by Dave Duncan
repeatedly, and yet Radgar barely hesitated.
"How can you possibly know which way?" Wasp
demanded between coughs.
"I probably know Weargahlaew better
than anyone except-- Oops!"
The track ended at a stream of boiling water.
It was undercutting the roots of living trees, so it
could not have been there very long.
"That probably isn't as hot as it looks,"
Radgar said cheerfully. He scrambled up on a
rock and jumped to another, then a tree, the glow
of his lantern fading into the fog. Wasp followed.
When they were together again, his ward went on as if
nothing had happened. "My last summer here, I
was too young to be a cniht. I volunteered
to feed the weargas. Nobody argued! I
couldn't lift the sacks onto the pack-horse,
but I could unload them. I stole a sword and
hid it up here, so I could gird it on and ride
Cwealm around where no one could see me and
tattle. I got to know several of the hermits--some
screamed at me to leave them alone, others were
pathetically glad of the company. I'd gather
firewood and leave it at Healfwer's door, and
eventually, grudgingly, he began to accept me."
"You really think he'll still be there?"
"Oh, yes. Certain. He will never go back
to the world. He's convinced that he's dead and
Weargalaew is his grave." After a
particularly violent coughing spell, Radgar
added, "Of course he may be right by now."
Cwicnoll roared and shook, dislodging
clouds of ash from the trees. Between tremors, the
forest was unnaturally quiet. Nothing lived there
anymore. There would be no dawn chorus and
possibly no dawn under the choking black fog.
"Is that a light? Or are my eyes playing
tricks?"
"How should I know?" Wasp said grumpily.
"Mine are full of mud. Yes, it is." They
had been struggling through undergrowth that had once fringed
a lake and was now in the lake. The water was
unpleasantly hot in his boots.
"Thank the spirits, he's awake! He'll
probably have his leg on." Radgar handed Wasp
his lantern so he could cup his hands to his mouth,
although the glow from the window could not be very far away.
"Healfwer!" he shouted. "Healfwer, you have
visitors. Two visitors, Healfwer."
Silence, broken only by the muffled whistle of
steam issuing from a vent they had passed some
minutes earlier.
"Healfwer, you are dead and so am I. I am
Radgar Aeleding, who died in Twigeport. I
have come back seeking your roed, Healfwer. I
bring the sword that slew Aeled. Your enchantments
did not fail in the fire. I saw him murdered,
Healfwer. I must speak with the dead."
Nothing.
Radgar took his lantern back. "Come on."
He moved off into the murk, with his Blade on
his heels. The lake had reached the cottage before
them--there must be a foot of water inside.
Radgar had said that the mad hermit lived on the
ground like an animal, yet the candles burning in
there had been lit not many hours ago. There was no
especial threat about the place, but Wasp laid
a hand on Radgar's shoulder.
"That's close enough."
"Healfwer is no danger! I could knock him
over with a flick of a finger."
"But who else is with him? I'm still waiting
to meet your dear cousin."
Radgar grunted. "Healfwer! Two dead men
to see you."
The door creaked and began to open, slowly in the
water. The conjurer appeared, a shadowed figure
against the light, but just as Radgar had described
him, leaning on a staff, a bag hiding his head.
His robe was soaked.
"Remember me?" Radgar said. "I
died in Twigeport."
"Dead men do not grow taller." The old
man's speech was muffled and distorted, as might be
expected from half a mouth.
"This one did. And here is Wasp, whom I
slew with that sword he wears. Show him,
Blade."
In this madhouse anything was sane. Wasp handed
his lantern over, laid his cloak on a bush, and
then pulled off his smock, which left him wearing not
very much. In the steamy fog, he wished he'd thought
to do so sooner.
"Come closer," Radgar said, wading over to the
door. "See, Healfwer? The scar over his
heart? Turn around. And there's where the blade
came out. That same sword he is wearing--I
put it right through him. So he's dead, too.
We're all dead here. Three dead to speak with
one dead."
Nothing showed within the eye holes. "You did not
die by fire!"
Uncertain who was being addressed, Wasp said,
"No. I died when Radgar put a sword through
my heart. It hurt! I could not scream, but it
hurt."
"Fire the fate that felled me, though," said the
horrible croak. "Water's shallows shaped my
weird."
"Fire did not kill Aeled either," Radgar
said. "Aeled Fyrlafing was murdered, and with this
sword. It was hung as a prize in a hall, so
its owner must be dead. Summon him for us,
Healfwer. Summon another dead man, so that
dead may speak with dead. Shall I carry you to the
octogram, eald foeder? Bring his pole,
Wasp." He scooped the conjurer into his arms and
scrambled up the adjoining bank, the old man's
long wooden leg sticking out grotesquely.
Wasp followed, laden with the staff, two
lanterns, and his own discarded clothes.
Fortunately they did not have far to go. The
octogram was hidden under the ubiquitous ash, with
only a trampled circular path around it
visible. Radgar set the conjurer upright where he
could lean against a tree, and used his own cloak
to dust off the ground and uncover the marking stones.
Healfwer babbled the whole time, muttering
angrily to himself. "... never news announce
to me ... Wanting wealth and wonders wrought ...
spawn of thegn and thrall despising ...
if ocean's depths had deeper hugged; then
surging sea had shelter held." He coughed
wretchedly.
Radgar inspected the water crock. "Still
full. Set one of the lanterns there, Wasp.
Now, wita, where do we put the sword?"
"Bael the bane to burn the king!"
"No. I told you--Aeled did not burn.
What was his bane, ealdor?"
The conjurer did not reply. Radgar tried
again.
"When you chanted the hlytm for Aeled, what
weird did you see? Was it love?"
Healfwer shouted, "Yea!"
"Ah, now we're communicating. So where do I
put this sword? In the middle?"
"Of course, ni`eding," the conjurer
snapped. "And whatever you do stay out of the octo-
gram. When day is doubled, duty labors."
Wasp watched skeptically.
He had never
put much stock in Radgar's tales of one-man
conjurations, and firsthand experience of the enchanter
failed to reassure him. The old man's wits
had flown south with the swallows a long time ago.
The ground trembled, the mountain roared. Somewhere,
and not very far away, a long thunder of falling rocks
became a crashing-down of trees. As soon as
he could trust his feet again, Radgar planted
Fancy in the center of the octogram, needing
three tries before he found a spot free of
roots, and even then not pushing the blade in very far.
He retreated to the edge of the little clearing and said,
"Ready, wita!"
The conjurer lurched forward to the edge of the
octogram, went around it a short distance and
stopped. Silence fell, except for vague
gurgling sounds of steam and spouting water. They
seemed to be coming from several directions now, so
perhaps the whole crater was going to fill up like a
soup pot. The first Blade ever to let his ward
get boiled alive ... What were they waiting for?
The old man clearly didn't even know what was
expected of him, although he had positioned himself
opposite the jug and lantern, where death point
would--
"Hwoet!" he cried, and began screeching out
an incantation, invoking the spirits of death. Few of the
words were audible and fewer made any sense, but he
never paused or hesitated. After a verse or
two he reeled partway around the
octogram and chanted some more.
It took a long time. Even when the ground
swayed, the ancient cripple kept his balance.
He carried on without pause, not allowing the
bellowing of the volcano itself or screams from the steam
vents to distract him from whatever he was croaking.
It was a remarkable display of endurance. Either the
two lanterns were dwindling or the fog was growing
thicker. The one on the octogram was only a
faint golden blur. Even the one at Wasp's
feet seemed to be fading away. He could barely
see Radgar at his side, although he could hear him
coughing. The mist seemed especially thick inside
the center, around the sword.
The conjurer's chant rasped away into choking
coughs somewhere on the far side of the clearing. Forest
and volcano fell ominously silent.
Came a faint, gossamer whisper in the
night: "What goes? Who calls?"
The hair on the back of Wasp's neck
stirred. That was not Radgar's voice nor
Healfwer's, and it had come from the center of the
clearing. If he let his imagination run away with
him, it could pick out shapes in the mist, like a man
kneeling, hugging the blade. ...
The voice sighed again. "Command me. ... Who
calls me? Who commands? What goes?"
Wasp jumped as Radgar spoke from the darkness
at his side, his voice almost as gruff as
Healfwer's. "I command you! I, Radgar
Aeleding, command you."
The apparition--if it was not entirely Wasp's
imagination--was upright now, on its feet,
peering. "Youngling? So tall now? Is that you,
Youngling?"
"I am he. Speak your name!"
"Ah! I have no name now, none. You knew me
as Geste, Youngling."
Radgar moved forward a couple of steps. He
was just visible, hardly more solid than--than that
wisp of mist that could be mistaken for a naked man.
Wasp went to stand beside him, ready to haul him
back if he tried to enter the octogram.
"Say by what name King Ambrose knew you."
"Yorick," sighed the ghost. "Sir Yorick
of the Loyal and Ancient Order."
"Then speak! Who slew my father, Aeled
Fyrlafing?"
"Why, that was I, Youngling. Know you not
that by now?"
"How did you get in?"
"By trade, Youngling, by trade!" The whisper
rippled with amusement or mockery. "Fair
trade. Cynewulf let me in and I gave him
the throne he wanted. I'd already given him the
woman he lusted after--aye, she was there, asleep
on the bed with half her clothes undone. Twas
fair, a most fair trade!"
Radgar spoke through a coughing fit. "Go--on!
Say--happened next."
"Why, he led me upstairs to wait and then
went back down to the woman." The apparition
kept fading and reforming, illusion wandering around the
octogram as if seeking a way out. Still the faint
mocking whisper: "When Aeled came, I gave
him time to draw. Still fair! I told him the names
of the five he had slain: Sir Richey, Sir
Denvers, Sir Havoc, Sir Panther, Sir
Rhys. Good men, good men all! I told him it
was his turn now, but I let him try a little
sword work with me, so he knew it was hopeless and
he must die. I explained that his wife was part of
his brother's price so he would die unhappy.
When he began to weep I let Fancy cut his
throat."
"It was easy for you, wasn't it? Easy for a
Blade!"
"Easy as stamping on a bug, Youngling. I
didn't hurt him, though. I could have hurt him a
lot."
"And what happened after that?"
Wasp had an impression of Yorick now.
The faint image painted on the mist was that of a
wiry, dark-hued man, stark naked, with long rat
tails of hair below his shoulders and a wild bush of
beard. All imagination, of course. There was
nothing there but fog.
"Why, nothing happened, Youngling, nothing! I
went downstairs again. I'd done what I wanted
and I expect your uncle had, too. I left
the way I came, by the window. I waited around
to watch what happened when he torched the house."
"You bolted my door first!" Radgar
screamed.
"Not me, Youngling, not me! I had no orders
for you, no grudge either. Didn't know you were there.
Never made war on children. I'd kind of taken a
fancy to you by then, anyway. Could've killed you
easy enough at sea later. You know that,
Youngling!" The ghost sounded quite offended.
Wasp realized he had unconsciously edged
forward until his toes were almost on the octogram.
The apparition was staring straight at him now. Its
face and eyes were those of a corpse, completely
dead. Yet in other ways it seemed like a living
man. It was shivering, and its breath puffed
visibly in the dawn chill. A corpse could not
breathe, and a ghost should not be covered in gooseflesh.
Even its wrongness was horribly familiar in a
way Wasp could not place. He had seen those
eyes before.
"A Blade!" it said softly. "Will you leave
a brother to suffer so?"
Wasp's hackles rose again.
"Why did you board the boat?" Radgar
demanded.
Much to Wasp's relief, the ghost turned
away and began wandering restlessly
around the
octogram. It left no footprints on the
ash. "Why, to save you, Youngling! I told you
I'd taken a fancy to you. Didn't like that
hulking cousin of yours. Didn't want him to get
you."
"To save me why?"
The ghost sighed. "To sell, Youngling, to sell!
I'd avenged my men, but I was thirty-six
years old and nobody had made me rich yet."
"You tried to sell me to King Ambrose?"
"I wanted to be sure my work would be
adequately rewarded. Fat Man shows a
nasty frugal streak at times."
"So that's how he knew I was alive! What
went wrong? Wouldn't he buy?"
"Hard man, he is. He set the Dark
Chamber on me, and I only just got out of
Chivial with his inquisitors snapping at my
ass." The apparition had drawn close again.
"If he'd caught me, he'd have found out where
I'd hidden you, and that would have been the end of the
game."
"What was he going to do with me if he got
me?"
Yorick shrugged. "Up to him. I was offering
one healthy atheling with no strings attached."
"He wouldn't deal, so you came back here and
tried my uncle?"
"Clever lad you are, Youngling, clever lad."
"And what happened then? How much would he pay
for me?"
The ghost looked up and sniffed the air.
"Dawn coming? How long can you hold this conjuration?"
"Answer my question!"
"Nothing happened then. Everything stopped
happening."
Radgar was shouting now, his voice cracking with
emotion. "Cynewulf outsmarted you too! You
didn't have much success extorting money from kings,
did you, Yorick? He caught you and made you
tell him where I was, but he wasn't like
Ambrose--he couldn't get at me in
Ironhall. So he just waited, knowing I would
appear eventually. You he killed. He hung
your sword on his wall!"
"What? My Fancy!" The ghost threw its
head back and howled, long and shrill, and
Cwicnoll rumbled in answer. Wailing and
lamenting, Yorick flickered over to the sword and
tugged on it with both hands, a figure of mist
straining in vain to pull steel out of the ground. It
did not move. "Shame! Shame! Take
Fancy home! Take her back to the Hall!
Don't leave her here. Tell them Yorick
herds pigs if you must, but leave not my poor
Fancy here alone."
Then Wasp understood what was so horribly
familiar about that shaggily bearded apparition.
"Radgar! He's not dead! He's a thrall!"