“But Arundel cannot travel far or fast, with his wounded leg,” Alan grumbled.
“I know it. I shall be walking, for a while."
They ate some breakfast, rabbit and a few stunted sorb-apples. Then they loaded all the gear on Alfie. But as they prepared to leave, the low voice spoke. Hal stared somberly, but made no reply. He motioned Alan to help him remove some stones from the wall of the barrow.
When they had made an entrance, they crawled through, being very careful where they placed their hands and feet. The interior of the barrow was high enough to stand in. By the light which filtered through the open stonework, they could dimly see faded ruins of cloth, dusty bones and dull gleams of once bright metal: helms, swords and breastplates in odd, antique shapes. These were indeed warriors who lay here.
The low voice spoke again, beckoning, and they advanced to the center of the domed barrow, where there lay a still figure on a raised slab. By its ashy skull lay a crown, blackened with age. By its right band lay a naked sword. Even through the grime of ages, they could see that it was a glorious weapon, the hilt intricately set with jewels, the whole of it golden, large and heavy so that it would deal a mighty blow. The voice of the dead king spoke again, at length, and Hal went to the sword. He raised it and reverently kissed the massive hilt. He set it down, and spoke quietly to the disembodied listener. Then he and Alan turned and left. As they led their horses down the hill, the warmth of the barrow followed them, slowly fading away with the morning fog.
Hal waited until they were well away before he spoke. “That king wanted me to take his sword,” he said in a low voice.
“The golden sword!” Alan almost shouted. “But Hal, it is a marvelous weapon! Why did you not take it?"
“I have need of my own sword,” Hal muttered.
Alan groaned in disbelief. “Hal, you are incredibly difficult. The jewel-studded brand of a former monarch—was it not enough for you?"
“More than enough,” Hal retorted wryly. “He said that it was filled with the power of the Beginnings, that with it I would be invincible."
Alan stared. “The magical sword of the High Kings!” he breathed.
“Ay, it throbbed through my arms as I lifted it, and it throbs in me yet; I can scarcely walk for the ache of it. Alan, may I tell you a tale?"
They sat on the ground and let the horses graze. Hal did not seem to look at anything, not even at Alan, as he spoke.
“The king's name was Claryon, High King at Laueroc, and the mighty sword Hau Ferddas hung above his throne to enforce his will, and the writings of Cuin the Ancestor lay open in the council-chamber, and the weeping stone stood in the courtyard as a reminder that the Kings of Laueroc were honored vassals of the Very King who had gone beyond the sea. The water trickled down from the cracked stone and dripped from its golden pedestal to form a pool on the cobbles. The princes were Culean, Culadon and Cuert. When they were little, they would make boats from sticks and sail them in the tears of the Sorrowing Stone.
“Cuert grew to be a scholar, and Culadon to be a statesman, but the eldest, Culean, had no talent for bookish learning so he trained to be a warrior. He was not much honored as a warrior; there had been peace for half an Age, and it was thought that Hau Ferddas could keep peace forever.
“When the princes were grown, or nearly grown, Veran sailed into the Bay of the Blessed out of the west. Cuert, the youngest prince, knew him to be Very King as soon as he heard report of him, for Veran had brought with him a rayed silver crown. Culadon knew only that Veran had taken power in Welas, where the Kings of Isle held no sway. But Culean saw only a rival. And Claryon, the old king, found any change a threat.
“The real threat came from the east. Within the year Herne landed his warships, and old King Claryon took horse to meet him, proud in the invincibility of his legendary sword. A few hundred men followed him on the long forced marches across Isle. They met Herne in the midlands near the Black River. Hau Ferddas slew mightily, but Claryon's aging arms lost strength to hold the weapon. He staggered back before his foes, and only the coming of darkness saved him and the sword from capture. His remaining men carried him back toward Laueroc, and in a few days he died, though he had suffered no wound. His people met the invaders in confusion and despair, and yielded before them like grass.
“Herne's close companion was a sorcerer named Marrok, that is to say, the Werewolf. He had seen the battle, and had seen the sword Hau Ferddas, and coveted the blade for his master's sake, or his own, perhaps. With his secret arts he contrived a spell which would rob it of its mystic strength, for a time. The price was high; men lost their lives to the making of that spell. But Herne was well content.
“Veran had marched with five hundred men to Laueroc, for the danger which threatened Isle threatened Welas also. He bowed his elf-crowned head at old Claryon's funeral pyre. But Culean, the new High King, scorned his help, and set off hotly to rally his own people against the invaders. Culadon threw in his lot with Veran, and Cuert, barely fifteen years of age, stayed behind to steward Laueroc.
“Many brave men found their place at Culean's side, and for a time Herne was halted in his advance. Veran pressed him from the south and west, and Culean battered him from the north, and if only those two could have taken cause together, Herne might have been forced to yield. But they each fought separately from the other, not to best advantage. Then Marrok's spell took effect, and Culean fought with only manly might. And, as evil chance would have it, Culadon was slain by Veran's side. Then many followers fell away from the defenders of Isle, and Herne's armies moved again.
“Veran made his stand between the mountains of Welas and the Gleaming River, where the border runs to this day. All of Welas rallied to him, and he was able to bring Herne to terms for his own land's sake.” Hal turned to Alan, seeming conscious of his listener for the first time. “Cuert went with him and through him you are of that line, Alan; Deona wife of Alf was his granddaughter."
“I?” Alan murmured.
“You are of that royal blood. The king, High King Culean, was hounded through the north of Isle as the power of his sword waxed and waned with the power of Marrok's spell, until he could plainly see that Herne held all of Isle and wished only to hold Hau Ferddas as well. Then Culean and his few loyal liegemen devised a plan to keep the sword from Herne's hand, and I dare say to preserve their own pride—for they could have thrown the weapon into the sea. Instead they stood on a rise of the stony Waste, and they cursed fate with their deepest curses, and they died by their own hands. Their companions who had chosen not to follow them built the barrow over them, then departed. And there the sword has stayed to this day, for their sleepless shades protect it, as they knew they would."
The two sat silently for a while as the grim tale echoed down the passages of their minds. “Did—Culean—tell you this?” Alan asked finally.
“Nay."
“Who, then, Hal? The Gypsies?"
“No one, Alan.” Hal spoke with a kind of desperation. “It is the—vision—I have seen, of how the sword is a shadowed thing."
So he is a seer, as well as a warlock, Alan thought. He accepted the fact almost casually; the recent events and Hal's revelations had shaken him beyond astonishment.
“If I could,” Hal said softly, “I would take that bright blade and hurl it into the sea. But once it was in my hand, I think I would not have the strength to give it up. It is a seducer, Alan. But it is yours by right of lineage, more than it is mine."
“It was not offered to me,” Alan shrugged. “Come, let us find your own sword, that Trigg gave you."
“He was like a father to me, for a little while....” Hal looked away, remembering the love in the eyes of the good-hearted fellow as he presented the gift. “Ay, let us be going."
They rose, and Hal took a few weary, painful steps. Suddenly he dropped to the earth again, striking the stones with his fist. “Confound it, Alan! Why was this offered to me? Was it a trap which I rightly spurned? Or was it a key wh
ich I have thrown away? If a test, then why? If not, then I have made the wrong choice!"
Alan smiled wryly. “Trust yourself, Hal, even as I must. Do not things always seem to come to rights for you?"
“You think I should have taken it,” Hal muttered.
“I would have taken it, ay, and probably got myself killed because of it. But you are not I, praise be. Perhaps you do not need such a sword."
“Do not mock me, Alan,” said Hal tiredly.
“After all I have seen?” Alan faced him squarely. “Do I mock you, brother?"
Hal met his eyes with growing wonder. “I wish I thought as well of myself,” he said at last.
Chapter Six
They went afoot for several days because of Arundel's wound. Hal was moody, and fatigued from something more than walking. When he regained his energy, he grew irritable because of their slow pace. They were making then way north and east, toward the sea. The Forest curved eastward with them, but indeed it was hardly to be called Forest any longer, mostly bramble thickets and stunted conifers. For days the two had only birds and rabbits and pine kernels to eat; Alan grew as touchy as Hal. They saw almost no one in this desolate land. There was no news of Corin.
It was fifteen days of walking and gentle riding before they came to the coast. The sea cliffs dropped straight from a weedy, windswept plain, and the surf crashed far below. When Hal heard the sea and felt the salt breeze, he straightened in the saddle, and his gray eyes gleamed with a silvery sheen. But to Alan, the roaring of the sea was a sound of doom, and the sad cries of the gulls were like weeping. It took the warmth of evening's campfire to drive the cold weight from his heart.
Autumn was fast approaching. The nights were chill, the mornings damp. The leaves of the twisted trees hung limp in the heat of the days. Thundershowers came and went. Hal and Alan zigzagged northward along the coast, looking for Corin; and one evening, when the ground was still wet from the afternoon's rain, they found a trail. Two pairs of feet had made it, one large and one smaller.
“Finally!” Hal exclaimed.
They followed the smudgy traces until it was too dark to see; then they pressed on, afoot and feeling their way through the brush, watching for a campfire. Before long they spied a flicker in the distance.
“What luck!” Hal whispered. “But softly now; we can't be certain it is only the smith and the boy."
To Alan it seemed like an eternity that they stalked through the troublesome thickets. His heart pounded with the suspense of slow movement, and he winced at every clumsy noise he made. Hal went like a silent shadow before him. But as they neared the fire at last, Hal drifted back beside him and touched his arm.
“Kingsmen!” he breathed. Alan could feel the tremor of his fingers and hear the catch in his voice. He had named the name of terror; yet he moved forward again, toward the firelight.
In a moment, Alan could see why. Corin sat there, tied to a scrubby tree. Even in the ruddy glow of the flames, the boy's face looked as pale as death. Col lay stretched on the ground, near the fire. The kingsmen stooped around him. King Iscovar bragged that his retainers wore helmets of gold, but the metal was cheapened with copper until it glowed orange, the cruelest color; their cloaks were dyed black in imitation of the King's sable, and they were obliged to wear them even in the summer heat. They circled around the fire and Col like black priests of the horned god around a ritual victim. Alan could see that Col was staked to the stony ground. The man had stained the earth with his blood. Alan shuddered and struggled for breath.
“If we fight them,” Hal warned in the lowest of whispers, “we must slay them all, for our lives’ sake."
There were six kingsmen. The leader raised a sword, Hal's sword, above Col's straining face.
“There is still time to tell me where you found this,” he crooned, “before you die by it."
The smith turned away his head. “No matter,” another kingsman remarked. “We will have it out of the pup, then."
“I tell you, I stole it!” Corin cried, but the man whipped around and clouted him with a heavy fist. The boy's head thudded into the tree, and Col screamed though his son did not, a roaring cry of despair. While the sound still echoed Hal and Alan drew their swords, and in voiceless unison they sprang.
They were not inclined to be sporting, at the odds. Hal lopped the head off Corin's assailant before the man could rise; the body lurched onto the boy, splattering him with blood. Alan sent a kingsman stumbling into the fire. The fellow shrieked as his heavy cloak burst into flame, and ran madly through the melee. Alan and Hal each stood battling desperately against two swords. Alan was backed up against Col's inert form, sick at the thought of stepping on the man. Shieldless, he had already taken half a dozen cuts. Hal found himself pitting a thick, hacking sword against the grace of his own lighter blade. He whistled a long, shrilling blast, then blinked; one of his foes had fallen, crippled. Someone had struck the man in the leg. The boy Corin, still reeling from the blow to his head, staggered toward the fire to help Alan, lifting a captured weapon.
But Arundel got there first, and Alfie. They bowled over the enemies with the force of their charge. After that it was soon over. Six kingsmen lay dead; Hal made sure of each of them. Alan sank down beside the body of the smith. Corin knelt there, quivering and pressing his father's hand, but Col was dead. It did not take much looking to tell that.
Hal came up with the flask, and a kingsman's shirt for bandaging. He glanced at Col and the boy, then silently handed the flask to Alan. Like Alan, he was bleeding from cuts on his arms and shoulders, though not as many. Alan gulped some liquor and got up, shakily.
“We had better be off quickly,” he muttered, “in case there are more such vermin about."
“Arundel will tell us if anyone comes near,” Hal replied. “We can take time to lay the smith to rest.” He hastily wrapped Alan's worst cuts, and his own, then knelt by Corin. He bandaged the boy's raw wrists as he spoke. “Lad, my sword brought you the worst of luck. I am sorry."
“May it bring you better, for your goodliness,” the boy whispered. “My father said it was a princely weapon; and you have won it worthily."
Already Hal had buckled it on again; a strong blade, but lightweight, a weapon of skill more than of force. The hilt and scabbard were of silver-gray metal, sparingly decorated with black enamel scrollwork. The lights which played on the glossy metal were the same as those which appeared in Hal's eyes, sometimes, when he thought of his enemies and his task. Alan had seen the weapon before, but now he looked at it anew. Without doubt, it was Hal's connate sword.
“My father was angry at me for taking it,” Corin added, “and now he has paid the price of my folly....” The boy's voice broke, and he silently wept. Alan put his good arm around him and led him away; then he went to help Hal.
They cut Col's body loose, wrapped it in Hal's cloak and laid it in a shallow depression of the hard ground. They covered it against harm with loose rocks, piling them into a cairn. The bodies of the kingsmen they dragged into the brush. Horses were tethered nearby, as foul-tempered as their masters; Hal searched the saddlebags for food and then let the beasts go loose. He and Alan wanted no part of the kingsmen's gear. They stamped out the fire. It was the mid of a cloudy, moonless night, but they were eager to be gone from this place in spite of the dark.
“Come on, Corin,” Alan murmured, and seated the boy before him on Alfie.
They rode through the night and the next day, heading north between the Forest and the sea cliffs. Bit by bit, through the day, Corin's story came out.
“Smiths have magic, you know, when it comes to metals,” he explained. “When your broth had given him strength, my father was able to cure himself by the touch of your sword. Later, we were hungry, and he used it to conjure food. A gray goshawk came, and dropped a coney by our feet."
“It seems,” Alan remarked to Hal, “that there is more than one magical sword."
“A sorcerer can work wonders with a stick,” Hal
snapped. “And those warlocks who den with Iscovar can smell such sorcery even from Nemeton."
“The magic in that sword is magic of perfect craftsmanship,” Corin fold them haltingly. “That fine smithcraft went into it at its making, and there is no evil in such power.... But Father did not like to use it often, just the same. There is more honor in catching your own fish than in drawing on another man's magical net."
“There is no fishing off these cliffs,” Alan grumbled. The salt breeze was cold. Even the last stunted remnants of the Forest were behind them now, and only a ragged, treeless expanse faced them. They were riding the Marches now.
“We kept on walking north, to get well away from Whitewater,” Corin said, much later. “And also Father was afraid of your anger, though I told him.... Well, and also the land grew harsher and harsher. There was no tilling it. Father thought we might walk as far as the Barrens, and wander with the warlords. He had grown fond of walking, I think. But those black and orange ghouls came up behind us.” Corin stopped.
“So they followed the smell of sorcery from Nemeton,” Alan said. “But how could they have known it was your sword, Hal? Or if they did not know, why would they care?"
“I can't say, either way,” muttered Hal. “I know nothing of my own sword."
It was nearly dusk when they found a hollow sheltered by four standing stones. Here they decided to spend the night, protected from the never-ending sea breeze and from prying eyes as well. The mention of sorcery had put Alan on edge; he was imagining invisible trackers, relentless pursuit. What Hal was feeling, he could not tell.
They had Corin help with the camp chores, hoping that the work might ease his sorrow. Hal served up his best rabbit stew, with precious bread plundered from the enemy saddlebags; but the lad scarcely ate. Afterward Alan offered him his blanket. The boy politely refused.
“I cannot sleep,” he said. “Do not let me hinder your rest; I shall sit by the fire."
They had to respect his wish to be alone. But Alan slept fitfully in spite of his fatigue, and it was not long before he rose to find the lad huddled over the coals of the fire, sound asleep, with tears still wet on his eyelashes. Gently Alan wrapped him in his blanket and laid him down. Then he himself hunched over the dying coals, warming himself in his cloak. Hal awoke from a doze and silently joined him.
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