Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) (11 page)

I bent and relieved three of the inert bodies of their slender purses, and tossed them to Cullin. He plucked them out of the air with one big hand, hardly bothering to look, and spilled their contents on the scarred and stained planking of the bar. He frowned at them, stirring the pile of mixed coins thoughtfully with a blunt forefinger, then took two silver from his own purse and added them to the pile of coppers and silvers.

“That should be enough,” he said. “I’m loathe to think I be the cause of a man’s brats crying hungry.”

The tavern keeper’s hands were but a blur of motion as he scooped the coins from the bar and stashed them safely. “I thank ye, kind sir,” he said with another obsequious smile. His teeth were bad and showed black gaps. “Be sure I’ll tell of the generosity of Tyran clansmen.”

“Ye’ll no see verra many of us if ye dinna stop selling that horrid sour ale,” Cullin said. He pushed himself away from the bar and grinned at me. “A decent inn, I think, Kian,” he said. “With good food and excellent wine. What say you to that?”

“I’m agreeable,” I said.

He flung his arm about my neck and laughed as we stepped over the clutter of broken tables, shattered stools and sprawling bodies to the door. “And a woman or two,” he said. “A couple of soft, tender, sweet-smelling women.” He laughed again. “That’ll do for me, then. Ye’ll have to find your own.”

We found a good inn. It was expensive as were all good inns in any seaport, and Honandun was no exception. But we were heavy with silver paid by the merchants for delivering the goods train safely to the city. It had been a long trip from Banhapetsut, and a hectic one. I bore a new scar on my ribs from a bandit’s arrow, and Cullin’s hardened leather left wrist guard was ruined by a lucky knife thrust. The bonus in gold had been well and truly earned this trip.

We had just finished a well-prepared meal with a fine Borlani wine when I heard Cullin make an appreciative soft whistling sound. I turned toward the door in time to see a woman enter the common room. The man who accompanied her was as nondescript as the woman was memorable.

Oddly enough, I had seen her before. Only that morning as we escorted the goods train to the waiting ship. Tall and richly dressed, she had been disembarking from a newly arrived ship as Cullin and I rode past behind the string of pack animals. What struck me about the woman was not her beauty, for beautiful she was not. Her features, even though regular and well defined, were far too strong for beauty. Handsome, mayhap. Certainly striking. She carried herself with an ease and a competence more common in a man than a woman. She was tall for a woman, as graceful and purposeful when she moved as the wing of a seagull.

As I guided my horse through the throng, she had looked up and our eyes met. A shock of startled recognition quivered through me. Those eyes were the same colour as my own, a deep, golden brown, as uncommon in these parts as blue pearls. But her hair was a rich, dark honey gold with no trace of the rust-red of mine in it. She wore it braided and drawn severely back from the bold planes of her face, caught up in a netting of woven gold thread.

She did not smile, nor did she drop her gaze as a modest Isgardian woman would. Neither did she look away. Instead, her gaze held mine for a long moment. I felt a sense of challenge in her. I was the one who finally broke the contact. When I looked back moments later, she had vanished into the crowd.

Cullin’s chuckle brought me out of my reverie with a start. I realized I was still staring at the woman, who had been escorted to a table by her companion. She looked up, caught me watching her. Her expression didn’t change as she looked away without haste, obviously dismissing me as a negligible annoyance.

“Not that one, lad,” Cullin said with quiet amusement. “That one’s too like my lovely wife. You’d abrade yourself on her inflexible will if you tried holding that one on your lap.”

Cullin had left Gwynna at the Clanhold six seasons ago with a passionate embrace, but more than happy enough to leave her to go on about his own affairs. Gwynna, he often remarked, had the face and body of a goddess, and the disposition of a mountain cat. “A pity, that, and I’m too often like a bear too soon out of hibernation,” he said. “But between us, we make beautiful daughters.”

He raised his hand casually. One of the serving girls darted over to refill his cup with the pale, crisp wine. Her pert and saucy mouth curved upward as she bent closer to him than was strictly necessary. Before she straightened, she flipped back her profusion of dark curls and whispered something I didn’t catch into Cullin’s ear. He smiled and shook his head. She stepped back, and he picked up a half-silver and flipped it to her. She caught it, laughing, and walked away, her hips swinging outrageously.

Presently, he stood up and stretched. “Bed for me, I think,” he said. “Are you coming?”

“In a moment,” I replied.

The serving girl hurried across the room to intercept him as he headed for the stairs to the sleeping rooms. She caught his arm, smiling impudently at him. He laughed, then turned her around and gave her a gentle swat on the bottom. She walked back to the serving counter, pouting, and Cullin climbed the stairs, still laughing.

I had another flask of wine, watching the serving girls. They were all pretty, but I decided I was too fuzzy around the edges to trust my judgment. I might not be able to pick a woman who would not try to leave with my silver in the small hours, so I simply made my way up to the room, pausing only briefly on my way up the stairs to glance again at the woman with the strange eyes. She did not look back.

The room was clean and comfortable, the bed linen freshly changed. I ordered a hot bath to rinse away the dust of three seasons travel that the bitter cold water of river and pond had missed, then slipped naked between the sheets of the bed. Before I became too comfortable, out of habit, I made sure my sword and dagger were within easy reach of my hand, then closed my eyes and let sleep take me.

For the
first time in many years, I dreamed again of a gently symmetrical hill, lush with grass, rising against a sky streaked with the brilliant colours of sunset. At the top, settled like a crown on the brow of the hill, stood a dance of stones. Tall, blunt menhirs, crowned in pairs by massive capstones, rose starkly against the vivid sky. Within the outer circle of the ring stood a second one, the stones shorter, but crowned all around. And within the second circle, an inner horseshoe shape of taller, narrow stones, enfolding within it a polished black altar stone, like a jewel cradled safely in cupped hands.

The scent of fresh, growing things rose around me like a haze—the crushed grass I stood upon, the perfume of moving water nearby, the fragrance of wildflowers. I breathed the air deeply into my lungs, drawing strength and life from it.

Power radiated from the Dance. Power that flowed into my bones, into my flesh, into my sinews like music. There was magic here, but it was a gentle magic, a magic that sang in my blood. It reached into me and tapped the same centred well I drew on when I needed healing power to visualize my hurts—or those of others—as whole again. It resonated with that inner energy as flute and harp combine into harmony. Surrounded and wrapped by peace and contentment, I watched the sky fade to dusk behind the circle.

As the last light faded, for the first time, I noticed the man by the altar. He stood with his back to me, paying me no attention at all, giving no sign he realized I was there. He stood casually and easily, relaxed and comfortable, yet straight as one of the menhirs. He gave no outward signs of either patience or impatience, but I knew he was waiting, and had waited a long time there by the altar. He simply stood in communion with the power of the circle and waited.

A soft footfall sounded in the grass behind me. Expecting to see the Swordmaster, I turned slowly and raised my sword to meet the challenge. The dark figure of a man stood silhouetted against the timeless glow of the sky. A brief jolt of surprise shot through my chest. Not the Swordmaster, this figure stood bathed in an aura of menace. The sword in his hand radiated darkness, spilling it like water around the man.

“So I have found you at last,” my opponent said, his voice flat and uninflected.

I drew in a deep breath, the fresh scented air filling my lungs. The smile that pulled my lips back from my teeth had nothing to do with amusement. I felt light and ready, anticipation an airy evanescence in my blood. Something long outstanding was about to be resolved, something important.

“Perhaps I have found you instead,” I told the dark figure.

“Perhaps, indeed,” he replied. “We shall see how well the sword fights for you.”

I flexed my hands on the plain, leather-bound hilt. “Or I fight for it?” I asked evenly.

“As you say.”  He leaped forward forcefully and I found myself fighting for my life.

Time had no meaning in this strange dreamscape. Tirelessly, back and forth across the flower-strewn green-velvet of the grass, the dark stranger and I battled each other. At first, we seemed evenly matched, our skill equal, neither of us able to find a weakness in the other and exploit it. Then gradually, I became aware that it was I who gave ground more often, that it was I on the defensive more often than on the offensive. Desperately, I sought the reserves of strength and stamina the years of training with Cullin had given me. But they were not there.

A strange combination of helpless despair and desperate, fatalistic determination filled me. I lunged forward aggressively, thrusting recklessly at the stranger. The tip of the blade caught against the crosspiece of the hilt of his sword. The follow-through snap of my wrist wrested the sword from his hand. It glittered as it spun away, high into the air, then suddenly vanished as if swallowed up by its own darkness.

The stranger stepped back and saluted me ironically with his empty sword hand. “This round to you,” he said softly. He turned abruptly and faded into the darkness.

I looked up at the Dance at the crown of the hill behind me. The Watcher on the Hill stood as motionless as the menhirs around him. Then, slowly, he turned to drift silently toward the altar in the centre of the Dance.

Even as I began to move my foot to climb the hill, the dream faded and was gone.

***

Something making a Hellas of a racket in the street below my window woke me abruptly. Getting roused suddenly and noisily out of a sound sleep is not my favourite way of beginning a day. Cullin tells me that I tend to become cranky and difficult to get along with when awakened too abruptly after a night in the tavern. My response has always been that it is a character flaw I learned from him.

This particular morning was no exception. I rolled off the bed and staggered to the window, cursing under my breath as I buckled my kilt around my hips. I leaned out to see what was causing the din.

The commotion appeared to centre around a knot of men directly beneath my window. The sun flashed on drawn blades as four people circled warily in the middle of a cluster of avidly shouting spectators.

Hellas. A fight. And a completely lopsided fight at that.

I stared blearily down at the seething mob and tried to sort it out. It seemed to be three Maeduni mercenaries against one slender, fair-haired youth who wielded a hefty longsword with a skill sharpened by sheer desperation. I watched for a moment or two. No one in the crowd of avid spectators was inclined to step in and even the odds on the patently inequitable contest, and some were obviously laying bets on the outcome. At the edge of the crowd stood a small group of Honandun city guards. They, too, gave no indication of putting a stop to the entertainment. But then, city guards don’t care much who gets slaughtered in the streets as long as it isn’t an important Honandun citizen.

It offended my sense of fairness, or aroused my foolhardy notions of justice. Or something. Or mayhap I was merely irritated because the noise had awakened me. Or perhaps I still suffered from just a titch of wine fever.

I grabbed my sword and took the quickest route to the street, which happened to be out the window and straight down.

My sudden arrival, half-naked and obviously annoyed, in the middle of the fray caused a momentary flurry of consternation among the three Maeduni mercenaries currently attempting to add a blond head to their collection. Faced suddenly with a two-front battle, the Maeduni hesitated. The young swordsman used the opportunity to take a large collop out of the sword arm of one mercenary. One of the others turned obligingly into my blade. The last melted quickly into the crowd, dragging his wounded comrade with him.

The young swordsman swung around, presumably to thank me for saving his golden locks. Then I discovered I was wrong on all counts. Swordsman—no. Swordswoman. Young, lithe, skilled and obviously deadly, but definitely not male. Not grateful, either. Golden brown eyes blazed in an odd mixture of burning rage and icy scorn. Lips I might have considered kissing under different circumstances drew back from perfect teeth in a snarl, and the greatsword in her strong, brown hands swung up to challenge me.

“They were mine, you witless savage,” she hissed. “I need no help from a half naked barbarian to deal with scum like that.”

It was her eyes that triggered the realization I had seen her before. It was the same woman I had seen by the docks, the woman who had come to the inn last night for the evening meal. The clothing fooled me for the moment. Gone was the opulent gown, the rich gold ornamentation in her hair. She wore trews cross-bound to the knees and boots, and a full-sleeved shirt under a short tunic. An engraved leather baldric crossed the tunic, supporting a scabbard for the sword across her back. I recognized neither the style and cut of her clothes, nor the cadence of her speech. Not Isgardian or Falian. But woman she was, Outlander or no, and she gave every indication of wanting to skewer me like a rabbit spitted over a fire. It seemed like a good time to test Cullin’s theory of distraction.