The Heirs of Hammerfell (23 page)

"Believe me, I am grateful for your gracious hos-

pitality, my lord; and I have always heard there is no quarrel so great it cannot be amended, even if it be between Gods rather than men. Since we are no more than men, it's certain that whatever lies between us can somehow be healed, given good will and good faith."

Lord Storn beamed with relief at Alastair's gracious little speech. He had changed from the rough working clothes he had worn on the fire-line; his hair was combed back from his brow, gray in color, but so smooth and gleaming over his high forehead that Alastair suspected it was a wig; he wore rings on • his Fingers and was clad in a rich gown of sky-blue brocade. He looked imposing, even regal.

"I will drink to that, then, Duke Hammerfell. Let me give you my solemn assurance, that if you seem willing to leave past grievances behind us, you have nothing to fear from me. Even though at your last encounter with my men you killed my nephew and

threatened me with death . . ." Lord Storn's voice had begun to take on a dangerous edge.

Alastair raised his hand to stop him, anxious to protect his fragile safety. .

"With respect, sir, I came on your lands for the first time this day. The man who so ungraciously threatened you and your policies was not I, but my younger brother―my twin. He was brought up by my lather's old retainer, who was under the mistaken

impression that my mother and I had perished in the fire that claimed Hammerfell, and that my brother Conn was the last survivor of Hammerfell blood. My younger brother is impetuous, and I fear he is deficient, in noble behavior and good breeding. If he treated you without proper respect, I can only

ask your pardon for him and attempt to make amends. I see no reason, sir, why this bitter and irrational feud should continue for another generation." Alastair sincerely hoped his little speech had appeased his ancient enemy.

Lord Storn smiled broadly.

"Indeed? Was it then your brother who raided my lands and killed my nephew? And he thought himself the rightful Duke of Hammerfell? Where is he now?"

"As far as I know, he is in Thendara, sir, with my mother, where I have lived these eighteen years since the burning of Hammerfell. We were reunited less than forty days ago. And I came north to look after the best interests of my people here on my ancestral lands."

"Alone?"

"Yes, alone, except―" abruptly he remembered.

"My dog! I remember hearing her barking as I fell beneath the tree. I hope she was not hurt."

"The poor old thing would hardly let us touch you, even to treat your burns," said Lord Storn. "She is safe, yes; we would have taken her to my own kennel, but my

granddaughter recognized her and brought her here."

"I saw her in the tavern, and we made friends, you remember," Lenisa said, smiling.

"My mother would never forgive me if anything happened to old Jewel," Alastair said.

Lord Storn went to the room door and opened it; Lenisa said "Dame Jarmilla, please bring in Lord Hammerfell's dog." She added to Alastair, "You see, she's in good hands―the hands of my own governess."

The swordswoman he had seen in the tavern came

in, holding Jewel's collar; but as Alastair struggled to sit up in bed, she broke from the woman's hands and leaped at him, swarming up on the bed and licking his face.

"There, leave off, there's a good girl," Alastair said, in considerably more pain from Jewel's display of affection. He pushed her head away, saying, "It's all right, old girl, no harm done. I'm really all right. Down, now." He looked up at Lord Storn. "I hope she didn't bite anyone in your household, sir."

Jewel sank down, lying near the head of the bed, her eyes fixed on Alastair's face, and did not budge.

"No, I don't think so," Lord Storn said, "though I think if Lenisa had not made friends with her, she might have attacked any who came near you; we had to bring her into the keep, she was barking enough to rouse the whole countryside. She won't eat anything, hasn't had a thing since you were injured."

"She wouldn't touch the food and beer served to all the firefighters in the hall when we came from the lines," Lenisa said. "Perhaps she was too worried about you to eat."

"No," Alastair said, "my mother and I trained her to take food from no hands but ours."

"1 don't know if that's a good idea or not," said the swordswoman Jarmilla. "If you both died, the poor thing would starve herself to death."

"Well, she's never been out of my sight before," Alastair said. "And one doesn't exactly plan to get killed or hurl."

"No, I suppose not," Lord Storn said, "but there's an old saying, 'Nothing's sure but death, and next winter's snow'; we can't always stop to make arrange-merits for our descendants―or our dogs―before we get killed, especially these days."

"No, I suppose not," said Alastair, remembering quite abruptly that he was in the hands of the same Lord Storn who had burned his family home over his head before he was two years old, killing his father. Well, from what he had always heard, a guest was sacred in the mountains; but hadn't his older brother died within these walls? Could Storn's lack of care have had something to do with it? He couldn't remember, and in his present condition he could do nothing but trust Lord Storn―and Lenisa.

"I'd be grateful to you, mestra, if you'd give her something to eat in your kennels," he said, patting Jewel and saying to her emphatically, "It's all right, girl; go with her; friend," he repeated, taking Dame Jarmilla's hand and holding it under Jewel's muzzle,

"You can go with her, girl, and eat your dinner, understand?"

Jewel looked at him as if she understood, and trotted along at Dame Jarmilla's side.

Lenisa smiled, "Then she is not like that Hammerfell hound of legend―trained to hunt down anyone of Storn blood?"

Alastair had never heard of such a hound and wondered if the tale were true. "By no means," he said, "though I dare say she'd protect me or my mother―or even, I suppose, my brother―to the death."

"I wouldn't think much of any dog that wouldn't," Lenisa said.

"Now, chiya," Lord Storn said. "No more idle chatter, there is something I must say to Hammerfell.

Young man, I'd like you to think seriously about the best interests of your tenants as well as mine."

"I'm always willing to listen," Alastair said courteously. There was something about Lord Storn which made him want to forget all the wrongs he had lived to avenge. It seemed somehow incongruous that he should be here to raise armies against this courageous old man; perhaps with diplomacy and understanding, war could be avoided.

Lenisa was certainly not his enemy. He could at least listen without prejudice.

"This land here's played out, there's no living any more in farming," Lord Storn said.

"I've been trying to help my tenants relocate, but they're stubborn as Zandru's devils; maybe together we can reeducate them. The new thing now is sheep―get the people

out, put sheep in here. They must see it's better for everybody. There's no more money to be made in tenant farming. It's in your interest as well as mine. But think on it before you answer. We'll talk it over tomorrow." He stood up. "Hear the rain? Wish I could stay inside like you, snug in a warm bed with a friendly young hand to tuck me in, give me a nightcap of mulled wine. But I have to be off―ride the boundaries, make sure none of my good neighbors took advantage of the fire to move the marking-stones―oh, yes, it's been done, fire-truce or no― make sure the chemicals are stowed safe, the watchmen back in their places."

"I'll stay up and make you a nightcap of mulled wine when you're back, Grandsire,"

Lenisa offered.

"No, girl, go to bed and get your beauty sleep; you'll be needing it, now," he said, and kissed her roughly on the forehead. "Look after our guest, and

get to bed at a timely hour. Tomorrow, young Hammerfell, we'll talk, you and I. Sleep well."

And with a friendly nod to both of them, he walked out of the room.

15

Ardrin, Lord Storn, strode out of his castle, and for a moment hesitated; should he summon one of his paxmen to ride the boundaries with him? No, there was no reason for it; he had been surveying these boundaries every day of his life since his twelfth year, and he was reluctant to call any of his men out into the rainy night with him.

As yet the rain was soft, light; almost pleasantly cool after the heat and fatigue of the day. His clothing was thick and impervious to rain; he strode along checking each boundary stone almost automatically. He had a long-standing sense of unity with his lands; each acre was known for what it could produce, or what had been planted or done there in the past.

He thought with regret, My grandsire grew apples in that field; now it is good for nothing but sheep. None of this land is useful for anything but sheep anymore. The wool industry grows daily in Thendara; farming

never made any of us rich, but sheepherding may indeed do so.

It was sad to turn away men who had been Storn tenants for many years past, but he could not hold them here to starve on dead lands; it was, after all, necessary. They'd all prosper this way.

He would need a few fellows to be shepherds; but he would be sure they were his own loyal men.

It's really for everyone's good, he reminded himself comfortably. We can't keep clinging to yesterday; and they can find farmland in the lowlands or elsewhere, or work in the cities. The manufacturers in the cities are crying out for good workers, and can't get them. There'll be work for their sons and their wives, too, as servants in city houses.

Better for everyone than clinging like hungry animals to worn-out farms.

He had not noticed that the rain was falling harder and faster, and now he realized it was mixed thickly with wet snow. He slipped and his feet went out from under him; he

managed to scramble up again, but the snow was cold and heavy now and he tucked his hands into the deep pockets of his cloak and strode on, observing the fire damage and storing it up in his mind.

He had walked a considerable way, and was beginning to wish that he had allowed

Lenisa to prepare him that hot supper before he went out; for the sleet, still heavy, was penetrating even his thick cloak.

It seemed to him that he saw a light where, as the old ballad had it, "Never a light should be." Unless, perhaps, he thought with amusement, his dairy animals had taken to kindling lights in their pastures. His first reaction was curiosity rather than alarm; he went closer, wondering whether the fire in the pas-lure might have flamed up again, only a spark perhaps hut showing a long way at night.

The light wavered and he was no longer very sure he; had seen it at all. A reflected glimmer of starlight off some random bit of metal; he remembered an episode in his youth when he had raised an alarm for seeing a light at night which had turned out to be a herdsman's belt buckle and pocketknife hung up on a fence, catching the moonlight.

Since that long-ago day he had always hesitated before coming to conclusions; and this wrestled in him with the ingrained custom of raising an alarm at once at any unexpected sign of fire or intruder, summoning help first and then investigating. Fire, night-runners or bandits, none of these were anything for a policy of wait and see.

Cautiously he turned his steps from the road in the direction of the light. He could see it again now, wavering faintly, and as he advanced, proud that his ryes were as keen as they had been a generation before, he resolved the flickers into reflections on glass.

But reflections of what, in the name of all Zandru's icy hells! In rain like this there was neither moonlight nor starlight. Only a few of his tenants were well enough off to have glass windows. He stepped cautiously up to the house and saw that, although the house appeared wholly deserted, a fire was burning somewhere within―in defiance of strict standing orders against any unattended hearths―and this was responsible for the

fugitive light. He stepped up on the wooden porch, recoiling at the agonized creak of wood, and shoved his way inside. The warmth was comforting, but law was law and

danger was danger;

he would cover the fire and save these people a fine and a lecture from the firewarden.

His clothes were steaming as he approached the fireplace. Abruptly he recoiled, staring eyes wide with horror as his hands, stretched before him, encountered hanging, swaying forms.

Had they all hanged themselves? But why1? He stepped back, bracing himself for what he feared to see by the firelight; then let out a gust of foolish relief. Empty coats and cloaks, hung from a high rafter to dry, no more.

He covered the fire with sand from a bucket near the hearth, wishing the farmer would come in so he could lecture him on covering fires at night when unattended. Where were they anyhow, to go out at night and leave an uncovered fire? Up to no good, he'd

bet―well, perhaps he could tell them of his fright, which, shared, might even be

amusing.

But after a short while, when no one returned, he went out again into the cold, to finish walking the boundaries. It was coming down harder now, a wet thick mixture of rain and snow, and it occurred to Lord Storn that it might be sensible to forget the whole thing and go back inside, spend the night by his tenants' fire, finish his checking of boundaries and damage in the morning. Why had he gotten it into his head that he could properly assess damage in a storm like this after dark? Had he been showing off, after all, for young Hammerfell? But no, the rain had been light and pleasant when he had started out, and he had felt the need of fresh, cool air and solitude.

The wind had an ominous moaning sound now which warned him with a lifetime's

weather-knowledge

to take shelter. Pride was one thing and lunacy was another.

He had better make for the nearest farm. There was a man named Geredd, a tenant of twenty or thirty years' standing, whose farm had actually been targeted for the new changes and the man given notice to quit; but he was still living there, as far as Lord Storn knew. He tramped on, stumbling at one point into a ditch and emerged covered with freezing mud. His boots were soaked because he had stepped into water over their tops and the mud had seeped down his shins to pool in his stockings. By the time he saw the lamp shining in Geredd's window, he thought no sight had ever been so welcome, and he halloed loudly to attract attraction before banging on the door.