The Sword of the Lady (71 page)

We′re not going to make it to the south gate,
Abdou al-Naari knew.
Maybe we should have tried for the water and the boats . . . No, it was fated. I shouldn′t have listened to that so-called holy man!

He could have been content with what he′d found in Miami and Balti more and been halfway back to home by now with a good if unspectacular cargo; the knowledge was as bitter on his tongue as the wormwood tea the hakims brewed for fever.

The last knot of his crew formed up around him, their backs to the blank log wall of a warehouse or workshop. The newcomers surrounded them, in wildly mixed gear that didn′t look like Norrheimer equipment at all. The leader of the strangers came at him, leading the rush. He was a tall young man in full armor that showed through the rents in his winter coat; a crescent moon cradled between antlers showed on his shield.

But he moved like moonlight on water under the weight of steel and wood and leather, his long straight sword trailing red drops as he whipped it in an effortless figure eight. A taut grin showed beneath the beaked visor of the odd-looking helmet, with light stubble the color of sunset along the jaw; behind the vision-slit were eyes as blue-green as tropic seas.

This one is trouble,
the pirate captain′s experience told him. Then:
No. He is the shadow of Azrael′s wings. He is death.

Abdou called on God—or croaked—and cut at the unbeliever′s knee. The kite-shaped shield twitched into the path of the slash and glanced the blow, leaving him off-balance. The corsair twisted desperately and tried to get his own tattered hippo-hide shield up as the return thrust came for his throat, driving like the strike of a cobra, faster than any man had a right to move. He succeeded just enough to keep his windpipe unslit. Instead it plowed into his shoulder like the kick of a horse focused behind a narrow point of steel, breaking the mail links and tough leather, nearly breaking the bone. Agony ran through his body like rays of sunlight.

His sword fell from nerveless fingers, and the captain of the
Bou el-Mogdad
looked death in the face as the blade rose again. He dropped his own shield and grabbed for his enemy′s, snarling as he tried to wrestle it away while his hand scrabbled for his dagger. The effort sent ice spikes into his wounded shoulder. Another, slighter figure attacked beside him.

″Ahmed, no!″
he cried.

The straight longsword beat the boy′s scimitar out of his hand with a snapping backhand slash and plowed on to cut flesh. In the same instant the green-and-silver shield smashed into Abdou like a collapsing wall in an earthquake, hammering him back against the logs behind him; the impact of his helmeted head on the wood had him seeing flashes of light for a second. There was no more room to retreat and his sword arm hung useless.

″Surrender!″ the man who′d wounded him shouted, his blade poised to pin the rover captain to the logs. ″Surrender, and sure, we′ll spare you all!″

There was a brief pause, as men panted and glared hate at each other from arm′s reach. Ahmed was alive, rolling on the dirty snow and clutching at his twice-hurt arm. His father looked to either side; a dozen men were all that were left on their feet, though more of the fallen might live if they got help soon.

″I surrender,″ he growled thickly in the English tongue, and threw down his dagger and raised his hands. ″We not fight more. No kill.″

Or at least he raised his left, which still worked. The weakness and nausea of blood loss made his vision swim, and his lungs sucked at the cold air. His men did the same, all except one gone battle mad, who charged instead. A spear cut off his war cry, and an ax came down on his neck; Abdou kept his hand up, but for a moment he thought it would do him no good, as the killer′s weapon went up for another smashing strike.

Then the stranger flicked his sword out. Even awaiting death, Abdou blinked at the casual speed and precision of it, faster than a shrike and more delicate than an artisan′s graver tapping patterns into a silver dish. The sharp point rested in the bushy thicket of the ax-man′s brown beard, and the Norrheimer froze motionless, his eyes rolling down to look at the length of blood-running steel. Behind him was a ring of his friends and kin and neighbors, looking on with interest; a Norrheimer even bigger than most barred their way with a gruesome hammer-ax weapon held parallel to the ground, leaving him isolated among the odd-looking company.

He had courage, though. ″Who are you to stop me avenging my folk?″ he asked.

The man with the sword at the ax-man′s throat used his shield to push up his visor. That revealed a face that was beautiful in an alien way, though red and running with sweat. His breath puffed white in the chill air. When he spoke the harsh English language held a lilting music, but the words might have been hammered from iron:

″I′m Rudi Mackenzie of the Clan Mackenzie, and High King of Montival, the which you couldn′t know by looking at me. I′m the man the Gods have chosen to save the world, the creatures—the which you couldn′t know either. But I′m also the man who saved your pisspot town, boyo, the which you
should
know by the evidence of your own eyes.″

He prodded, very slightly, and the Kalksthorpe man swallowed.

″But be telling me now. Do I look, do I look in the
least little bit
, like a man who′d let you break his oath for him?″

″No,″ the Kalksthorpe man whispered.

His eyes locked on Rudi′s like those of a rabbit on the very last wolf it ever saw.

″I promised these men quarter if they′d throw down, and throw down they did.″

″Sorry,″ the Norrheimer muttered, as the sword withdrew.

″See to their wounds as you would those of your own folk, and then lock them up. Swear to it!″

″I swear. By Forsetti who hears oaths, and by my own honor in the sight of my kin.″

″Give them food and water too . . .″ He turned to Abdou: ″Wait, pork is
geasa
for you, am I right?″

Abdou nodded, dazed as the pain started to push through the fading blaze of urgency; he bent to lift his son.

″
Haraam
, unclean, yes,″ he said.

″Then give them something they
can
eat.″ To his own followers: ″Move! We have work to do yet!″

 

 

 

″Are you sure they won′t harm those prisoners?″ Father Ignatius said as they trotted southward.

″Reasonably, yes,″ Rudi said grimly. ″And I have a use for them, I think, too.″

Mathilda snorted something that was almost a chuckle. The Kalksthorpe folk were getting themselves organized with surprising speed, tending the hurt and putting out fires and scouring for enemy stragglers. He didn′t think any such left within the walls would survive the next quarter hour however hard they tried to surrender, except the ones he′d given quarter.

″You!″ he called.

The man was in late middle age with dark silver-shot hair receding from a high forehead and even darker eyes; he threw another bucketful of water on a smoldering wall and turned.

″Yah?″ he said, nodding in friendly wise.

″Is anyone down by your boats? If you can get men out, they might be able to seize those enemy ships, or at least one of them, before they′re crewed and away.″

″I′m Thorleif Heidhveigsson,″ the man said, picking up a spear. ″I′ll see to it. Odinleif! Thorvin! Freyjadis! With me!″

Bodies lay thicker as they approached the gate. Thick enough to be worrisome; he′d sent Odard to do some flanking, not fight a major battle. Rudi hissed softly as he saw two of the Southsiders he′d sent with the young baron. They were the only ones still on their feet, and they were both badly wounded.

The hiss turned into a curse as he saw what they stood about. The most senior of them looked up, and went almost limp with relief.

″Rudi-man! Chief! They hits us hard. Too many!″

Mathilda gave a little sound, like a cat′s, then clamped her lips shut. She didn′t dash forward, but they all stopped around the figures on the ground, scattered where they′d fallen in the melee. Two near the end were in the armor of the Sword of the Prophet; another pair were the dark-faced corsairs. One of those was a near-giant, with his wiry black hair in long knotted locks and a great brass-bound club lying by his hand. His dark eyes were still open in a stare of astonishment, and one leg was slashed to the bone just below the hip with all his life′s blood spilled from the huge wound.

The fifth was Baron Odard Liu de Gervais. He lay limp, his head propped up against a sack of something someone had dropped, with two trails of blood leaking out of the corners of his mouth. Battered shield and broken sword were near his limp hands. He opened his slanted blue eyes as they approached and smiled slightly.

Father Ignatius went down on his knees beside the fallen man; Rudi signed quickly, and the others dragged the bodies aside and helped the Southsiders. For a moment he was chiefly aware of relief; he′d nearly sent Edain on this errand. That brought a stab of shame, and he moved forward to kneel.

″I need you, Father, but not for that,″ Odard said, in a breathy whisper as the cleric started to reach for the latches of his armor.

The priest examined him through the gear instead; the injured man bit back a gasp at one gentle touch. Ignatius looked up at Rudi and Mathilda, and shook his head very slightly. Odard saw it and nodded a little.

″I can . . . feel the bones grating. The big one . . . caught me full-on. Please. Things to say . . . first. Taking off the hauberk would . . . do it quick. Got to . . . keep still.″

″No,″ Mathilda whispered. ″Not after we′ve come so far!″

″Dice . . . don′t fall sixes . . . forever. Had to be . . . someone,″ Odard said. ″Mathilda . . . I do love you. Didn′t at first. Then I really did. Sorry I ever lied . . . to you.″

She took one of his hands. Tears fell on it, but she raised it to her lips. ″I love you like a brother, Odard. Like the brother I never had. I always will.″

Rudi could see how hard Odard tried not to laugh, and felt a sudden upwelling of emotion in himself he recognized as close to love indeed.

May I face the Huntsman as boldly,
he thought.
And to be sure I′ve never yet met a woman who understood why saying that drives men crazed.

Odard′s voice was light: ″I don′t even feel mad at hearing that bit about being a . . . brother, Your High . . . Mathilda. So I must be . . . dying. Look . . . after my family.″

This one is not a perfect man
, Rudi thought.
Who is? Not myself! But he′s a man indeed.

She nodded and clasped the hand in both of hers. ″I will. I′ll try my best for your mother. And I′ll take your brother and sister in ward myself; they′ll always have my protection and my favor. I promise it before God.″

″Tell them . . . I died . . . well?″

Then she leaned closer and kissed him, very gently, on the lips.

″You are my knight, Sir Odard Liu, valiant and true as steel, with honor as golden as your spurs.″

″I . . . think I am, at last.″

His eyes turned to Mary and Ritva and Rudi. ″Mother . . . wanted you dead. Because of my . . . dad. I . . . didn′t, not ever, really. Took a while to . . . see it.″

Rudi leaned forward and—very lightly—touched Odard′s shoulder.

″You′ve been a true friend, brother,″ he said. ″I′ll miss you. For yourself, and because you′d have been a right-hand man to me. One I could trust with my back.″

″To quote . . . your father . . . this . . . sucks,″ Odard sighed, and then a sudden effort not to cough made sweat spring out on his face.

When he spoke again, there was a gurgle to it. ″I would have followed you, Rudi. And I just get my . . . head straightened out and I die. Shit! Good-bye to . . . all of you. It′s been . . . fun.″

He moved one hand; Mathilda helped wrap his fingers around the hilt of his sword and move it, so that he could kiss the cross made by that and the stub of blade.

″Father?″ he said, weak and breathy now. ″We′d better get . . . started. There′s . . . a lot to . . . confess.″

They all moved back, and the priest leaned forward, opening the boiled-leather box across his back, taking out a long strip of cloth, kissing it and draping it about his neck. Rudi took another step backward when he heard Odard struggle to say:

Some things should be private. They all turned, making a wall between their friend and the world for a long set of moments. Nobody spoke as the murmured words sounded behind them. The twins looked the most stunned; they′d known Odard as long as he had, if not so well, and had always played a half-serious game of verbal feud with him. But even Virginia had been with him for most of a year now, and a damned intense one at that. Ingolf leaned close to Rudi and said very softly:

″I never liked him all that much. But by God, he′s game.″

Rudi nodded and murmured: ″I thought the same.″

The priest′s voice rang a little louder behind them:

Odard′s
Amen
was thready, barely perceptible.

″Amen.″

″Quickly, now, my friends,″ Ignatius said. ″The Death Angel comes.″

Odard′s face was very pale now; the oil gleamed on his eyelids as they fluttered. The eyes moved as those he′d known best knelt around him, a greeting and farewell. After a few labored breaths he smiled; it should have looked grotesque, with the blood on his teeth, but it didn′t. His face lit, looking
past
them somehow.

″
So . . . beautiful!
″ he said, coughed blood and died.

CHAPTER TWENTY