Two To Conquer ELF

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  “What is it, Melora?”

  “Send for Varzil! Oh, in the name of all the gods, send for Dom Varzil,” she cried out. “Rory, who has the Sight, has seen for us! The laran shield had remained in place, but there are air-cars heading this way, and we have now no defenses against them! Get the army to it—we must get the wounded into the open air before the roof falls in on them!”

  Master Gareth’s face paled, but his voice was severe.

  “Nothing can be gained by panic, Melora—you can reach Varzil easier than I!”

  Melora’s face went still and remote. Bard, falling into swift rapport with her, heard her soundless cry to Varzil, and within seconds he saw not Varzil alone but Geremy, on unsteady feet, hurrying toward them.

  “Bard,” Geremy snapped, “you haven’t enough laran to be any good at this, not yet—you attend to getting the wounded out of the hall, in case we can’t stop them!”

  It did not occur to Bard that Geremy, who was not even in his own kingdom, was giving orders to the reigning king. What Geremy said seemed so completely rational that he hurried to obey. As he ran he beckoned to a guardsman.

  “Find me Paolo Harryl and the Lady Melisendra!” And then, with his new laran, he wondered if he could use his closeness to either of them. He had always been in contact with Paul’s mind. And this was a time when he needed to be in two places at once!

  Paul! Get enough men up here to carry the wounded out safely!

  From a corner of his eye he saw Melora and Geremy, Master Gareth and Varzil of Neskaya, hands linked, incongruously looking as if they were about to join in a ring and dance one of the children’s dances! But even Bard, newly opened to laran, could see the psychic force, an almost tangible barrier building around them. Then he hurried inside the hall and started giving orders to the soldiers.

  “Everybody who can walk, get outside, and as far away from the buildings as you can! Orderlies, help the people who can walk with a little help! We’ve had warning, we may be fire-bombed! Get everybody outside!” he commanded. “We’ll have all the stretchers we need, pretty soon—don’t panic, anybody, we’ll get you out!” He could feel the fear like a visible miasma, and he raised his voice. “Walk, I said, don’t run! I’ll court-martial anyone who falls over another hurt man! Take it easy, we’ve had plenty of warning!” He stepped into the other room. “Carlie—Mother Liriel, have the ones who can walk help the ones who can’t, we’ll get stretchers up here soon!”

  Carlina spoke softly to the women, and Bard saw, within minutes, orderly rescue being made. Paul had arrived, leading a whole squadron of stretcher-bearers. He stopped beside the stretcher of one of the women who lay with her newborn child in her arms.

  “Ah, this is one of my new subjects? Well, mother, don’t worry, she’s a fine child, and she’s going to be safe, believe me,” he said, and passed on, hearing the murmur behind him.

  “That’s the king!”

  “Don’t be silly,” said another woman on the next stretcher, “The king wouldn’t come down here, that’s the paxman of his, the one who looks so much like him.”

  “Well, whether it was or not,” said the first one, “he spoke to me kindly, and I’m going to call the girl Fianna, after him. And the king’s paxman is as good as the king, anyhow!”

  Bard was supervising the last of the stretcher cases, stopping here and there to speak to a veteran he recognized, a courtier friend of his father’s, a servant he had known for many years. Not all of them remembered to call him Sire, or Your Majesty, and he was just as glad. There would be time enough for formality in the years to come, and he was proud of being the Kilghard Wolf. And if it eased the terror of an ancient servant to call him Master Bard, it couldn’t diminish him any, he supposed.

  “Are they all out?”

  “All but the old woman in the corner there. I’m afraid if we move her, she’ll die,” Carlina said, hesitating, “and I don’t want to send four men with a stretcher—” She was white with fear, and he remembered that Carlina too had laran, and perhaps a touch of foresight. At that moment there was a strange droning sound, and a cry from the circle of leroni standing hands joined in the garden. Bard ran into the corner of the Great Hall and bent over the old woman. She stared up at him, her face gray with fear and pain.

  “You get out, son, I’m done for.”

  “Nonsense, granny,” Bard said, bending over her, and scooped her up in his arms. “Can you put your arm around my neck? There you are—come on, let’s get out of here!” As he ran he suddenly remembered that Carlina had feared to move the old woman even on a stretcher, for fear she might die if she was moved. Well, she would certainly die if he left her there and the roof fell in on her! He ran, stumbling, into the air, and as he came out on the lawn there was a tremendous concussion, a blast of air struck him and he stumbled and fell heavily atop the old woman, feeling that his ears would burst with the noise.

  When he knew what was happening, Paul and one of his guardsmen were picking him up, and the old woman, still miraculously breathing, was taken gently from his arms and lain on a stretcher.

  One of the remaining wings of the castle sprouted a tall, graceful plume of dust and collapsed with a roar. Bard, who had himself given the order to have all fires extinguished, even cooking fire, saw with relief that there was no flame rising. There was another explosion and another, and a stable collapsed, but the army under Paul had been working; the horses were all outside by now. There was another explosion, and screams followed; it had landed in the very center of a little cluster of soldiers around the wounded men, and Bard, looking, sickened, saw arms and legs flying, and writhing, shrieking bodies.

  Overhead the droning noise grew louder. Then a blue light shot up from the clustered leroni under the trees, and suddenly, with a roar as of a thunderclap, an air-car fell out of the sky, dropping like a stone. It fell into the orchard, landing in an apple tree from which flames suddenly sprouted sky-tall.

  “Buckets!” bellowed one of Bard’s commanders. “Get that fire there!”

  A dozen men went running in the direction of the fire.

  Another blue light; and another air-car went down in flames, this one striking harmlessly on a rocky peak and tumbling over and over until it came to rest in shattered fragments. Another soared over the main turret of the castle, dropping small, harmless-looking eggs as it came, which split asunder as they dropped.

  “Zandru’s hells!” Bard yelled. “Clingfire!” And indeed, as they struck, fire was shooting up from the very rock walls of the castle. The hellish stuff, Bard remembered, would burn anything, even rock, and go on burning and burning…

  So Alaric, and his father, would have a funeral pyre.

  The last of the air-cars exploded in a rattling roar and fell out of the sky, but Bard saw Melora break away and run directly toward the castle. Was she mad? He had tried so hard to get everyone out of there—what was she doing?

  Paul, working with the guardsmen to clear away burning debris from the stables, suddenly heard Melisendra cry out, as if with his physical ears. Gods above, had contact with Bard made him able to reach out that way too? He could see her, clearly, hurrying up those back stairs from the garden where he had first seen her, and heard her thoughts, panicking. Erlend! Erlend! He was up late last night, running errands for the leroni, he still sleeps in his room! Oh, Merciful Avarra, Erlend!

  She was away and up the stairs, but Paul was directly on her heels. Halfway up the stairs he was met by a stifling cloud of smoke; but Melisendra had disappeared into the smoke, and he ripped away his shirt, tied it over his face, and dropping below the smoke level, began to crawl up the stairs on his hands and knees.

  And in some strange doubling, as if he and Bard were truly linked in mind, he saw Bard try to dash into the building after Melora, and saw and felt the guardsmen who caught him, holding him fast.

  “No! No, my lord, it’s too dangerous!”

  “But Melora—”

  “We’ll send someone in to get t
he leronis out, my lord, but you must not risk yourself. You are the king…”

  Bard struggled with them, fighting, seeing Melora running up the stairs, forcing her way over fallen debris, and through and above all this, the picture of Erlend, lying peacefully in his bed, the starstone at his throat clutched in his hand, and the curls of smoke overpowering him, turning his sleep to stupor as the walls above him began to burn.

  “Let me go! Damn you. I’ll have all your heads for that! It’s my son—he’s in there, burning!”

  He fought against them, tears running down his face. “Damn you! Damn you all, let me go!‘

  But the guardsmen held him, and for the first time in his life, Bard’s giant strength availed nothing. “They’ll get him out, sir, but the whole reign’s depending on you. Ruyvil, Jeran—help us hold his Lordship!”

  And even while Bard struggled in their hands, some part of him was with Paul, climbing those stairs, he was Paul, so that in the guardsmen’s hands he choked, his own eyes streaming tears as Paul struggled upward…

  Paul, feeling the smoke blind him, dropped on hands and knees to the floor. Behind him, Bard was suddenly lax in the hands of his captors as the essential part of him that fought upward was Paul; trying with every atom of his strength to lend his own strength to Paul, to breathe for him, if he must. It seemed, to both of them, that they crept together up those stairs, and at the top, inched their way along the corridor… found the door by touch, for the smoke was so thick Paul could not see. And just inside the door, Melisendra, lying overcome by smoke, her face dark and congested. For a terrifying moment Paul could not feel her breathing. The whole room was heavy with the acrid stuff, aching in Paul’s lungs, and without Bard’s strength he knew he could not have gone on but must have dropped to the floor there beside her, unconscious.

  But somewhere a child whimpered, as if crying in his sleep, and Bard’s awareness, in Paul, made him struggle, cursing, to his feet. The walls were beginning to blaze, and the edge of Erlend’s mattress smoldered, sending new coils of thick smoke upward into the thick haze in the room. Paul—or Bard, he never knew which—hauled the child upright, hearing him shriek in pain and terror as he saw the flames blazing up. He smashed a carafe of water beside the bed, grabbed some garment off the floor and soaked it, tied it around his face; then, Erlend clinging weakly to his breast, knelt again beside Melisendra, slapping at her face with the wet cloth. He must rouse her! Perhaps, Bard’s strength in him, he would have left Melisendra to rescue his son… but no, Melisendra was the child’s mother, he could not leave her here to burn!

  He smelled singing hair, the acrid smell of burning cloth, and Melora, her face blackened by smoke, was standing over him.

  “Here! Give Erlend to me—” she said, coughing, choking, trying to force the words out “You can carry Sendra, I can’t—”

  Paul wondered, in a fragment of separate consciousness, if she thought he was Bard, but the part of him that was Bard had already stretched out his arms, handing over the unconscious child into Melora’s arms. He knew that tears of relief and thankfulness were flooding down his face, even while all of his doubled attention turned to Melisendra. He saw Melora stumble on a half-burned board at the edge of the door, fall heavily with the child in her arms, haul herself upright, clutching at a blazing beam and somehow, miraculously, stagger into the burning corridor, Erlend’s face hidden on her bulky breasts. She was crying, he could hear her sobbing in pain and terror, but she stumbled on with the little boy in her arms.

  Paul hoisted Melisendra to his shoulder, and a fragment of memory from another world and another life came irrelevantly into his mind, that this lift was called the fireman’s carry and he had never known why. The walls were blazing now, an inferno, a hell of heat and smoke, but he hurried back the way he had come, bumped into Melora, who was at the top of the stairs, staring down in horror at the blazing stairs. How could they get down there?

  Melora’s breathing was loud and harsh, rasping in and out of her lungs, and her voice so hoarse that she could not speak above a shaky whisper. He saw her draw something from around her neck.

  “Go on! Go down! I… leronis… the flames…”

  He hesitated, and the thick voice was frantic.

  “Go! Go on! Only… hold fire… an instant… starstone——-”

  Before him the flames wavered, draw back, and Paul stood frozen gasping in amazement… but Bard, within him, accepted the sorcery of this world, the way in which a trained leronis could handle flame, took a firmer hold on Melisendra and hurried down the stairs. Melisendra was limp in his arms, unconscious, but Erlend was screaming in terror in Melora’s arms. The flames retreated, wavered before them as they stumbled down the stairs, Melora’s step heavy and blundering because all of her conscious will was focused on the starstone, on the flames that died, sprang up, drew back and hung there in terrible menace. He plunged through the burning door and into the blessed air, and again with the frightening split consciousness, saw Bard, with a last, berserker strength, fight away from the guardsmen and come to take Melisendra from his arms as he fell, half conscious, his tormented lungs sobbing air in and out with a whistling sound. A dozen women rushed to take Melisendra and lay her on the grass, and Bard, frenzied, plunged through the last flames, blazing up as Melora fell, unconscious. Bard grabbed Erlend from her arms, passed him quickly to Varzil’s waiting arms. Geremy, stumbling after him, held Bard upright as he caught at Melora in relief and dread.

  She fell against him, so heavily that even Bard’s giant strength stumbled and for a moment he thought they would roll to the ground, all three of them, but the arms of guardsmen steadied them all. Melora’s face was covered with soot and smoke and she screamed in pain as Bard’s arms went around her, but as he loosened his grip, fearfully—had she paid with her own life for rescuing his son?—she clutched at him again, weeping.

  “Oh, it hurts—I’m burned, Bard, but not badly—for the love of the Goddess, get me a drink, something—” She choked, coughing, sobbing, tears running black with soot down her face. Someone thrust a tankard of water into her hand and she gulped at it, choked, spat, coughed again and again. Bard held her, bellowing for someone to come and attend to her, but she drew herself upright as Master Gareth came to them.

  “No, Father, it’s all right, really, just a little burn,” she said. Her voice was still thick and hoarse. Geremy, kneeling on the grass beside Erlend now, raised his face to Bard, in deep thankfulness.

  “He breathes, thank the gods,” he said, and as if to underline that, Erlend began to wail loudly. But he stopped when he caught sight of Bard.

  “You came to get me, Father, you came and got me, you didn’t let me burn up, I knew my father wouldn’t leave me to burn…”

  Bards started to speak, to disclaim it, to say it had been Paul who physically climbed those stairs while he, the child’s father, had been held helpless by his own guards, king or no; but Paul said loudly from where he bent over Melisendra, “That’s right, my Prince, your father came to fetch you out of the fire!” He said fiercely in an undertone, “Don’t you ever tell him anything else! You were there! I couldn’t have made it without your strength! And he’s got to live with you!”

  His eyes met Bard’s, and suddenly Bard knew they were free of one another forever. He had given Paul life, from the death of the stasis box; and now Paul had given him back a life more precious than his own, the life of his only son. No longer bound with a deadly tie, dark twins, but brothers, lord and respected paxman, friends.

  He bent over Erlend and kissed his son. This nedestro heir should never feel himself unloved, or suffer the torments he had known. Melora might never bear him a child—she was older than he, she had worked long as a leronis and healer in the blighted zone—but she had given him Erlend’s life. And as he watched Carlina, in her dark robes, bending over Melisendra’s limp body—now tortured with the racking coughs as they forced the smoke from her lungs—he knew that he was free of them both. Melisendra w
ould find her own happiness with Paul; and Carlina’s life was given to the Goddess. He would deny it no further. In his lifetime, he would see the priestesses of Avarra leave their Lake of Silence and come into the world as healers under Varzil’s protection. The priestesses and the Sisterhood of the Sword would form a new Order of Renunciates, and Carlina would be one of their founders and saints; but that was all in the future.

  With a tremendous roar, the roof of the main wing of the castle fell in and the flames engulfed it. Bard, sitting beside Melora as the healers dressed the burn on her arm and breast, shook his head and sighed.

  “I am a king without a castle, my beloved. And if the Hasturs have their way, a king without a kingdom; lord of no more than my father’s estate—I should think they’d give me that. Will you be a queen without a country, Melora, my own love?”

  She smiled up at him, and it seemed that the morning sun was no brighter than her eyes. Bard beckoned to Varzil, smiling up at him, and said, “After the wounded are cared for, there is a Compact to be sworn. And an alliance to be made.”

  And, turning back to Melora, he kissed her full on the lips.

  “And a queen to be crowned,” he said.

  —«»—«»—«»—

  [scanned anonymously]

  [July 27, 2003—v1 html proofed and formatted by Erick12 for ELF]