C. Dale Brittain (50 page)

She finally seemed to realize something was wrong.
 
“Where are you going?”

“There is only one way to redeem anything that may be left of my honor,” he said, not turning around.
 
“I shall return to the Wanderers and tell them I am ready to go to Hel for them.
 
I do not know if a living mortal
could
return from Hel, but it does not matter.
 
I shall stay.”

She took him by the shoulders and whirled him toward her.
 
“What do you mean?” she cried, black eyes flashing.
 
“To give up your life is the path of despair, not of honor!”

“The only path of honor left,” he said dully, “is to give my own life so the lords of voima may be reborn.”

She kept a tight grip on his arms.
 
He stood quietly, not resisting, not meeting her eyes.
 
“You tried to tell me this the first time we met,” she said angrily, “that the Wanderers wanted you to bring them death.
 
At the time I did not believe it.
 
I thought they were only testing your courage.
 
But I should have listened more closely.
 
Hear what I say, Valmar!
 
The Wanderers’ time is
over.
 
Fate has ordained that it is our time now.
 
But they are too cowardly to accept this.
 
Instead they want you to bring them Death, and why?
 
Not so they can be reborn, or whatever story they tried to tell you.
 
But so they can kill us!”

He looked up then.
 
“To kill you?
 
Immortal women?
 
No!
 
That cannot be their intention.”

“They did not tell you that you could kill their hollow men—why should they have been any more truthful in this?
 
And think, Valmar!
 
They knew you wanted glory, with trumpets blowing and flags flying high.
 
Would you have followed them if you thought they wanted to murder their competition?”

Everything she said compelled belief.
 
But he could
not
think this of the strong, merciful, shining lords of voima.
 
“Maybe it is too late,” he said slowly.
 
“Maybe by coming, a mortal, into this realm I have already brought death here.”

She looked at him, considering.
 
“An interesting question.
 
You killed the Wanderers’ hollow creatures, but had they ever been truly alive?
 
Immortals have always come from immortals, but since we separated from the men no new immortals have been born.
 
Maybe they thought they could create their own successors, but even they realized that effort failed …
 
I know!
 
You can try to kill me.”

“What?!”

She had already gone briskly to get her armor.
 
“It’s the only way to find out if you have brought death here already, or merely crumbled some beings that could not truly die because they had never truly lived.
 
If death
is
here, then you certainly will not need to take a trip to Hel!”
 
She laughed at his expression, settling her horned helmet on her head.
 
“Don’t worry.
 
If you start to inflict real damage on me you can always stop in time.”

He slid his own shield on his arm, not sure what else to do, and drew his singing sword.
 
Laughing, she lashed out with a sharp blow which he parried easily.
 
She struck again, harder, and again he knocked the blow away.
 
Her third stroke he deflected on his shield.

“Are you afraid to fight me?” she asked, eyes glinting like mirrors.
 
“You have not landed a stroke yet, Valmar Hadros’s son!”

He parried her next thrust and struck her shield so hard she staggered for a second, then he returned to a defensive posture.

“You’re afraid,” she said tauntingly.
 
“You know you’ve deserted the Wanderers, and now you’re afraid even the Hearthkeepers won’t have you if you kill me.
 
Try it!
 
Or are you afraid of being defeated in swordplay by a woman?”

He had defeated her once, disarmed her without the slightest difficulty.
 
Why could he not do so now?
 
He tried to knock the sword from her hand, to strike her sword arm with his shield, but she evaded his blows.
 
Had she let him win that time, or was it his own fear of hurting her that now weakened him?

“If you
do
kill me, of course,” she said with a grin, “you will have to get word to the rest of the Hearthkeepers.
 
They will be very interested in knowing an immortal can now be killed.
 
If we ambush the Wanderers—who will not suspect anything—we can kill them all, and then we shall be sure that fate will
never
ordain another end to our rule.”

He did not like her repeated suggestions that he had betrayed the Wanderers.
 
Maybe he had, but it was not too late to make restitution, and if he had deserted them it was entirely her fault.
 
He gritted his teeth and started raining rapid blows on her shield.

She had shifted to a defensive position.
 
“Your Wanderers’ biggest mistake,” she said, panting now, “was trusting another man.
 
They should have known a man could be led by the nose like a bullock by any attractive woman.
 
Maybe they would have done better bringing a mortal woman to this land to do their bidding.”

Karin.
 
They had wanted Karin.
 
But she had refused to go with them—and maybe he should have refused as well.
 
What was Karin doing now, he wondered, back in her father’s castle?
 
Had Roric ever arrived, and, if so, had he let love for Karin destroy his honor?

The woman before him laughed again, mockingly.
 
“Before, I let you defeat me because I knew it would excite you.
 
But now, you see, I am fighting in earnest.
 
Mortal men have such capacities in some areas, I mistakenly thought they would in battle too!”

How could he have ever thought he loved her?
 
He drove forward, really fighting for the first time, swinging his sword as he had against the hollow men.
 
She fell back, no longer mocking.
 
The black eyes on either side of her nose guard looked alarmed.
 
He struck at her as he had struck at Gizor many times in practice, as he had thrust at the inarticulate weapons-master—had
that
been another hollow creature?—at the Wanderers’ manor.

In the distance came the piercing note of a horn.

He stepped back for a second and looked across the meadow.
 
A whole troop of riders were coming toward them.
 
They were still a half mile away, but the sunset light glinted on their armor and horned helmets and shone on the white banner floating above them.

While his attention was distracted she sprang forward, swinging her sword as though berserk.
 
He got his shield up just in time, parried, and thrust, driving her back again.

“We have you now, Valmar Hadros’s son,” she gasped.
 
“You belong to us!”

He dropped his shield to swing his sword furiously, two handed.
 
Its song was sweet and wild.
 
She saw the blow coming, and for a fraction of a second her eyes widened.
 
Then at the last instant she twisted—was she mocking again?—and lowered her own shield.
 
The edge of his sword struck her in the side of the neck, just below the lip of the helmet, and was immediately bathed in crimson blood.

# * # * # * # *

In the summertime of long, long ago Moikaa the hero sailed his ship alone across the deep and briny sea.
 
There the spray leaped high and the wind tasted of salt, and in the midst of the sea he saw a maiden.
 
Her hair was black, her eyes green, and her waist light and slender, and she walked across the water’s surface on shoes of leather.

“Come into my ship, oh maiden!” he called.
 
“Come and rest upon my pillows!”

But she laughed with green eyes flashing.
 
“Let disease rest upon your pillows,” she called, “but never I!”

In the autumn Moikaa went alone to the deep woods, timbering.
 
The shadows were deep, the scent of pine strong.
 
And there he saw a maiden, black-haired, green-eyed, walking across the treetops on shoes of leather.

“Come into my cart, oh maiden!” he called.
 
“Come and rest upon my blankets!”

But she laughed with dark hair swirling.
 
“Let destruction rest upon your blankets,” she called, “but never I!”

And in the winter the hero drove his sled alone across the ice fields.
 
The sun threw diamonds onto the snow surface, and the wind bit into his lungs.
 
And there he saw a maiden whose waist was light and slender, walking on the deepest drifts on shoes of leather.

“Come into my sled, oh maiden!” he called.
 
“Come and rest upon my bearskins!”

She stopped then and considered him.
 
“And why should I rest upon your bearskins?”

“Because there you shall enjoy a hero’s embraces!”

She laughed then as she came to him and stepped within his sled.
 
When Moikaa tried to kiss her she twisted away, as slippery as an eel, as swift as a jay, as cold as a shard of ice.
 
But the hero pinned her though she fought him, embraced her with his mighty arms, and finally she yielded to him upon the bearskins.

They lay then comfortably, and Moikaa asked, “Who are your mother and your father?
 
You must be born of mighty heroes!”

“I have not seen my parents for long, long years,” said the maiden.
 
“When I was just a little girl, I went berry picking with my mother.
 
Foolish girl, I wandered far, seeking the reddest berries.
 
When evening came I realized I was alone.
 
I became afraid, but no one heard my calls.
 
For hours, for days, I wandered, until the animals found me.
 
I was raised then by the sturgeons of the sea, the eagles of the air, and the ice bears from the north.
 
But still I carry my father’s name, for I am Laaiman’s daughter.”

When the hero did not answer, she turned green eyes to him and asked, “Who are your mother and your father?
 
You must be born of mighty heroes!”

“Woe!” he cried, “that I was born!
 
That disease did not suck out my life within the crib, that destruction did not fall on me before I learned to crawl!
 
When I was just a little boy, my twin sister became lost, berry picking, when she wandered from our mother.
 
I went to find her, searching far, becoming lost myself, but no one heard my calls.
 
I was raised then by war giants and dragons, but still I carry my father’s name, for I am Laaiman’s son.”

They stared at each other and spoke together.
 
“We have dishonored our parents.
 
We have dishonored the beasts who raised us.
 
We have made the lords of voima turn their backs upon us.”
 
And they went, hand in hand, to a cliff that stood near by, and they hurled themselves over.

CHAPTER TWELVE

1

She was not dead yet.
 
She collapsed at Valmar’s feet, holding a hand ineffectually across the gaping wound, but her eyes still flashed at him.
 
“They will kill you when they find what you’ve done to me!” she croaked.

He stared at her aghast, his sword dangling from his hand and still incongruously singing.
 
Blood ran across the grass, staining her armor and matting her hair.

“The rest of the Hearthkeepers,” she said in a slightly stronger voice when he did not answer.
 
“They are coming.
 
Go!”

The horned riders were closer now, and the piercing blast of the horn came again.

“If you still want to serve your Wanderers,” she gasped desperately, “you cannot let the Wanderers’ enemies kill you!
 
Go!
 
Go now!”

Her words finally penetrated.
 
She was right.
 
The Hearthkeepers were the Wanderers’ enemies and—since he had just killed one—his.
 
It would be not honor but utter folly to try to fight a whole band.