A Spell of Swords, page 7
The queen hesitated. “In remembrance of me, will you take this gift?”
She removed a silver band from her finger, a signet ring, with a flat emerald set on top. Carved on the face of the stone was an image of the Tower of Halathgar. Two diamonds, like the twin stars of the Lost Huntress, glinted above it.
Brand accepted the ring from her cold hands, and then she reached into the dust at the bottom of her sarcophagus and scooped a great handful of gold coins. These she handed to Taingern.
She regarded them both. “In life, I only took. If I gave more, maybe I would be better remembered.”
She lowered the spear and closed her eyes. The motes of dust that formed her figure drifted apart and settled to the base of the sarcophagus.
“I hear you, Carnhaina,” Brand said.
5. The Choice
Brand gazed through the slit-like window of his small office. He hoped the view would offer relief from his troubles. Instead, it deepened them.
He traced the length of the white road that scarred the chalky soil around Cardoroth city. It cut a line to the West Gate, a long way below his cramped room in the guard tower. He had ridden that dusty path many times; attacking armies had marched its length more often still.
The litter of sieges lay abandoned in the pastures to either side. Long grass grew green where seeking roots reached deep into the soil. Legions of enemy dead rested there, but their living brethren outnumbered them.
He caught a glimmer of light on far-off Lake Alithorin. His gaze lingered before he surveyed the shadow-laden pinewoods that rimmed its shores. He knew those nighted haunts. He had explored the misty tree-aisles and even learned some of the forest’s deadly secrets.
Danger did not worry him. At least not much. He liked the feel of a sword hilt in his hand. It was better than the quill he now used so often; better than signing rosters, tallying equipment or the requisitioning of supplies and settling of disputes between soldiers that occupied so much of his time. The view of the outside world, the world that once he roamed freely, only served to remind him of how bored he was as a captain in the army.
An urgent knock at the door distracted him. What new administrative torture would this be?
“Enter!” He regretted the abruptness of his tone. The soldier who came into the room, just old enough to shave, nervously slammed a fist into his chest by way of salute.
Brand casually opened his left palm in the customary acknowledgement, and offered a smile.
“At ease, soldier.”
The youth still looked tense.
“Thank you, Sir.”
Brand deliberately slouched in his chair. Adopting a casual posture encouraged the men he supervised to relax.
“What can I do for you?”
The soldier cleared his throat. “Someone wants to see you.”
Brand waited patiently. When no further information came, he raised an eyebrow as encouragement.
“It’s the old lady, Sir.”
“And what old lady is that?”
“Sorry Sir. I forget sometimes that you’re not from Cardoroth. I mean the old lady. She’s lived on a farm just out from the gate for as long as anyone in this part of the city remembers. She sells cheese every day at the markets.”
Brand sighed. “Her cheese must be good if she’s been selling it that long. Why does she want to see me, though?”
“Yes Sir. Sorry Sir. She’s also a seer.”
Brand leaned forward with sudden interest. He believed in seers, at least some of them. Several had sought him out over the years – they told him that he cast a shadow in the otherworld, whatever that meant.
“What does she want, son?”
The soldier shrugged. “She wouldn’t say. She just demanded to see you … and she usually gets her way.”
Brand stood up. “Then I won’t disappoint her.”
The Choice
They found her by the gate. It was open, its massive bars nicked and scored by the enemy’s frequent attacks. She leaned against an ancient handcart filled with wax-coated cheeses. Two guards stood next to her under the shadow of the missile-pocked wall. They laughed good-naturedly at something she said but snapped to attention when they saw Brand.
The old lady studied him carefully. “You’re Brand?”
He nodded. “How may I help you, madam?”
Her nut-brown face crinkled in what might have been a smile.
“You have good manners – for a wild man from the lands of the Duthenor.”
“If you’re a seer, lady, you will know that I’m more than a wild man.”
“Ha! I know your past. But that’s of no matter now. It’s the future that interests me.”
“What of it?” asked Brand.
She studied him. Her threadbare shawl, older even than the cart, was taut over her shoulders and her short coarse hair. The sun-beaten skin of her brow furrowed and her jaw wriggled as she thought.
“Are you loyal to Cardoroth?” she asked suddenly. Her eyes, the outer portion yellow and the inner cloudy, peered at him questioningly.
Brand inclined his head. “A fair question, lady. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Cardoroth. But were I not loyal … still might I answer so.”
She laughed loudly but held her rheumy eyes upon him.
“Thus do you rebuke me for my impertinence. Yet it was a courteous rebuke.”
Brand made no reply.
The old lady cackled. “Now you wish to encourage me to get on and speak my piece. Very well!”
A change came over her. She straightened and held her head high. Her eyes sharpened upon him and there was sudden clarity in her gaze. She looked like a hawk that rode the high airs before it plummeted to seize its prey.
“Cardoroth stands in peril,” she said. “Not yet of armies, nor of the numberless enemies without her walls who plot to bring her down. This enemy is within. One of our own will betray us – I have seen it.”
She paused. Her jaw trembled and threads of once-black hair escaped her shawl and fluttered in the breeze.
“Speak on,” Brand said.
“You will meet him before three days are done. And when you do, you must make a choice.”
“What choice, lady?”
She tilted her head to study him better. “The choice of life or death.”
Brand took a step back from her fierce gaze. “What does that mean?”
“It means that you will have the power to save him. Others will try to kill him. You can offer protection, and condemn the city to destruction, or walk away, and let fate take its course. It’s his life, or the city.”
Brand studied her closely. “And why tell me?”
The old lady shrugged. She seemed to shrink and her eyes appeared rheumy once more.
“It’s part of my burden. I must speak what I see.”
“And what of the man. Have you spoken to him, too?”
She slid her fingers along the tattered edge of her shawl and tucked in the stray tendrils of hair. The skin on the back of her hand was wrinkled like sun-dried clay at the bottom of a long-emptied pond.
“Oh yes – I’ve seen him. He told me to mind my own business. He’ll be a fool to the end, that one. I don’t need the sight to see that.”
“And what do you expect me to do?”
The old lady shrugged. “I expect nothing. I saw a vision and spoke it – what will be will be. There’s no use fighting it.”
She took up the handles of her cart and mumbled to herself as she stomped away.
Brand slept poorly that night. It was not in his nature to let a group fight and kill a lone man. Yet he was loyal to Cardoroth, and the life of a single person, especially a traitor, was a small thing compared to the lives of the multitude.
For Cardoroth
He rose early. If he could not sleep, he would try to clear his mind before he faced the slow barrage of boredom that waited in his office.
He wandered through the lonely streets of the city. A crimson dawn shot rays of light over the tile rooftops and brushed the red marble of the higher walls. The scent of new-baked bread ran like a river down the shadowed streets. He bought a small loaf. It steamed in the cold air when he broke it.
He passed the Hamalath, the open-air theater where he had watched plays performed and learned much of the history of the city. He also passed the Merenloth, where philosophers debated and bards chanted ancient lays. Thousands of stone seats, terraced in curved rows into the slope, overlooked the small stage. The stands, though empty now, often filled with listening crowds. Cardoroth was like no place he had ever been before; it was a combination of ancient mysteries, wisdom, life, laughter and friendship. He imagined it sacked by the enemy, its streets reddened by blood and screams rending the air. He would not have that on his conscience.
People began to move about, and the streets filled with crowds. He entered a park to avoid them. He was not born in the city, but he had learned to love it. It was proud, even noble. It deserved its place in the sun and he would not jeopardize it.
He wandered to a beech tree surrounded by short grass. The trunk, gray and smooth, ascended gracefully to the sky. Stately boughs spread in a mighty canopy and dappled sunlight settled to the earth like green-gold dew. He leaned against the trunk, closed his eyes and tried to make peace with his decision.
The leaves of the beech whispered and sighed. The rich scent of the earth, deep beneath his boots, swelled in the air. Somewhere in the distance, a thick-beaked nudaluk bird hammered away at a tree trunk in search of insects.
Brand remained still and sought oneness with the morning. He did not find it. The swift noise of galloping horses distracted him and his eyes flicked open. Four riders streaked across the park. A fine chestnut mare led and the others strained to catch up. Their hooves threw up a spray of clods that scattered and fell long after they passed.
Suddenly the rider of the chestnut mare changed direction. The horse now angled toward the beech tree. It sucked in great gulps of air and sweat foamed over its flanks. It sped over the grass, each blade crusted by a sheath of frost.
The rider came beneath the eaves of the tree and tried to change direction again. This time the weary horse slipped. It crashed to the ground, and its flank scraped a long gouge in the earth. The dislodged rider, a youth verging on manhood, landed heavily beneath the tree canopy.
Brand watched as the three pursuing riders pulled up their mounts and leaped off. The moment the seer warned of had arrived. It was still unexpected and he was not ready. But what else did he need to know? The youth would betray Cardoroth.
The pursuers drew their swords and walked toward the youth. He whimpered in pain as he stood, and then tried to hobble to his horse. One of the men, only a little older, kicked him to the ground.
Brand trembled as he watched. This was no vision playing out before him, no dry telling of a person’s fate: it was real life and soon bright blood would stain the silver-frosted grass.
He stepped away from the trunk, and the three men noticed him. They wheeled in his direction.
A black-haired man with a pale scar on his cheek stepped forward.
“What’re you looking at?”
Brand had met his kind before. Any hint of weakness would draw an attack from the scarred man, and the other two would follow his lead. They were all in the mood for trouble, and he must either walk away or try to out-bluff their leader.
He made his choice. “Not the pride of Cardoroth, obviously. Three against one? Is that how you measure yourselves as men?”
The black-haired man reddened, and his scar shone white. “He cheated us at cards. And not for the first time. He won’t get the chance to do it again.”
“You would kill someone for that? It seems you’re just as much to blame for being stupid enough to play cards with him more than once.”
Scarface raised his sword. His mouth twisted and his eyes flared with rabid light. Brand realized that he had made a mistake. Bluffing did not work with crazy people. The man’s companions edged closer behind their leader, but Brand sensed their reluctance.
He forced himself to look relaxed and calm. “Why don’t you ride away now – before any harm is done.”
Scarface hawked and spat. His hand tightened on the hilt of his short sword, and his shoulder lifted slightly. Brand read the signs of imminent attack and nearly drew his own sword. Instead, he took a great risk. He rocked his weight onto his back leg as the black-haired man’s blade cut through the cold air. At the same time, his front leg kicked swift and hard into his opponent’s groin.
Scarface screamed and rolled onto the ground. The sword dropped from his hand to lie still on the frosted grass while its owner writhed.
Brand looked at the man’s two companions. His heart thumped. It would have been safer to have drawn his weapon and killed. He allowed none of his fear to show though. He now rested his hand on his sword hilt to emphasize the words he spoke next.
“Take your friend away. I’m done playing – I’ll kill the next person who attacks me.”
The two men fumbled to sheath their swords and then helped their comrade onto his horse. He began to vomit, but they held him from falling as they rode off.
Brand went to help the youth up. “What’s your name, son.”
“Balhain. And I don’t need your help.”
The youth limped over to his horse and took the reins. It heaved for breath and steamed in the cold.
Brand gazed after him in amazement. “Really? If you felt that way why didn’t you say something while your friends were here?”
The youth mounted, looked at him with a surly expression, and spat.
“They’re not my friends – and neither are you.”
He kicked the horse into a canter and rode away without another word.
Brand cursed. Loudly and in detail. He had put Cardoroth in jeopardy for this? He took some calming breaths. That was not the point. If the youth betrayed the city, it would be something that he would have to live with. Brand, for his part, could not live with allowing a group to attack and kill a single man. No matter the circumstances. And Cardoroth would not be worth saving if its people condoned such a thing.
He strode toward the West Gate. Maybe another day of boredom was not as bad as he thought. At least it was predictable. Anyway, his mind, and his conscience, were clear.
He came to the tower entrance and the old lady was there, waiting for him. She leaned against her cart and looked at him knowingly.
“You allowed him to live?”
Brand shrugged. “I won’t condemn a man for an act that he might commit.”
“Then you have condemned Cardoroth.”
“Maybe. But no fate is certain. The future is nothing more than the flicker of shadows, no matter what story a seer reads into them. It can loom first one way, then another, just as firelight reaches up, then subsides. Who among us, seer or otherwise, can see the true path that a man will walk among all his choices?”
The old lady stared at him long and hard. At length she inclined her head. “What you say is true. But know this – Balhain was not the one of whom I spoke. In my vision, the scar-faced man betrayed us. His name is Gildar.”
Brand was momentarily startled, and then he laughed. He nearly had killed him.
6. I Choose Death
The remembered death rattle of a thousand throats rang in Brand’s ears.
He shivered despite the hot sunlight and tried to shake off the soul-sapping fatigue of battle. The enemy, repelled many times during the morning, regrouped for yet another attack. He closed his eyes, but that only sharpened his recollection of the crash of sword on helm, the shouting of doomed soldiers, the cries of hatred and screams of pain; the begging for help while men writhed on the blood-streaked grass or sat wide-eyed and unnaturally still, their spilled bowels cradled in pale hands. He forced his eyes open.
King Gilhain commanded the army from the crest of a rise. His silver helm, burnished to a faultless gleam, sparked like leaping fire. The royal banner fluttered at the touch of an intermittent breeze, and his personal guard of thirty men, the famed Durlin, ringed him. Their chainmail glittered and the white surcoats they wore with legendary pride blazed under the noontide sun. It was not Brand’s first battle though, and neither the sight of his much-loved king, nor the renowned guard, stirred him. He looked away. The actions of the humble are more impressive than the show of the illustrious.
Just as it had all morning, the unnerving chant of the enemy swelled through the air.
Ashrak ghùl skar! Skee ghùl ashrak!
Skee ghùl ashrak! Ashrak ghùl skar!
He knew what it meant. So did all the citizens of Cardoroth City. Everyone learned those words in childhood – and feared them. They formed the battle cry of the elug nation.
Death and destruction! Blood and death!
Blood and death! Death and destruction!
Brand’s gaze drifted to Arawdan, the Durlindrath who led the Durlin. In that group of thirty men, the pride of the whole country was embodied. Each had sworn an unbreakable oath to protect the king. He was a brilliant strategist, and except for him, the enemy would long ago have plundered Cardoroth. The Durlin had defied sword, knife and assassin’s poison to keep the king alive. While he survived, Cardoroth endured. And that made him the target of innumerable attacks. It was only a matter of time before one of them was successful, but that never stopped the Durlin, and Brand knew it would never stop him, either.
A redheaded youth next to Brand followed his gaze.
“Is it true that Arawdan is covered in scars?”
Brand thought about it.
“He’s got his fair share. I was there when he collected the last. He took an arrow in the back that was intended for the king.”
The youth looked suitably impressed, though Brand doubted he had enough experience to appreciate the situation. Talk was easy, but few had the willpower and steadiness of mind to guard the king for weeks, months and years, wondering all the while when an attack would come. It was no way to live, yet Arawdan somehow stayed affable.
