Yorath the Wolf

by Wilder, Cherry;

  “Kitchen,” said Joost. “See, yonder on the right.”

  “Dead!” said the sergeant. “Our good lord Strett is dead!”

  “Hold fast!” I said.

  “All is over . . .” said the sergeant, his voice trembling.

  One of the nine men, the youngest besides myself, began to retch, clutching his belly.

  “Hold fast!” I shouted angrily. “There is work to do!”

  I went to the rail of the gallery and looked down. It was a ten foot drop into a patch of shadow.

  “Get to that door, you hearts,” I said to the men of Cloudhill. “You can come there quickly, unseen behind the drawn arras. I will do what I must . . . and at the worst it will give you time to let the rift men in.”

  I saw that they still had no idea of what I intended. There was a murmuring and wailing below in the hall.

  I stood at the gallery rail and cried out in a loud voice, “Huarik! Huarik of Barkdon!”

  My voice rang out strangely in the hall, echoing from the heavy roof beams and broken slates overhead.

  Huarik called, “Who speaks?”

  He nodded to his soldiers and they began to look about, sword in hand.

  “A champion!” I cried. “A champion for Strett of Cloudhill and for all the lords of the rift. Fight me, Huarik . . . will you fight?”

  “Who speaks?”

  “I challenge you, Huarik, I challenge you to single combat. Are you a coward as well as a foul murderer? Is treachery your only skill?”

  Then Huarik gave a snort of rage and held out his hand for a sword. I went over the gallery rail and dropped down lightly into a patch of shadow. I drew my sword and strode out into the dusty yellow sunlight that came from the holes in the roof. I checked my back but no one lurked behind me under the gallery except Ibrim who had scrambled down after me. I heard a faint gasp or groan arise from those watching in the hall. A champion had arisen. Then I saw no one living or dead in all that company except Huarik.

  Huarik should have won the fight; he was experienced, skilful and ruthless. I had a slight advantage in reach and height, a greater advantage in youth. He rushed at me with a dreadful shout before I was set on my feet, and as I clumsily dodged and parried his first mighty blow, I knew that he was the better swordsman. I set myself to tire him out, running, dodging, tempting him to blows that fell short as I drew back, then striking before he could recover. I was absolutely unafraid; I had no fear of death because I could not conceive of dying. He caught my hip a glancing blow, and I caught him a sharp showy thrust on the left arm, piercing his mail so that blood flowed. His face was a demon mask, purple with effort, his hair erect like the bristles of a boar, his pale lips drawn back over his teeth. He began to sweat and to pant and tried to conceal his weariness. He became more reckless, and his blows, every one, were so fierce that they would have hacked off a limb or cleft my body to the backbone if they had landed.

  Still I went on, shouting, parrying, striking, in good, even very good, tiltyard style. Unlike Huarik, I said no words, made no taunts. The Boar wasted his breath. I believe it was his awful deed, his treachery, that killed him. After a long time, he came in more terribly than ever, cursing me for a crookbacked misbirth, and slipped on spilt blood, coming to one knee. Nothing held me back, I was ruthless as my opponent. I saw the blow, and I made the blow, one to win the silver crown, one for Strett of Cloudhill. I brought my broadsword through very true, flat and steady, with such power that I was carried almost in a circle. I heard a small, dull sound as if a clay pitcher had fallen onto a floor covered with rushes. I had struck off the head of Huarik of Barkdon.

  So he lay, divided, and I leaned on my sword, panting, surprised that the great war engine that had charged and charged at me did not fly together again and rush in on me once more. Then a loud cheer arose.

  Ibrim came to my side, wiped my brow and handed me a beaker of water to drink. I looked about at last. I saw the banquet chamber crowded to right and left with the men of the rift come through the open doors and the men of the Boar, the shabby men from underground, crowded in the kitchen doorway. Some of them had cheered, too. I saw that Knaar had been released. All of Huarik’s officers had the look of men beaten and beheaded. They had changed the world for the men of the rift by killing their lords, and now I had changed it for them by killing the Boar.

  I raised my voice.

  “Let some men of Barkdon tend to the body of Huarik the Boar!”

  Two officers ran to do so, and a third, a man with a knot of dark hair, flew into a god-rage. He roared with grief and pain and struck about him. I saw the rift soldiers gripping their swords, but before it could come to a free-for-all the madman was punched to the ground by his own comrades.

  I said again, “Take out the bodies. Lay them in the shade, in the old longhouse by the eastern gate. Let no one leave Silverlode. I proclaim truce until all is declared!”

  I caught the eye of Wayl, the Cloudhill Sergeant, and he began the work. A movement caught my eye beyond the high table: a newly hung tapestry with the royal arms swung aside, and the old woman Arlies of Nordlin stepped forth unharmed. Behind her came Gundril Chawn, whose gift for survival always seemed magical. Now she wore a long dark cloak with a hood; there was no trace of the cup-bearer of Huarik the Boar. She had a solemn look. Under the cloak, clinging to her, dazed and pale, was the curly-haired boy, the Heir of Keddar, who had served Strett.

  “I stand by that truce!” cried Old Arlies. “Praise to the Gods of the Farfaring that a champion has arisen for the rift lords and their true heirs. I will go out with the slain, Ensign Yorath, and see that due respect is paid to them and the truce kept.”

  So the crowd of soldiers parted to let her follow the carriers, and she took along the Heir of Keddar and the mourning wives. When she had gone, I strode or staggered a few paces to the high table. Not daring to look at the bloody wreckage of the banquet, I spoke to Princess Fadola and Hem Sholt. He was on his feet, blood-bespattered, gaping at me.

  “Highness,” I said, “take your ladies and go at once to your bower, your tiring room in this place. Hem Sholt, I pray you, go with your lady wife . . .”

  “Who . . .” croaked Sholt. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Yorath,” I said. “Ensign of Strett of Cloudhill.”

  The princess could not speak. She was half-fainting; Sholt lifted her up, called for her women. I saw him shepherd them through a door beyond the kitchen.

  I turned away from the high table; the crowd in the roundhouse had dispersed. In the few moments that had passed, I had acquired a court, eager to advise or to do my bidding. There stood Knaar, my ally, and Gundril Chawn in her dark cloak, even Joost, the fat kitchen steward, who had been our guide.

  Knaar gripped my hand.

  “While I was swearing vengeance, you came and took it!” he said. “By the Goddess, Yorath . . .”

  “This is a vile business,” I said, “and the king has done it. Who are these men that the Boar kept hidden? Men of Barkdon?”

  “They are yours!” said Knaar in a hoarse whisper. “Take them!”

  As I turned to stare at the ranks of the “hidden men” I caught a dark glance from the Owlwife that said “He is right!” I saw that many of these men had their swords in their hands, sheathed, with the baldric folded, ready to perform an act of submission. Others had torn the sashes and shoulder-knots of blue from their uniforms.

  I went forward and said, “I will speak to your officers!”

  Two men pushed out of the kitchen of the roundhouse. They were strapping fellows, one middle-aged, one hardly older than myself, and they bore the marks of hard combat. The younger officer had a curious burnt patch on the side of his blond head; the other carried his left arm in a sling. Worse than these scars of battle was their curious hangdog look, half-sorrowing, half-resentful, like prisoners or men under a curse.

  “Who are you?” I demanded. “Are you men of Barkdon? Where did you win these scars?”

  “
Lord Yorath,” said the burnt captain, “we were promised pardon if we took part in a raid for Huarik of Barkdon. Yet we are betrayed, we are more deeply mired in dishonor than before . . .”

  “We fought in the Chameln lands,” said the older man, answering my question. “Some of us were at Adderneck. Some surrendered on the plains or at Ledler fortress and were sent back.”

  “By the Goddess,” I said, “who shall say that such brave men lack honor, having fought for Mel’Nir?”

  Then the young captain fell down at my feet and offered me his sword and so did others of the troop.

  “I am a landless man,” I said, “but if you follow me and give me your allegiance, we will form a free company. We will come to honor and to just rewards. We will protect the heirs of the rift lords, so foully murdered here at Silverlode, and give our services to Valko of Val’Nur, Great Lord of the West, and to Knaar, his son, who stands here at my side, my brother in arms.”

  Then they all cheered and knelt down, and I had fifty veteran soldiers, a span in army jargon. They cast off their allegiance to the Boar and their blue badges.

  I said to Ibrim, pointing, “Fetch me that heap of cloth, yonder!”

  I could see well enough what it was: Huarik’s handsome robe of silver-grey velvet, lined with scarlet silk, spattered with blood in places.

  Gundril Chawn murmured, “It is your wolf skin, Yorath . . .”

  I slipped off the broad grey and scarlet belt attached to the robe and twisted it about my arm. I flung the robe to the captains of my new troop.

  “Divide it!” I said. “Let each man have a shoulder knot or a sash. These shall be my colors. A banner will be made. You serve Yorath the Wolf!”

  This then was my part in the Bloody Banquet of Silverlode. Knaar rode out with his escort before sunset, westward to his father’s citadel at Krail. Before midnight, when I quit the ghost town, I had sorted the plans of dead Huarik, and I knew that the rift must be protected with all speed.

  The Great King’s part in this treachery was plain. I went alone to the bower inside the roundhouse and spoke to the princess and Hem Sholt. I had seen these two often enough, but the source of all my knowledge, Hagnild and his scrying stones, must be kept secret.

  The room, like every room in the horrid town, was hastily prepared with new tapestries scraping upon the stone walls. The princess lay upon a long chair, her thick, golden hair unbound, her bodice unlaced. Hem Sholt stood in a plain tunic staring out of an arrow slit at the arid streets. I signed to the two royal waiting women, and they ran out as if a demon warrior had appeared. I bowed low to the two royal personages and deliberately took a seat. Sholt came at once and sat down; Fadola laid a hand across her face.

  “Highness,” I said, “pray you, do not swoon. I know you are a strong woman. I will offer you every courtesy, but I will have answers to my questions.”

  Hem Sholt had not taken his eyes from my face.

  “Killed him . . .” he blurted. “Killed the pig with a single blow. Botched the plan somewhat . . .”

  “Be still,” said Fadola wearily.

  She sat up on the long chair.

  “What do you want to know, Hem Yorath?” Hem, the old title from before the Farfaring, was a useful one, meaning lord or liege . . . and I was a liege, even although I had only fifty liegemen.

  “Was this the king’s plan?” I demanded.

  Sholt nodded.

  Ghanor’s daughter said, “Yes, but Huarik found Silverlode and made his bargain.”

  “The rift and its rulers in exchange for a new army?” I guessed.

  “Something of that,” she said.

  “We were d-deluded,” said Sholt. “He spoke nothing of this awful killing at table. We believed the lords would be held for ransom.”

  “I expected some kind of skirmish,” said the princess, “but not this. Truly not this . . .”

  She drooped against the chair back, her face pale, and Sholt fussed over her, fetched a goblet of wine for her to sip.

  “Should not have brought you here,” he murmured. “Goddess help me . . . I am to blame, dearest love.”

  “Hush . . . it will pass . . .”

  I sensed a true closeness, a bond of love between them; they stared at me like conspirators.

  “You have won all, young man,” said Baudril Sholt. “The veterans have joined you to become a free company.”

  He left his wife, at her whispered command, and fetched two more goblets and poured wine for us all.

  “What will be done with us?” asked Fadola.

  There was only one thing to be done with them; they must be sent back to the Palace Fortress with their servants. The idea of ransom had been quickly dismissed even by Knaar: it was too great a provocation of the king.

  Before I could answer Sholt said, “Some neutral p-place . . .”

  I realised what the poor creatures wanted me to do. They longed to be free of the Palace Fortress; they did not wish to be sent home.

  “I have means,” said Fadola. “I brought many jewels.”

  She directed her gaze to the family rubies and emeralds blazing in a heap upon a stool. I did not see that I was being offered this booty.

  “What place would be considered neutral?” I asked.

  It was a good question. The lands of Barkdon, the towns of the Eastmark were unsuitable, and so were the lands of Val’Nur in the west. The rift was no place for these two.

  “I was named for the late queen, my mother, Fadola of Pfolben,” said the Princess. “The Lord Pfolben of the Southland is my cousin and a good friend to our house.”

  They clasped hands and waited as if I were a judge pronouncing sentence.

  “So be it!” I said sternly. “You will go to the Southland, and it will be known for an act of banishment for what has passed here. You must remain here for a day before you travel. We will leave only enough horses for yourselves and a few followers. The other royal servants must walk home to the Palace Fortress.”

  They could barely control their looks of relief and pleasure. We drank our wine. I said, “Highness, the king has made a grave error here today. It will be paid for with blood and suffering.”

  “The king is old,” whispered Fadola. “His temper is very uncertain. Even our good healer despairs . . .”

  When I took my leave, Baudril Sholt followed me to the door of the chamber.

  “Take this, lad,” he said. “Go on . . . take it. You have a free company to feed and house. Never liked that bastard Huarik . . .”

  He pressed upon me a golden collar of the Duarings with huge emeralds; I took it and thrust it into the “fodder pocket” of my surcoat. I went down with Ibrim, who had waited at the door, and plunged back into the hurly-burly of pickets and brawls over precedence. The sun had just set and Silverlode was still in twilight. No man from the rift or from my new company would eat in the newly scrubbed roundhouse hall though the cold forced them to sleep there an hour or so later. Now they had bivouacked in the courtyard with campfires. I checked the order of march with my two captains and had them sent to the leaders of the rift men. I sent an officer to Arlies of Nordlin giving my respects and telling the arrangements for the princess.

  I sent Ibrim on an errand and came to my headquarters, the small cottage where I had sat down to dine with the men of Cloudhill. Now it was mine alone. Presently Ibrim came with light and a writing case conjured up from the Goddess knew where. I sat alone as the commanding officer often sits, in his tent, and wrote a letter to Hagnild. A thread of sound came through the gathering darkness. In the longhouse by the eastern gate women were raising the keen for the rift lords who lay there.

  I wrote down all that had taken place as plainly as I could and came to the purpose of my letter. I begged Hagnild to leave the service of Ghanor the Great King, who had committed this act of treachery. I begged him to do so for his honor and for his own safety. War was looming between Ghanor and Valko Firehammer, that was certain, and now I was in Valko’s service, together wi
th my new company. I folded the letter and sealed it with red wax and the silver ring that I had been given by my dear master, Strett of Cloudhill. I thought of the fight in the stableyard at Finn’s smithy. I was homesick for my old ways, for Nightwood and the marsh, for the brown house in the forest and Caco stirring a cauldron at the hearth while Hagnild sat over his books.

  The Owlwife came in like smoke. She sat on a stool just beyond the circle of light from the lamp on my table. I saw the gleam of her dark eyes, the soft cloud of her hair when her hood fell back.

  “See what I have . . .” she said quietly.

  It rattled upon the tabletop, a circle of pale metal worked into roundels.

  “So there was a silver crown,” I said.

  “It is of base metal, painted with silver-gilt,” she said. “Huarik and the king knew there would be no contest.”

  “You served Huarik?”

  “I was his scribe,” she said, smiling. “I read and wrote for him. I knew more or less what he planned.”

  “You were his friend?”

  “No,” she said, “neither his friend nor his lover. Huarik, in the end, had no friends. He was too much feared.”

  “Who is his heir? Surely he had a wife . . .”

  “A wife and an infant son. She will go home to her father, Lovill of the Eastmark. There will be wrangling about the captured lands and goods of the Boar but no movement to uphold the House of Barkdon.”

  “His generals served him well. Out there on the plateau or beyond he still has an army, moving to attack the rift. You know we have sent out kedran on swift horses to Nordlin, bringing the evil tidings and giving warning!”

  “Neither of the generals, neither Breckan nor Thrane, will make a war lord. Lesser lords mustered into the Boar’s service will take their men home. Huarik was unbeloved.”

  “And the Great King?”

  “He comes of a noble house,” said Gundril Chawn, “and the Duarings may rule long in Mel’Nir. But this act of treachery will cost Ghanor the last of his goodwill. Even the glamor of his kingship will fade. I see that his near kin have reason to fear Ghanor.”