Warrior of the Altaii

by Robert Jordan

  The proprietor returned with a mug of the dark, bitter kuva of Lanta, and I tossed him a copper. Life flickered in his eyes for the time it took to stuff the coin under his apron, and then he shambled over to Karl.

  I drank the kuva slowly, waiting. It wasn’t hard to be slow over the drink, but to have ordered better would’ve attracted the wrong kind of attention, even if the tavern had it. The waiting wasn’t easy. One by one the others arrived until twenty minutes had gone, and only Brion hadn’t gotten there. Thirty minutes, and still he hadn’t come.

  The other patrons drank on, coming and going, unaware of the tension building in the cramped room. Had he been taken, the City Guard might eventually know of our purpose at The Blue-Backed Scal. Worse, if they had access to a Sister of Wisdom, a truth-spell might have them on their way to the hovel where we waited like victims for the sacrifice. We waited, because there was nothing else to do, drinking our kuva, ignoring each other, feeling the air grow heavy and thick. Each time the door opened six pairs of eyes went to it, six hands groped beneath tunics to touch weapons. I began to think of a back way out. I could see the same thought in the glances the others cast.

  The door swung open to let a patron out, and stayed open for the entrance of another. I held my breath and slipped my hand under my tunic again. Brion walked in as unconcerned as if he had been strolling among the tents. The proprietor moved forward to take his order, and a little of the tension drained away. From the glances thrown his way, some of it was replaced by anger.

  I gave him time only for a swallow or two before I hoisted the roll of rugs to my back and left. In order of their coming the others followed, until we strung out down the street, each man keeping view of the man ahead. I searched for a type of place, not a particular one. When I saw it, I waited until Karl was nearly on me before I turned in to it.

  It was an even smaller alley, a bent dead end that even the people of Low Town couldn’t find use for. But it suited my purpose as if made for it. It hid us as we tore into our burdens.

  “What happened, Brion?” I cut open the roll of rugs and took my short swords from the bundle inside.

  “It was a mistake on my part to bring erris oil, my lord,” he said. “There’s almost none in the city. The perfumers are going mad for the lack.”

  “The guards noticed?” I asked, and everyone froze.

  Except for Brion, that is. He tossed the priceless flagons away casually. “At first I thought they were a pair of agents for the palace, but it turned out they were only thieves. I led them away from the meeting place, and when they finally worked up the courage to demand the oil, I cracked their heads and laid them where they won’t be found.”

  There was quiet laughter, quickly stifled.

  I stripped off the long peasant tunic and put on the knee-length garb of a merchant of slightly above middle rank. It was somewhat high for a man who was wandering in Low Town, but I would need the prestige at The Blue-Backed Scal. I buckled on my sword belt, then wiped the road dust from my legs with a rag. Topping it all with a cloak of silk-lined scarlet and a black cap, I became another of those who came to buy where poverty made their money go further, if the poor didn’t steal it first.

  “These thrice-accursed Lantan cloaks hamper your sword arm so, you might as well not wear a blade,” Karl muttered.

  “If you want to leave the swords behind,” I said, “then you can leave the cloak as well.”

  Karl only grunted, but a few of the others laughed. They were in high spirits for men going to beard one enemy in another enemy’s city.

  One at a time we left the alley. If any of the Low Towners thought it strange to see merchants of the High City coming out of an alley, they kept it to themselves. They had likely learned that the less they said of what the High City folk did, the better.

  Though far yet from our goal, we were on the final leg, and we adopted the staggered spacing that let each man watch the high places above his companions, and be guarded the same in return. We walked through the gate into the High City as casually as if we made the journey every day. The guards hardly seemed to notice us among the returnees from Low Town. In moments we were past them and gone, down the street and vanished among the crowds.

  As we moved deep into the Metalworkers’ Quarter the crowds thinned. The Street of Silversmiths and others like it were for selling, and they were crowded. The streets deeper in were for working.

  They became narrow, winding passages, with scarcely an inhabitant to be seen. Here were no displays, no shop fronts. The few taverns were small and poorly marked, the sort patronized mainly by the metalworkers themselves and those who came to buy their products.

  An acrid smell drifted over the street from the vats of the dyers. The narrowness of the street seemed to shut out the sun. Then, ahead, I could see a fanciful representation of the one-horned mountain goat, the blue-backed scal.

  “Nets!” came a shout from behind me.

  I dove for the wall. There was a blow to my head, on my back, and I was in the doorway with my swords out. The silence was like a scream.

  Angrily I ripped the cloak away. I had no more need of the expensive garment. It was less than a rag to me now.

  On the street in front of me there lay a net, but a net of heavy chains. I remembered the force of its blow and was prepared for the worst when I looked carefully around the edge of my doorway. Down the narrow street there were other heavy chain nets, and some of them covered unmoving mounds.

  Mayra’s words came back to me, and mine to her. I hadn’t listened, and my men lay in the jaws of a trap. I had made a great plan, and someone had outthought me. I would die, as I had known I would from the day the warrior brand was put on my arm, but my death would put the Altaii in jeopardy. I hoped that Mayra managed to keep Harald safe.

  I took another look along the street, and the breath stuck in my throat. There were five mounds there. Only five. One other had escaped capture. They would come, those netters of men, expecting to find us unconscious and wrapped for their taking. Instead they would find two Altaii warriors with weapons in their hands. I laughed softly to myself at the joke. As deaths go, it wouldn’t be a bad way to finish.

  The first guards came carelessly, talking among themselves. One exclaimed at seeing the empty net that had been meant for me, and another made a remark about those who couldn’t count how many animals there were to be taken. The others laughed, and I joined silently, but at a different joke. They came on.

  The first guards had passed my hiding place before one chanced to look into the dark doorway. He looked, turned away, and jerked back in disbelief. It couldn’t be, but I was there. His eyes widened. His mouth opened to yell.

  I made the yell for him, a wordless roar of rage. He couldn’t make it himself for my steel through his throat. The other blade found lodging in a guardsman’s ribs, and then the first was sending a head rolling along the stones of the street.

  The narrow way was filled with screaming, panic-stricken men, with dying men. Two more fell to my blade, then another, and then they fled. Sheathing a sword, I hastily took a fallen spear and cast it with all my strength. One guard had been slow getting out of sight, and he fell, his body pierced through by the shaft.

  Quickly I moved to a doorway across the passage. I had seen no heads on the rooftops. With luck the casters of nets were gone, and no one had seen me change position. If so, when they came again, we would once more dance our dance of death in the street.

  My new hiding place gave me a view down to where my companion in this last fight was himself hidden. It was Brion. A trickle of blood ran down his face. He saw me, and with a smile raised one sword and kissed the blade, kissed death. I returned the salute, and the pledge. There were bodies in front of him, also. We would neither of us be easy meat. We would take a sizable honor guard with us.

  Suddenly arrows began to blossom in the doorway where I had first hidden. Five. Ten. A score or more. Then there was a moment of quiet. From down the street a me
asured tread came.

  Warily I looked toward the noise. The guards approaching came in two ranks of five, crowded together in the narrow way. Their shields overlapped, and their spears were presented. They marched in a rigid cadence to maintain the shield wall. Now they came as if to war. And so they did, if they but knew it.

  With a final rush they moved forward and wheeled as one, to face an empty doorway. This time I laughed as I fell on them from behind. For some reason that seemed to unnerve them.

  They were hampered by the long spears and heavy shields, suitable for infantry in the open field, but not for twisting in alleys. I was not so encumbered. My blades dodged and darted as if alive, and Lantan guards screamed and fell. Of ten, one survived to flee for his life. The others lay bloodied in the street, dead or dying.

  In the shadowed doorway I waited for them to come again. This time they’d know where I was, but the choice now lay between the other side of the street, where I could be shot like an antelope, or the side I was on, where they’d at least have to come and face me.

  I wished that I could die on the Plain, instead of here in the cramped and twisted streets of an enemy city, but I would make it a good death just the same, as such things are accounted. The Lantans would pay my ferryman’s fee to the next world in blood. What more could a man ask? Blood and steel. There’s little else for the warrior.

  I could see Brion leaning against the door behind him, binding a gash in his arm. There were more shapes on the stones in front of him. They’d tried him again, also, and he’d taught them the lesson of Altaii steel. Soon they would come again. Blood and steel. I hoped that Harald was safe.

  Harness and armor creaked in the street. They were preparing for the next attack. Abruptly the sounds of preparations were replaced with an uproar of confused shouting. The cries began to die down, and one commanding voice could be heard.

  “Idiots! Fools! Who ordered the use of archers? I’ll have his blood. No, if he’s killed Wulfgar, I’ll make him drink his own blood, every drop of it. He must be taken alive. It has been ordered.”

  There was some further muttering, but the new man with the heavy voice had established his command. No more voices were raised. I gave silent thanks to this new leader, though. Let him send his men against me with such orders. Let them come with their hands tied. I wondered, if he sent them to me piecemeal, how much of his force I could take. A hundred, perhaps? It would be a death to sing of.

  From down the street came the clatter of hooves on pavement. Brion and I exchanged glances. A rider burst around the corner just beyond Brion, a Morassa. The young warrior scarcely had the time to raise his swords before the horseman’s lance pinned him to the door.

  The Morassa fixed his eyes on Brion and laughed. One sword dropped from a nerveless-seeming hand. Head down Brion stood and reached out as if to paw at the shaft. The rider laughed again.

  Slowly Brion raised his head, and now his eyes fixed on the horseman. The Morassa’s laugh died. Suddenly he must have realized Brion’s intent. He tried to back away, but it was already too late.

  Tightening his grip Brion jerked himself forward along the lance to thrust his sword through the rider’s body. The Morassa grabbed at the blade and toppled shrieking into the street. Brion lifted his face to the sky and laughed himself, loud and long. Then he too fell.

  The Morassa took some time to die, screaming all the while. There was a stir among the Lantans. No man wants to die, but all men want to face it well when it comes. Their ally hadn’t, and their shame was compounded by Brion’s courage.

  Under my breath I spoke the words that would never be spoken at a funeral fire. “Fare you well, warrior. We will drink together in the Land of the Dead. We will eat lamb in the Tents of Death.”

  That done, there was little else to do except ready myself. It wasn’t a good place for dying. There was only a thin strip of sky overhead. It was like the Lantans to be as stingy with the sky as with everything else. The time came, though, as it comes to all. Brion was a man to ride the Plain with. So were they all. It was a good time to die.

  “Lantan dogs,” I shouted. “Sons of dogs. Why do you lie back? Why do you hide? It’s a good day to die.”

  “Wulfgar!”

  At the shout I almost rushed out at them, but then I pressed deeper into the niche. Let them come to me.

  “Wulfgar, this is Ivo. Let us talk, Wulfgar.”

  Ivo, who’d led me there to my death, to the deaths of my companions. “Talk, if you need it, Ivo. I’ve nothing to say.”

  “It is always pleasant to live a little while longer, Wulfgar. Let us talk.”

  I smiled grimly. “Come ahead, Ivo. We’ll talk.”

  He came, picking his way past the bodies. His garments looked like a whirlwind had struck a ragpicker’s cart, pieces good for wiping boots mixed with rich fabrics and expensive work. The necklet he wore had a fortune in gems worked into it, and his rings would’ve bought a wealth of horses. He carried his helmet in his hand. The sun gleamed off the oil on his head, bald except for the topknot.

  “I see you, Wulfgar.” He kept close to the far side of the street, but I could smell his perfume, heavy in the still air.

  I leaned casually back against the door behind me. “I’d offer wine, but for some reason I don’t seem to have any to hand.”

  “I understand.” He grinned greasily. “Perhaps another time. Or you could join me down the street at The Blue-Backed Scal.”

  “I think not. I find this door quite comfortable.”

  “Of course.” He grinned again. It seemed a habit of his. “You tried to cheat, Wulfgar. You came early?”

  It was my turn to grin. “And you meant to keep the meeting as planned? These nets are just here in case leopards invade the streets of Lanta, or a fanghorn.”

  “Not exactly,” he said slyly, “but coming early as you did, you nearly ruined my plans. So many beautiful plans.”

  “Have you ever stopped to wonder, Ivo, why they sent you? Do they think enough Lantans have died? They sent a Morassa to kill Brion, and he died. Now they send you to me, and you can’t kill me. I heard the orders, Ivo.”

  He tugged at a long, scraggly mustache and pursed his lips. “Others want you alive, Wulfgar. I do not. I would like to see you dead, no matter what these, these others say, but it is best not to antagonize them at present.”

  “And you came just to tell me that? That you’d like to see me dead? What will these others you talk about think about that?”

  “They do not know, and will not. You see,” he said slyly, “if you attack me, I can kill you, and no one will fault me for defending myself. There will be much fame and glory for the man who kills Wulfgar, yes?” He gestured expansively. “Or you might kill me, eh? You would like that, I think. And there is always a chance.”

  So someone wanted me alive, but he wanted me dead and would take the chance of fighting me to get it. The nets seemed to bear out his claims, but Morassa are noted liars, and the Lantans must know that my death was necessary to their plan. The nets must have been used so they could kill me at their leisure, because even in a hail of arrows a man may sometimes go untouched. As the baraca had protected me from the nets. No, when I stepped out to face Ivo, I’d take an arrow in the back. I had to take him with me.

  “Why should I fight you, Ivo? Why should I care if a Morassa dog has a chance for glory?”

  His face paled, and he jammed his helmet on. “You have little choice in the matter. You can fight me now or wait for the others to come and haul you away like a pig for the market.”

  He was right. There was no choice. But I needed him as angry as I could get him. I needed him closer. “I’ll not haul away easily, especially by a carrion eater like you.”

  Howling with rage he drew his sword and pulled his buckler around from where it hung on his back. He stepped closer. Even if the archer fired the moment I stepped clear, I’d get steel between his ribs. I moved into the street, and a chain net smashed me to the ground.<
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  X

  TANGLED FATES

  I lay there on the stones, clinging to the edges of consciousness. Almost immediately a rush of men swarmed over me, pulling the net away. Weakly I struggled, but they forced me back down, lashed my wrists behind me. In moments they had bound my ankles and stripped my clothes away.

  “Morassa,” I rasped, “your dam was a woman of the streets, and your sire a diseased goat. Crawl back to your lair and mourn for the honor you never had.”

  Choking out a curse, Ivo kicked me in the head, and I lost my grip on the light. When my senses returned, I was bound naked across the back of a horse. The pavement moved past beneath my head, but the effort of trying to raise it to look made me drift back toward the shadows. I was carried through the streets like a sack of meal, with no more knowledge of where I went.

  The pavement changed, became smooth, polished. In the back of my head that meant something, but I couldn’t pin a thought long enough to see it. A gate creaked open, and there was something else beneath the horse’s hooves. Mosaics. A courtyard.

  Hands pulled me from the horse and untied my ankles. The courtyard spun as I came upright, then slowed to an unsteady stop. Columns of marble surrounded us, and statues. Wall carvings. It was a palace.

  And then I remembered. The polished stone pavement. The great square in the center of the city. This was the Palace of the Twin Thrones. Why had I been brought here? Why wasn’t I dead?

  Rough hands pushed me forward. “Move.”

  I stumbled forward, acting more dazed than I was. That was the voice from the Street of Five Bells, the voice that commanded that I be taken alive. I took a misstep and twisted as if falling, to see him.

  He was an officer of the Palace Guard, resplendent in gold and jewels. Not the type I’d have expected to be given the dirty job of fighting barbarians in alleys. He was handsome, handsome enough to remind me of a gibe I’d heard.

  “It’s said,” I told him with a grin, “that officers of the Palace Guard are chosen for beauty, like dancing girls, and for much the same reason.”