary grasp of the language of the tribes. I grew up thanks to you, he thought soberly. As if he had spoken, Velantos looked up and smiled. We will survive— Mikantor tried to send the thought. Somehow I will figure out a way.
MIST SWIRLED LOW UPON the downs, alternately veiling and revealing the broad sweep of the Vale. It might have been as impressive as the view of the Argolid from Mykenae, thought Velantos, if they could have actually seen it. Mikantor had assured him that his homeland included mountains as noble as any in Akhaea, but ever since the ancient track they were following had climbed to the ridgeline of the hills, the view had consisted of a green slope disappearing into cloud.
The smith hunched more deeply into the sheepskin garment he had gotten from one of the farmers in exchange for an arrowhead of bronze. He had expected the damp wind that stroked across the grass to blow the mists away, but instead they swirled more thickly. His own people had tales of magic mists sent by the gods to spirit their chosen ones out of danger. He could wish for one of those mists now, if it would only take him somewhere warm.
What I need, Velantos thought morosely, is a forge. Build the fire hot enough, and it won’t matter what the weather is outside. A forge, and his image of the Lady to watch over it, and metal to work. Then, wherever his moira led him, he would be at home. In his own country he could name the spirits of hill and tree. No doubt there were powers in this land, but they did not speak to him.
He watched Mikantor striding along at the head of their column with a new appreciation for the cheerfulness with which the boy had endured his exile. He tried to convince himself that his own fate did not matter—there was no life for him in his own land—whereas by coming home, Mikantor had come into his own. It was odd how since arriving here the boy had grown, perhaps not in actual height, but in presence. As he committed himself more fully to his people, with each day he was becoming the leader they desired.
All this time I thought Woodpecker was sent by the gods to aid me, thought the smith. And now it would appear that I was sent to bring Mikantor, trained and ready, to the place where the gods want him to be.
He looked up as the others halted. Mikantor was saying something about turning downhill to seek shelter at one of the farmsteads in the valley. The tall lad, Beniharen, did not think they could get there before dark. Velantos shivered again. Ganath pointed ahead and Velantos caught the word for an ancient tomb.
“To sleep near the dead is to sleep with them,” muttered Buda in her own tongue.
“When I was an infant, Lady Anderle hid me in a barrow to escape Galid’s men.” Mikantor grinned. “They did me no harm!”
“These Old Ones, they friendly?” Velantos asked.
“If we show honor—” said Beniharen, speaking slowly. “This is where our people leave offerings to the thunder god. The People of the Hills come here sometimes—the first people in the land, who were here before the tribes. They are kin to the Lake Folk that fostered Mikantor.”
“We’ll camp,” said Mikantor. Velantos wondered how much his decision had been motivated by a desire to escape the people who gazed at him with such hunger. The smith had felt like that during the last days of Tiryns, when he was Phorkaon’s only surviving son. To have people look at him as if he could perform some miracle had cured him of any desire he might have had to be a king.
The stopping place was half a league further on, just past a slope where the grass had been carved away to reveal the white chalk beneath. Mikantor said it was the head of the figure of a gigantic horse c
arved into the hillside, but it was getting too dark to see much of it now.
While Aelfrix tied the pony where it could graze, Buda and Beniharen started a meal. Velantos walked off through the trees. He felt the ache of the day’s march in his legs, but a restlessness he could not define drove him away from the company of other men. Between the tree trunks he glimpsed the solid gray of two great stones and stopped, eyes widening as memory overlaid them with an image of the pillars that flanked the great gate of Tiryns.
He moved forward more slowly. So far he had seen only wooden structures in this land, and thought them the best that these people could build. But the sarsen uprights he saw as he emerged from beneath the trees were the equal of any of the Cyclopean stones at Tiryns. And these, he sensed as he drew near, were older. A line of flat stones almost twice the height of a man fronted a long mound edged by smaller stones, with a ditch on either side. Near the entrance some of the earth had worn away to reveal the mighty uprights and capstones of a passage into darkness. In this land men did not build to defend the living, but to honor the dead.
He followed the path all the way around the length of the mound and came to the entrance. On a flat stone someone had laid the carcass of a grouse and a bunch of creamy primroses. Both were fresh. Velantos straightened, looking around him with the uneasy sensation that unseen eyes were watching. He felt in his belt pouch for something he might leave as an offering, and drew out a bronze brace that had come loose from a chest during the crossing. The box had proved to be beyond repair, but the bronze was a piece of his own forging and he had saved it. The metal clinked faintly as he laid it on the stone, and like an echo he heard a distant rumble.
Thunder . . . Velantos thought unhappily. The covers of oiled wool they had stretched between the trees suddenly seemed a much less desirable shelter. Shivering once more he turned away, tripped, and went down. As he tried to catch himself, he bruised his hand on something hard and smooth. He sat back on his heels, stifling an oath as the wrist that had been sprained when he was taken captive gave a warning twinge. The rock on which he had landed was still beneath his other hand. It was some close-grained stone, about half the length of his forearm, rounded at one end and widening and flattening to a blunt blade at the other, in fact, the same shape as the mound. No natural stone was shaped so evenly—it was a tool, he realized, something like the stone wedges builders used to split wood. It would hammer bronze as well, he thought, hefting it. It felt curiously right in his hand.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon Page 26