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

by Dave Duncan

  adjourn--"

  "No!" roared a voice from the floor, and the

  cry was taken up by a thousand throats in a great

  roar of anger and disapproval. Even the

  visitors were shouting, although they should not meddle in

  local business.

  Cynewulf did seem surprised then. He

  peered narrowly into the gloom as if seeking out

  ringleaders, but he kept his self-control and when

  he stretched out both arms for silence the crowd

  hushed to hear him. "If the honored earls are

  willing to let our shire moot take precedence,

  then we shall gladly honor their wishes. The

  witenagemot stands adjourned until the morrow.

  Thegns, the fyrd will assemble tonight at sunset"--

  he was shouting at the top of his lungs--"to decide

  the issue between us and our tanist in the ways of the

  Baels."

  Leofric had been whispering to Ceolmund and

  some of the other witan. Now he thumped a hand on

  his son's massive shoulder. "The Haligdom!"

  he said. "Go and seize the Haligdom!"

  Upward, ever upward, Wasp drove his

  horse, going he knew not where to fight he knew

  not what. Only his Blade instinct guided him

  through stinking fog and the steady drizzle of mud. The

  ash fall was so heavy now, and so hot, that if the

  rain part of it ever slackened he would probably

  fry. Poor Cwealm, superbly surefooted

  though he was, found the going treacherous and painful.

  Wasp kept expecting a firedrake to come

  flaming and roaring out of the mist at him. Fight a

  firedrake with a rapier? Why his Blade instinct

  would drive him to come in search of such a

  monster he could not imagine. His mission seemed

  suicidal. He was not fireproof! In spite

  of the wet, he kept hallucinating a smell of

  burning--the stench of the massacre at Haybridge

  or the smell of West House just before Radgar

  came stumbling through the flames to wrap a

  blanket around him and carry him out. Twice in his

  life he had escaped death by fire, and he

  seemed destined to meet it again.

  When the ground began to drop away ahead of him

  and the wind redoubled its fury, he realized that he

  had reached the bleak shoulder called Baelstede.

  Coughing and almost blind from the muddy deluge, he

  turned Cwealm in the direction of the cave

  entrance. It seemed that his destination was to be

  Weargahlaew again. He felt a faint stir of

  hope--he might not have to fight a firedrake after

  all, only mad old Healfwer.

  Poor Cwealm had been run to exhaustion.

  He coughed and slithered and sometimes bellowed out his

  misery; but he kept responding, knowing that

  otherwise he would get beaten with a rapier.

  "Not long now, big fellow," Wasp told

  him. "Won't be so bad in the gully. I never

  treated a nag like this in my life before, friend, and I

  promise I never will again. It's all for

  Radgar. You remember Radgar ...?" Babble,

  babble! The stallion was not the only one near the

  end of his endurance.

  The defile was not better at all. Cwealm

  had to plod hock-deep up a steaming river of

  hot mud laced with rocks and branches. He

  eventually balked, was beaten, went on a few more

  steps, and then stumbled. Wasp, deservedly, was

  pitched into the muck, which was even hotter than he

  had expected. Once he had cleaned off his

  face well enough to see, he needed only one glance

  at his mount to know that this was the end. Cwealm was

  immobilized, and a damaged leg here had to be a

  death sentence.

  Wasp gave him a hug and wept for him. "I

  am sorry, friend, I really am sorry!" He

  could read his own name on the death warrant too, so

  he wept for himself and his folly, but he also mourned

  a great heart. "If the impossible happens and

  I ever see Radgar again," he promised, "I

  will tell him of your courage."

  Then he did what had to be done and did it

  well, for he had helped his father butcher animals

  and knew where to strike. He wiped

  Nothing on his mud-covered cloak and set off

  along the gully alone.

  Unlike a horse, he could stay out of the mud

  river by working his way through the brush and spindly

  trees that lined the steeply sloping walls; they

  gave him handholds when he slipped on the ooze

  underfoot. At least the tunnel would provide

  shelter from the constant drizzle.

  When he came to the end of the little gorge, he

  thought he was to be denied even that. Rock and mud

  had cascaded down, building a mound that almost

  covered the cave mouth. Closer inspection

  revealed that there was a gap left at the top; and

  when he had scrambled up to see it, he could feel

  a wind blowing past his head. A powerful draft was

  blowing into the mountain, so the upper end must still be open

  and the way was clear.

  Clear at the moment. The ground trembled. The

  mountain's menacing rumbling never stopped.

  Finding the tinderbox by feel alone was a

  painfully long business, but he located it

  eventually, and also a lantern with candle left in

  it. Some of the crushed-fungus tinder was damp, and

  only after a great deal of striking and swearing did

  he find a piece dry enough to catch. Then he had

  light and he was out of the rain, but his clothes were so

  weighted by mud that they felt like the plate mail

  he had been forced to wear in Ironhall

  broadsword training. Perhaps because there was no

  physical means for him to return to Radgar now,

  the agony of being separated from his ward had

  dwindled. In its place had come the numbing pain

  of total exhaustion.

  So what? He was wretchedly uncomfortable.

  He could not sleep. He set off into the tunnel.

  Perhaps twelve hours had passed since he and

  Radgar had come through here on their way out. Much

  rock had fallen since then. There was no path

  anymore. There was hardly a tunnel anymore.

  In its place he found an unending climb over

  precariously balanced heaps of jagged boulders,

  going in constant danger of starting a slide that would

  crush his feet or bury him totally. At times

  he was wriggling high above the original roof,

  hunting for gaps between the heaped debris and the new--

  no doubt temporary--roof. Sometimes he knew

  he had found a passage because when he thrust his

  head and shoulders into the gap he could hear

  the wind whistling past his ears. That was a reminder that

  the wind could get through narrower places than he

  could. The exit, if he ever reached it, might not be

  Wasp-sized.

  Exhaustion, earth tremors, the reek of

  sulfur, now hunger, and certainly thirst ... a

  Blade's lot was not a happy one. The end

  came without warning. Rocks shifted under him. Then

  a rising
din as more and more of the roof collapsed, both

  in front of him and behind ... something came down on

  his left hand, which held the lantern. He was

  plunged into darkness, his scream of agony drowned

  out by noise that seemed to beat the brains from his head.

  He was pelted by stones, choked by dust. The

  tunnel collapsed.

  When the noise stopped, the draft had stopped,

  too. He was sealed in, buried alive in the

  heart of the mountain.

  No challenge had been contested in Catterstow

  for so long that very few men could remember the last

  time. Ceolmund had yielded to Aeled without forcing

  a vote, but in his younger days he had shed blood

  to win the earldom and keep it. He knew the

  unwritten rules. He knew that the earl would

  hold court in Cynehof, rallying supporters,

  plying thegns with ale and mead, bribing ship lords with

  gold. The tanist challenger must set up a

  recruiting center of his own and see what he could do

  with promises. Since the Haligdom, the great

  elementary, was the second largest building in

  Waro`edburh, the Wulfwer party should take it

  over as its headquarters. This was especially true

  on a day like this, when the rain was coming down in

  tubfuls. But no one had told Wulfwer this and

  by the time someone did, it was too late. Aylwin and

  his beefiest buddies had seized the building, and

  his father was leading the rest of the fledgling Aeleding party

  there in parade. Wulfwer's challenge had opened

  opportunities.

  "Here!" said Aylwin, thrusting a war helmet

  at Radgar. "Choose a sword."

  "Huh?"

  The huge circular hall was smaller than he

  remembered, but still impressive. Often as a child

  he had huddled in the doorway beside the jeering town

  brats to watch shiploads of Chivian

  prisoners being enthralled into useful servants.

  With the unthinking cruelty of the young, he had mocked

  their screams for mercy. No one had told him he

  was doing anything wrong. Chivian crowds had

  laughed when Baelish prisoners were butchered in

  public. It had been wartime, and things were different

  then.

  Things were different now. Leofric's werod was

  forming itself into a circle, excluding other thegns.

  Someone handed Aylwin a shield, and another offered

  Radgar a helmet and a collection of wooden

  practice swords.

  Leofric explained at his elbow. "They're

  going to vote you in, Atheling. But they need to know that

  you can fight."

  "I haven't sworn the cniht's oath,"

  Radgar said angrily. This sort of contest was

  stupid. It would prove little about a man's

  courage in real battle, yet it was dangerous enough

  to maim him if something went wrong. The helmet

  he was holding had a face plate, which meant he

  would be peering out through two small eye holes,

  unable to see what he was doing. Ironhall

  dueling equipment was better, safer, and so varied

  that he was expert in a dozen styles of fighting.

  Aylwin would know only broadsword and shield,

  possibly battle-ax.

  "Well you can't back out now," the ship lord said

  smugly, walking away and leaving Radgar in the

  circle of grinning faces.

  True! He threw the helmet away and

  refused the shield. He drew Fancy, a

  cat's-eye sword infinitely better than

  anything he was being offered. "Come and kill me,"

  he said.

  "Flames!" said a muffled voice from inside

  Aylwin's helmet. "That's a real sword!"

  "It's a real sword and I'm going to show you

  real sword craft. I'll use the blunt

  side. Now come and kill me."

  The spectators fell silent. Aylwin

  shrugged, flexed his arms, and charged. Reluctant

  to strike an unarmored friend with even the wooden

  sword, he tried to knock him with his shield

  instead. Radgar had expected that. He jumped

  aside, grabbed the edge of the shield with his free

  hand, and kicked the back of his friend's knee as he

  went past. Aylwin hit the tiles in a clatter

  and his sword skittered away across the floor.

  Radgar stepped up on his back.

  "Next?"

  Terrible words came out of the helmet. ...

  "You're dead. I want someone else."

  The onlookers jeered uproariously at their

  shipmate's humiliation, but such tricks did not

  impress them much. Then Radgar Aeleding disposed

  of two more contenders with equal ease and they began

  to show interest. There was no elaborate point

  system--first hit was counted mortal. The next

  men tried to match his speed and agility and came

  at him on his own terms, without shield or

  helmet, just a blade. They did not pull their

  strokes, either. Men who weighed twice what he

  did swung two-handed broadswords that would have

  shattered bones. He did not try to block those;

  he let Fancy nudge the stroke up or down

  or aside, using their momentum to throw his

  opponents off balance. They all seemed

  incredibly slow to him, but he dared not be as gentle

  with everyone as he had been with Aylwin. He

  rapped a couple of men across the neck with the back

  of his sword; he disarmed another by striking his elbow

  with the flat of the blade. With the sixth man, he

  accidentally drew blood. The wound was not serious,

  but honor was satisfied.

  "That's all!" He sheathed his sword,

  pleasantly aware that he was barely winded. By then

  the ale barrels were being rolled in.

  "Can he fight?" Aylwin yelled, and the

  werod roared approval.

  They voted Radgar Aeleding one of them, and a

  thegn in the Catterstow fyrd.

  If they thought he was good, they should have seen

  Wasp.

  All over Waro`edburh the afternoon was spent in

  argument, wherever two or more thegns were within earshot of

  each other. War horns blared, summoning

  warriors to the free ale--in Cynehof, at the

  tanist's headquarters in the boat sheds, or from

  Ship Lord Leofric at the elementary. Most men

  would need to try all three, of course. The rain

  grew worse, turning everything gray with mud.

  Messengers departed in fast boats to fetch

  absent members of the fyrd from half Baelmark.

  Ancient pirates in their dotage were dragged from

  their beds, bathed and combed and made presentable.

  Werodu assembled and voted fresh-faced

  cnihtas into full thegnhood.

  Radgar stayed sober and listened.

  Everyone had opinions, from the gawkiest beginner

  to thegns who had been old in his childhood. He

  steadfastly refused to express his own opinions.

  Leofric and Ceolmund were in charge, running the

  Aeleding Party, practically planning his first

  moves as earl, and it was all nonsense. The

  fyrd could not vote for him under the rules, and would notr />
  vote for him if it could. He was almost certain that

  Wulfwer's challenge was a fraud dreamed up

  by Cynewulf. He did not understand the plot,

  though, and he was offered an infinite choice of

  theories.

  "It is a conspiracy," one elder insisted.

  "The King and that lunkish son of his cooked this up

  to distract attention from the witenagemot." He

  repeated this opinion every few minutes all afternoon.

  "The tanist is a Cattering. He thinks his

  father is about to be deposed and hopes to snatch the

  throne for himself."

  "The witenagemot will not stand for that Wulfwer

  oaf as king!"

  "Who would challenge him? He could slay any

  two of them at once."

  "Radgar Aeleding, of course. He is

  trained like a Chivian Blade."

  "No, Cynewulf put his son up to this. He

  wants to show the earls that he still has the support

  of his fyrd. The fight will be a fraud. ..."

  "Who cares about the witenagemot? We need

  an earl who can pee straight!"

  "The King wants to drop Wulfwer overboard

  and he won't go."

  "Aeleding is too young. Even the fyrd will not

  accept him and the witenagemot--"

  "He is only a year younger than his father

  was."

  "But Aeled first went foering with us at

  fourteen. I remember how--"

  "True, he was a seasoned ship lord. I

  remember how--"

  Murder and mayhem, tales to make a man's

  hair stand on end! Radgar had never realized how

  bloody his father's youth had been. He felt very

  inadequate and knew he must seem so to these men.

  He missed Wasp. Already he felt like an

  unshelled turtle without his sharp young Blade

  watching over him. He even missed the kid's

  acid-tongued comments on Baelish customs.

  The theories were repeated, rehashed, and

  embroidered. They grew wilder and

  wilder as the day went on, but a significant

  number of them presumed that Cynewulf and his son

  were somehow conspiring together and that Radgar was in grave

  danger of dying suddenly, as had so many other

  throne-worthy men of late. No one could clarify

  the details of how this would be achieved,

  unfortunately, but it showed how little respect

  Cynewulf commanded in his own shire.

  When dismal afternoon began to darken into evening, the

  werod clamored to hear from the atheling himself.

  Reluctantly he approached the upturned

  wooden bucket that served as a podium. Before he