“Yes,” said Helmut, and he held out his wrist. Every nuance of its scarred flesh had been captured in the wax and allowed for in the silver. He could tell that in the way the thing slipped on and seated itself. Weight at the end of his right arm seemed curious, though, and he could hardly control himself until Norst had buckled the contrivance of leather straps that was designed to secure the thing. But before Norst was done, he had also fastened a thick leather wrapping around part of Helmut’s right thigh. “Your flesh also must be guarded from the spikes,” he said. “Now, test it.”
He stepped back. Helmut raised his arm; and not without effort, for the morning star, which was eight inches in diameter, counting spikes, was heavy. And yet, as he swung it back and forth and out and around and punched with it as with a fist, he realized that it exactly matched his strength, just as Rage did, and improved his balance. A grim smile crossed his face as he realized what a deadly weapon Norst had made of that useless right hand; once he even laughed, but it was not a sound anyone would have recognized as a laugh, and it was totally without mirth.
“All right?” asked Norst.
“By the Gods!” Helmut exclaimed, and he slammed the spiked ball furiously against a plate of iron, so that it rang. “Though I may go unhanded, I shall never go unarmed!” He drew Rage and all parts of him seemed designed only to hold and wield the two weapons. “What a killing machine you have made of me!”
Sandivar’s face clouded. But all he said was, “Sheath your sword, and we shall return to the palace while Norst works on the armor.”
CHAPTER VII
Late that evening, Helmut walked along the riverfront, clad in dress of the Neoroma fashion, the short white tunic and the leather greaves, with Rage dangling from his belt and the morning star on the end of his arm, drawing the eye of everyone he passed. By tomorrow, he knew, he would have a name all over Neoroma, something lurid that the crowd would have made up to suit itself. Knight of the Morning Star, or the like… He gave that grim smile once more. Knight of the Frozen Heart, he thought, would be more like it.
Reaching the quays, which, at this supper hour, were deserted, he sat down on a bollard and watched the clear, shining water of the river flow past. He had crossed the stream, and from here he could see the shining palace and all the temples of learning around it; and in the twilight it was like a half-remembered dream, an insubstantial vision of loveliness. But it was not, he thought, with homesickness, half so lovely as Marmorburg. That could stir him—longing for his home. That and the desire for revenge. But nothing else…
He thought of earlier tonight when he had entered his chambers and had found the Lady Viira there, waiting for him, all the smooth, flowing lines of her body revealed by the diaphanous court dress of Neoroma, her eyes as large and lovely as a doe’s, her red mouth trembling with fear and boldness and expectation… Fairest of all the women of the palace, the sight of her so should have moved him, stirred lust or longing or even pity… but it had not. And when she had looked into his eyes and had seen what was there—exactly nothing, no response at all—she had become suddenly furious. Certain ferocious words had she spat at him, then slapped his face and stalked out. Watching her go, he’d not felt either regret or anger or amusement.
Indeed, Sandivar had not exaggerated the price of ten years of a warrior’s life in that twilight world. It had been a place which some of its inhabitants conceived of as heaven and others were sure was hell, depending on whether they fought for the love of fighting or reluctantly, for good reason. Anyhow, combat there had been, ceaseless and unremitting in the constant wet gray twilight, and not only against each other but against strange and repellent monsters far worse than any mrogg. So much horror had he witnessed that he would have come back quite insane had not his emotions quickly burnt themselves clean out. Still, it was not a pleasant prospect to face—a life in which he could feel no love, gaiety, none of the gentler, more pleasant emotions. The closest he could come, it seemed, was this melancholy which gripped him now, and which he thought to throw off by jumping up briskly and striding back to the palace.
But somewhere farther up the river, he took a wrong turn, and now he found himself in a quarter of narrow alleyways that were less fair than most of the rest of Neoroma. Each lane was well marked with the signs of cheap taverns, and at certain windows blowsy women sat and beckoned obscenely to passersby. Men well in drink jostled him occasionally, but he took no umbrage.
Then he became aware of the five who followed him.
As he passed one of the drink houses, some sixth sense made him look behind. From the place, five of the roughest looking men he had seen in Neoroma swaggered, clad in skins, with sword and dagger alike at each belt. They clustered in the middle of the narrow street, and as his eyes caught theirs, they turned away. But they were obviously thinking hard about the spectacle of the young lord who had lost his way and now wandered alone through the wrong end of town.
But men like those operated only in the dark, and in a few more strides he forgot them. Then he turned a corner and found himself on a street that led not between rows of drink houses but between storage magazines that were shut down for the day. Here it was very quiet and still; and the sound of his footsteps rang loudly on the pavement. But this street seemed to take him where he wanted to go, and he strode along briskly. Then something caused him to halt. He turned. Those five men stood behind him in the street, looking at him, sizing him up. Helmut smiled, turned forward again, and went on walking.
But now he heard their footsteps too as they came after him. Five to one was long odds, but fear had long since been frozen out of him with everything else. Besides, as soon as he turned this corner—
He stepped around it and found himself in a cul-de-sac. Ten feet ahead, the passage ended at the high blank wall of a building. And the men, knowing what a pocket he was in, were coming after him; he heard their running feet.
“Well,” he said tonelessly, put his back against the blank wall, drew Rage, and turned to face his attackers.
They came crowding around the corner, and the ones in front stopped short when they saw him there, and the ones behind ran into them. “Blind me!” one of them exploded. “Don’t shove. Look there at his right hand—ever see anything like it?”
“Curse his right hand,” another growled. “Let’s see his purse.” A big man with a greasy black beard, he drew sword and stepped forward. “Come on, you rabbits!” And the others, gaining courage, also drew their weapons and advanced on Helmut.
“Gentlemen,” he said thinly. “You are warned now that I shall show no quarter.”
Blackbeard laughed. “Aye, you hear? Five against one, and he’ll show no quarter.” Then savagely,
“Get him!”
And he lunged at Helmut, who sidestepped along the wall and thrust Rage all the way through him. Two more came at him as that happened; and he would have been slain ere he could withdraw the sword had it not been for the morning star fist. He caught a slashing blade on it, and that was deflected; and as it rang off the steel spikes, he brought the mace backward, crunching it into the side of another ruffian’s head and knocking him against the wall. Then Rage was free and flickered out like a snake’s tongue; and suddenly there were only two of the five left confronting Helmut, and they had jumped back in awe at the realization that, in so many seconds, three of their mates had died.
“I warned you!” Helmut snapped; and he poised Rage and leaped forward on the offense. Both men slashed at him; one sword rang off Rage and then went flying; the other clashed against the morning star, and its blade broke short; and then, for there was no time to think of mercy before his arm had done its work, Rage had chopped once, twice, and they were down. Helmut stood over them, panting, and stared down at them numbly. It was hard to believe. In less than that many minutes he had, with these two incomparable weapons, killed five men.
He felt no exultation, and his mouth twisted. If it had not been for reflex action, he could have spared those last two. But it was almost as if Rage had a lust to kill of its own, built into its very steel. That, however, was absurd; the lust to kill was in himself. He was indeed a killing machine. But that was what he had to be to take back Boorn.
Slowly, he sheathed the newly blooded sword. The morning star was bloody, too. He would have to carry it out from his body to keep from ruining his tunic.
Then he became aware of eyes. The sound of swords had attracted a crowd. Men and women jammed the mouth of the cul-de-sac, staring in awe at this shambles it contained. Helmut heard someone shout incredulously, “The Gods bless us, with that sword and that thing on his arm, he’s killed them all!”
He stood there until he was sure the crowd was only curious, not hostile. Then he walked toward it, out of the cul-de-sac, and as he approached it, it parted with a sigh of awe to make a lane and let him through. “You see?” someone whispered. “It’s that morning star. It’s part of him…” And someone else: “They say he was born with it, in place of a regular hand…” And another: “It’s not natural, and he’s not natural, either; he’s a spirit of some kind—” And behind him, as the crowd parted and closed again, he heard that whisper. “Morning Star… Morning Star…”
His mouth allowed itself that smile that was not a smile. News traveled fast, like pollen on the wind. Perhaps in less time than one would think, Albrecht, far away in Marmorburg, might hear rumor of the knight with a morning star where his hand should be; and when he heard it, would he wonder… ? Now Helmut was out of the crowd. He turned a corner and moved along quickly. But he could still hear the excited jabber as men babbled over and over the name by which they now would call him.
Now the armor was complete, two suits, one of chain mail for traveling and one of plate for full battle. So, also, had Vengeance been armored, over the head and chest and crupper. All the armor was a marvel of lightness and strength, and, in the case of the battle armor, beautiful engraving and filling with gold as well. There was, Sandivar said, nothing more to do here in Neoroma. It was time to go to Boorn.
Carus’ face was a study in sadness when they advised him of their intention to depart. He shook Helmut’s left hand. “My brother, I can offer you a company of men at arms to go with you. Had I an army, I would offer that as well.”
“Thanks, good Carus,” Helmut said warmly. “But a great army indeed would it take to stand against the half-wolf ranks of Albrecht. Better that only Sandivar and I go, slipping in quietly and without clang of weapon, if that be possible. Then perhaps we will find men enough in Boorn to teach half-wolves a lesson.”
“I pray for you. Good luck.”
“Good luck to you as well.” Helmut embraced Carus, then Dravidio. “Full well have I come to understand in these past weeks how marvelous the New Learning is and what a miracle it will work once it can be released. Indeed, it is well worth fighting for, and even were my own kingdom not at stake, my sword would be at your service. Sandivar, are you quite ready?”
“Aye,” said the old man, and he swung up on Waddle, while Helmut, in chain mail shirt and leather breeches, swung easily up on Vengeance. He shifted the sword, Rage, so that it rode easily along his leg and laid the morning star fist on the leather band that protected his thigh. Then he whistled sharply to the pair of great steel-colored wolfhounds, and they fell in beside his stirrups.
“Farewell!” Carus cried again as the cavalcade moved out.
Helmut turned in the saddle and waved.
“Boorn and Victory!”
was his shout.
Far did they travel, up the good highroads of the Lands of Light, into the rolling uplands, and thence into the mountains themselves, where progress was slow and even in the summer of the year there was danger from snowslides and unexpected blizzards. Now, not far ahead, was the Pass of the Moon, at the border between the Gray Lands and the Lands of Light; and there, certainly, Albrecht would have troops. So it was circled and a tortuous passage made over a line of razorbacked peaks that taxed poor Waddle and the big horse Vengeance to the utmost, that left the dogs footsore and bleeding, and took its toll of Sandivar’s strength as well. But Helmut was so hardened to the most dreadful conditions and exertions that he never faltered.
There came a time, then, when, with his miserable little retinue strung out behind him, he plodded on ahead, holding to the reins of Vengeance. Sandivar was blue with cold and his teeth were chattering, but Helmut appeared not to feel the cold at all. Straight up a ridge of naked rock and snow he went, his pace quickening. Then, when he had achieved the very top, he halted. His chest rose and fell rapidly as Sandivar scrambled up beside him on the wind-bitten perch.
Below them, mountains tumbled away, snow, shale, granite, then the first touch of green, then forest, then lush green valleys, and beyond that a level, a checkerboarding of fields; and all lay placid and beautiful in the twilight.
Helmut drew in a great breath. “There’s Boorn,” he said in a quiet voice.
Then, for a long time, he was still; and his face was like a hawk’s.
“Let us go,” he said at last, and with one step forward he was in his homeland.
It was a slipping, sliding, tumbling progress they made down the cliffside until the slope eased and the forest began. There they mounted, and as soon as they were in the woods, Death and Destruction began to whine and fidget. “Stirrup!” Helmut said sharply, a command they hated but would not disobey.
Indeed, he thought he could smell it himself—the musky rankness of wolves. Always, for him, it would be bound up with memories of Eero and of Albrecht poised above him with an ax. His hand slipped to the hilt of the sword called Rage as his trained eye spied wolf sign all around—pad mark in every patch of mud or soft moss. The dogs were going insane with the desire to hunt, but Helmut knew that not even they could survive in combat against the vast numbers of wolves in here. Indeed, before long, he saw them—gray shapes slinking through the darkness of the spruce and fir like wraiths, keeping pace with the little caravan, but apparently fearing to attack as yet. Still, it would not be well to find ourselves benighted here, thought Helmut, and he quickened the pace.
Fortunately, they made it out of the woods just at sunset. Then they rode across a level valley, through a twilight that was still not free of the whisper of many padding feet; and ahead they saw the blessed gleam of lights—a village where they could, without doubt, procure lodging for the night, for the hospitality of the peasants of Boorn was legendary.
So was their industry, but in the gray light Helmut saw that the fields across which they rode were poorly tilled, if tilled at all. That was strange, and what was stranger was that, as they approached the village, no dogs issued forth to challenge them. Usually, when a rider approached, every mongrel bounded out to give alarm.
“It is as if some plague has descended on the land,” he said to Sandivar.
“Aye,” Sandivar answered. “Wolfsheim. He is the plague.”
“Then the gods grant that I be doctor enough to cure it.”
The town was unwalled. When they entered its main street, not a soul stirred abroad, though lights blazed brightly in the houses, judging from the gleams they could see in the cracks of shuttered windows. Presently, at the far end of the street, they came to an inn. But it, too, was locked and shuttered, as if determined to repel, not welcome, travelers. Helmut swung down. “If they’re already asleep, I’m bound that I’ll awaken them,” he said wryly; and with his morning star fist, he hammered on the door—a sound to rouse the dead.