Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (59 page)

Anderle gathered her daughter against her, crooning as she had not done since Tiri was a little child. She had hated Galid because of the blood he had shed and the homes he had destroyed, but the man she had seen at Azan-Ylir was suffering from a sickness of the soul. A despair so great it could cloud Tirilan’s bright spirit was a danger to the world.

“By now Mikantor knows you were taken. He will be burning up the leagues to rescue you.”

“But
you
rescued me—” Tirilan hugged her and laughed. “I weep to think how he must be suffering now, but I suppose that to know he is not the only one who can do heroic deeds will be good for him.”

“We are all heroes, my dear, when danger threatens those we love. . . . And I do love you, even though we do not always agree—” she added unwillingly as she let the girl go. There could only be truth between them here.

And how could she apologize to Velantos for running off without a word? She should have trusted him, but for so long she had been accountable to none save the Goddess. What would their relationship be when this war with Galid came to an end? Had he and she been no more than tools for the gods to wield, or could they forge a life together somehow?

“If we did not love I suppose we would not care enough to quarrel—” Tirilan said softly, stretching out her arms. “Oh, how thin I have become! I must try to eat more. Mikantor will not want a bundle of sticks in his bed!”

Anderle repressed a smile. The girl was definitely on the mend. But she must have some occupation, or she would begin to fret once more.

“When Velantos brings the Star Sword, it will need a sheath.” She pulled a long bundle from her pack. “This was made for the bronze swords. Velantos forged the iron blade to the same pattern. It is two slats of wood hollowed to receive the blade and covered with rawhide sewn and shrunk.”

“It is not . . . very pretty . . .” Tirilan said dubiously.

“Just so,” her mother agreed. “And so we have this—” She unrolled a piece of doeskin dyed red with madder. “Cover the rawhide with this, and paint on the symbols that will ward the man who bears the blade.” She realized now that she had already made her contribution to the forging of the Sword. It was Mikantor’s mate who must make the sheath for this blade.

And when, Anderle wondered, had she accepted that Tirilan would not be returning to Avalon?
When I feared that I had lost her forever,
the answer came.

VELANTOS HEARD A HEAVY step behind him and dodged the fist, remembering just in time to cower instead of using the power of his forge-trained arm to knock the man across the yard.

“Make way for a warrior, slave!” The man lurched past. He wore a blade, though to call that length of pitted bronze a sword was as questionable as to call the oaf a warrior. Velantos picked up the firewood he had dropped, cursing his own inattention. He looked the part of a drudge, but even when he really
was
a slave he had found it hard to act like one. Fortunately the men who were most likely to greet a newcomer with a blow were those who had been vagabonds themselves not so long ago. There were a lot of them. Mikantor was not the only one who was recruiting men. The roundhouses within the palisade were full of them, and more were camped in the fields outside. The dirt and the stink were becoming overpowering. If Mikantor did not come quickly, sickness would do his work for him.

There were almost as many rumors as there were men. The best information came from the women who labored to feed the growing horde. They were grateful for Velantos’ strength, and happy to talk to a man who did not confuse a smile with an invitation. When he said he was looking for his cousin and described Anderle, they told him she had been there, but three days ago she had gone.

He was chopping wood outside the palisade when a chariot came rattling in with sweated horses and a wild-eyed driver. “And what was that all about?” he asked the cook when he brought in the next load.

“Oh, it is a great secret—” The woman sniffed. “So of course the whole camp knows. Keddam has had the chore of taking food to the fair-haired girl that Galid captured a moon ago, the one who made us clean the hall. They had her in a shepherd’s hut out beyond the Henge. Anyhow, this afternoon he found the door of the hut barred as always, and the girl’s clothes within, but the girl herself was gone. Everyone is saying now that she was a witch, though when she was here she seemed a sweet girl, even if she did have a bee in her bonnet about keeping things clean.”

Velantos turned away heart pounding as he realized that this was the information for which he had come. If there was a witch involved, it was not Tirilan. Anderle was safe, but where were she and Tirilan now? Galid had scouts out scouring the plain. Two had returned with the news that a great force was coming down from the north. Already men were gathering their weapons. Commanders strode through the crowd with orders to form up outside the palisade. He had best be gone before he found himself in the middle of a battle—on the wrong side.

“My lord!” Another scout was pushing through the throng. For a moment the crowd parted and Velantos caught sight of Galid coming out of the roundhouse. The warlord had put on weight since his last visit to Avalon, but he moved with a nervous energy that reminded the smith of a rabid wolf he had once seen.

“Lord Galid,” stammered the scout, “I saw smoke coming from the great henge. I could not go too close without being seen, but a woman with yellow hair was looking out from between the stones—”

“Was she now?” Gaild replied. “Keddam, harness the horses. While Dammen gets the men in motion, let us go and see if the bitch has been found . . .”

“He saw a spirit, lord,” said the warrior who had followed Galid through the door. “If it is she, she is a sorceress, and best left alone.”

“I will kill her before Mikantor’s eyes, or she will kill me—” snarled Galid in reply. “And I don’t much care which it is just now. It is time to make an end—”

And time for me to go—
thought Velantos.

 

 

 

“SOMETHING IS MOVING DOWN there,” said Ulansi. “Men are marching. I think the bastard knows we are coming.” They had crossed a fold in the land and found a slight vantage point as they came over the rise beyond.

“Good,” muttered Mikantor. “It will give him more time to be afraid—” He bent his head so that Aelfrix could finish lacing up the coat of bronze scales they had found at the smithy. The boy said that Velantos had made it while he was waiting to forge the Star Sword.

“Ah, in this coat you will blind your foes.” The boy stepped back. “In the sunlight you shine like a god.”

“A god of vengeance,” said Ulansi. In the last two days contingents from the Ai-Utu and Ai-Giru had joined them. The force that marched behind Mikantor now included men from all the tribes.

He held out his hands for shield and spear. He felt an inner stillness now that the time for action had come. His mood seemed to have communicated itself to his army.

“For the Lady Tirilan!” he cried, shaking his spear, and five hundred voices echoed him.

 

 

 

VELANTOS SPLASHED THROUGH THE Aman and climbed up the bank, straightening his shoulders and shedding the servile hunch along with the water. When he left the barrow he had noted the landmarks carefully. As the line of humps came into view along the skyline he veered to the right, casting a quick glance to the west where the Henge was coming into view. He could see no smoke there now, but dust was rising to the north—that could only be Mikantor and his men. His lips drew back in a feral grin and he hurried on.

Sunlight showed full on the face of the barrow, but the opening was as secret as before. Was it imagination that made Velantos sense a pulse of power from the Sword, as if it knew its destined master was near? He drew out the bundle and started north.

He had just crossed the processional way that led to the Henge when he heard hoofbeats and the rattle of wheels behind him. A quick glance showed him five chariots driving toward him across the plain. Behind them was a dark moving mass that must be the army. The chariots were coming fast, and there was no cover anywhere. He should have stayed hidden by the barrow, he should—There was no time to think what he should have done. What could he do now? Cursing, he pulled his threadbare mantle over all and forced his shoulders to slump once more.

The hoofbeats were too close now to pretend he did not hear. Velantos did not have to feign his recoil as the first pair of horses plunged to a halt beside him.

“What have we here?” said the warlord.

“My home burned, lord—” Velantos muttered, head bowed. “Now I wander . . .”

“You’ve chosen a bad time and place to go wandering,” Galid replied.

“He’s no vagrant, lord,” said the chariot’s driver. “I’ve seen him carrying wood at Azan-Ylir.”

“A deserter, then? Why aren’t you carrying a spear in my army? You look strong—” His tone sharpened. “Hold up your head, lout, and look at me!” He gestured, and one of the others approached with leveled spear. Velantos gathered himself to run, but the spearpoint was already at his throat.

“No wanderer indeed . . .” Galid said in a different tone. “I know this man! He is a bronze dealer I met on the road two years ago.”

“I’ve seen him too—” Keddam said suddenly. “He fought with axes at the battle in the Vale!”

“My lord—” said the driver, “the enemy—”

“—is on foot,” snapped Galid, “and cannot reach us until noon. Let’s have the pack off and see this merchant’s wares . . .”

Velantos dodged the spearpoint; the shaft caught him on the neck and he went to his knees, grabbing the spearman’s leg to pull him down. But they were too close, and too many.

“Take him alive!” cried Galid as Velantos snapped a spearshaft with his next swing. Then something hit him from behind.

He continued to fight, though his head was ringing and he could hardly see. But in moments, his hands were bound and the contents of his pack were strewn across the grass. His vision was just returning when they found the Sword.

For an endless moment no one said a word.

“Are there gods after all?” Galid said in a shaken whisper as the blade came blazing into his hand.

There are gods, and they have betrayed me,
thought Velantos, ceasing his struggles at last.

“MOTHER, I HEAR CHARIOTS—” Tirilan looked up, the stick with whose frayed end she was painting symbols on the leather sheath poised in her hand. Her eyes were wide with fear.

Anderle’s heart sank. Tirilan had been so much better. She had been working on the sheath steadily since the day before, gaining the same strength from the sigils she was painting that she was infusing into the leather she held. Today, she might even be strong enough for them to leave the Henge.

Then she heard the hoofbeats too. “Your ears are better than mine.” She forced her voice to calm. “You know what to do. . . .” She stood up and the two women clasped hands. “Reach down, tap into the power and send it through the stones . . . ” Her skin prickled as the air pressure within the circle changed. Even if the intruders could see them, they would find it very hard to enter here. Humming softly to maintain the energy, she positioned herself behind one of the uprights at the edge of the circle where she could see eastward across the plain.

There were five of them. A flare of hatred shook her concentration as she recognized Galid’s grizzled head. After him came Soumer and Keddam and two others she had seen at Azan-Ylir. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm. Beyond the chariots a dark mass moved upon the horizon, as if instead of wheat the fields had sprouted warriors. Even when the chariots halted, the earth trembled beneath the feet of marching men.

“If Galid is sending out his rabble, Mikantor must be near. We will have a good view of the fighting.”

“You will forgive me, Mother, if I am less than eager to see.” Tirilan made a brave attempt to match her mother’s tone.