by K. C. Herbel
“Yes.”
“Then you will surrender?”
“No. I will move this piece.”
Finvarra’s smile dropped, and then his smile broadened. “Glad to see that you don’t give up easily. I like a challenge, but you’re only putting off the inevitable.”
“The inevitable? You think you can beat me so easily?”
Finvarra made his next move, then rested back in his throne; pleased with the effect his games were having on Billy. He folded his hands behind his head. “Well, I’ve never been beaten, and I hardly think you ...”
“Why, you puffed up, arrogant churl!”
“Churl?” Finvarra jumped to his feet. He grabbed Billy by his shirt and pulled him over the table. “No one calls me a churl!”
A sound like steel on stone intruded, and Lura Zahn was at Finvarra’s throat. The others gasped, as Billy pushed the sharp point of its blade under the king’s chin. Finvarra froze, his eyes staring down the length of his face to the dagger in Billy’s hand.
“This is Lura Zahn.” The weapon hummed in response. “It’s been dying to make your acquaintance.”
“How did you …?”
“Nice, huh? This blade was fashioned by Fjoral the Rune Quencher, from a star that fell from the night sky.”
“I’m impressed. Takes a rare gift to get the better of me.”
Billy nodded. “It moves as I wish, and if I wished it to harm you, it would.”
Lura Zahn hummed louder and forced Finvarra’s head back with a little jab.
“I’m impressed. I’m impressed!” Finvarra released Billy and raised his hands.
Lura Zahn vanished, and Billy pushed back from Finvarra with a smile.
“But …” Finvarra checked his chin for blood. “… We are not fighting a battle, we are playing chess.”
“And I believe you said you would beat me.”
“And I shall!”
“Then, if you’re so sure of yourself, why not make it more interesting?”
Finvarra studied Billy for a moment. “Ha! You haven’t got anything more to offer.”
“Oh? Have you forgotten Lura Zahn so quickly?”
Billy watched as Finvarra tried to swallow his greed. It glowed green and lusty, like coals in the bottom of his swollen eyes.
Finvarra’s eyes returned to their usual shrewd cant. “What would you like in return?”
In that one statement, Finvarra had handed him the reins. Billy was making the deals now, and best of all, he had the upper hand. It was time to secure what he had come for.
“I want your promise that you’ll come to my aid when I need you.”
“Against Lura Zahn?”
“Aye. You get Lura Zahn if you win.”
Finvarra crossed his arms and studied the chess board. His brows bunched together as his lower lip played with the hairs of his bushy mustache. First, one eyebrow raised then the other. His lips relaxed, and he said, “You are a bigger fool than I thought, and Lura Zahn is practically mine.”
“Then you agree.”
“Aye. If you’re in such a hurry to give me that dagger, why not?”
“I want your word. Your word that you will come to Lyonesse when I need you.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I’ll bring my whole bloody army if you want. Now, let’s get on with it.”
Two moves later, Billy moved his queen into sight of Finvarra’s king and announced, “Cyning daith.”
“What?” Finvarra’s eyes darted around the chess board. “It can’t be!” He pounded his broad fist on the table, then flipped over the board, showering Billy with the pieces.
Billy caught several pieces and juggled them. It was just a happy habit of his. He hadn’t meant for it to insult or aggravate Finvarra further, but it did.
Finvarra drew his sword with a growl and yanked it into the air over his head. He glared at Billy, with his lips curled back, his teeth ground together, every ounce of sinew drawn taut, and his eyes white with terrible rage.
Oonagh caressed Finvarra’s shoulder and whispered, “Remember your wager, husband.”
The moment Oonagh touched him, Finvarra’s body relaxed. It was as if she had cut a counterweight supporting him. His face lost its fierce expression, and he turned his face to her. He stared at Billy, and then back to his wife.
“You!” Finvarra shouted, the intensity returning to his limbs. “You hamstrung me!”
“I did nothing of the kind. You allowed your ego and your loins to rule your head, and our clever cousin took advantage. That is all.”
Finvarra’s hands tightened on the leather grip of his sword. The muscles of his arms tensed. Lura Zahn fluttered at Billy’s breast.
“No!” Finvarra’s face turned red.
The king of the dead ripped the long blade of his weapon through the air. Its edge howled like the wind as it wheeled towards Billy. He saw the deadly blow coming and froze. The blade drew nearer. At the last instant, Billy dropped the game pieces and leapt back. There was a horrendous crash as the table splintered and the sword continued through into the stone floor.
“That is not all!” Finvarra spat bits of foam from his lips. He raised his sword and wagged it at his wife. “And furthermore ...”
Finvarra stopped and stared at the end of his sword. Or rather, where the end of his sword should have been, for it was gone—broken off. He examined the jagged metal a moment longer before dropping his vision to the floor.
Billy followed Finvarra’s eyes to the section of stones beneath the demolished table. There, amongst the splintered wood, a piece of the shattered blade rose straight out of the floor—a polished steel monument to fury.
“I will honor my wager.” Finvarra strode toward the entry of his great hall. He glanced at Billy in passing. “You, the elf, and the satyr may go now.” He pointed at Shaldra and Sylvys with his broken sword as he mentioned them.
Billy smiled and stepped towards the door. “Come along, Drif.”
“No.” Finvarra turned to face Billy. “I said that you and your men could go. My wager said nothing of Drif.”
“What are you talking about? Drif is one of my men, and he’s coming with me.”
Finvarra stared at Billy, and then a smile crept onto his face. Before long, he was laughing and pointing his finger at Billy and then Drif. His laughter grew until it shook the hall. “You didn’t know? You really don’t know! Nobody told you ...”
“Told me what? What’s so funny?”
Finvarra grabbed his side and stumbled over to Billy, still laughing, looking more like a drunken sailor than a king. He slipped his arm around Billy’s shoulder and turned him to face Drif. He waved the broken sword at the dark elf, and all the buckles and clasps on the black armor unfastened. Drif’s protection fell to the floor with a crash, followed by Billy’s jaw.
“You really didn’t know.” Finvarra walked towards Drif. “Now that’s funny!”
“Drif is a woman?”
“Aye. And since she doesn’t quite qualify as one of your men, I am not obligated to let her go.”
“Finvarra!” Oonagh shouted at her husband.
The king of the Daoine Sidhe turned to face his wife; all the mirth had evaporated from his visage. “What is it, wife?”
Oonagh marched the distance to Finvarra, her smoldering eyes locked onto him. She stopped a foot in front of him. “I know you want the girl, my love. I know about all the other girls, my love, but if you think I’m going to let you have this one ... I think you have forgotten the last time you made me really angry.”
Finvarra’s entire face slackened. After a long moment, his face returned to its hardened, crusty frown.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Oonagh raised an eyebrow. She turned her back to him, nodded to Billy, then strode to the exit. Before she disappeared through the doors, she said, “And the last time, I wasn’t nearly this angry.”
Billy motioned for Sylvys, Shaldra, and Drif to follow him. “Let’s go.”
“No!” Finvarra stomped the floor.
A crack appeared in the stone beneath his foot and shot across the floor in front of Billy.
“I am the king here! And I alone say who will come and who will go.”
Billy stepped forward, and the crack in the floor widened into a chasm ten feet across. Far below, in the pit, shadows churned and amorphous black things writhed about.
He felt Shaldra at his shoulder and turned his head as the elf whispered in his ear. “Your Highness, this is a chance to be rid of her. Think of the quest. Malkry could say nothing.”
Billy examined Drif, and then addressed Finvarra. “Look, I know now that I should never have come here. I was a fool to think you would want to help me.”
“Yes, you were.”
“But you lost the wager, and now you owe me.”
“I will come to you if you call upon me in Lyonesse, nothing more.”
Billy clenched his teeth and fought back the urge to attack Finvarra, despite Lura Zahn’s insistence. He felt himself losing control the way he had before. The black tome stirred, and Billy had to force himself to relax. Then an idea sprung into his head.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
Finvarra snorted. “A deal? I am tired of you, and I am tired of your deals!” He turned to leave.
Billy shouted after him. “I will release you from your obligation to aid me in Lyonesse if you will release Drif to me.”
Finvarra stopped and turned back to face him. Inch by inch, the dark chasm in the floor closed until it was but a crack and the two negotiators were face to face. They stared at each other in silence. At last, Finvarra’s mouth curled up on the ends. Billy returned his grin.
Finvarra let out a great laugh and slapped Billy on the shoulder. “You negotiate like a king already! I accept!”
Finvarra was so pleased with himself that he escorted Billy, Shaldra, Sylvys, and Deordrif back to their ship and saw them off. As the Gyldan Mene sailed away from the dock, Billy looked back and waved goodbye to the king of the dead.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sacrifice
“Summon the royal huntsman!” Ergyfel bellowed.
Within minutes, the puffy-eyed man arrived at the king’s great hall. His rumpled brown shirt hung out; untucked from one side of his trousers. And his trousers, in turn, lingered half-tucked into his boots. A ridiculous red nightcap still rested on his groggy head. As he approached the dais, the man remembered the cap and snatched it off, then attempted in vain to straighten his knotted hair with his fingers. He bowed ten paces from the dais.
“Ah, Tod. My brother has just returned from battle, and we need to relax.”
The royal huntsman glanced at the corner next to the dais, where the king’s brother skulked in the shadows. Hengest threw back his head and gulped from a large jug of ale. He appeared paler than Tod had remembered.
“Very good, Your Majesty. I will make arrangements for a hunt tomorrow, or if you desire, I could—”
“No! You will make arrangements for a hunt to leave tonight.”
“But Sire, … ” Tod gave a nervous laugh. “It’s already late.”
“I wish to be on our way by midnight.”
Tod bit his lip when his eyes met Ergyfel’s. “Yes, Your Majesty.” He bowed, then turned to leave.
“Just a moment.” Ergyfel bid Tod forward; gesticulating with his fingers.
Tod went rigid and turned to face his king.
“What do you think, Brother? Should we invite someone to come along with us on our hunt?”
Hengest took another long drink. Though it was cool in the great hall, sweat rolled off his brow.
Ergyfel smirked. “Tod, besides my personal guard, I want you to invite each lord of my war council. We’ll make camp on the north side of Loch Nyraval.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
“And, Tod ... I will take down the first hart before nightfall tomorrow.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
***
That night, the woods known as Nyraval Grith echoed with the sounds of a royal hunting party. Clomping hooves and grumbling voices echoed through the trees and vales. Each pampered noble on the war council knew what it meant to refuse their king’s invitation, no matter how baffling the hour. So, with blurry eyes and slumped shoulders, they tramped along on their horses, whining about the dark, dank cold and whipping their servants who marched along beside, no more able to remedy the situation than their masters.
Only the king and his brother enjoyed this unusual outing. They galloped into the darkness ahead of the mob, at times visible between the trees as shadows on strips of moonlight.
At last, they came to a wide meadow near the loch with a brook meandering through its middle. Tod and his men set up tents and lit fires while the nobles huddled together, peering across the tall grass at their king. They waited to be summoned and wondered what form of lunacy this was. They muttered over a smoldering fire, asking what each knew.
“The king has not been himself of late.”
“‘Tis strange to be out about on a hunt, when we are at war.”
“And with the enemy not so far away!”
“The king simply might have brought us here for a hunt,” the youngest of them said. “Perhaps it will restore his ease.”
“Aye,” the oldest said. “But this is also a good place to see our throats cut.”
Each lord present stared at the last speaker and wanted to argue, but found they didn’t have the wind to speak. A sudden thirst overtook them, and they drank in silence.
Finally, without a word to his nobles, Ergyfel retired to his tent. His numerous guards took up their positions around it, and the nobles were forced to go to bed without answers. None was able to sleep.
***
The next morning, tired hunters stumbled through the woods. Though glad to be alive, they dragged along, fatigued by their lack of rest. At noon, the king, aggravated by the lack of prey and abundance of noise, sent his nobles back to camp. Ergyfel, Hengest, and Tod continued alone.
It was late evening when Ergyfel turned to Tod. “I told you I wanted to kill a deer by nightfall.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“The sun is about to set, Tod, and I still don’t have my deer.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Tod, if I don’t get my hart by nightfall, I will be very upset. Do you know what happens then?”
“I lose my job, Your Majesty?”
“No, Tod. You lose your life.”
The royal huntsman swallowed hard. “I think I know a spot where you might find a deer, Your Majesty, but we must hurry.”
Ergyfel raised an eyebrow and gave the man a crooked smile. “Must we?”
Tod swallowed again. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Very well. Then let us be off.”
The king produced a small jar from his game-bag and sipped a thin, dark liquid from it, then handed it to his brother. Tod turned and took off at a dead run. He leapt over logs and split bushes, the king and his brother just steps behind him. They ran over a ridge and into the next valley where a small creek trickled its way to Loch Nyraval.
As Tod descended into the valley, the sun disappeared from view. The sky became golden-orange and the entire valley submerged into shadows. The royal huntsman jumped down into the creek bed and raced downstream across the boulders and rocks.
He stopped abruptly. A huge, ancient pine fell over the creek like a bridge, and beyond it lay a quiet meadow surrounded by a dense curtain of trees.
The royal huntsman slipped under the fallen tree and crept to the edge of the grass. He spotted a large log on the ground near the clearing and made his way to it. Ergyfel and Hengest were soon by his side.
The light in the sky was fading. Tod mopped the sweat from his face and scanned the meadow for his prey.
“It’s nearly dark, huntsman.”
Tod glanced at the king, and then back to the grassy clearing.
/> “Hengest … ”
The king’s brother pulled out an arrow and nocked it. Without warning, he placed his foot on Tod’s back, forcing the side of the man’s face into the rough bark of the log. He drew back on the string and pointed the arrow at Tod’s feral eye.
“Your Majesty. Just wait for a moment, please!”
Ergyfel looked out over the meadow and sighed. “I don’t see any deer here, Tod.”
Hengest’s bowstring creaked, and he pressed his full weight on Tod’s back.
“Let me pin his head to this log.”
“My brother can’t hold that arrow forever.” Ergyfel turned back to look Tod in the eyes. “I’m afraid you’re about to meet with a rather unfortunate hunting accident.”
At that moment, Tod’s eye caught something moving near the edge of the clearing. “Look, Your Majesty. Behind you!”
Ergyfel glanced over his shoulder. He squinted and saw the shape of a young doe tiptoeing into the dark meadow. He turned back to Tod. “It’s not the hart I was hoping for, but I guess you get to keep your job for another day, huntsman.”
Hengest turned his bow on the clearing and loosed the arrow. It sang through the twilight and thudded into the unsuspecting deer. As Hengest lifted his foot and released Tod, the doe collapsed.
The king’s brother leapt over the log and ran into the meadow with Ergyfel right behind him. Tod rose to his feet, took a deep breath, and headed into the tall grass.
By the time the royal huntsman arrived, Hengest and Ergyfel had split the doe open and spilled her hot innards onto the ground. Her legs twitched and kicked, but she was dead. Ergyfel stood and turned around. His arms were slick with blood to the elbows. He held the deer’s heart in his hands. Tod watched his king place the dark, slippery organ into his bag.
Ergyfel saw the queer look in Tod’s eyes and smiled. “Be glad this isn’t your heart, huntsman.” He then walked to the creek to wash his hands.
Tod stood gawking at his king. The smell of fresh blood filled his nose. His heart pounded in his neck.
Hengest appeared behind the huntsman’s shoulder. He leaned close and whispered, “Your heart, a deer’s heart, it’s all the same to me. Remember that.” Then he, too, went to wash up.