Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (36 page)

“And so you should be,” scolded the boy. “But Buda has the fire going and water heating for tea. Can you sit up now?”

Velantos felt a strong arm lifting him and opened his eyes. A pale golden light was shafting down a passage formed by mighty stones. The boy was holding him, no, the man,
Mikantor . . .
With the name came memory.

“Diwaz Keraunos save us . . .” he whispered. He felt weak and sick, but he was alive.

“
Somebody
certainly did,” Mikantor replied, “and it’s more than you deserve. What did you think you were doing, prancing about up there?”

“I thought . . . there might be need for . . . a sacrifice. . . .” With an effort Velantos got his feet under him and Mikantor helped him to stand. “Where is the stone?”

“The one you were clutching? It was all we could do to pry it out of your fingers. It’s there, on the ground—”

“Give it to me . . . please.” Velantos straightened, peering down the passageway. “Help me to take it inside,” he said as Mikantor put the stone into his hand. “It belongs there.”

“I . . . see,” said the young man as he helped along. “I cannot pretend I don’t understand, having made a similar offer myself. I am glad my ancestors were kinder than your god.”

My god . . .
Velantos had always given his worship to the Lady of Craft, with a nod to Epaitios. But here in the north, the powers of Diwaz and Epaitios were combined into a single mighty being whom the smith could no longer ignore.

The passage ended in three small chambers, like a hammer on a long haft. With a quick glance at their tumbled contents, Velantos bent to lay the stone ax down.

“Lie here in peace—” he murmured, “with my thanks for your blessing.”

He let Mikantor turn him back down the passage. He was walking almost normally by the time they emerged into the light of the new day.

 

 

 

“HOW ARE YOU FEELING?” asked Mikantor, using the Akhaean tongue. Three days had passed since the thunderstorm at the ancient tomb, but Velantos still worried him.

“Very well—” Velantos answered absently, smiling a little as two swans emerged from among the reeds that bordered the river and floated off like feathered clouds. The travelers had descended from the track along the hills and were following the Aman toward the springs of Sulis, for Mikantor had decided to approach Avalon from the north, avoiding Galid’s land. The smith seemed to have recovered physically, but there was a brightness about him that reminded Mikantor of the way he had looked after his night in the temple of Apollon. He supposed that was only to be expected when one was touched by a god.

“Why are you smiling?” Velantos asked.

“I was just thinking that I am not the only one about whom the people will be telling stories now.”

The smith’s heavy brows came down in a familiar frown. “I told everyone not to speak of what happened at the tomb!”

Mikantor’s grin broadened. “And we both know how much good that does when men are looking for heroes. When Ganath and I went into Carn Ava last night, Lady Nuya and the queen had heard how you were blessed by the Thunder Lord, and scolded me for not bringing you along. It was one of the People of the Hills who told them. It is said they have the gift of passing unseen.”

“When I looked at the mound, I did feel as if someone was watching me,” Velantos replied. “Perhaps I should have gone with you. A priestess might be able to tell me why I am still alive.”

“Ask Lady Anderle,” said Mikantor. “She always has answers.” Velantos raised an eyebrow at a bitterness Mikantor could not quite keep from his tone. “What was it like?” he added to distract the older man. When they got to Avalon, Velantos could form his own opinion of Anderle. And for three days Mikantor had been wondering. This was the first time Velantos had seemed focused enough for him to ask.

“Like a piece of bronze must feel when the hammer comes down. . . .” the smith said slowly. “I have been changed—shaped—but for what purpose I do not know.”

“I know
that
feeling well!” Mikantor exclaimed with a short laugh. “Well, I am grateful that you and I are treading the same path. And speaking of paths, . . .I had better find out what our guide is finding so interesting over there.”

The ground was rising. The track wound among hillsides thickly wooded with beech and holly, while the river rushed more swiftly below. The boy whom they had brought from Carn Ava was staring at the muddy earth where a narrow path branched off from the road. He was a nephew of Lady Nuya’s and ought to be trustworthy, but said little, as if overawed by his company.

“What is it?” He squatted down beside the boy.

“Many men have passed this way.” The lad pointed to the overlay of footprints. “They came down the path and turned onto the track we are following, not too long ago. Big, strong men, carrying burdens, but nothing too heavy—see how the marks are pressed in, but far apart, as if the man has a long, fast stride.”

“You have a good eye,” said Mikantor.

“I learned to track raiders. I think these men carry weapons.”

“I think so too . . .”
And I think they knew we were coming, and will be waiting for us up the road,
thought Mikantor. It would be little use to turn back, for if the travelers did not appear, their foes would track
them
and fall upon them from behind.

“Keep watch while I talk to the others,” he said aloud, though he had no idea what they could do. He and Velantos were the only warriors, and he suspected the smith was still weak from his ordeal. Someone must have seen him with Ganath in Carn Ava and reported to Galid, unless this was some chance group of brigands. No one they had met earlier knew what route they were taking, and he did not think the elder folk would bear tales to Galid. So they could not know how many were in his party, or who they were.

“Everyone, listen—” he called. “We have to decide what to do.”

 

 

 

MIKANTOR SHIFTED THE PAD beneath the box on his shoulder and bent once more as the warriors appeared at the top of the hill.

“Diwaz Keraunos, be with us now,” whispered Velantos, who walked ahead of him.

He ought to be praying to Ereias, patron of travelers and thieves, thought Mikantor. Certainly, for this deception to work, some god was going to have to grant them a miracle. Velantos tugged uneasily at the veil that Buda had artfully folded around his head. Galid would not know that no such style of headgear had ever been seen in the lands of the Middle Sea. So long as Velantos looked foreign, it did not matter if he looked like a fool. Mikantor, his hair darkened with soot and skin covered with an artistic application of grime, was wearing a mismatched collection of garments borrowed from the other members of their company and bearing part of the pony’s load.

If they brought this off, he thought with mingled exasperation and amusement, it would be because of Buda’s costuming skills. And if their enemies saw through the mummery and attacked, bound within the bundle of sticks Mikantor carried was his sword.

Velantos lifted his hand and his followers came to a ragged halt, except for the pony, who kept going for several more steps, dragging Aelfrix along. The covers had been taken off the box of tools the beast bore, so that carving and brasswork shone in the sun. Mikantor’s lips twitched as the smith straightened, thrusting out his chest in a pose that one of Phorkaon’s stewards had adopted when he was about to deliver some especially pompous proclamation.

“Halt and give way, for a master smith of Tiryns,” said Velantos in the tongue of Akhaea and then, “Stop, swordmen—what you want?” intentionally misprounouncing the language of the tribes.

“Outlander, what you got?” mocked one of the newcomers. From the others came a burst of laughter.

Peering beneath the shadow of his bundles, Mikantor counted nearly a dozen sturdy, dour men with shields slung over their backs, armed with swords and spears. Too many to fight. He was glad he had sent Ganath and Beniharen to hide in the forest, for they would surely have been recognized. Two could be hidden, but not all. They had begged him to go with them, but he could not leave Velantos to face enemies alone.

Hands went to swords as Velantos pulled his hammer from his belt and hefted it, the bronze head gleaming in the sunlight. “Bronze—” called the smith. “I make. You need?”

When they had played hide-and-seek at Avalon, they had learned to spin a sphere of protection that would deflect a seeking eye. Mikantor hoped his friends remembered how. Tirilan had been the best at it. She could stand in the middle of the playing field and remain unseen. He forced back the image of Tiri manifesting in a blaze of sunlight as she took down her shielding. Soon he would see her—the thought set his heart to pounding with a tension that owed nothing to his present danger. He would see her, but first he had to live through today.

The warriors spread out to block the road, grinning at the spectacle of this black-bearded hammer-waving man with his ridiculous headdress. Mikantor squatted in the dust, one knee bent so he could spring up again if need be.
I am not a threat
. . . he projected the thought,
no one to fear. . . no one to think about at all.
During his slavery he had gotten quite good at being no one. His gut clenched at the effort it took to do it now, in his own land.

A man pushed through, shorter than some, but strongly built, with coils of gold wire binding the many braids of his grizzled hair. Over a shirt of heavy hide he wore a russet cloak, pinned with gold. Mikantor looked at those braids and felt a chill, remembering Anderle’s story of the destruction of Azan-Ylir.

“What I need I take, and I stop whom I please. I am the law in this land.”

I could grab my sword and reach him in six strides,
thought Mikantor, trembling. After that, the warriors would cut him down, but if this was Galid, it might be worth the price. Or it would be, if Galid’s tyranny were the only thing that troubled this land. Slowly, he mastered himself once more.

Velantos spread his hands in confusion. “No speak, no speak. You want bronze?” Mikantor’s lips twitched, for although the smith spoke little, by this time he understood the speech of the tribes pretty well.

Galid gestured impatiently to one of his men, who stepped forward.

“Do you have trade talk?” he asked in a dialect close to the speech of the City of Circles.

“Aye, aye!” Velantos grinned broadly. “That is why I have come. I seek to buy copper and tin. I am told you have rich mines in the west—” He waved in the direction of the Ai-Ushen lands.

“Once,” came the reply, “but no longer.”

“Truly? Well, maybe then I will go south, where there is tin.”

Galid muttered something to the interpreter. “My master asks who are those with you?” He nodded toward Buda, who had grimed her own face and hunched awkwardly to obscure her buxom figure, and Aelfrix, who hung his head.

“My servants—” said Velantos, as if surprised he should need to ask. “The woman cooks, the boy tends the pony.”

“And the big one?”

“Ah, he is my Erakles—” Velantos grinned sourly. “He lifts the heavy things and works the bellows for the forge. Strong he is, but not too bright—” Mikantor felt Galid’s gaze upon him and became even more still.

“See what he has in those chests.”

“My master says to open the boxes,” echoed the interpreter.

Velantos nodded. “Erakles,” he said in Akhaean, “put down thy bundles and unload the pony. And
be careful,
in the name of all the gods.”

Mikantor knew how to interpret that warning. He shrugged off his burdens and staggered to his feet. If Velantos could play the fool, then so could he. He let his arms hang loosely as he stumped over to the pony and began to fumble at the lashings. His muscles creaked as he manhandled the oak box, clanking faintly, to the ground. Velantos knelt on his left to undo the hasp, and picked out one of the spearpoints that lay on top, stepping between Galid and Mikantor.

“This is my work—do you wish to buy?” The warm metal glinted as he held it high.

“How many of these does he have?” Galid murmured to the other man.

“Six, lord—”

“Take them. Say it is to buy their passage through my land.”

Velantos stiffened as the interpreter passed this on. “But this is robbery! I am a smith, blessed by the gods. They will not like that you treat me so!”

“Then let the gods reward you!” replied the interpreter.

As the man began to pick up the spearpoints, Velantos’ hand came down on Mikantor’s shoulder, squeezing hard. He stayed where he was, but his blood was boiling—surely steam must be coming from his ears.

“Be still . . . I can make more . . .” Velantos mingled the words with Akhaean fulminations chronicling the robbers’ probable ancestry and certain fate while the warriors laughed.

Mikantor kept his head down, whispering his own curses as he listened to Galid and his bullies tramp away.

“Ssh . . . hush, be easy now,” murmured the smith. “They are gone. Get up now and reload the pony, but carefully, for they may have left a scout to spy. We will continue on our way and make no trouble, and by evening it may be safe for your friends to join us once more . . .”

He spoke in a smooth singsong, thought Mikantor, like a man soothing a fractious mare. “And like a good slave I will obey . . .” he muttered bitterly.

“But no longer mine,” said Velantos. “Now you serve this land.”

Mikantor looked up and felt the tightness in his chest begin to ease as he met the older man’s grim smile. “That’s so . . .” he breathed. “But I promise you this. Next time I meet that man I will have a sword in my hand!”

SEVENTEEN

M
ikantor had risen as soon as it was light enough to load the pony and roused the others, protesting and grunting, to pull on whatever clothing they had not slept in and get on the road. He himself took the lead rope to haul the beast along.