“Do I frighten you, Cormac Daemonsson?”
He stopped in midturn, his throat tight. “I am not … comfortable. No one speaks to me, but I am used to that. I thank you for your courtesy.”
“Do you think I am pretty?”
“I think you are beautiful. Especially here, in the summer sunlight, with the breeze moving your hair. But I do not wish to cause you trouble.”
She rose smoothly and moved toward him. He backed away instinctively, but the oak barred his retreat. He felt her body press against his, and his arms moved around her back, drawing her to him.
“Get away from my sister!” roared Agwaine, and Alftruda leapt back with fear in her eyes.
“He cast a spell on me!” she shouted, running to Agwaine.
The tall blond youth hurled her aside and drew a dagger from its sheath. “You will die for this obscenity,” he hissed, advancing on Cormac.
Cormac’s eyes flickered from the blade to Agwaine’s angry face, reading the intent and seeing the blood lust rising. He leapt to his right—to cannon into the huge figure of Lennox, whose brawny arms closed around him. Triumph blazed in Agwaine’s eyes, but Cormac hammered his elbow into Lennox’s belly and then up in a second strike, smashing the boy’s nose. Lennox staggered back, almost blinded. Then Barta ran from the bushes, holding a thick branch above his head like a club. Cormac leapt feetfirst, his heel landing with sickening force against Barta’s chin and hurling him unconscious to the ground.
Cormac rolled to his feet, swinging to face Agwaine, his arm blocking the dagger blow aimed at his heart. His fist slammed against Agwaine’s cheek, and then his left foot powered into his enemy’s groin. Agwaine screamed once and fell to his knees, dropping the dagger. Cormac swept it up, grabbed Agwaine’s long blond hair, and hauled back his head, exposing the throat.
“No!” screamed Alftruda.
Cormac blinked and took a deep, calming breath. Then he stood and hurled the dagger far out over the cliff top. “You lying slut!” he said, advancing on Alftruda.
She sank to her knees, her eyes wide and terrorfilled. “Don’t hurt me!”
Suddenly he laughed. “Hurt you? I would not touch you if my life depended on it. A few moments ago you were beautiful. Now you are ugly and will always be so.”
Her hands fled to her face, her fingers touching the skin, questing, seeking her beauty. Cormac shook his head. “I am not talking of a spell,” he whispered. “I have no spells.”
Turning, he looked at his enemies. Lennox was sitting by the oak with blood streaming from his smashed nose, Barta was still unconscious, and Agwaine was gone.
There was no sense of triumph, no joy in the victory.
For in defeating these boys, Cormac had sentenced himself to death.
* * *
Agwaine returned to the village and reported Cormac’s attack to his father, Calder, who summoned the village elders, demanding justice. Only Grysstha spoke up for Cormac.
“You ask for justice. For years your sons have tormented Cormac, and he has had no aid. But he has borne it like a man. Now, when set upon by three bullies, he defends himself and faces execution? Every man here who votes for such a course should be ashamed.”
“He assaulted my daughter,” said Calder. “Or are you forgetting that?”
“If he did,” said Grysstha, rising, “he followed in the tracks of every other able-bodied youth within a day’s riding distance!”
“How dare you?” stormed Calder.
“Dare? Do not speak to me of dares, you fat-bellied pig! I have followed you for thirty years, living only on your promises. But now I see you for what you are—a weak, greedy, fawning bootlicker. A pig who sired three toads and a rutting strumpet!”
Calder hurled himself across the circle of men, but Grysstha’s fist thundered into his chin, throwing him to the dirt floor. Pandemonium followed, with some of the councillors grabbing Grysstha and others holding the enraged leader. In the silence that followed Calder fought to control his temper, signaling to the men on either side of him to let him go.
“You are no longer welcome here, old cripple,” he said. “You will leave this village as a Nithing. I will send word to all villages in the South Saxon, and you will be welcome nowhere. And if I see you after today, I shall take my ax to your neck. Go! Find the dog child and stay with him. I want you there to see him die.”
Grysstha shrugged off the arms holding him and stalked from the hall. In his own hut he gathered his meager belongings, pushed his hand ax into his belt, and marched from the village. Evrin the baker moved alongside him, pushing two black loaves into his arms.
“Walk with God,” Evrin whispered.
Grysstha nodded and marched on. He should have left a long time ago and taken Cormac with him. But loyalty was stronger than iron rings, and Grysstha was pledged to Calder by blood oath. Now he had broken his word and was Nithing in the eyes of the law. No one would ever trust him again, and his life was worthless.
Yet even so joy began to blossom in the old warrior’s heart. The heavy mind-numbing years as a goatherd were behind him now, as was his allegiance to Calder. Grysstha filled his lungs with clean, fresh air and climbed the hills toward the Cave of Sol Invictus.
Cormac was waiting for him there, sitting on the altar stone, the bones of his past scattered at his feet.
“You heard?” said Cormac, making room for the old man to sit beside him on the flat stone. Grysstha tore off a chunk of dark bread and passed it to the boy.
“Word filtered through,” he said. Cormac glanced at the blanket sack Grysstha had dumped by the old bones of the warhound.
“Are we leaving?”
“We are, boy. We should have done it years ago. We’ll head for Dubris and get some work—enough to earn passage to Gallia. Then I’ll show you my old campaign trails.”
“They attacked me, Grysstha. After Alftruda put her arms around me.”
The old warrior looked into the boy’s sad blue eyes. “One more lesson in life, Cormac: women always bring trouble. Mind you, judging from the way Agwaine was walking, he will not be thinking about girls for some time to come. How did you defeat all three?”
“I don’t know; I just did it.”
“That’s your father’s blood. We’ll make something of you yet, lad!”
Cormac glanced around the cave. “I have never been here before. I was always afraid. Now I wonder why. Just old bones.” He scuffed his feet in the loose dirt and saw a glint of light. Leaning forward, he pressed his fingers into the dust, coming up with a gold chain on which hung a round stone like a golden nugget veined with slender black lines.
“Well, that’s a good omen,” muttered Grysstha. “We’ve been free men for only an hour and already you find treasure.”
“Could it have been my mother’s?”
“All things are possible.”
Cormac looped the chain over his head, tucking the golden stone under his shirt. It felt warm against his chest.
“Are you in trouble, too, Grysstha?”
The warrior grinned. “I may have said a word or two too many, but they flew home like arrows!”
“Then they will be hunting us both?”
“Aye, come morning. We’ll worry then. Now get some rest, boy.”
Cormac moved to the far wall and settled himself down on the dusty floor, his head resting on his arms. Grysstha stretched out on the altar and was asleep within minutes.
The boy lay listening to the warrior’s deep heavy snoring, then drifted into a curious dream. It seemed he opened his eyes and sat up. By the altar lay a black warhound and five pups, and beyond her was a young woman with hair of spun gold. A man knelt beside her, cradling her head.
“I am sorry I brought you to this,” he said, stroking her hair. His face was strong, his hair dark and shining like raven’s wings, his eyes the blue of a winter’s sky.
She reached up and touched his cheek, smiling through her pain.
“I love you. I have alwa
ys loved you …”
Outside a bugle call drifted through the morning air, and the man cursed softly and stood, drawing his sword. “They have found us!”
The woman moaned as her labor began. Cormac moved across to her, but she did not see him. He tried to touch her, but his hand passed through her body as if it were smoke.
“Don’t leave me!” she begged. The man’s face showed his torment, but the bugle sounded once more and he turned and vanished from sight. The woman cried out, and Cormac was forced to watch impotently as she struggled to deliver her child. At last the babe came forth, blood-covered and curiously still.
“Oh, no! Dear sweet Christ!” moaned the woman, lifting the child and slapping its tiny rump. There was not even a flicker of movement. Laying the babe in her lap, she lifted a golden chain from around her neck, closing the child’s tiny fingers around the stone at its center. “Live!” she whispered. “Please live!”
But there was no movement … no sign of life.
From the sunlit world outside came the sound of blade on blade, the cries of the wounded, the angry shouts of the combatants. Then there was silence, save for the birds singing in the forest trees. A shadow crossed the entrance, and the tall man staggered inside, blood pouring from a wound in his side and a second one in his chest.
“The babe?” he whispered.
“He is dead,” said the woman.
Hearing something from beyond the cave, the man turned. “There are more of them. I can see their spears catching the sun. Can you walk?” She struggled to stand but fell back, and he moved to her side, sweeping her into his arms.
“He’s alive!” shouted Cormac, tears in his eyes. “I’m alive! Don’t leave me!”
He followed them out into the sunlight, watching the wounded man struggle to the top of the cliff before sinking to his knees, the woman tumbling from his arms. A horseman galloped into sight, and the warrior drew his sword, but the man hauled on the reins, waiting.
From the woods another man came limping into view, his left leg twisted and deformed. The tall warrior drew back his sword and hurled it into the trees, where it lanced into a thick ivy-covered trunk. Then he lifted the woman once more, turned, and gazed at the sea foaming hundreds of feet below.
“No!” screamed the crippled man. The warrior looked toward the horseman, who sat unmoving, his stern face set, his hands resting on the pommel of his saddle.
The warrior stepped from the cliff and vanished from sight, taking the woman with him.
Cormac watched with tears in his eyes as the cripple fell to earth, but the horseman merely turned his mount and rode away into the trees. Farther down the trail Cormac could see the hunting party approaching the cave. He ran like the wind, arriving to see the stone in the child’s hands glow like a burning candle and an aura of white light shine over the infant’s skin. Then came the first lusty cry. The hunters entered, and the black warhound leapt at them, only to be cut down by knives and axes.
“Odin’s blood!” said one of the men. “The bitch gave birth to a child.”
“Kill it!” cried another.
“You fools!” said Grysstha. “You think the dog killed those Romans?”
Cormac could bear to watch no more and shut his eyes as Grysstha reached for the babe …
He opened them to see the dawn light creeping back from the cave mouth and Grysstha still asleep on the altar. Rising, he moved to the old man and shook him awake.
“It is dawn,” he said, “and I saw my mother and father.”
“Give me time, boy,” muttered the old warrior. “Let me get some air.” He stretched and sat up, rubbing at his eyes and groaning at the stiff, cold muscles of his neck. “Pass me the water sack.”
Cormac did so, and Grysstha pulled the stopper and drank deeply. “Now, what is this about your mother?”
The boy told him about the dream, but Grysstha’s eyes did not show great interest until he mentioned the crippled man.
“Tell me of his face.”
“Light hair, thin beard. Sad eyes.”
“And the horseman?”
“A warrior, tall and strong. A cold, hard man with red hair and beard, wearing a helm of bronze banded by a circle of iron.”
“We’d best be going, Cormac,” said the old warrior suddenly.
“Was my dream true, do you think?”
“Who knows, boy? We’ll talk later.”
Grysstha swung his blanket sack to his shoulder and walked from the cave. There he stopped stock-still, dropping the sack.
“What is wrong?” asked Cormac, moving into the sunlight. Grysstha gestured him to silence and scanned the undergrowth beneath the trees.
Cormac could see nothing, but suddenly a man rose from behind a thick bush with an arrow nocked to his bow, the string drawn back. Cormac froze. Grysstha’s arm hammered into the boy’s chest, hurling him aside just as the archer loosed his shaft. The arrow sliced through Grysstha’s jerkin, punching through to pierce his lungs. A second arrow followed. The old man shielded Cormac with his body as blood bubbled from his mouth.
“Run!” he hissed, toppling to the earth.
An arrow flashed by Cormac’s face, and he dived to the left as other shafts hissed by him, then rolled and came up running. A great shout went up from the hidden men in the undergrowth, and the sound of pounding feet caused Cormac to increase his speed as he hurdled a fallen tree and sprinted for the cliff tops. Arrows sailed over him, and he dodged to the left and the right, cutting up through the forest path, seeking a hiding place.
There were several hollow trees where he had previously hidden from Agwaine and his brothers. He was feeling more confident now as he increased the distance between himself and his pursuers.
But the baying of the warhounds brought fresh terror. The trees would offer no sanctuary now.
He emerged at the cliff tops and swung, expecting to see the dark hurtling forms of Calder’s twin hounds, fangs bared for his throat. But the trail was empty for the moment. He drew his slender skinning knife, eyes scanning the trees.
A huge black hound bounded into sight. As it leapt, Cormac dropped to his knees and rammed the blade into its belly, disemboweling it as the beast sailed above him. The stricken dog landed awkwardly, its paws entangling in its ribboned entrails. Cormac ignored it and ran back to the trees, forsaking the path and forcing his body through the thickest part of the undergrowth.
Suddenly he stopped, for there, embedded in the ivy-covered trunk of a spreading oak, was the sword of his dream. Sheathing his knife, he took hold of the ivory hilt and drew the blade clear. The sword was the length of a man’s arm, and not one spot of rust had touched the blade in the fifteen years it had been hidden here.
Cormac closed his eyes. “Thank you, Father,” he whispered.
The hilt was long enough for the sword to be wielded double-handed, and the boy swung the blade several times, feeling the balance.
Then he stepped out into the open as the second hound rounded the trail, hurtling at the slim figure before it. The blade lanced its neck, half severing the head. His eyes blazing with an anger he had never experienced before, Cormac loped down the trail toward the following hunters.
Near a stand of elm the sound of their pursuit came to him, and he stepped from the track, hiding himself behind a thick trunk. Four men ran into view—Agwaine in the lead, his brothers following, and bringing up the rear the blacksmith Kern, his bald head shining with sweat.
As they raced past Cormac’s hiding place, he took a deep breath, then leapt into the path to face the astonished Kern. The blacksmith was carrying a short double-headed ax but had no time to use it, for Cormac’s sword swept up, over, and down to cleave the man’s jugular. Kern staggered back, dropping his ax, his fingers scrabbling at the wound as he sought to stem the flooding lifeblood.
Cormac ran back into the trees, following the other three. Agwaine and Lennox had disappeared from sight, but Barta was lumbering far behind them. Darting out behind him, Corm
ac tapped his shoulder, and the blond youngster turned.
Cormac’s blade slid through the youth’s woolen jerkin and up into the belly, ripping through lungs and heart. Savagely he twisted the sword to secure its release, then dragged it clear. Barta died without a sound.
Moving like a wraith, Cormac vanished into the shadow-haunted trees, seeking the last of the hunters.
On the cliff top Agwaine had found the butchered hounds. Turning, he ran back to warn his brother that Cormac was now armed; then he and Lennox retreated back along the trail, finding the other bodies.
Together the survivors fled the woods. Cormac emerged from the trees to see them sprinting back into the valley.
At first he thought to chase them to the Great Hall itself, but common sense prevailed, and, his anger ebbing, he returned to the cave. Grysstha had propped himself against the western wall; his white beard was stained with his blood, and his face was pale and gray.
As Cormac knelt beside the old man, taking his hand, Grysstha’s eyes opened.
“I can see the Valkyrie, Cormac,” he whispered, “but they ignore me, for I have no sword.”
“Here,” said the boy, pushing the ivory hilt into the warrior’s left hand.
“Do not … do not … tell anyone … about your birth.” Grysstha slid sideways to the ground, the sword slipping from his fingers.
For a while Cormac sat in silence with the body of his only friend. Then he stood and wandered into the sunlight, staring down at the village far below.
He wanted to scream his anger to the skies, but he did not. One of Grysstha’s sayings sprang to his mind: “Revenge is a better meal when served cold.”
Sheathing the sword in his belt, he gathered Grysstha’s possessions and set off for the east. At the top of the last rise he turned once more.
“I will return,” he said softly. “And then you will see the demon. I swear it!”
3
PRASAMACCUS STRETCHED OUT his legs before the log fire in the grate and sipped the honeyed wine. His daughter, Adriana, offered a goblet to Ursus, who accepted it with a dazzling smile.
“Do not waste your charm,” said Prasamaccus. “Adriana is betrothed to the herdsman’s son, Gryll.”
Last Sword of Power Page 4