The Sword of Aradel (2 page)

Brian chilled as he stared at the black-robed figure, then all his attention went to the silken cushion the monk carried across his saddle. On the cushion, gleaming with jewels, lay a sword. At the sight of it his eyes widened and he felt a curious prickling at the back of his neck. Was that the fabled sword he'd heard so much about? The magical sword of the fairy folk, said to have been forged ages ago for the first ruler of Aradel?

In spite of some of the whispers he'd heard, it almost had to be. All the rulers of Aradel had worn that sword, and all men respected it. There was power in that ancient blade, and a puppet like Frederick couldn't have ruled without it.

Now Frederick was dead, and here was Albericus, who pulled all the strings, bringing the sword to Rupert. But why at this hour?

“They must have been riding half the night to get here,” he whispered to Brother Benedict.

“Of course. Look at them! They make a show, but they are tired and hungry. Yet if they were twice as tired, they'd do no tarrying here. Albericus will have them racing back to Rondelaine the moment he gets Rupert on a horse.”

“But—but why the haste?”

“So that black-robed Lucifer can keep his claws on the kingdom. He's lost his puppet, and he must install another in a hurry. If he doesn't, there'll be trouble.”

“You mean the peasants might rise against the barons again?”

His teacher grunted. “Not exactly, but surely they'd rise against those you see yonder. They're the ones Albericus made. And if that happens, another outsider will come in and claim Aradel.”

Brian nodded, though he did not entirely understand. All he knew of Aradel and the world was what he had learned here in the abbey, and from the books Brother Benedict secretly brought him from the library. It seemed he ought to know far more about some things than he did, but his memory had a curious way of failing when he tried to think back beyond a certain time.

Frowning, he peered through the grapevines at the assembly that was drawing up in a semicircle in the courtyard. The riders dismounted, and now he saw the tall Albericus, who wore a curious headless cross at his waist, slowly approach young Rupert with the cushioned sword in his outstretched hands. Rupert, visibly swelled, stepped forward and grasped the fabled weapon and buckled it about his waist. Finally everyone knelt to show allegiance to the new ruler.

All at once Brian became aware that several of the horses, reins dangling, had edged over to the watering trough and were beginning to drink thirstily. The trough was fast emptying. Then he was horrified to see a long-nosed monk moving around the edge of the assembly, heading for the stable. It was the prior.

“I—I've got to fill that trough!” he whispered, and started to slip through the vines.

Brother Benedict jerked him back. “No! Not the way you are. You must hide that pale hair—it could be the death of you!” The burly monk slipped into the smithy and quickly returned with an old leather cap in his hands. “Pull this down over your ears,” he ordered. “Let no one see what lies under it.”

It was an odd thing for Brother Benedict to insist on, but there was no time to ask the reason for it. Then the sudden memory of his last beating drove all questions from his mind. He jerked the shapeless cap over his head and ran out to the well.

No one noticed him at first. He managed to draw two buckets of water and pour them into the trough, and was hurrying across the corner of the courtyard with the third when the prior and another monk came from the stable with young Rupert's horse.

Brian saw the prior and the horse, and he glimpsed the swaggering Rupert moving impatiently forward to take the reins. He veered quickly to avoid Rupert, and failed to note the little movement of one of the titled students who slyly thrust a foot in his path. It was an old trick, too often used on him.

He tripped and went sprawling. The bucket slammed out of his grasp, and most of its contents splashed over Rupert's bright hose and pointed boots.

Brian got up cringing, stammering apologies. He was met instantly by a furious blow to the head that knocked off his cap and sent him reeling to the cobblestones.

For brief seconds he was aware of the great, gaunt Albericus staring at him, merciless eyes regarding him oddly. Then he saw the convulsed face of the advancing Rupert. He could hear Rupert's curses, and almost feel the vicious kicks that in the next breath would send him writhing in pain. But in that tiny moment out of time something turned over in him. Old hates came to a boil. Even if it killed him, he knew he had taken all he would ever take from Rupert or his kind.

Just before the first kick reached him he rolled aside and sprang up with clenched fists and smashed Rupert in the mouth. It did little more than bring gasps from the onlookers and send the much stronger Rupert staggering back in a fury, reaching for the fabled sword.

Brian had not counted on this. Fear went through him. The sword was invincible. “For shame!” he cried. “That sword has never been drawn against a peasant of this land, or an unarmed person. For shame!”

“That sword is for destroying enemies!” Albericus said harshly. “Use it! Run the rascal through!”

Brian leaped back as the shining blade flashed toward him. He looked wildly around for an avenue of escape, but other swords suddenly barred the way. He was praying for some means of defense when one came sailing magically through the grapevines. It was a quarterstaff.

He caught it expertly and immediately attacked, more in desperation than in hope. How could he possibly triumph over that incredible weapon? Yet, even if he was fated to die this morning, he was grimly determined to take his opponent with him.

But after only two quick passes with the staff he realized with a shock that something was wrong. Either the sword had lost its magic, or Rupert had no skill whatever in handling it.

Hope rose in him. He attacked furiously with all his strength, driving Rupert back. Suddenly one end of the whirling staff caught the sword on the hilt and sent it flying. While it was still in the air he managed to give Rupert a resounding crack on the head that instantly crumpled him.

For a moment Brian stood trembling, hardly believing what he had done. Then, in a language he did not know he knew, someone shouted to him to run.

He turned and made a dash through the encircling men-at-arms.

2

Merra

I
T WAS ONLY BECAUSE EVERYONE IN THE COURTYARD
was in a momentary state of shock that Brian was able to reach a corner of the smithy without being stopped. The line of knights and squires, who had been closing in on him during the fight, could have cut him down easily, for their swords were already drawn. But they seemed paralyzed by his incredible victory. Not only was their new ruler lying motionless before them, but the invincible sword of Aradel had been vanquished by a ragged stableboy with a quarterstaff.

Brian's first impulse was to race for the main gate under the drawbridge tower. If he could get through and make it across the drawbridge, there was a good chance he could reach the fringe of forest beyond the road.

But he had taken only a few strides when he heard Albericus giving orders. “Close the gate and raise the bridge!” the gaunt monk shouted. “Shoot him, you bowmen! Kill the wretch! Don't let him get away!”

A whistling arrow made Brian whirl in his tracks. He dodged behind the smithy, saw no one, and began running as fast as he could along the rear of the stable. There was a door ahead where a part of the stable joined the abbey wall. If he could get through it without being seen, he should have time to catch his breath while he planned his next move.

The door opened almost in his face, and a big hand caught his arm and jerked him inside. It was Brother Benedict.

“Follow me,” said his burly friend, and began running with surprising speed past a row of stalls and across an open storage area beyond. At the rear of it, where the roof met the abbey wall, the monk slid behind a stack of heavy timbers leaning against the masonry. Here in the shadows Brian made out a small wooden door.

“Better leave your staff,” he was advised. “You will not need it, and it will just be in your way.”

With some reluctance Brian thrust his quarterstaff among the timbers, and followed his guide. After the door was secured behind them they were in total darkness.

“We have fifty paces to go,” Brother Benedict said. “Hold to my robe, and keep in step with me.”

Wondering, Brian did as he was told. They seemed to be in a narrow passageway that led in a long curve through the wall. He had heard that this portion of the abbey had once been a fort, built in Roman days. Could this possibly be an old escape route?

“Here we are,” Brother Benedict said finally, as a sliver of light outlined one arm. Stooping, he pulled a rough wooden cover away from an opening just large enough to crawl through. Brian peered out at the brightening day.

His view of the moat and the world beyond it was partially obscured by a small tangle of willow shrubs that screened the spot. The moat, nearly covered with lily pads here, was only a few feet below him. Directly opposite, a larger thicket almost hid the embankment that bordered a small field.

“Now you are in on our little secret,” Brother Benedict said. “Only a few of us know of this way out of the abbey.”

“But the moat—how does one cross it?”

His guide chuckled. “On sunken planks below the lilies. Walk them carefully, or you will slip into the water as I did one night. When you have crossed and reached the field, keep your head down and follow the embankment till you come to the trees. Have no fear of being seen. There's no one on this part of the wall at this hour, and I doubt if there's a worker in the field, for it's been put to pasture.”

Brother Benedict paused a moment, listening. Brian knew that a thorough search was being made for him on the other side of the wall, but he could make out no sounds of it here.

Carefully the monk drew something from a fold of his robe. It was the sword Albericus had brought to Rupert.

Brian gasped. “Where—where did you get it?”

“I picked it up near the smithy, where it fell. No one saw me. Take it, son. It may not be all that it is supposed to be—but it happens to be the very finest of weapons, and you won it fairly against great odds. I'm proud of you!”

Brian experienced a sudden thrill as he grasped the jeweled hilt. As a weapon, it was too long and much too heavy for him, but he had no doubt of his ability to use it should the need arise. It suddenly seemed strange that Rupert, who was far taller and stronger, had been so clumsy with it.

“By doing what you did,” Brother Benedict went on, “you upset many plans, and set something in motion. But there isn't time to explain it to you here. You must be well on your way before Albericus decides you must have escaped from the abbey. He'll surely send men after you—but do not worry about them. Merra will hide you well.”

“Merra? Who—where—”

“In the forest, son, a full three leagues downstream from the Roman crossing, there flows a crystal spring from the foot of a mighty oak. It is a sacred spot, and something in you will know it when you see it. You will find Merra waiting for you there.”

“I—I don't understand,” Brian said. “How can anyone possibly know I'm coming?”

“She will know. On your way now—and may the merciful God protect you!”

Brian experienced a frightening minute as he waded the moat on the submerged planks. He was exposed to anyone who might have gone to the top of the wall to search, and with every step he almost expected to hear the snap of a bowstring and the quick hiss of an arrow. Yet he dared not hurry, for the planks were so slippery he could only slide along a foot or two at a time while he carried the sword carefully over his shoulder.

Then at last he was across, with the thick growth of willows on the embankment hiding him from any chance observer. When he glanced back he was relieved to see no one, nor could he make out the opening to the secret passageway.

As he hurried along the edge of the field behind the embankment, he was astonished to see the sun rising above the line of forest ahead. It seemed that hours must have passed since he had first heard the trumpets. How could so much have happened in the short space between dawn and sunup?

Before the sun was a hand's breadth high, he had gained the Roman crossing—a stone bridge built by Caesar's men—and was beginning to pick his way through the tangle along the edge of the stream.

Three leagues downstream, Brother Benedict had said. That was a long, long hike, and he would do well to make it by midday. But why, he wondered, would anyone want to live in so remote a spot? As nearly as he could remember from a map Brother Benedict had at the smithy, that section of the stream was entirely wild, far from any road or village. A few old trails had been dotted on the map, along with a scattering of symbols showing the location of several ruins and a chapel.

Suddenly Brian halted, thinking of those symbols. A cross had marked the location of an early chapel, but there had been another cross deep in the forest just about three leagues from the Roman crossing. Only the second cross, unlike the first, had a circle behind it. What did that mean?

And who was Merra?

Puzzled, he hurried on, swinging the sword occasionally to clear a way through the growth. It seemed that he should know the answers to both questions. And there was that curious matter of the person who had shouted to him right after he'd downed Rupert. Had it been Brother Benedict who had shouted, using a strange language so that no one who had come with Albericus would recognize either the voice or the words?

Then why had he, Brian, son of Harle the woodcutter, understood the words when he didn't even recognize the language?

At that moment a horrible thought came to him. Did he, without realizing it, know the forbidden language? The language that meant death if you were caught using it? It was supposed to be the tongue of the witches, although heretics used it also. The penalty for speaking it—just like the penalty for being caught with a Bible, which was also forbidden—was death by burning.