The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads

The shaft of an arrow, jaggedly broken off, protruded from the links of mail, a bit of wine-dark blood drying on the polished wood and staining the armor. Hafydd cursed. It had been one of those meddlers from the north who'd shot him—which he would not forget.

He cleaned the shaft with a fold of his cloak, then took hold of the wood. Pain coursed through his shoulder, far worse than when the arrow had entered. For a moment he closed his eyes and let the pain wash through him, like a wave of fire. He focused his mind on the feel of the shaft in his fingers. In a single, slow motion, he drew the arrow out, then doubled over, gasping. He tried to press a fold of his robe against the wound, but the arrowhead was caught up in his mail and stymied his efforts. The world began to spin, and he fought to keep his balance and push back the blackness at the edge of his vision. Nausea shook him, and he broke out in an unhealthy sweat.

After a moment, the pain subsided enough that he could sit up and examine the wound, half-hidden beneath his armor and the padded shirt beneath.

It appeared worse than he expected—the foul Stillwater cor-rupted it, no doubt. He would have to bathe it in the River Wyrr. That would heal almost any hurt he might have. He covered the wound, ignoring the ache. Rising to his feet unsteadily, he set out into the wood in search of the river, which he sensed was nearby.

Less than an hour later he saw the Wynnd sparkling through the trees. He drank from the waters, and sat for a moment on the grass, exhausted—unnaturally exhausted. With great effort and pain he managed to pull his mail shirt over his head and bathed his wound in river water. Almost immediately, the pain receded, as though it had been driven deep, almost beyond feeling—almost.

He set off, again, along the bank, where a narrow footpath had worn away the covering of green. The breeze was redolent with the scent of pine trees and the musky river. And then a tang of smoke reached him.

Hafydd was not beyond caution when it was deemed necessary. He was, after all, without his guards and not wearing a shirt of mail. And though he could press back an army with his spells, he was ever vulnerable to an arrow, as recent events had shown.

Creeping through the underwood, he pulled aside the thin-limbed bushes and peered through the leaves. Flames crackled, and he heard voices speaking softly. People crouched around a cooking fire—a woman, a man, a child—eating from crude bowls. Beyond them, angled up the bank, an old skiff lay burdened with their bag-gage, oar blades pressing down the summer grasses.

Hafydd watched them warily for a moment. Watched the woman clean their dishes in the river while the man doused the fire and the child picked a few huckleberries from low bushes border-ing the path. As he searched among the branches, the child sang quietly to himself, his plain, freckled face bobbing among the summer-green leaves.

To a man who had seen so many conflicts, they looked like refugees to him—a family displaced by war. By their dress, likely people of little or no wealth, no property, certainly. Tenant farmers.

He decided they would likely not want to help him, a grim-looking man-at-arms, obviously wounded, likely on the run.

Hafydd drew his dark blade and stepped out into the open, grabbing the boy child by the scruff of his neck with his bad arm. If the boy struggled, he would easily break free, so weakened was this arm and so painful even this small movement.

"I want only passage across the river," Hafydd said. "Nothing more. Bear me over, and I will set your child free. Refuse, and I will kill you all and row myself."The father had stepped forward, but stopped when he realized what he faced—a trained man-at-arms bearing a blade, his manner deadly.

"Don't hurt him," the father pleaded, his voice breaking, hands up in supplication. "Leave him, and I'll bear you across. You need not fear.""He will accompany us," the knight said. "I'll release him upon the other shore, and you may go where you will."The frightened father nodded. His wife, white-faced and near to tears, had begun to tremble, so that Hafydd wondered if she would collapse. The knight pushed the boy forward as his father stooped to retrieve his oars.

Caibre's long life of battle had brought Hafydd memories and skills he had never dreamed of. Almost before the father knew it himself, Hafydd could see that the man intended to strike him with the oar. And when he did, the knight easily stepped aside, pushing the boy down roughly and putting a foot on his chest, the point of his blade to the boy's heart.

"And I had intended you no harm.Yet this is how you repay me!"The woman did fall on the ground, then, or perhaps threw her-self forward on her knees. She was sobbing uncontrollably, her en-treaties almost lost beneath the tears coursing down her cheeks. Her hair fell out of its ribbon and clung to her wet face.

"Don't…" she cried. "Don't hurt him! 'Twas a foolish thing my husband did. Foolish! I'll row you across myself and offer you no harm."Hafydd stopped, his sword poised over the heart of the boy, who was too terrified even to cry. If he'd had both his arms, he would have considered killing them all and rowing himself, but he was one-armed for the moment, and the Wynnd was broad.

Before the father could move, Hafydd struck him across the side of the face with the flat of his sword, a vicious blow that drove the man to his knees. Upon his face two thin, parallel lines of blood appeared, and the man swayed, dazed.

"Get up, boy," Hafydd said. "You will sit in the stern with me."The woman strained to push the boat down the bank, but she managed and scrambled into the bow with the oars. Hafydd put the boy before him on the pile of baggage and took the stern seat, sword in hand.

"Row," he said.

They set out into the river, the slow current taking hold of them. The woman put her back into her work, pulling at the sweeps with obvious familiarity. She was pale and shaken, her hair breaking loose from a braid and shivering in the wind. The boy sat still as stone, his hands covering his eyes.

"There be patrols upon the eastern shore," the woman panted. "The river is watched.""And why is that?" Hafydd asked. She was obviously trying to ingratiate herself with him, fearing for her child.

"The war," she said, clearly surprised. "The Prince of Innes in-vaded the Isle of Battle. That is what put us on the river. But we've heard now that the Renne drove him back over the canal, with the loss of many."Hafydd sat back a little in his seat. That fool Innes wouldn't go to war without him? Would he?

"Is this a rumor, or do you know it for truth?"" 'Tis no rumor. We left the Isle as soon as the Prince crossed the canal. The roads were choked with people fleeing. We could have sold our skiff a dozen times, but we used it ourselves, to keep safe our child."Hafydd cursed under his breath. He left Innes alone for a few days and what did he do? Attacked the Renne—and lost!

The eastern shore was steep and falling away, trees leaning dan-gerously, their roots exposed. Hafydd had the woman row south a little, for they were north of the Isle of Battle, she said. Shortly, the bank sloped down, and there they found a patrol of men-at-arms in purple and black—men serving the Prince of Innes.

Hafydd hailed them, and they recognized him. The woman put the boat ashore, silent now, looking warily at the men-at-arms, then guardedly at Hafydd. The knight stepped ashore, tossing his shirt of mail down on the grass.

"I must bathe in the river," he said. "And then I will take a horse. Two of you will accompany me."The captain of the patrol bowed his head, not arguing.

Hafydd looked back over his shoulder at the mother and child. "And these two…" He paused. "Kill them."There was a second's stunned silence, then one of the men drew a sword and stepped forward. The woman threw herself over her son, where she lay sobbing as the sword was raised.

"No, let them go," Hafydd said, unsure why. Unsure of the odd feeling in his heart. "He is only a boy. Death will find him soon enough."He was cast down upon cold stone in a place of faint twilight. The creature, the servant of Death, fled into the night, its cry echoing nightmarishly. The claws of Death's servant had poisoned him, he was certain, for he could barely move his limbs, and lay on the stone waiting for Death to come breathe him.

To his right, gray waters lay mercury still, to his left, a shad-owy cliff. To his shame Beldor sobbed, sobbed like a child now that his time had come. But he sobbed half from frustration, for he had been about to send Toren to this very place when Samul had interfered; and then the servant of Death had swept him up into the sky. He could only hope that the foul creatures would find Toren, too.

The stone beneath him began to tremble, and a terrible grind-

ing noise assaulted his ears. Above him, the cliff shook, then ap-peared to move.

Death's gate!

He tried to move, to crawl away, but at the same time he could not tear his eyes away. Here it was, life's great mystery. What lay be-yond? No one ever returned to tell. And now, he would know.

The grinding of the gate seemed to continue for hours, a dark stain spreading out from its base. Beldor had managed to wiggle a few inches, and there he stopped, exhausted, his sobs reduced to whimpering.

How vain all of his pursuits seemed at that moment, all of his absurd pride, his boasts, his petty triumphs. He lay there trembling in fear, like every ignorant peasant, his Renne pride reduced to whimpers.

From beyond the gate he heard scuttling and muttered words he could not understand. For a moment he closed his eyes, sud-denly unable to bear the sight of Death.

Silence. But he could feel a presence—a cold, like opening an icehouse door. When he could bear the suspense no more, he looked.

A shadow loomed over him, black as a well by night. Not even a shimmer of surface, only fathomless darkness.

"So, we meet at last, Lord Death," Beld whispered, his mouth dry and thick as paste.

"You flatter yourself, Beldor Renne," a voice hissed. "Death barely noticed your passing—nor did life. But perhaps you will yet gain a chance to leave your mark. To do something to affect the larger flow of events." The voice paused, and Beldor felt himself being regarded, weighed. He struggled and managed to gain his knees, where he gasped for breath, his head bowed because he had not the strength to lift it.

"You might be of some small service, yet," the dark voice hissed. "I am the Hand of Death, and I will give you an errand, Beldor Renne. If you manage it, you will be returned to the kingdom of the living for your natural span of years—though likely a sword will see you here much sooner. What say you, Lord of the Renn ? A second life is granted to few.""Yes, whatever you ask," Beldor gasped, "I will do.""Then you will deliver this to the knight known as Eremon, councilor to the Prince of Innes.""Hafydd," Beldor whispered.

"So he was once called. You will tell him that Wyrr was laid to rest beneath the Moon's Mirror."An object appeared from the shadow and was thrust into Beld's hands. It was hard-edged and bound in soft leather, warm as a woman's skin. A book.

"H-How do I proceed from here?" Beld stammered.

"Like this," the shadow whispered.

From above a dark form fell through the twilight, and Beld was snatched up in the claws of Death's servant. He closed his eyes and clung to the book as though it were a shield that protected his life.

Hafydd leaned back in his chair, staring gravely at the book. Beldor Renne stood by, watching, glad to have the cursed book out of his possession. Just holding it had filled him with fever and dread.

Hafydd put a hand to his temple, the other arm immobilized in a sling. "Have you any idea what you bore into this world, Beldor Renne?""It is a book, Sir Eremon. I know nothing more.""You did not open it?""I did not. To be honest, I was afraid to.""And for good reason," Hafydd observed, still staring down at the open pages. "You could not have read it anyway, for it is written in a language that has not been spoken in a thousand years. It is a long, very elaborate spell. One that, to my knowledge, has only been performed once in all of history—to catastrophic results." Hafydd leaned forward and with great care turned the page, for a moment taking in the text. Beld thought the knight looked paler since he'd opened the book, as though the blood had drained from his face.

There was a ruckus in the hall outside, and the door was thrown upon. In strode the Prince of Innes,followed by two of Hafydd's black guards.

"Tell your guards that when I wish to see you, they do not stand in my way!" the Prince demanded. He was shaking with anger.

Beldor had only ever seen the man at tournaments, but he de-spised his arrogance. Coupled with the man's obvious dullness of mind, it was an enraging combination. The Prince glanced at him with disdain.

"What is it you want?" Hafydd asked, as though he were being annoyed by a child.

"I want to know if Lord A'denne is a traitor. How we shall prose-cute our war, now? What your spies have learned of our enemies' in-tentions…" This seemed to exhaust his list of questions for the moment.

"Of course A'denne is a traitor. Have him killed—or tortured. Whichever will give you the most satisfaction."This took the Prince aback. "Should you not speak with him first?"Hafydd went back to gazing at the dreadful book. "I don't need to."Innes tilted his head toward Beld. "And what of this one? He is a Renne… here, where he can do great damage.""Lord Beldor?" Hafydd said, still engrossed in the page. "The Prince doubts your loyalty. Take my sword out of its scabbard."Beld took two steps and pulled Hafydd's sword from the scab-bard that hung from the back of a chair.

"Now kill the Prince with it," Hafydd said.

Beld turned on the shocked nobleman, wondering if his own pleasure showed. The Prince dodged the first cut, but Beld did not miss the second time, catching the nobleman at the base of the neck and cutting diagonally down until the blade lodged in the ribs. The Prince fell and twitched terribly for a moment,before he lay still in a growing pool of red.

Hafydd looked up at one of the guards standing just inside the door. "Find a retainer of the late prince and bring him up here. We'll kill him and tell anyone who cares that he was the assassin."Hafydd closed the book, picked it up somewhat gingerly as he rose. "Leave the sword," he said to Beld,"and come with me."They walked out into a hallway and in a moment entered Hafydd's rooms. Hafydd took a seat in a chair but left Beld stand-ing. The book he laid on a small table and, from within the folds of his cloak, took out a green gem on a gold chain. He held this up so that it sparkled in the light, like a shard of the river in sunlight.