The Heirs of Hammerfell

The Heirs of Hammerfell

DAW B00KS, I N C.

DONALD A. WOLLHE1M, PUBLISHER

375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

Copyright © 1989 by Marion Zimmer Bradley.

All Rights Reserved.

Cover art by Richard Hescox.

DAW Books are distributed by New American Library,

a division of Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, NY 10014

DAW Book Collectors No. 800.

First Paperback Printing, September 1990 23456789 Printed in Canada

For Betsy, a chip off the old block.

1

Storm raged over the Hellers; lightning split the sky asunder, followed by thunder rolling in long echoing; crashes through the valleys. The driven clouds revealed ragged patches of lurid sky still lighted with the last rays of the swollen crimson sun, and, hanging near the tooth of the highest peak, the crescent rim of the pale turquoise moon. Near the zenith, a second moon hung violet and day-pale, hiding behind the racing clouds.

Snow lingered on the peaks, and occasional patches of ice endangered the precarious footing of the small horned riding beast that fled along the narrow path. Neither of the other moons was visible at the moment, but the solitary rider who traveled by their light did not care.

On the chervine's back, the old man clung to his seat in the saddle, all but unaware of the blood that still flowed sluggishly, mixing with the rain to stain the front of his shirt and cloak. Moaning cries escaped his lips as he rode, but he was no longer aware of the lament that flowed as unheeded as the blood from the wound he had all but forgotten; and in any case there was none to hear.

So young; and the last, the last of my lord's sons, and dear as a son to me, too; and so young, so young . . . so young to die . . . not much farther now; if I can only make it back before those folk of Storn realize that I managed to get away. ...

The chervine stumbled on a rock loosened by the up-thrusting ice and nearly went down.

He recovered; but the old man was jarred from his seat; he fell hard and lay still, without strength to rise, still whispering the half-voiced lament.

So young, so young . . . and how shall I bring the news to his father? Oh, my lord, my young lord , . . my Alaric!

His eyes lifted painfully to the rough-hewn and battle scarred castle high on the crags above. It might as well have been on the green moon for all he could do to reach it now.

His eyes closed reluctantly. The beast, aware of the loss of his burden but still held by the weight of the saddle binding him to his rider's will, nosed gently at the old man who lay on the icy, wet trail. When he scented the others of his kind moving down the steep pathway the old man had been climbing with such toil, he raised his head and whickered softly to attract the notice which he knew would mean food, rest, and freedom from the saddle's weight.

Rascard, Duke of Hammerfell, heard the sound and held up his hand, bringing the little procession following him to a halt.

"Hark, what's that?" he asked the paxman who

rode behind him. In the dim storm-light he could just see the riderless beast and the slumped form lying in the road.

"By the Dark Gods! It's Markos!" he cried out, flinging himself heedlessly from his saddle, and down the steep, slick path, falling to his knees beside the wounded man.

"Regis! Lexxas! Bring wine, blankets!" he bellowed, bending toward the wounded man and gently drawing away the cloak. "He's still alive," he added more quietly, hardly able to believe it was true.

"Markos, old friend, speak to me! Ah, Gods, how did you come by such a wound? Those bastards of Storn?"

f

The man in the roadway opened dark eyes, blurred now more with confusion than pain, as a dark form bent over him with a flask and held it to his mouth. He swallowed, coughed painfully, and swallowed again; but the duke had seen the bloody foam at his lips.

"No, Markos, don't try to speak." He cradled the apparently dying man in his arms; but Markos heard, with the bond between them that had endured for forty years, the question the Duke of Hammerfell forbore to speak aloud.

What of my son? What of my Alaric Ah, Gods, I trusted him to you as to my own self. . .

never in a lifetime have you betrayed that trust. . . .

And the link bore to him the semiconscious man's thoughts;

Nor now. I do not think he is dead; but the men of Storn came upon us unseen . . . a single arrow for each . . . curse them all. . . .

Duke Rascard cried out in pain.

"Zandru's demons seize them all! Oh, my son, my

son!" He held the fallen man in his arms, feeling the

old man's grief as sharply as the arrow wound that

burned as if it were in his own body.

. No, my old friend, my more than brother, no reproach to

you . . . well do I know you guarded him with your own

life

The serving-men were crying out with dismay for their master's grief, but he silenced them with a stern command.

"Take him up―gently, now! His wound need not be mortal; you will answer for it if he dies! That blanket over him―yes, like that. And a little more firi . . . careful, don't choke him! Markos, where lies my son? I know you would not abandon him―-"

"Lord Storn―that elder son of his, Fionn―carried him off―" The harsh rasping whisper failed again, but Duke Rascard heard the words he was too weak to speak aloud, I thought it was indeed over my dead body . . . then I recovered consciousness and came to bear you word, even with my last breath. . . .

"But you will not die, my friend," the duke said gently as with giant strength the horse-master Lexxas lifted the wounded man. "Set him on my own beast― gently, as you wish to go on breathing the air of this world. Back now to Hammerfell ... as swiftly as we may, for the light is failing, and we should be within doors before nightfall."

The duke, supporting the fainting body of his oldest retainer in his arms as they slowly moved back up the pathway to the heights, saw in his mind the picture in Markos's as he lapsed into unconsciousness; his son Alaric, lying across Fionn's saddle, with a Storn arrow in his breast, latest victim of the blood

feud which had raged between Storn and Hammerfell for five generations, a feud so ancient that no living man now remembered its original cause.

But Markos, though grievously wounded, still lived; was it not possible that Alaric, too, might survive, even be held for ransom?

If he dies, I swear I shall not leave a single stone of Storn Heights heaped upon another, or a living man of Storn blood anywhere in the Hundred Kingdoms, he vowed as they crossed the ancient drawbridge and reentered the gateway so recently closed behind them. He called aloud for serving men as they bore Markos into the Great Hall, and laid him down gently on a rough settee. Duke Rascard stared around wildly and commanded,

"Send for damisela Erminie."

But the household leronis, crying out in dismay; had already hurried into the Hall and kneeling on the cold stone of the entryway, she bent over the wounded man. Duke

Rascard swiftly explained what was needed, but the young sorceress, too, had dwelt lifelong with this blood feud; this slight girl was a cousin of the duke's long-dead wife, and had served him at Hammerfell since childhood.

She leaned over Markos, drawing out the blue starstone from the folds of her dress; focusing on the stone, she ran her hands down his body without touching him, holding them about an inch from the wound, her eyes remote and unfocused. Rascard watched in frozen silence.

At length she straightened, her eyes full of tears.

"The bleeding is stanched; he breathes still," she said. "I can do no more now."

"Will he live, Erminie?" asked the duke.

"I cannot tell; but against all probability, he has

lived this long. I can say only it is in the hands of the Gods; if they continue to be merciful he will survive." ""I pray so; we were children together, and I have lost so many . . ." said Rascard. Then he broke out in a great shriek of long-held-back fury, "I swear before all the Gods! If he dies, such vengeance shall be taken ..."

"Hush!" said the girl sternly. "If you must bellow, Uncle, go and do it where you will not disturb this wounded man."

Duke Rascard flushed and subsided, walking toward the hearth and dropping into a deep chair, marveling at the composure and quiet competence of this chit of a girl.

Erminie was not more than seventeen, slim and delicate with the bright new-minted copper hair of a telepath, and deep-set gray eyes. Except for these she had not a single regular feature; with them, she was almost beautiful. She followed the duke toward the fire and looked levelly into his eyes.

"If he is to live, he must be kept quiet. . . and you, too, must leave him in quiet, sir."

"I know, my dear. You were right to scold me."

Duke Rascard, twenty-third Duke of Hammerfell, was past forty, in the fullest strength of middle age. His hair, once dark, was gray as iron, his eyes the blue of copper filings in the flame. He was strong and muscular, his weathered features and the twisted ropy muscles displaying the contours of the dwarfish forge-folk from whom he derived his heritage. He looked like a once active man who had softened a little with age and inactivity, and his stern face was softer than usual as he looked on the young girl; she was not unlike the wife he had lost five years ago, when Alaric, their only son, was barely into his teens.

The two had been brought up almost as brother and sister; and the duke almost broke down, thinking of the two red heads―cropped curls, long braids―bent together over a lesson-book.

"Have you heard, child?"

The young woman lowered her eyes. No one for a thousand leagues who possessed a

single scrap of telepathic awareness, far less a leronis, intensively •trained in the use of the psychic powers of her caste, could have been unaware of that agonized interchange in which the duke had learned the fate of son and old servant; but she did not say so.

"I think I would know if Alaric were truly dead," she said, and the duke's harsh face softened.

"I pray you are right, chiya. Will you come to me in the conservatory, when you can leave Markos?"

He added unnecessarily, "And bring your starstone."

"I will come," she said, understanding what he

wanted, and returned to bend over the injured man

once more, without looking again at Duke Rascard

as he left the Hall

The conservatory, a standard feature of a mountain household, was high up in the castle, with double-thick windows, heated with several fireplaces, and even during this

inhospitable season thronged with green leaves and flowers.

Duke Rascard had seated himself in a very old and battered armchair where he could look out over the entire valley below him. He stared at the road winding up to the castle, remembering more than one pitched battle which he had fought there in his father's lifetime. So intent was he on memory that he did not hear the soft step behind him until Erminie

came around the chair and sat on the little hassock at his feet.

"Markos?" he asked.

"I will not deceive you, Uncle; his wound is very serious. The arrow pierced his lung, and it was hurt worse when he pulled the arrow forth. But he still breathes, and the bleeding has not begun again. He is sleeping; with rest and good fortune, he will live. I left Amalie with him. She will call me if he wakes; for now, I am at your service, sir."

Her voice was soft and husky, but quite steady. Living with hardship had matured her beyond her years. "Tell me, Uncle, why was Markos on the road and why did Alaric go forth with him?"

"You might not have known; but the men of Storn came last moon and burned a dozen ricks in the village; there will be hunger before seeding-time, so our men chose to go forth and raid Storn itself for food and seed for the burned-out houses. Alaric need not have gone with them; it was Markos's place to lead the men; but one of the burned houses belonged to Alaric's foster-mother and so he insisted that none but he himself should lead the raid. I could not refuse him this; he said it was a matter of honor."