Oath and the Measure (39 page)

Luin shivered as the wind struck her wet flanks. Sturm dismounted quickly and drew a blanket from the saddle, drying off the mare as best he could.

The crossing had been easy, almost suspiciously so. The music had faded in midriver, but the mare had plodded along complacently and steadily from the east bank to the west. Though the change in the weather promised an uncomfortable ride, the longest part of the journey was behind Sturm now, and no more perils awaited him save the last and most deadly—the confrontation at the Tower with
Boniface.

Again the lad mulled over the past fortnight, sorting evidence from rumor and fact from hearsay. He would have been an easy target, kneeling absently by the flanks of the mare, his hands and mind preoccupied, had not Tivok approached by the water’s edge, his footsteps breaking loudly through a thick sheet of ice.

Sturm lurched to his feet at once, drawing his weapon and wheeling to face the large draconian. With a menacing hiss, Tivok drew his blade and brought it whistling down. Sturm raised his sword to block the blow and felt the clash and grating of blades all the way up his arms and into his shoulders.

The draconian was stronger than he. He couldn’t hope to match him blow for blow.

Sturm scrambled away from Tivok, dodging a pivoting slash from the creature’s barbed sword. Snorting with surprise, Luin trotted down to the riverbank, leaving the two combatants to their business. Holding his sword level and to the fore, Sturm circled the draconian, crouching and ready for the onslaught.

Tivok, however, was no green, untutored fighter. He bided his time, moving steadily with the circling lad, and when the moment came, it was sudden and accurate and almost deadly. Sturm toppled away from the unexpectedly quick rush and thrust, blocking one blow and deflecting another, slipping over the icy ground until he was out of sword’s reach. Only the quickness of his youth and the winter sluggishness of his enemy’s blade saved him from quick death on a ragged edge.

Nevertheless, the draconian had drawn blood. Sturm rose unsteadily, clutching his leg.

Tivok stepped back, leaning scornfully on his sword.

“That, Solamnic, should be sufficient,” he announced.

Sturm said nothing but steadied for another onslaught.

“The blade, you see, was poisoned, as is our practice, dishonorable though your Order may find it.”

“What has my Order to do with this?” Sturm asked angrily, lifting his sword.

“Its money has paid for the poisoning,” Tivok retorted with a dry laugh. Tauntingly he raised his sword as well, turning the blade slowly.

“Wh-What do you mean by that?” Sturm asked. His leg throbbed and he stumbled.

“Solamnic money paid me and my mates,” Tivok explained, his voice halting and sweet, as though he were teaching a young and thick-witted child. “The finest swordsman of your Order offered me gold and ordered me here to await your return.”

“Boniface?” Sturm asked, though he already knew the answer. The draconian began to circle, his black tongue flickering.

“Don’t anger yourself,” Tivok teased, sword changing from hand to hand. “Poison moves all the more swiftly through hot blood.” He laughed and took one tentative step toward the lad. “But Boniface it was,” he whispered melodramatically, his eyes glittering with wicked merriment. “Called himself Grimbane, he did, as if we hadn’t heard of the great Solamnic swordsman, couldn’t hear him talkin’ to his squire as they approached the Vingaard. ’Tis Boniface indeed, and he’ll give me more gold for your head, which I’ll take when the poison’s through with you.”

The draconian approached Sturm confidently, his breath misting the toothed blade of his sword.

“If I am poisoned, then what does the rest matter?” Sturm declared coldly. The thought was reckless, strangely liberating.

Tivok shrugged ironically. Then music erupted all around them.

It was a warlike skirl of flutes, an old funeral song of Solamnia, loud and shrill. Tivok flinched and was startled for only a moment, but Sturm was on him before he could recover, singing as wildly as he sang that icy morning in the courtyard of the Tower.

Tivok staggered back, his tail thrashing roughly in the ice-encrusted mud. The two swords locked instantly, Solamnic heirloom and saw-toothed draconian saber. Sturm slipped gracefully between the blades, rolled under the draconian’s legs, and leapt to his feet on the creature’s other side, swatting his tail playfully with the flat of the sword.

“Back here, Your Amphibiousness,” Sturm taunted. He wheeled and brought his sword around in a dazzling arc, and it took all of the draconian’s quickness to stop the slashing blow.

Back Tivok staggered, the lad before him a prodigy of blade and movement and invention. Wherever Tivok’s sword went, Sturm parried it, as though the weapon itself sensed movement and intent. Sturm danced just out of reach of the sword, lunging and darting like a hummingbird, his long blade thrusting and nipping and flickering.

There seemed to be two of him, splashing bravely at the margins of the Vingaard.

Slowly the draconian’s fear overtook him. Something had gone awry with the poison, for by now the human should be helpless, paralyzed.

Tivok looked about frantically, searching for high ground, for reinforcements, for avenues of escape. Always his eyes came back to the sword, flashing and turning at his throat, his chest, his face. Sturm danced and sang as he fought, and the air whistled with the sound of wind over metal and the faint descant of a distant flute.

The draconian gathered himself and leapt toward the lad
in desperation. Hurtling through the air, he turned clumsily, his sword waving ineffectually as Sturm stepped aside …

And brought his sword down at the base of the creature’s skull.

It was all over in a moment. Though the last cry of Tivok the draconian carried upriver to his drowsing cohorts, no one came to his aid to avenge his death upon the lad who vaulted into the saddle and, too wise to wait for further trouble, spurred his little mare to the west across the level, forsaken plains.

Lying on the dam, Hawode stirred at the distant noise, then tumbled into a deeper sleep.

Vertumnus set down his flute and sighed.

Below, the villagers sat transfixed by the song, their faces uplifted. They hadn’t seen what the pooled waters of the clearing had shown him—the reflection of Sturm’s crossing the Vingaard and the struggle that took place on the western banks.

Jack cleared his throat.

“Not much of your exalted friend left in that son of his,” he observed teasingly, his gaze on Lord Wilderness.

“You could have learned much from him, Jack,” Vertumnus insisted. “Most of the world out there is like him.”

“We wish the lizard had eaten him!” Diona hissed.

“We do
not!
” Evanthe argued, pulling her sister’s hair until the smaller dryad squealed with anger and pain. They
wrestled like squirrels on a high branch, then stopped suddenly as Evanthe hung precariously from a twig.

“But why, Lord Vertumnus?” they asked in unison. “Why did the lizard’s poison fail?”

“Washed by the snow of our music,” Vertumnus explained. “And no more scuffles and snicker-snacks from the two of you!” He waved his flute at the dryads, and the wind coursed through it. Instantly the vallenwood sprouted branches all about them, trapping them in a cage of wood.

The Green Man looked into the pool, where leaves floated aimlessly and the waters rippled and swirled. The faint call of birds at the edge of the forest signaled spring’s return, and a warm western breeze sailed through the branches.

“He is a noble sort,” Jack observed after a long silence in which the villagers, believing the music and drama were over and that what was said now passed only between father and son, dispersed to various tasks in the clearing. “Honorable and brave, and only half tedious. He distinguished himself with sword and honor.”

“That is all he chooses to know,” Vertumnus observed. “And he may perish for lack of knowledge.” As he put away his flute, music again filled the clearing.

Quickly the company in the trees turned toward the source of the melody. The elf maiden Mara stood at the far edge of the pool, clad in a white gown of gossamer and leaves. A wreath of holly was woven into the strands of her dark hair, and her eyes were adorned with the subtle colors of berries.

Hollis stood behind her, grinning at her handiwork and at how Jack Derry’s eyes and smile widened at the sight of the girl.

Mara held the flute to her lips and played on, the stately hymn of Branchala, for which only the elves have words. The villagers, sensing something wonderful and beyond their understanding, stopped their tasks to listen. Standing in a ring of children, Weyland the smith turned to face the elf maiden and reverently removed his hat.

“Bitch!” Diona hissed angrily, but she fell into silence at a withering glance from Vertumnus. Jack rose and climbed down the tree, his eyes never leaving the brilliant spectacle of maiden and music, his thoughts adoring and intimate.

Vertumnus turned away, surrendering the privacy of the moment to his son and the girl.

“The first of spring is always approaching,” he whispered knowingly.

Around Sturm the night had settled, and the stars arranged themselves in the winter constellations. It struck him for the first time that perhaps the days had reversed themselves, that the year had sunk back into ice to await the coming of spring.

For a moment, his thoughts turned to the Southern Darkwoods. Perhaps if the spring were postponed, there was still time to turn the horse about, to retrace the path he had taken.…

But he was deep into Solamnia now, a scant three hours’ ride from the Tower of the High Clerist. He had chosen to return, and now he would do so, regardless of judgment and censure and the threat of Lord Boniface. It was honorable to see this through, to brave the disapproval of Lords Gunthar and Alfred and Stephan for the sake of justice. And for revenge.

Surely the Knights would incline their ear to redress Lord Boniface’s misdeeds. For Justice is the heart of the Measure and the soul of the Rose.

On he rode, into the mountainous night, until the faint sentry lights on the battlements of the Knight’s Spur shone high in the west like one last constellation.

They clothed him, and fed him, and put him to bed. Old
Reza attended the Knight’s quarters in the early hours of the morning, and it was he who saw to Sturm’s comfort, arranging bread and cheese on a table in front of the lad and pouring goblet after goblet of water while he poured Tower gossip into Sturm’s inattentive ears.

“And the Jeoffreys feuded with the MarKenins once more, young master, though not as fiercely as they done back in the summer of ’twenty-seven. It all started when young Hieronymus Jeoffrey lit into Alastor MarKenin after some hunting they done in the Hart’s Forest. Hieronymus come from it with a black eye and a dented countenance, which makes Darien Jeoffrey decide that Sir Alastor is needin’ to be … well, adorned likewise. So Darien and a trio of younger Jeoffreys light into Alastor in a dark passage over the Knight’s Spur, and he comes out with eye and countenance and a broken left hand to boot. Which Lord Alfred redresses by pushing Darien against a crenel the next morning and grabbing the lad’s off hand with a little too much emphasis, if you understand …”