Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (24 page)

“Is that the one?” Galid asked softly. He dropped the spear suddenly to prick old Orlai’s breast. “Is that trembling lamb the bridegroom, or shall I kill you instead?”

“It was him . . .” Orlai’s answer could barely be heard. One of the other men glared, but none of them had reckoned on paying such a price for witnessing a wedding. Agraw opened his eyes then, looking at Galid with a dazed expression, as if he had not understood. Perhaps that was a mercy, thought Anderle.

She took a deep breath, gathering her power. “Galid!” she cried, but his arm was already swinging. “Ni-Terat curses—” Her words were lost in Agraw’s scream as the spear drove in. For a moment the young man flailed, but Galid’s aim had been true. As he sagged, the spear jerked free. Blood spread across the front of his tunic as the victim sagged to his knees, and then to the ground.

“The food you eat, the ground you walk on . . .” spat Anderle, “Ni-Terat curses them all. Neither long life nor luck nor child nor wife shall you have, cursed by all the gods—”

“Bitch, be silent!” Galid swung the bloody spear around and Cimara clutched at Anderle’s arm. “Don’t you yet understand? The gods have abandoned us! Do you think I could have killed him if the gods cared what men do? But just in case I’m wrong, pitch the body of that fool into the river and let them have their sacrifice!”

“Your doom may be delayed,” whispered Anderle, “but one day it will come for you—” Even in her own ears her words sounded hollow. As the current took Agraw’s body, she put her arm around the weeping queen of Azan, who this night would sleep alone.

ELEVEN

I
n the heat of the afternoon, cicadas strummed from the hillside above the road like lyres that had lost their tone. Woodpecker pulled the length of brown wool that was one of his few remaining possessions across his nose and mouth to screen out the dust. By night it was his blanket, by day a drape to shield his fair skin from the sun. They had been marching for six days, from Tiryns north on the graded and graveled road to Mykenae, and then turning off before they reached the akropolis and going on toward Nemea. That had been the moment when the boy hoped for rescue, but his captors made a night march, and King Tisamenos had stayed behind his mighty walls, hoping the Eraklidae would think them impregnable. And now the high valley that sheltered Nemea was also behind them. The way ahead curved downward along a slanting ridge. Beyond the stark curves of the hills he could see the green of cultivated lands and the blue glimmer of the sea.

Korinthos, where Aletes now is king
, he thought grimly, trying not to wonder what would happen when they got there. First—he glanced anxiously at the wagon where Velantos had been unceremoniously dumped atop piled sacks of grain—they had to reach the city alive. He could understand why Kresfontes, on learning who Velantos was, had not wanted to keep him in Tiryns where he might lead the surviving populace in an uprising. But the prince should not have been moved so soon. Woodpecker had protested, but slaves, as he understood only too well, had no choices. And Kresfontes and Temenos had decided to let the gods choose whether to preserve King Phorkaon’s last son or relieve the Eraklidae of a problem.

The officer whom the kings had put in charge of this collection of loot rode in a chair-litter, out of the dust at the head of the column, shaded by oiled cloth stretched over hoops. A dozen warriors tramped after it, though the boy could not imagine from what dangers the man thought he needed protection. All the scary people were guarding
him
.

Perhaps if Woodpecker could find a stick he could use it to prop his bit of wool over his eyes so he could have shade without sweltering.
I am a slave,
he told himself.
What I cannot change I must endure.
With Velantos he had almost forgotten that, for a while.

He thought he heard a grunt from within the wagon and stepped closer to see. Velantos lay curled around one of the sacks, his head pillowed on another, apparently asleep. But he knew that the prince feigned sleep even when pain did not exhaust him, as if by closing his eyes, he could shut the new reality away.

It did not work for me,
thought the boy,
and the gods know I tried.
On the voyage from Belerion to Tartessos he had been too seasick to care where he was. By the time they arrived, he could count his ribs. He did not know why they had not simply tossed him into the sea.

He leaned over the wagon. Velantos had grown thinner even in the past week. Above the black beard the strong shape of cheekbone and jaw stood clear. Even wasted, the powerful lines of the smith’s body were still apparent, but the tension that had enabled him to manifest that power was missing, or rather disrupted, as limb locked against limb to resist the pain. Velantos’ features tensed as the wagon hit a deeper rut, throwing him against the side, and Woodpecker heard a moan the older man could not deny.

“My lord! I know you’re not sleeping—this jolting would wake the dead,” he babbled. “Would you like water? And maybe I can fix something to keep off the sun.”

“Not dead . . .” Velantos echoed. Woodpecker wasn’t sure whether that had been a confirmation or a complaint. “Water would be . . . good.”

Woodpecker wondered if they had given him the skin of water to test his devotion or his self-control. But after three years in this dry land he could go without if he had to. He pulled the stopper and held it to Velantos’ lips, steadying the man’s head with his other hand.

As they descended, they began to pass scattered farmsteads. Men and women were working in the vineyards, hoeing weeds into the soil and trimming shoots to concentrate growth in the hard green grapes that were beginning to swell on the vines. They looked up as the soldiers came into view, then returned to their labor, satisfied that this was the enemy they already knew, unlikely to ravage fields where food could grow.

“I suppose the worst has already happened to them,” Woodpecker said aloud. “Farmers are like that, even when the world is falling apart. I remember—” He faltered, and then, seeing interest replace the pain in Velantos’ eyes, forced himself to go on. “In my country, after the floods came, or the human wolves, they would go back to the fields.”

“Earth must be served,” said the older man. His gaze grew inward. “I tell myself that it doesn’t matter who rules. The kingdoms of men rise and fall, but the peasants remain. So long as the crops still grow, life will go on. The blood of the slain fertilizes the fields.”

But if the sun doesn’t shine, the crops can’t grow,
thought Woodpecker, remembering some of the bad years at home.
Men and beasts alike prey on each other.
For the first time, it occurred to him to wonder if the disasters that beset the Island of the Mighty had troubled other northern lands. Could such disturbances have pitted one people against another until the pressure set the Children of Erakles in motion? If the whole world was sick, he shouldn’t envy these farmers. They too were doomed. They just didn’t know it yet.

“Is something wrong?”

As Velantos spoke, Woodpecker realized that he had been silent for too long. But his reflections would be a poor medicine for a wounded man. He shook his head with a bright smile. “Thinking about farmers. This land is so different from my home—”

In other circumstances he might have enjoyed this opportunity to see the interior of Akhaea. His earlier journeys had mostly been made by sea. At the summer’s beginning the grass had already ripened to gold. Though patches of brush dotted the hillsides and taller trees clustered in the ravines, the shape of the land was still clear. The dark green pillars of holy cypress were scattered across them like the columns of a temple for the gods of the wild.

“They say that long ago there were more trees here,” muttered Velantos. “We cut them for houses and firewood and charcoal for smelting copper ore. There were lions too, but none has been seen in Akhaea since the one that Erakles killed.”

“If I could I would summon a lion to chase his children home again—” said Woodpecker, and was rewarded by the twitch of a smile.

The hill they had been descending began to level off. At its base clustered a few oak trees and some bushes with leathery pointed leaves and pink flowers, surrounding a stone basin that collected the trickle of water from a spring in the side of the hill. An order from ahead turned the line toward the trees.

When they came to a halt, Woodpecker assisted his master to sit up and found two sticks over which he stretched his bit of cloth to provide some shade. It was hot. When he went to refill his waterskin, he plucked a spray of the pink flowers. They had five petals with squared-off tips and a faint sweet smell.

“It’s so dry here, I’m always surprised to find flowers.” He held them out to the older man. “These are pretty. What are they called?”

“Bitter Laurel—highly poisonous.” Velantos’ wry smile became a bark of laughter as Woodpecker snatched the flowers away. “But only if you eat them. A grown man would only become sick, but a little can kill a child.”

Woodpecker relaxed, but he did not return the flowers.

“You need not fear I’ll try to poison myself,” Velantos added bitterly. “I have no wish to add a bad belly to the pain I bear. Though I do not know why you should take the trouble to keep me alive, or for that matter, what gives you the right to do so.”

Woodpecker gave him a sidelong glance, trying to decide whether this was a convalescent’s petulance or a justified anger. He wondered suddenly if he had fretted so much about Velantos in the days since the fall of Tiryns to avoid asking himself the same question.

“My reasons are selfish, of course—” he said flatly. “Taking care of you gives me a purpose . . . again. When I was growing up, I was told I was born for great things. But I think now that those who said so were fighting their own despair. If the gods had a plan, they should have given me more protection! If I can’t serve myself, at least I can serve you.” He stopped short, breathing rather quickly. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to feel that particular pain. He cast a quick glance at Velantos, who was looking thoughtful.

“Then I suppose I should try to deserve your devotion, though it seems rather thankless when I am a slave too.”

“Maybe that is why,” Woodpecker replied shortly. “I serve you because that’s what
I
choose. And what I choose now is to take a look at that leg of yours—” he added, and Velantos, interpreting the look on his face correctly, stretched out his leg with a grimace and a sigh.

The Eraklidae had rousted them awake early, allowing no time for Woodpecker to dress the wound. His lips tightened as he unwound the bandage. The spearpoint had gone deep, and though the wound had bled profusely, who could say what filth still hid within? The skin around the gash was an angry red, hot and hard to the touch. Velantos flinched when he bathed it and applied powdered sage to poultice it anew. For whatever good that might do, the boy thought grimly. It should be opened up so that the medicine could reach it. Velantos needed a healer, not a barbarian who could only try to apply what little he remembered of the ways old Kiri had treated his scrapes at Avalon.

He could feel Velantos trembling, though the man made no sound. He wrapped a new bandage around the leg and took the old one to the spring to wash. When he came back, the prince’s eyes were closed. Woodpecker looked more closely and saw that he had stopped sweating. That was not a good sign.

 

 

 

VELANTOS WRITHED IN WAVES of heat. He could see the rim of the crucible around him; he was the raw ore, the essential metal liquifying as the dross rose to the surface. He groaned as a harsh touch scraped his skin, scooping it away. He hoped the smith knew what he was doing; If the fire was allowed to grow too hot, even copper would burn. Perhaps that would be best—the pyre would consume his pain.

“Velantos—open your mouth. Drink this!”
The order came from some other world, but his body must have responded; he tasted cool bitterness, and suddenly the heat gave way to racking chills. His sensitized skin screamed at the touch of a woolen blanket, and then he was back in the crucible, and the cycle began once more.

Each time it happened the sensations were more intense, more divorced from any human reality. The crucible became the body of a woman formed of flame, slender and supple, with glowing eyes. He gave himself to Her more fully than ever he had with any mortal lover, pouring out his essence in Her embrace.

“Now you are fire
. . .
”
said the goddess,
“by giving all, you become everything
.
”

“But can do nothing—”
came a voice like thunder.
“If he would serve You, he must be shaped and hardened, hammered and honed.”

I don’t want
. . . the spark that was Velantos protested, but already the grip of the goddess was tightening; he felt himself changing in her arms. Still glowing, he was lifted and laid upon an anvil. He convulsed at the first blow, and again and again as each particle of his body was realigned.

He screamed as he was plunged into water. He felt the new shape solidifying to contain him, to constrain him, and opened his eyes to meet Woodpecker’s frightened gaze. He closed them again, striving to recapture the vision, weeping with the pain of that loss, and slowly became aware that his whole body was wet, that he lay in a cold pool.

“Lift him out now,” said a deep voice, “before he takes a chill.”

He could neither help nor resist as many hands maneuvered his body. He felt as if he had no bones. They put him on something yielding, covered him with something soft.

“Velantos, can you hear me?” came Woodpecker’s voice, and then, “Have we saved him? Did the fever burn his mind away?”

“Give him time, lad,” the deep voice replied. “He has been to the gate of Hades. To return will take a little while.”