by Dave Duncan
third, each larger than the last. By the time he
reached for the hatchet, Radgar was opening the door.
As he leaped out, the hatchet passed through the
space he had filled a moment earlier
and slammed into the wall--and stuck there.
He was out in the night and running.
He crossed the clearing in a dozen strides and
stopped in case he ran into something. Far behind him
the door slammed, cutting off the glimmer of the
fire and leaving him in total darkness. Cold and
shock together made his teeth chatter, and he hugged
himself tightly as he waited for his eyes to adjust.
The horrible old man really was crazy! Those had
been real attempts at murder. A man had
tried to kill him! He shivered at the memory of
that hatchet sticking in the wall.
It seemed Weargahlaew had been put
off-limits for good reasons; his foering had not
been brave or clever, only very foolish. His
head throbbed. The cold began to bite, making him
shake more violently. A man could freeze in the
nights up here, and he wasn't properly
dressed. He could light a fire with the tinderbox
at the entrance tunnel if he could get there--and
if Healfwer had not gathered up all the loose
deadfall in the forest. Getting there would be the
problem. There might be other lunatics wandering the
valley. Or animals. Wild boars, bears
... Dad could never wipe out wolves because they
swam from one island to another.
He soon realized he wasn't going anywhere;
he couldn't. Filmy clouds obscured all but the
brightest stars, so even within the clearing he could
barely see his hand in front of his nose. The
track through the trees was as dark as any cave, quite
impossible to walk. He was stuck here until
dawn. His head still hurt and seemed to be still
bleeding, because it felt wet when he touched it ...
but it was an honorable wound, an honest attempt
to kill him. It might leave a good scar and then people
would ask him where he got it. His teeth chattered.
He was freezing! He jumped up and began
walking back and forward across the clearing, from almost the
door of the shed to the point where overhanging branches
hid the sky at the other side. He cursed
Healfwer under his breath.
Why did the madman have to go and react like that?
Just because Radgar had asked to learn his weird?
Wulfwer had been told his. No, Wulfwer
thought he had, but the answer had not been clear.
When Healfwer had called him to death point,
Wulfwer's weird had drawn him to water point
instead--or else to Radgar. Obviously
Radgar could not be anyone's bane if
he was destined to freeze to death here in the woods
before morning. What sort of answer would the
hlytm give a man if his weird was to be
frozen to death? This was something to think about while he
did just that. Cold was not one of the eight elements,
although it felt like the only thing in the world that mattered
at the moment. The opposite of fire in the
octogram was earth. So if Healfwer had chanted
the hlytm for Radgar before Radgar froze
to death, would Radgar have been summoned to earth
point? Who would guess that earth point meant
freezing? If the hlytm had told him earth was
his bane, he'd have thought that meant a sword or a
house falling on him in a quake. Except people
buried by earthquakes often died of lack of air
and the opposite of air was water. Could air be a
man's bane? If he was hanged, maybe, so
he had too much air underneath him.
It was all stupid! There were too many ways
to die and not enough elements.
Spirits, it was cold!
The manifest elements were bad enough--so he
decided as he stalked to and fro, slapping his
back to keep warm--but the virtual elements
might be worse. Suppose a man went to time
point? How could you die of time? Hmm--you could
die of old age, too much time. And chance would
mean an accident. So maybe the virtual
elements actually made more sense as predictors
than the manifest elements did. ... How about
death point itself? If Wulfwer had gone straight
to death point when Healfwer called him?
Suicide, maybe? Yes, that could mean
suicide, or death very soon. Love? A
weird of love would have to mean treachery. If you were
doomed to die at the hand of a loved one or someone
you trusted, then love was your bane. So the
virtual elements actually did make more sense
than the manifest ones! Hanging, fever,
drowning, falling--almost any sort of death he could
think of could be reduced to an excess of a single
element! Except freezing. He cursed
Healfwer under his breath again.
How long until his fingers started dropping off
from frostbite?
And while he froze to death that madman was
sitting there in his hovel all cozy by his fire,
and now doubtless eating that juicy-smelling meat
stew. Next time Radgar's progress brought
him near the wall of the shack, he crept
closer and peered in one of the crevices where the
smoke was coming out. Yes, there he was. Healfwer
had taken the crock from the fire and was vigorously
shoveling stuff into his mouth from it with a big horn
spoon. He had removed his hood, of course.
At first all Radgar could see was the back of his
head, but that was quite enough. On the left side
wisps of silver hair hung from ordinary pink
scalp, but on the right the skin was all white scar
tissue with no hair at all, as if he had
been flayed or terribly burned, and the line
dividing the two was straight as an arrow, right down
the middle. His right ear, even, had gone. When he
turned slightly to toss another log on the
fire, Radgar caught sight of a long silver
beard on the left of his face.
The spy must have made a noise then, for the
monster twisted around to stare at the wall right where
he was. Despite the two eye holes cut in
the hood he'd worn earlier, he did have only
one eye. One side of his face was that of a haggard
old man; the other was white ruin, like cheese.
Even his mouth was half gone.
Radgar recoiled from the horrible sight,
remembering the conjurer's threat that he would never
sleep again. Well, he wouldn't if he froze
to death! He crawled away and resumed his pacing,
although his legs shook with weariness. Short as
summer nights were, dawn must be hours away
yet. No matter that he had seen the madman's
mutilated face, he would fall asleep on his
feet and freeze. There were hot springs in
Weargahlaew--he had seen the steam from them and
smelled the sulfur--and even an eel-brain like
Healfwer would surely h
ave chosen a site near a
hot spring for his home. The first problem would be
to locate it in the dark, the second would be finding
a safe shallow place to lie in so that he wouldn't
drown if he fell asleep. Some hot springs
were mere seepages in the beds of streams, but others
were shafts going down to the bottom of the world. Wading
into one of those in the dark would not be a pleasant
fate. Sadly he discarded the idea of soaking
himself in hot water all night.
He lost count of time. It seemed half his
life had been spent walking in that clearing, blowing
on his hands, sometimes running on the spot. Ears,
fingers, even toes ached. The cold would not give
up--and it must win in the end, because his
strength would not last until morning. What a
stupid, stupid way to die! He was not used
to thinking of himself as stupid.
Eventually he noticed that the lights twinkling
from the chinks in the conjurer's hovel were growing
fainter. If Healfwer was letting the fire burn
down, that meant he had gone to bed, or was about to.
Why should that evil old cripple be allowed
to sleep in peace when he had refused succor to a
worthy traveler? All peoples everywhere
respected the laws of hospitality, even
savages in far-off Afernt--so Dad had told
him. He hurried to the woodpile and selected a
stout branch, seasoned but not brittle. Back
to his spy hole again ... Although the interior was
darker now, the conjurer was visible as a shapeless
heap in the area of the bedding.
Radgar crept around to that side. He swung
the branch as hard as he could. Bang! Had the
cabin been built of heavy logs, the impact
would have been barely audible, but it was only a
ramshackle construction of withes and plaster. The
wall shook. He heard a few fragments fall
and could guess that more had showered down on the inside.
Again--Bang! Bang!
"Healfwer!" he yelled. "Wake up!" When
he heard shouts of anger in reply, he stopped
banging and took another peek. The cripple was
sitting up, faint light from the embers of the fire
glinting on the leprous-white side of his head.
"You're not going to sleep tonight!" Bang!
Bang! "Dance, cripple! Chant your
spells!" Bang! Bang! The wall was
losing the fight, flaking off in chunks. At this
rate he could wreck half the cabin before morning.
He paused to listen to the screams of rage.
"Worms and waste your weird shall be! Boy,
I will kill you!"
"No you won't!" Bang! Bang! "You
had your chance earlier and failed." Bang!
Bang! Bang! Bang!
He stopped then, partly to catch his breath--for
he had been putting all his strength into the
exercise--and partly to sneak a look at his
victim. As might have been predicted,
Healfwer seemed to be strapping on his wooden
leg. He had poked up the fire and added sticks
to it. Radgar set to work again, battering at one of the
shutters. Just as it collapsed into ruin, he heard
the squeak of the door.
By the time the enchanter came lurching around the
cabin, cursing and raving, his tormentor had
disappeared. When the old man completed the
circuit and reached his door again--and was
silhouetted against the fire--a jagged lump of
black rock streaked out of the darkness and struck the
back of his head. Another bounced off the cabin as
he stumbled inside. A third hit his back before
he could slam the door.
Now both sides had drawn blood and the
score was even. Radgar, having been raised on
battle songs and the bragging of drunken thegns, had
an innate grasp of tactics in such a situation
and knew the value of pressing an advantage.
Screeching every threat and rude word he could think of,
he resumed his attack on the shack, smashing
away chunks. This time the old man tried fighting
back. Firelight was streaming from so many holes in
his walls now that he could see Radgar almost as
well as Radgar could see him. Wielding his
staff like a spear, he lunged through one of the gaps
at the boy outside, but with only one hand he
lacked control. Radgar saw the move coming.
Healfwer screamed as his precious staff was
snatched away and vanished out into the woods.
Caught off balance, he fell heavily,
narrowly missing the fireplace. Moments later,
a renewed attack on his walls showered him with
plaster.
"Stop! Stop! What do you want!"
"A blanket! Two blankets!" Radgar
considered asking for a pot of stew and decided not
to push his luck. If he miscalculated now and
let the old man get within grabbing range of him,
his weird would be settled very swiftly.
"Then you'll give me back my staff? I
can't live without my staff!"
"Yes, I'll give it back. Hurry!"
"I need it to get the blankets."
"You think any son of Aeled Fyrlafing would
be that stupid? Push them out through the wall here."
Mumbling furiously, the old man did as he
was told--he was only crazy when it suited him
to be! Radgar dragged the blankets out through the
wall and gloatingly wrapped himself up. They
smelled terrible but they were warm on his skin.
"You can have your staff back in the morning!" He
marched away from the conjurer's wails and howls,
crossing the clearing to the place he thought the path
should start. He found it by waving the long
pole to and fro, then managed to go along it a little
way without walking into any trees. When he could
no longer see firelight, he lay down and
rolled up in a cocoon. He fell into sleep
almost immediately, gloating over the fact that Radgar
Aeleding, the future great warrior-king of
Baelmark, had just won his first real fight.
Morning was bad. He awoke at first light
feeling cold, stiff, hungry, thirsty, sore
everywhere, and dizzy from lack of sleep. The wound
on his head was swollen like an egg and throbbed
worse than anything. Scops never sang about
heroes feeling sorry for themselves on the day after the
battle.
Having given the matter thought, he did take
Healfwer's staff back to the cabin--a thegn could
be magnanimous to a beaten foe. He lost his
way in the forest because the sky wasn't light enough yet
to tell him which way was east, and when he finally did
reach the little meadow, Cwealm perversely refused
to be caught. Either he liked having a valley
all to himself or he didn't trust the pale
bloodstained waif in the smelly blankets.
Radgar chased him and chased him, pleading,
threatening, and finally almost weeping; and Cwealm
merely swished his tail and kept his distance. Just
about
the time Radgar was ready to give up--but
fortunately hadn't quite done so--he saw a
horse and rider coming down the path from the tunnel.
It was Dad, riding Wiga.
The sun rose over the crater walls and the world
brightened.
Dad jumped down from the saddle and gave him a
hug to break his bones, then a kiss, and finally
held him at arm's length to look him over. He
shook his head and said, "Oh, if your mother could see
you now!" in a man-to-man sort of way.
Radgar, shamefully, started to cry.
Fortunately Dad did not seem to notice.
He swung up into Wiga's saddle and hoisted his
wayward son up behind him. "Hot bath and
breakfast?" he said, kicking in his heels.
"Fresh clothes? And a long talk?"
Radgar blew his nose, wiped his fingers on
one of Healfwer's blankets, and said, "Yes,
sire." Whatever punishment was in store
for him, he would feel more able to bear it when he had
some breakfast inside him.
"Strip and jump in," Dad said. "I think
this is my favorite hot spring anywhere. Very
hot this end, very cold over there. About there's
usually just right."
The pool was small and shallow, steaming
quietly in the middle of a rather swampy clearing.
The little surface stream that varied its
temperature had also given it a sandy bottom
to lie on, which was unusual. Radgar obeyed
orders eagerly, submerging until only his
face showed, feeling all his joints melt in
bliss. He resumed his story, telling about his
fight with Healfwer.
While listening and sometimes shooting questions, Dad
tethered Wiga to a stout bush, removed the bit so
he could graze, loosened the girth, and then began
unpacking the saddlebags. He seemed to have thought
of everything: towels, fresh clothes for Radgar, and
especially food--cheese and bread and
hard-boiled eggs and some meaty ribs, all of which
he laid out on a handy tussock. Then he
laid his sword there also, pulled off his clothes,
and came to lie in the pool alongside his son.
He made no comment about Radgar's folly,
or at least not yet. He certainly wouldn't
wait long. Justice should be quick, he always said,
or it wasn't just. He chose a beef rib and
pointed it at the sky as he chewed his first bite.
"See that eagle? There's always an eagle
over Weargahlaew, sometimes two."
"Cwealm knew the way here."