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

by Dave Duncan

The thing in the octogram dropped to its knees

  beside the sword, caressing it, kissing it, whispering.

  "Is that possible?" Radgar yelled.

  The conjurer, wherever he was, did not answer.

  But why would it not be possible?

  "Thrall?" moaned the ghost, embracing the

  sword, weeping. "Find it, Youngling! Find it and

  kill it."

  Herding pigs? Somewhere on this island of

  Fyrsieg a Blade was toiling naked in the

  King's fields, herding pigs? Wasp ground his

  teeth. How Cynewulf must enjoy that!

  "Answer my questions," Radgar shouted. "Why

  did you reveal the ambassador's instructions?"

  Yorick continued to stroke and nuzzle the

  sword hilt, yet he answered clearly enough.

  "Hard it is to kill a king, Youngling--if you

  want to live to brag of it. I needed to meet

  Aeled alone. Made friends with you so you would

  arrange that. You did, but he was too smart ...

  brought company along. Didn't matter. I

  closed the deal with your uncle, and after that

  the treaty was nothing. Fat pension to Cynewulf and

  forget what the paper said. Ambrose happy,

  Cynewulf happy. Me happy. All I

  wanted was revenge, and I got it without your

  help."

  "Pension? Throne? What else did

  Cynewulf get? You said you'd already given him the

  ... given him my mother! How?"

  "A draft, Youngling. Slip it to a woman and

  she goes to sleep. Then you enjoy her. She's

  yours to enjoy ever after."

  Radgar moaned.

  Wasp said, "So Ambrose put you up to all

  this? Ambrose?"

  Yorick sighed like wind in treetops. "Too

  late, brother! It's dawn. New day ..."

  The whisper faded. "Fare well, Youngling. ..."

  No light penetrated the fog and trees. There

  was nothing in the octogram except the sword, and

  never had been. Even Healfwer had gone. A

  steam vent whistled and splashed nearby.

  Wasp shivered as if he had a fever.

  "He's dead, isn't he? A thrall can't be

  restored?"

  "No. He's dead. Villain that he was."

  Wasp went over and pulled the sword out of the

  ground. It came easily for him, although his hand was

  shaking. "I'll take this and one day I'll send

  it back to Starkmoor. I owe him that much."

  "Not yet," said Radgar. "I will need a good

  blade before this day is out."

  Hard it is to kill a king.

  FYRLAF

  VIII

  Radgar was barely conscious during most of the

  trek out of Weargahlaew. He had wanted

  to find Healfwer and convince the crazy old man that

  the crater must soon be his grave, which the maniac

  knew perfectly well and longed for. Wasp

  forbade it and forced him to abandon the wita to his

  chosen fate.

  It was dawn, the ghost had said, and yet there was

  no way to know that in the fog-filled crater.

  Steam, hot water, foul gases were bursting forth

  everywhere. Paths vanished into pools of bubbling

  mud, lakes had flooded huge areas of the forest,

  and Radgar's memory of the route was useless. More

  than once he passed out completely from the fumes

  and would have lain there and died had Wasp not half

  dragged, half carried him onward. That was his

  binding at work, of course; but superhuman

  endurance must demand a price eventually. In the

  absence of daylight and landmarks, the only guide

  to direction was the relentless rumbling of

  Cwicnoll. They must head away from the summit

  to find the tunnel. The summit was no longer their

  greatest peril. The ancient crater of

  Weargahlaew was coming to life under their feet,

  steaming and shaking, reeking of sulfur.

  Why did it hurt so much? He had long since

  guessed who had killed Dad, and should have been

  glad to have his suspicions confirmed. Almost six

  years had passed since the death of Aeled; it was

  a nightmare from a world long gone. The bereaved boy

  who had suffered so abominably was gone, changed

  by his ordeal and the years in Ironhall into another

  person altogether, a capable young man who could

  survive in the world, if he must, entirely on his

  skill with a sword. He was no longer that child, so

  why did he hurt so much?

  The cave passage was even harder than before--more

  obstructed by rocks. Wasp found a way through and

  brought them both out safely, although rubble was falling

  all the time. Half crazy already, the horses were

  thrown into frenzy by the sight of these two filthy and

  bloody relics, yet Wasp managed to soothe

  them enough to be ridden. There was a diffuse sort of

  daylight at Baelstede, but the wind had risen and

  was lifting ash in choking clouds. At

  times the falls seemed fresher, hot and deadly.

  Radgar just followed his Blade's orders, paying

  little attention to where he was going as they started the

  ride home.

  Was it not justice that Aeled had been slain

  to avenge men he had caused to die? His killer,

  Yorick, had already paid. Must his accomplice,

  Cynewulf, also die, the wheels of slaughter

  rolling on forever? Was it not justice that the woman

  Aeled had stolen and then come to love had been

  stolen from him in turn and so provoked his death?

  She could not be blamed for what had happened then or

  since. She had done no wrong, so why could her

  son not forgive her? Why could he not judge her as

  a person instead of an ideal?

  Villain! If ever a man deserved to die it

  was Cynewulf. Hard it is to kill a king and

  live to brag of it. There, certainly,

  Yorick's spirit had spoken truth. Had it told

  the truth about the murder, though? Not the whole truth

  and more than the truth. To bring a king to justice was

  never easy. It needed better evidence than the

  reported gabbling of a conjured thrall.

  When they reached the forest, where the trees gave

  some shelter from the choking ash, Wasp pulled his

  horse back level with his ward's. He looked

  tired enough to die of exhaustion. His eyes were open

  sores under white eyebrows, his clothes caked with

  blood and ash; even the fuzz on his lip had

  grown to a milky mustache. Poor Wasp!

  Few Blades had ever been in a worse

  predicament than he was in now, less than a

  month after his binding. A boy had been sent to do

  ten men's work. He spat out mud before he

  spoke.

  "You better now?"

  "Just tired." The very word made him yawn. "You

  Blades are lucky you don't get tired."

  "We do get tired. We just can't sleep when

  we rest. What are you planning, Atheling?"

  What indeed? He had learned the truth about the

  murder, but it had brought him no closer to justice

  or vengeance. If he swore blood feud against

  Cynewulf, or just went for him with a sword, the

  house the
gns would kill him, and Wasp too. No

  question about that. "Advise me."

  "You won't listen."

  "Try me."

  "Become king. Isn't that what you want?"

  Wasp's hoarse croak made the question

  almost a statement.

  "Yes." Radgar was too weary to lie

  anymore. "But it isn't possible. It's an

  illusion, Wasp." From cniht's oath

  to coronation oath had taken Dad six years, and

  he had been the youngest king of Baelmark in over a

  century.

  "Then run away. Hide--back in Chivial

  or Thergy or anywhere."

  Run? Radgar rode on for a while, trying

  to think the unthinkable. "I can't. Aylwin,

  Leofric, the others who have helped me ...

  Cynewulf will kill them."

  "Certainly. Take refuge with a friendly earl,

  then."

  "That means civil war!"

  Wasp stared at him with scarlet-rimmed eyes.

  "Yes. That's why I said to become king. Any

  other way we die."

  Hard it is to kill a king. Easy for a king

  to kill. Send the brat off foering with

  Goldstan and Ro`edercraeft and start writing the

  funeral invitations.

  A few moments later Wasp added, "You

  knew this would happen if you came back. You can't

  run and you can't hide. You have to go on."

  But there was no way on.

  When they reached farmland, the weather had turned,

  wind veering to the northwest. A steady haze of ash

  swirled over the landscape, prickling eyes,

  gritting in teeth. Cattle bellowed

  unhappily on the pastures. Thralls digging

  ditches and planting beans were dusted like ghosts with

  it.

  On this wider trail Wasp fell back again.

  "Any good ideas yet?" He looked half dead

  already. Blades who lost their ward usually went

  insane and oftentimes berserk. What happened to a

  Blade who saw no way out? How much of this

  punishment could Wasp take?

  "Friend, do you trust what the ghost said?"

  His Blade scowled. "Some, not all. I think

  it was trying to defend Ambrose."

  Soon after that a party of a dozen horsemen

  trotted out of the city in their direction. Wasp

  rode forward to intercept, but their leader was

  Leofric and suicidal heroics were not required.

  He reined in to watch Radgar's approach,

  glowering disapproval.

  "You are still alive, then?" He wheeled his

  horse in on Radgar's right as Aylwin and the

  others took up position in the rear. If the

  atheling's return to the city could not be kept

  secret, it must be made a formal indication of

  support, obviously.

  Radgar remembered how to smile. "Only just

  alive."

  "What did you learn?"

  "That no one can guard a front door

  effectively when a traitor inside is opening

  shutters in back."

  Relief lit up the thegn's craggy features

  and was instantly suppressed. "Healfwer was still

  there? I heard Weargahlaew had been

  abandoned."

  "He's all alone and determined to die there.

  He did summon Geste's spirit and it confirmed

  what we had surmised, but I don't know if I

  totally believe it. Geste killed my father and

  claims Cynewulf was in on the plot--but it

  may have been lying!"

  "Don't worry about that," Leofric growled.

  "If he didn't do that murder he's done lots

  of others. From the look of you, you need a quick rinse

  in the palace hot springs, a change of clothes,

  a bowl of chowder, and as much sleep as you can grab

  before noon. You must be present at the moot."

  "I'm not a thegn. Ro`edercraeft will keep

  me out."

  The blue eye glinted. "Let him try."

  Radgar smiled his thanks. "Two seconds

  in hot water and I'll be asleep. Carry me

  into the hall and wake me up when the proceeds get

  interesting."

  "They may get very interesting." Leofric was

  almost smacking his lips. "There's at least three

  candidates trying to raise support for a

  challenge. The odds are that none will succeed. That's

  when we push you forward!"

  "I'm not even a cniht yet."

  "Oh, we'll find some way around that."

  As Dad had said, there was nothing wrong with

  Leofric's fighting.

  "Get your lazy carcass out of that bed,"

  Aylwin said loudly, and for about the third time. "Or

  do I have to tip this over you?"

  Radgar forced one sticky eye open. The

  blankets prickled his skin, the air stank of

  sulfur. ... The moot would assemble at noon.

  ... Oh, spirits! He opened both eyes.

  "Drink it yourself, you overmuscled lout!" With a

  killing effort he managed to sit up and accept the

  tankard of spruce beer he was being offered.

  Gulping down the tangy stuff he registered a

  fancy tunic laid out on the bed and some

  glittering things on the stool. Thegn Leofric was

  going to put forward his prot@eg`e in style.

  "And hurry! There's trouble." The best that could

  be said for Aylwin's face was that it was honest.

  Leofric's son was no wita. Hard work, good

  humor, endurance, yes; loyalty in abundance,

  starvation rations of wits. Physical strength, of

  course. Even before he could afford to have himself

  enchanted into a leviathan he'd been a hulking

  lad, but the best conjurers in the world could not enchant

  extra brains into him, and he wouldn't know what to do

  with them anyway. Like his father, he had loyalty,

  loyalty to the death. You asked his opinion only

  out of politeness.

  "What sort of trouble?" Radgar threw off the

  blankets and shivered as the cool air touched his

  bed-warmed flesh. The whole room shivered, making

  the pretty things dance on the stool and the bed ropes

  squeak. Cwicnoll was still restless.

  "Waeps Thegn."

  "What about him?"

  "He's gone."

  "Gone where? Blades never leave their wards."

  Radgar pulled on breeches and socks. He

  could hear rain beating on the roof.

  "Think he's gone to kill Wulfwer."

  "What? Tell me!" Moving much faster,

  Radgar hauled on wool leggings and stood up,

  tossing the long garters to Aylwin. They were gilt

  stuff, very royal, and the pretties waiting on the

  stool were a shoulder brooch as big as one of

  Aylwin's great fists and a belt buckle almost as

  large, both of them flashing with gold and deep-red

  garnets.

  Aylwin knelt to wrap the garters around his

  friend's legs. "He was sitting right outside the

  door, Radgar. Guarding you."

  "Yes." Smock next. This story was going

  to take some time to extract.

  "Dad told me to come and tell him that

  Wulfwer's back. He went strange,

  Radgar. Wasp did. I mean his face turned

  cheese color and he shouted at me that I had

  to stay and watch you.
Made me swear. Then he

  ran, Radgar."

  Radgar wrapped the shiny tooled belt around

  himself and fastened the ornate buckle. He could

  imagine nothing that would make a Blade behave like

  that.

  Nothing!

  "Did he say anything before he ran? No

  explanation?"

  "Well, he shouted something, Radgar, but I

  didn't catch it. It was in Chivian. He was

  sort of excited, see?"

  More like clean out of his mind. "You caught no

  words at all?"

  "No, Radgar." There was the cause of

  Aylwin's distress. His father had probably

  ripped a thousand strips off him.

  "Not your fault you don't speak Chivian."

  Aylwin stood up, looking much the way he had

  looked when he was one third the size and caught

  raiding the honey jar. "He did say your name and

  Wulfwer's, and I think Healfwer's."

  "And you have no idea where he went?" Radgar

  stopped with one foot poised over a boot and thought

  about this. Eventually he put the boot on and

  stamped it; then the other one, and he still could think of

  nothing that would prompt a Blade to desert his

  ward like that. Especially in this palace, with a

  hundred knives sharpened for his neck.

  "No."

  "When did this happen?"

  "'Bout an hour ago. I'd sworn to stay

  outside your door, see? So I couldn't go

  tell anyone till Dad came to wake you.

  Dad's gone looking for him."

  How many people could a Blade kill in an hour?

  Radgar slung the soft wool cloak around himself,

  fastening it with the great shoulder brooch. All done.

  He took up a comb and peered in the mirror.

  He did not like the gaunt, stressed face staring

  back out at him. Wasp had broken, but he must

  not. The worst thing I did in my short life

  was bind that boy as my Blade.

  "What exactly did you tell him about

  Wulfwer?"

  "Just that he's back. He was around this morning,

  so Dad asked questions. Seems the King had sent

  him off to Weargahlaew to see how it was

  and pull out the hermits if conditions were too bad.

  That's all. He rode in before dawn."

  Radgar and Wasp must have passed him on the

  way. Nothing remarkable in that--there were many trails

  up into the hills. The crater was a royal

  demesne, so sending the tanist himself in such an

  emergency was not surprising either. What could Wasp

  possibly have seen in that information that had provoked

  him to such madness?

  "It is not your fault," Radgar assured the