Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) (10 page)

It was less than a sevenday to Vernal Equinox, the beginning of early spring. We had spent the season between Midwinter and Imbolc traversing the Ghadi Desert. The Ghadi is tricky, but it’s mostly dry and hot at this time of year, and the air doesn’t threaten to choke a man with fog and drizzle, or trickle cold into him to turn blood and bone to ice. A fortnight past Imbolc had seen us into the dry eastern slopes of the mountains. Now, we were over the Divide and into the wet rain forest of the western slopes, and coming to the last stage of the journey. With any luck, we would be in Honandun a few days after Equinox.

If we don’t drown first, I thought morosely. Hellas. I had forgotten how wet spring could be here.

It was my turn to ride front guard and I was feeling sorry for myself as I tried to huddle deeper into my plaid to keep the damp chill from seeping right down into my bones. “This is no place for man nor beast,” I complained bitterly to Rhuidh, who merely flicked his ears once, then ignored me.

A quick flash of movement among the giant cedars caught my eye. Just a glimpse of something the wrong shape No leaf shivering under the glancing blow of a drop of moisture, nor animal dodging behind a massive trunk.

Still hunched within my plaid, I scanned the area around us carefully. “You being the beast, and me being the man,” I said to Rhuidh, “you’d think together we’d have a lot more sense than this. Horse sense is a myth, sure as Hellas.” Again, the horse stolidly ignored the remark.

There
. Another flash of movement. This time, I was certain it was a man-shape hiding in the trees. As unobtrusively as possible, I made sure the sword on my back was loose and ready. If I had spotted two bandits, that meant there had to be at least six or seven more I couldn’t see.

At least a dozen of them. Eight of us, not counting the merchants, of course, who were next to useless in a fight anyway. Not exactly fair odds. Cullin was probably worth half a dozen bandits all by himself, and I was almost his equal after nearly eight years of training. In those eight years, we had never lost so much as one pack animal to bandits in these passes. But I wasn’t about to let myself get complacent about it. There was always a first time, and carelessness was not good for business.

I slowed Rhuidh and glanced back over my shoulder like a man expecting his relief to come trotting up the track behind him. Sure enough, I saw Cullin approaching. Negligently, he lifted a hand to scratch his nose, his big hand hiding the anticipatory grin he wore. He had seen the bandits. I rubbed my ear to tell him I had seen them, too. He merely grinned again and motioned me back toward the main body of the merchant-train.

The bandits sprang their trap two furlongs farther along the track where the pass narrowed as the river plunged through a cataract between the high walls. Even as I spurred Rhuidh to meet the first rush of the attack, I saw I had guessed wrong. There were more than a dozen of them. Perhaps fifteen.

The merchants were already gathering the pack animals into a tight, easily defensible bunch as my raised sword clashed against the swinging blade of one of the bandits. I kneed Rhuidh sideways, and his shoulder slammed into the flank of the bandit’s horse, knocking him off balance. The bandit grabbed for his saddle horn, and I relieved him of his head, then whirled to meet the next bandit. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Cullin wheel his stallion, his blade flashing about his head, to take on two bandits at once.

I ducked as the bandit, a man with the dark hair and eyes of a Maeduni, swung his sword. His lips drew back over his teeth in a snarl and he twisted in the saddle to avoid my counter-thrust, then ducked and slashed his sword at my belly. I barely got out of the way in time by hauling Rhuidh around and sliding sideways in the saddle. I turned back to the bandit to find his blade slicing toward my neck. I ducked and managed to get my sword up to parry his.

Then a strange thing happened. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open in shock. He yanked his horse back a step or two. I hesitated, surprised at his reaction, and saw he was staring at my sword. He muttered a word that sounded like “Celae,” and began to wheel his horse away from me. He didn’t get very far. An arrow from the bow of one of the archers caught him through the throat and he pitched forward into the mud of the track. I looked back to see Thom grinning and nocking another arrow on his bow.

The battle was over. When I looked around, I could see four or five bandits enthusiastically demonstrating how quickly their horses could take them away. Cullin stood near the huddled pack animals, wrapping a scarf around a wound on his left arm. He pulled the knot tight with his teeth as I dismounted beside him.

“Let me see it,” I said, reaching for his arm.

He pulled it away and shook his head. “Just a scratch,” he said. “It’ll heal well by itself. Are you all right?”

“Aye, not even scratched,” I said. I looked over my shoulder. There was no sign of the retreating bandits now. A few of them lay in the mud, groaning over their wounds. More lay still in death. We had given a good accounting of ourselves.

“They’ll not be bothering us again, I think,” Cullin said. “We’ll have earned our bonus again this trip.”

“Aye,” I agreed. “And tomorrow, we’ll be out of these accursed mountains.”

“Not like Tyra, is it?” he asked.

I laughed, thinking of the heather clad hills and mountains around the Clanhold of Broche Rhuidh, the Red Tower. “No verra much,” I said. In this season, the glens would be touched with soft green and the water of the lochs would ripple quietly under the gentle blue of the sky. “Not much like Tyra at all.”

Cullin laughed and turned away to gather in the guards and take stock. We had taken a few minor wounds, but had lost none of the men. We had not been so lucky the last time we were in these mountains. One of our men had taken a spear through the lungs, and even as I tried to heal him, I felt the dark, spreading numbness of a mortal wound in him. The force of his life-flow ebbed under my hands and evaporated like water on hot stones. Helplessly, I watched him slip away, unable to do anything for him but ease his pain as he died. It wasn’t something I wanted to experience again.

Within half an hour, we had the merchant-train moving again.

We were out of the mountains the next day into the gently rolling hills of Isgard. Six days later, we descended onto the wide coastal plain only a league or two from the outskirts of Honandun. We encountered no more trouble.

The merchants were quick to pay Cullin’s fee and were generous with the bonuses. Cullin paid the men. Most of them had wives or sweethearts in the city, and scattered with their full purses. Left to ourselves, Cullin and I set off to find a tavern.

***

The Isgardian soldier came at me, sword clutched in both hands, teeth bared in a snarl, and murder in his eye. To begin with, the man was drunk. But off duty Isgardian troopers, like many other soldiers, often were. Still, he should have known better than to jibe a Tyran clansman about his kilts, and he certainly should have known better than to draw a dagger. Cullin took exception to the insult, and exploded into outraged indignation in the face of the weapon.

Originally, I’d had no intention of becoming embroiled in the fray. The day has not yet dawned when one Tyran clansman could not handle at least four Isgardian troopers in a tavern brawl. If Cullin had need of my assistance, he’d call for it. So I had snatched my ale mug and the full flask out of danger, and hopped up to sit on the bar. I tucked my feet under me, sitting tailor-fashion, content to watch the entertainment.

Cullin dav Medroch was an impressive sight when annoyed. Grace and economy of motion in action, and worthy of admiration. I was enjoying myself immensely until I suddenly caught a whiff of a distinctive stench in the air, sharp and unmistakable as the scent of impending lightning and thunder before a storm. I straightened and glanced around, frowning.

Magic. I
hate
magic. It set the hair on my arms and the back of my neck prickling, a deep chill knotting in my belly.

Hackles rising like a wolf, I looked quickly for the source, and found a young Maeduni hedge wizard, little more than a boy, unsure and hesitant, yet eager to prove himself. Young and untried he might be, but he was fully capable of weaving magic enough to put paid to Cullin’s fighting ability. The boy hurriedly fashioned his spell even as I watched. Swearing, I carefully set down the mug and flask, and slid off the bar top with reluctant resignation. Cullin would doubtless be upset with me if I let a half-grown Maeduni spell weaver deprive him of a good brawl. I picked up a convenient tin mug and dented it against the back of the young hedge wizard’s head, wasting a pint of sour ale in the process. It discouraged his enthusiasm for joining in on the excitement. That was when the Isgardian trooper chose to try to decapitate me. So much for my resolve to let Cullin have the pleasure of redressing his own insults.

I ducked under the Isgardian’s arm as his sword swung in a wide arc that surely would have removed my head had it landed. But swords are notoriously unhandy weapons for close fighting, and the trooper was off balance and not seeing too clearly, being awash in sour ale.

“Kian! Your back!” Cullin’s voice sounded clearly over the uproar in the tavern.

I grabbed the Isgardian’s wrist as he stumbled by me and swung him around. As he lurched past, I caught him by the neck of his jerkin and the seat of his breeks, and tossed him into the Maeduni mercenary who had launched himself at my back. The Isgardian met the Maeduni in mid-leap and both of them went sprawling to the hard-packed dirt floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

Kilts flying, Cullin leaped over the two spraddled bodies, and sailed past me to bury his shoulder in the belly of another Isgardian soldier. The soldier made a strangled sound as all the air exploded out of his lungs, and he crashed back onto the only unsmashed table in the tavern. The flimsy table, like the others, did not weather the collision well. It collapsed under the combined weight of Cullin and the soldier. I winced and put a hand to my own belly in sympathy. I wouldn’t want sixteen stone of joyously irate clansman barrelling into me like that. It was likely extremely uncomfortable. Mayhap even a trifle painful.

Cullin extracted himself from the resultant kindling, climbed to his feet and meticulously straightened his kilt and plaid. Except for the tavern keeper and the barmaid, we appeared to be the only two people in the tavern still standing. The dismayed tavern keeper, huddled safe with the barmaid behind the bar, looked to be near apoplexy as he surveyed the ruin of his tavern.

I snapped the hair out of my eyes and grinned at Cullin. “You’d be getting old I expect,
ti’vati
,” I said. “Five years ago, you could have handled twice as many all by yourself.”

Affronted, Cullin assumed a pained expression. He drew himself up to the full of his considerable height. Even dishevelled and disarrayed as he was, Cullin dav Medroch was impressive. Any Tyran clansman looks imposing in kilts, full-sleeved shirt and knee-length soft boots, his plaid pinned at his right shoulder by a clan badge, but Cullin looked fiercer than most. His bright red hair falling loose to his shoulders except for the single braid at his left temple, the light of battle still illuminating his face, he looked magnificent. The emerald dangling from his left ear glittered the same colour as his eyes in the dim, smoky light. He breathed only a little deeper than usual.

“Were I not drunk,” he said with great dignity, “I should not have needed any intervention on my behalf from a mere lad like yourself.”

“Mere lad,” I said in disgust. I was just barely shorter than he, although I weighed slightly more than two stone less. I was certainly no mere lad.

“It was, after all, my kilt he scoffed at,” he said. “It was my fight.”

“Aye. It was. Until that hatchling wizard decided to addle what wits you still retain.”

He considered that information gravely, then dismissed it. He shrugged. “He failed.”

“Only because he found my argument persuasive.”

“Aye. Or mayhap powerfully distractive.”

“Aye. Mayhap.” I straightened my own kilt and settled the plaid aright on my shoulder, then grinned at him. I stooped to pluck an unbroken ale mug from the debris, filled it from the rescued flask and handed it to him. “What do you intend to do about this mess?”

He nudged a limp Isgardian with the toe of his boot. The man made a snoring sound and Cullin grinned. “They will no doubt in good time be collected by someone whose appointed station in life is to take care of such disagreeable tasks,” he said. “Leave them. They look comfortable enough, do they no?” He drained the mug and let it fall to the floor.

“Oy!” the tavern keeper cried as we turned to leave. “What about this damage to me place? It’ll cost me twenty silver to fix it.”

Cullin crossed the room to lean negligently on the bar. He grinned and, in the face of that vast display of white teeth, the tavern keeper shrank back among the casks of ale and wine stacked behind the bar.

“Little man,” Cullin said softly, “for twenty silver, I could buy this palatial establishment
and
, no doubt, your toothsome daughter there.” He jerked his chin at the barmaid. The girl took a startled step backward, turning first white at the threat, then pink at the compliment.

Not to be diverted when the subject was chiming silver, the tavern keeper bared his own teeth in an ingratiating grin. “Sir, your pardon I beg of you. But this poor tavern be all I have to support a wife and eight squalling young’uns.”