Tales of King's Blades 02 - Lord of The Fire Lands

by Dave Duncan

  never heard of such an enchantment, but neither

  had he ever heard of one person managing a

  conjuration all alone.

  Perhaps that was dangerous and the spirits might escape?

  Or was this all just some crazy fake? Could one

  man perform an enchantment? The light dimmed and

  Radgar prickled all over with shock until he

  realized that it was just the sun dipping behind the cliffs.

  He must leave right away if he was to have any chance

  of reaching home before dark. He didn't.

  Sudden silence. The conjurer had stopped his

  chanting, leaning limply on his staff and gasping for

  breath. Now his deformity was obvious. He had no

  right arm and the hang of his robe suggested that he was

  missing most of the shoulder also, which was why he seemed

  so lopsided. But he had not finished the ritual.

  He drew a deep breath and let out a huge,

  cracked bellow: "Wulfwer

  Cynewulfing!"

  Wulfwer moved for the first time, lifting his head.

  He was blindfolded, yet he turned his head as if

  looking for something.

  "Wulfwer Cynewulfing!" roared the

  hooded cripple again.

  The big cniht unwrapped his arms and swayed

  to his feet. He seemed confused, peering in all

  directions but making no effort to remove the cloth

  tied around his head. That rag was the only thing he was

  wearing, for his boots, clothes, and weapons lay in

  a heap on the edge of the clearing. Wulfwer's

  face was much improved by being covered up, but

  Radgar did envy his muscles. Although he would

  certainly never admit this to anyone, he

  secretly hoped that he would have a chest and shoulders

  like his cousin's when he grew up. And some hair

  on his chest, too.

  Again the conjurer roared out his name; and this time

  Wulfwer turned to his left and took a step,

  then stopped, irresolute. If he was drunk,

  he was very drunk, barely able to stand. Had the

  enchantment stolen his wits? Again and again the tall

  conjurer shouted his name as if summoning him from a far

  distance; but the more he called, the more bewildered

  Wulfwer seemed to become, reeling around with arms

  outstretched, ever more frantic, either trying

  to escape or just hunting for the source of the

  summons. It was absurd that so huge a man could

  move so wildly and yet remain within so small a

  space; at times he even seemed to be running,

  his long limbs flailing, and yet he went nowhere.

  Then he did. He spun around,

  tripped on the pot that marked the water point of the

  octogram, and pitched over it, landing flat on his

  face, right at Radgar's feet. Only then

  did Radgar realize that he had left his hiding

  place and walked out to stand in full view of the

  hooded conjurer.

  For a moment shock kept him rooted to the spot

  as firmly as the trees--whatever had possessed

  him? Wulfwer sat up, cursing and reaching for his

  blindfold.

  "No!" the enchanter screeched. "Death and

  fire! Wind and waters, wait! Look not

  yet!" He cradled his staff in the crook of his

  elbow and flapped his solitary hand in a go-away

  signal. The eye holes of the hood were directed

  at Radgar. Needing no further invitation,

  Radgar vanished behind the nearest tree.

  Then he peeked.

  "All right, you can look," the old man

  croaked. He came lurching around the octogram;

  and now his deformities were clearer, for only one

  horny foot showed under the hem of his robe. On

  the right side he was balanced on a wooden post

  and the hang of the cloth showed that he had only a

  short stump of thigh left. He had been doing

  all that dancing on a wooden leg!

  Wulfwer hauled off the rag. He twisted

  around to study the octogram, his brutish features

  screwed up in a scowl. "Water? Water! You

  can proof against water!" He stood up. He was

  taller than the tall conjurer and twice as wide.

  "Stupid earming!" the old man mumbled.

  "Yes, I can proof against water. Death and

  maggots, is water the answer? Wind gusts,

  wave crests, weird will follow ... Who is

  sure?" Even when he was not chanting, his voice was

  discordant, muffled by the hood. "Water or

  blood? Or wine, even?"

  "That's water!" Wulfwer kicked the empty

  pot and then cursed because he had no shoe on.

  "But you knocked it over, you clumsy goat.

  Fate, is that significant? Ah, death! From

  the time it took you to find the way out, Slow

  Wits, there's no urgency. I'll chant the

  hlytm again next time you come ... and no great

  loss if you die before then anyway."

  "Do it now!" The big youth's growl

  usually got him what he wanted around Cynehof,

  but it did not frighten the old man.

  "It's too late, brainless! See not the sun

  its setting nears?"

  "Why does that matter?"

  The conjurer lurched at him and screeched right in

  his ugly face: "It matters if I say it

  matters!"

  Wulfwer recoiled, tripped over the pot

  again, and went down like a falling cedar, almost causing

  Radgar to burst out laughing.

  The conjurer struck him across the thighs with his

  staff. "Do as you're told, ni`eding, I'll

  leave you to drown. Put your clothes on before the

  lice starve and get out of here--you stinking

  ocusta."

  "Yes, Healfwer! Sorry, Healfwer!"

  Wulfwer scrambled up, but his clothes lay at the

  base of the very tree Radgar was hiding behind, so when

  he hobbled over to get them he came close enough for

  Radgar to hear him muttering, "Stupid old

  goat," and other less polite descriptions.

  His next move would be to go and collect Sceatt

  and there he would find Cwealm. Radgar vanished

  into the forest.

  Bats flitting through the trees were shrilling their

  impossibly high calls as he walked back

  to the cabin the next time. Bats did not scare

  him; he just wished he could see as well as they

  did, because he was having to rely on memory to find

  the right paths, and the forest was very dark. The walls of the

  crater cut off the long midsummer twilight;

  there was no moon. Hidden in the trees, he had

  watched Wulfwer lead Sceatt and the packhorse

  into the tunnel. Radgar had unsaddled Cwealm and

  left him in the little meadow where the packhorse had

  been. The big chump wouldn't stray from all that

  juicy grass.

  Once Radgar showed up at the palace he

  would never be allowed back into Weargahlaew, so

  he must satisfy his curiosity about it now, and

  especially find out more about the mysterious conjurer.

  Anyone who called Wulfwer a stinking armpit and

  hit him with a stick must be admired for his good

  judgment. Healfwer meant "half man,"

  obviously a name bestow
ed after he lost his arm and

  leg. He had sounded old, although he had been

  nimble enough. Radgar could run very fast when necessary.

  All the same, there was still enough danger in this

  foering to produce that delicious

  sick-creepy feeling in his belly again. While

  Dad probably did know whatever it was that

  Uncle Cynewulf and ocusta Wulfwer were

  up to with the conjurer, he might not; and in that case

  Atheling Radgar would be back in hero territory.

  It was good he had sent Aylwin home to say where

  he was. If he didn't show up by morning,

  reinforcements would arrive.

  He had never stayed out all night before. Mother

  would scream two octaves higher than a

  skylark. If he wasn't in hero country, if

  he was just a wayward brat snooping where he had

  been forbidden to go, then the reckoning was going to be

  terrible--good-bye to Cwealm, hello to mucking out

  stables with the thralls for months and months and

  months, and sore butt on an epic scale the

  scops would sing about for centuries. He'd be

  better off plugging up the tunnel with rocks and

  living like another hermit here in the valley.

  The forest was so still that he heard thumps before he

  even saw the lights. The cabin's doors and

  shutters fit so badly, and there were so many chinks in

  the walls, that it glowed like a starry sky. Smoke

  was pouring out of it just about everywhere except the proper

  smoke hole. Someone had cut the old man's

  firewood for him, because obviously one hand couldn't

  manage that great ax stuck in the chopping block;

  but the periodic bangs coming from inside proved that the

  old man was hitting something. Radgar tapped on

  the door.

  Then he heard nothing except the fire

  crackling.

  After a few spooky-long minutes, he

  tapped again. Now the harsh voice cried out, "Who

  wakens the dead? Here are rotting bones and

  ancient hatred. Flee while you still can!"

  Radgar pushed the door open, squeaking on its

  leather hinges. Smoke gushed out white in the

  darkness, making his eyes sting, so he dropped and

  crawled in on hands and knees, knowing the air would

  be clearer down near the dirt floor. The hearth

  was just a central circle of stones. The scarecrow

  conjurer sat on the ground with his back to the entrance,

  his real leg outstretched beside the wooden one, but the

  bag over his head was caught up at one side,

  revealing wisps of white beard, as if it had

  been pulled on in haste. A small hatchet and

  heap of kindling near his hand explained the earlier

  banging.

  "Begone!" the old man croaked, "lest my

  curses rot the flesh from your bones."

  Radgar kicked the door shut and moved some

  baskets and a bucket so he could move closer

  to the fire and sit down, legs crossed. "I

  need to know when I'm going to kill Wulfwer."

  He also needed something tasty to eat, of course,

  and a comfortable place to sleep. The blackened

  crock steaming and bubbling in the embers emitted

  fine savory scents, but comfort was in short

  supply. Even a thralls' barn had more of

  it--no chairs or stools or tables, and the bedding

  just a layer of branches with some mangy old furs

  on top. The rest of the furnishings were crude

  clay pots, a couple of oaken chests, no

  shelves on the walls, although there was a sword

  hanging up opposite the door--and a pretty

  fancy one too, as far as he could tell through the

  smoke. Some scrolls and books shared the top of

  one of the chests with an inkwell and a heap of goose

  quills ... how did the cripple sharpen a

  quill one-handed? The conjurer must live entirely

  at ground level, like an animal. Certainly with

  only one arm and one leg, he would have trouble standing

  up and sitting down. Now he had turned his head

  to look at his visitor, but only darkness showed

  inside the eye holes of his hood. At least there

  were two eye holes, not only one, as there would be

  if the half man had only half a face.

  Shiver!

  "Spawn of slime, who sent you to torment a

  dead man in his infliction?"

  "No one sent me, ealdor. Your hlytm

  summoned me, didn't it?"

  "Torment, torment! Who told you of the

  hlytm, Atheling?"

  Aha! Suspicions confirmed! If the

  conjurer knew who he was then Radgar must have been

  here before. "No one told me, ealdor. It was

  obvious."

  "Don't give me titles. I am a dead

  man, but if you must speak to my corpse call it

  Healfwer." The conjurer's voice sank to a

  disgusting phlegmy rattle. "Women wile with

  whitened arms ... What was obvious?"

  Uncertain which women had entered the conversation,

  Radgar decided to ignore them. "From what you were

  doing, what you said. A hlytm is a casting of

  lots, yes? You were casting lots among the

  elements to see which one will kill

  Wulfwer. When you had summoned them you stood at

  death point and called him, and in the end he went

  to water point so--you told him he would drown, but

  really he knocked over the water pot, didn't

  he, so it didn't count, and he was coming to me! He

  came to me and fell down before me. I am

  Wulfwer's bane, his weird!" Not many

  ten-year-olds could have worked that out, but an atheling had

  to be more clever than others.

  "Does that make you happy, pig-toad?"

  "You shouldn't speak to me like that."

  "I'll speak to you how I want. Answer me

  before I make you scream with agony. Their white

  arms ..."

  "And don't threaten me, either. I'm the King's

  son."

  The old man raised a gnarled hand to his

  hood. "Answer my questions, Aeleding, or I will

  show you my face and then you will never sleep again."

  That was a new threat to Radgar, one that would need

  some thought. "No, I don't really want to kill

  Wulfwer, but I will if I have to. We're going

  to be rivals to succeed Dad when he gets old.

  I'd rather kill him than let him kill me. If

  he stays out of my road I won't hurt him."

  The horrible old man shrieked with mirth.

  "Earth and water! He could crush you with one hand,

  little grub. Fire and fish so fair the song ...

  Everything smells of music now. Why came you

  here?"

  "Because I'm only ten years old." That

  piece of impudence had worked on Dad once--

  only once and the second time had turned out to be

  unwise, but Healfwer had not heard it before.

  The old man growled in exasperation. "You may

  never see another winter. You expect to eat my

  supper and sleep by my hearth?"

  "Oh, thank you, ealdor!--I mean

  Healfwer. A share of your food and a place by the

  fire would be very kind of you."

&nb
sp; "Explain, worm! Weird and woe the

  wylfen brings."

  "It was too dark to go after Wulfwer left and

  if I'd gone ahead of him he'd have seen me."

  "I mean why did you come at all?"

  "Your conjuration summoned me, didn't it?"

  "You just want me to agree so Aeled won't

  whip the skin off your ass, boy."

  "Partly," Radgar admitted. It would be a very

  good defense: "The hlytm made me do

  it."

  "How could it have summoned you when you came before

  I started it? When you didn't know about it? What

  really made you come?"

  Radgar shrugged. The smell from the pot was

  making him drool so much he was drowning. There was

  meat in there, which Wulfwer must have brought, for how could

  a one-armed man catch game or even skin it?

  "I went foering on my stallion,

  Cwealm, taking only my trusty follower

  Aylwin Leofricing. I decided to explore

  Weargahlaew and saw that someone was feeding the

  weargas. That is an unfri`ed, so I sent

  Leofricing back to tell the marshal to send some

  house thegns. And I came on ahead myself

  to investigate."

  The enchanter made a strange choking sound that

  became a racking cough. He threw more sticks on

  the fire. "Filth and death! Has not your father a

  hundred times forbidden you to come here?"

  "Not that often. And the tanist brought Wulfwer--will

  you chant the hlytm for me, too? I want to know

  my weird."

  "Weird?" the old man screeched. "Your

  weird is to die as I did! Die now, brat,

  and save yourself suffering!" He snatched up a log

  and hurled it at Radgar.

  It struck him on the forehead. Fortunately it

  was a very small log, already split for kindling, but

  the impact and shock were enough to knock him over. He

  fell on his back, crying out at the pain.

  "You almost hit my eye!" He clapped a hand

  over the injury and felt blood running.

  "More than that will I hit!" Healfwer shouted.

  One-handed he grabbed up his staff and struck as

  if swatting a fly. Fortunately the fire between

  them made that a difficult shot; and Radgar saw

  the pole descending in time to roll clear. The end

  struck a heavy stone crock and shattered it. His

  head would have been smashed like an egg.

  "You're crazy!" He jumped to his feet.

  "I'm the King's son!"

  "You're dead! Dead like me!" The old man

  tried another swipe with the pole, but Radgar could

  dodge now. "Die, curse you!" Releasing his

  staff, the conjurer hurled another log, then a