The Heirs of Hammerfell (9 page)

Over his shoulder he could see other boxes were being invaded; more young men,

companions to the one he was shoving, had at once moved in on the refreshment table and were scooping up the rich foods by handfuls and stuffing them into pockets and sacks. He thought, hardly knowing he did so, Can they really be hungry ?

As if his thought had reached the older people, Edric: said quietly, "If you are hungry, young fellows,

take what you want, and go. We have come here to listen to music; we do no harm to anyone."

The quiet words made most of the young intruders back off; they stuffed the

refreshments into their pockets and hurried out into the halls again; but the one who was fighting with Alastair did not desist.

"You rich bloodsuckers think you can put us off with a few cakes? You've had our blood all these years―let's see the color of yours!" he cried, and suddenly there was a knife in his hand; he thrust at Alastair, who had not expected it, and was taken unaware. The knife sliced along his forearm, he cried out with pain and then whipped up his own knife, grabbing at a fold of his cloak to wrap round his arm. Erminie cried out in dismay;

"Guards! Guards!"

Abruptly, young Guardsmen in green and black cloaks filled the box; they seized the young man who was still staring numbly at the blood dripping from Alastair's blow.

"Are you all right, vai dom?" one of the Guardsmen asked. "There's a lot of this rabble in the city tonight; they turned over the queen's sedan chair."

"I'm all right," Alastair said, "I don't understand what he wanted―" He sank down on a chair, faint with the blood dripping from his arm.

"God knows," said the Guardsman, "I doubt he knows himself―do you, swine?" he demanded, giving the young man a rough shove. "How bad are you hurt, sir?"

Lord Edric caught up his own linen kerchief and thrust it at Alastair to stanch the blood from the small wound.

Alastair sat half-stunned, blinking at the sight of

the blood-drenched kerchief. "I'm not much hurt; let the fellow go. But if I ever catch sight of him again―"

Floria came and bent over Alastair. She said imperiously to the Guards, "I don't care what you do with him, but get him out of our sight." Then she reached out and drew the kerchief away. She said gently, "I am a monitor; let me see how deep it is." She raised her hand and passed it gently over his arm, without touching him. "It is not serious, but a small vein has been nicked." She took out her starstone and focused attentively on the wound; after a moment the blood oozed to a stop. "There, I think there is no real harm done."

"My boy, I am appalled that this should have happened in our box," Lord Edric asked.

"What can I do to make amends?"

"It seems to be the common lot tonight," said Erminie, looking around the auditorium; the Guardsmen seemed to have the upper hand now, and all over the building, shabbily dressed invaders were being marshaled toward the doors.

One elderly man, as shabby as any of the invaders, was protesting loudly as the

Guardsmen tried to force him toward the doors, "Here now, I wasn't one of those, I bought me ticket like anybody else! Do I need silk britches to listen to a concert, me lords? Is this the Hasturs' justice?"

Don Gavin Delleray, standing at the edge of the stage, leaped down into the lower seats.

He yelled, "Leave him alone, I know this man; he's my father's paxman!"

"Anything you say, me lord," said the Guardsman.

"Sorry, my man; but how's anyone to tell when he looks like that there riffraff!"

Erminie laid her hand on her son's arm, asking, "Shall I call a chair? Or do you want to remain for the rest of the concert?"

Alastair still had his hand in Fiona's. He did not want to move. She was still regarding him with protective indignation.

"I don't think he should walk just yet," Floria said. "Gwynn, pour him some wine, if those ruffians have not drunk it all up. Sit down, cousin Erminie; you can listen to the concert just as well from here in our box."

The tumult was subsiding; the orchestra began to play an overture, and Erminie sat down next to Alastair. Through the music, she felt shaken; what was happening in the city she knew so well? The intruders had looked at her, and at her son, as if they were some kind of monsters; yet she was a simple, hardworking woman, and not even rich.

What could they possibly have against her?

She saw Floria holding Alastair's hand, and without knowing why she was suddenly

filled with foreboding. Yet Floria and Alastair were cousins, they had grown up together and were a suitable match. Why should it trouble her this way?

She lifted her eyes to the royal box. Queen Antonella, her lame leg still propped on its cushion, was placidly munching nut cake, as if there had been no interruption. Erminie began to laugh; she laughed so hard that she could not stop; there were angry stares from other boxes, and Edric came to her side, proffering smelling salts, a sip of wine; but she could

not stop, though she tried, and at last Edric almost carried her into the anteroom behind the box, where she went on laughing till she began to cry, then lying in his arms, cried herself into collapse.

6

Conn of Hammerfell woke suddenly, crying out and clutching at his arm; he expected to find it covered with blood. He was confused by the darkness and silence, with no sound but heavy snow blowing against the shutters and the snores of sleeping men. In the small reddish eye of the fire he could see a cauldron swinging on a crane over the fireplace, a pleasant fruity smell steaming from it. Next to him Markos sat up, blinking in the dark.

"What is it, my boy?"

"Ah, the blood―" Conn muttered, confused, then, waking fully, said in surprise, "but there is nobody here―"

"Another dream?"

"But it all seemed so real," Conn said in a dazed, half-sleeping voice, "A dagger―we were fighting― the man forced his way in―there were people all round me, in such fine clothes as I have seen only in

dreams, an old man who was a kinsman, and apologized to me―and a beautiful girl in a white robe, who―" he stopped and frowned, running his fingers along his forearm, as if surprised not to feel the wetness of blood there,"! don't know what it was she did, but she stopped the bleeding―" He lay back on the crude straw mattress, "Ah, she was beautiful―"

"Your dream-maiden again?" Markos laughed gently. "You have spoken of her before, but not recently. The same one? Was there more?"

"Oh, yes―music, and a man who mocked my heritage and picked a quarrel―and

my . . . mother, and I know not what all―you know how dreams are always so

confused―" he sighed, and Markos, reaching across from his straw pallet at Conn's side gripped the young man's hand in his gnarled old Fingers.

"Hush―don't wake the men," he admonished, gesturing in the dark at the four or five men sleeping around them, "Sleep, lad. We have a long night and a longer day before us.

No time to waste in fretting over dreams―if indeed it was a dream. Rest while you're able, they will not be here before midnight, at the earliest."

Conn said, "If they come. Listen to the storm outside. Devotion indeed, if they come out in that."

"They will come," said Markos confidently. "Try to sleep another hour or two if you can."

"But if it was not a dream, what could it have been?" Conn asked.

Markos said reluctantly, keeping his voice almost to a whisper, "You know there is laran in your family; your mother was a leronis―we must talk of this another time, and we will; but tonight there are other things to think of, with the men coming."

"I don't understand . . ." Conn began, but let the thought trail off, listening to the sound of wind and snow slamming against the shuttered window of the building. As he picked up his foster-father's emotion, he could sense that the old man was more troubled than he should have been by just a dream, even a recurring dream.

Except for the preliminary shock and pain of waking to feel himself stricken and

bleeding, Conn himself had not taken it very seriously; he had had such dream-flashes of another life many times before this, though he rarely spoke of it to his foster-father; a life where he lived, not roughly in his little mountain village, always in hiding, his real name and identity known only to a few, but in a great city, surrounded by such luxuries as he found hard even to imagine. It troubled him deeply to realize that Markos seemed to think there was some level of reality to these all-too-familiar visions.

Markos was his earliest memory; try as he might, he could remember nothing else,

nothing except images of fire deep in the back of his mind, that, and sometimes, a soothing voice that crooned to him in dreams. When Markos realized that Conn could almost remember the fire, he had told him his real name and the story of the burning of Hammerfell, and how his father and mother and his only brother had perished in that fire. When he was older, Markos had taken him to see the burned-out ghostly ruins that had once been the proud keep of Hammerfell, and impressed upon him that he was the only surviving man of Hammerfell kindred, and that the major duty of his life was to care for the abandoned

clansmen of Hammerfell, and to recapture, rebuild, and restore his duchy.

Conn composed himself to sleep again; but the lovely face of the girl in white who had healed his dream-wound went down with him into the dark chasms of sleep. Was she a real woman, then? Markos had told him he had been born a telepath, gifted with the inherited psychic powers of his caste. Was it possible, then, that the girl existed somewhere in reality, that he had seen her through the very real power of the laran he had inherited? Or was his laran precognitive, was she someone predestined to come into his life?

More asleep than awake, conscious of roaring snow slamming against the shutters at the window; Conn drifted in fantasy with the beautiful girl at his side, till outside the half-ruined stone hut where they sheltered―not unlike the hut on the borders of Hammerfell where he had dwelt with Markos as far back as he could remember, alone except for a silent old woman who had cooked for them and cared for him when he was too young to be left alone during Markos's comings and goings―Conn heard through his dream the hoofbeats of riders approaching on the road, and before he could be summoned he woke and reached out to awaken Markos.

"It is time," he whispered. "They are coming."

"And there is the signal," Markos confirmed, as a rainbird hooted three times just outside. He struck a light and the other men began to stir, moving about and drawing on their boots.

Markos went to the door and hauled it open, the hinges creaking loudly enough to make Conn wince.

"I could hear those hinges creak if we were on the

far side of the Wall Around the World," he complained. "Get an oilcan to them or the hills themselves will hear them like an alarm bell."

"Aye, m'lord," Markos assented―when they were alone or among those who did not know Conn's true identity, it was oftener "my lad" or "Master Conn," but since Conn's fifteenth birthday Markos had invariably addressed him respectfully by his title in the presence of knowing others.

Half a dozen men, in full riding gear, crowded into the room where they had slept.

Despite the tiny weather shielding anteroom, the icy wind and sleet roared into the room with them, and the last in had to struggle to slam out the biting storm.

In the dim light Markos moved to the center of the men who had been sleeping on the floor, and turned to the leader of the riders. "You're sure none followed ye here?"

"If there's so much as an ice-rabbit stirring from here to the Wall Around the World, I'll eat it raw, fur and all," said the leader, a big burly man in a leather jacket, with a fringe of reddish whiskers surrounding his face. "The woods are filled only with snow and silence; I made sure of that."

"Are the men all well armed?" asked Conn. "Let me see your weapons." Briefly he inspected the swords and pikes shown to him, all old, some hardly better than pitchforks; but bright, well-kept and free of rust.

"Good, then we are ready. But you men must be perished with the cold. Tarry a while, we have a hot . wine drink readied for you." He went to. the fireplace and began to scoop up the steaming punch

into an assortment of clay mugs, holding out a cup to each man. "Drink this and we'll be off."

"One moment, my young lord," said Markos. "Before we ride, I have this for you." With an air of solemnity and mystery he went to the far corner of the room and rummaged there in an old chest. He turned and said, "Since that fire where Hammerfell perished, I have kept this hidden for you―your father's sword."

Conn nearly dropped the clay mug, but managed to thrust it unbroken into the hands of the man with the fringe of whiskers. He reached for the sword and gripped its hilt, visibly moved. He had nothing of his family; Markos had told him that everything of his father's had been destroyed in the fire. The men were all thrusting their mugs in the air.

Whiskers shouted, "Aye, drink to our young duke!"

"Aye, may all the Gods bless him!" With noisy shouts they drank his health.

"My thanks to you, Farren―and to you all. May this night's work begin well the long task before us." Conn added, "There's an old story that the Gods bless those who work hardest before they ask for help." He sheathed the ancient sword―later he would study the runes engraved in it, try to gather from it something of those kinsmen who had borne it before him; but not now.

Farren said, "Our lives are at your disposal, my lord. But where do we ride tonight?

Markos told us no more than that you had need of us, and so we came, in memory of your father. But surely you did not bring us out in a storm to drink your health― though this punch is excellent―and see you given the sword of Hammerfell."

"True," Conn said. "You are here now because I have heard a strange tale; that our old foeman, Ardrin of Storn, was burning out a village of our clansmen, tenants of

Hammerfell, from the common land tonight."