The Sword of Morning Star (2 page)

The bridge came down, the portcullis up, they entered the great stone walls that rose about them until it was as if they were at the bottom of a well; and Vincio, stirrup to stirrup with Helmut, rarely took hand from sword hilt. Behind them, then, the gate clanged down with an iron thunder, a metallic finality. Helmut jumped a bit, and the horse beneath him snorted, and Vincio reined around. Suddenly the guard that had escorted them, the half-wolves, were drawing sword. “By the Gods!” Vincio screamed. “Betrayed, exactly as I thought!” and he unsheathed his blade. “Draw steel!” he shouted at his handful of men, but that was unnecessary; horses plunged and blade rang on blade as, in the courtyard, men and half-wolves fought.

Helmut, astounded, gaped for an instant. Then he drew his own short sword, but there was nothing on which to use it, for the guard had ringed him about and fought savagely to keep the black-clad wolfmen at a distance.

But it was too many against too few: the real men were outnumbered four to one. Helmut saw Eero, fangs shining, charge in with readied blade at Vincio. The marshal of the guard reined around to meet him. Little there was that could stand against the sword arm of Vincio of Southtaal, and with a blow he knocked Eero from the saddle, but unhurt. The wolfman rolled over, jumped to his feet, retrieved the sword that had caught the brunt of Vincio’s blow, and, two-handed, thrust it into the belly of the guard’s horse, which reared. Vincio fell, landing hard, and then the wolfman was upon him, the two of them fighting hand-to-hand there in the dust, rolling among the shifting hooves of horses, Eero’s blade trapped in the belly of Vincio’s dying mount, Vincio’s lost in the fall. But this was known: in unarmed combat between man and half-wolf, no man had a real chance; and before Helmut’s horrified eyes, the half-wolf sprang to his feet with a muzzle that dripped red. He threw back his head, let out a howl of triumph, then sprang for Helmut. The boy raised his sword, but Eero had his leg and pulled him from the mount before he could strike. Then he was hugged against that dripping animal rankness, as the sounds of combat died; and for a moment, then, he must have fainted…

Albrecht of Wolfsheim was a man of handsome, pleasant, open countenance. In his early thirties, his prowess at war was undisputed, as was his courage. Though married, he still played at ducks and drakes among the women of the court, who found him vastly attractive. Nor could he be faulted, for that matter, for keeping around him the half-wolves who comprised his guard and army: that was tradition, begun long before Albrecht ever strode the earth. A man, all man, and well liked by his brother-in-law Sigrieth, in whose will he had been given the Regency until Gustav, successor to the throne, came eighteen years of age. But Vincio had never liked nor trusted this handsome paragon, and now Helmut saw that, of all the court, Vincio’s instincts had been the soundest.

In the Knight’s Hall of the castle, Albrecht sat now, casually, at a table, elegant legs in black satin hose crossed negligently, long, strong fingers dipping from time to time into a bowl of shelled nuts. “And so,” he said to the young man beside him, “we have nipped treason in the bud.”

The young King looked tired and overfull of horror. “Had you not presented such certain proofs, never would I have given such a matter belief.”

“But there—” Albrecht gestured to Helmut, who stood bound before them, “there is the instrument that Vincio planned cleverly to use. A bastard, true, but favored of your father, and that known far and wide in the Empire of the Gray Lands. An accident to you, then had he been enthroned, with Vincio to guide him, and who to say him nay but loyal Wolfsheim? So we moved quickly, when word of the plot was first come; so foul a wound must be cleaned roughly with dispatch, lest infection spread.”

“My brother—” Helmut said, dazed, looking at the young King, who, resplendent in purple and gold, sat near Albrecht. “My brother—”

Gustav shook his head violently. His cheeks were round and soft and joggled when he did that. “Never use that word to me again!” He stood up. “Certain things have I seen throughout these years… your attempts always to win the good graces of our royal father, to make me look smaller in his eyes, to—” He broke off. Albrecht audibly crunched down on a nut. The room reeked of half-wolf smell. Helmut felt as if he were about to vomit. What had happened? How could Gustav have turned so bitterly against him so quickly? How dared Albrecht of Wolfsheim attack a prince?

“Gustav,” Helmut said, and now tears were running down his cheeks. “Won’t you listen? I don’t understand. What’s happening? Why have you let Albrecht talk you into such things? Gustav?”

Gustav turned his face away.

“Now, I think we shall proceed with the execution,” Albrecht said, arising. He stood well over six feet, with wide, sloping shoulders. His beard and moustache were golden. “The sooner the better.”

“No,” Gustav said. His face was still turned away, the sound was muffled. But: “No.”

Albrecht looked at him, startled. “M’lord?”

“No.” Now Helmut recognized what was in his half-brother’s voice: grief. “There will be no execution.”

For a moment, Albrecht was silent. Then he smiled. “My lord has too forgiving a heart. This was to be the instrument of your destruction. It must be disposed of.”

“He’s too young,” Gustav whispered. “Only a child.”

“Nits become lice,” said Albrecht smoothly. There was another silence. Then Albrecht said: “Very well. Exile?”

Gustav turned, brightening. “Yes. To the Southern Wetlands.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Albrecht bowed slightly. “Though to acknowledge ties of blood and affection in such a case can be dangerous. Years will pass, and he will grow, perhaps return. As a man, most dangerous would he be. I think some precaution should be taken—”

“What do you mean?” Gustav asked, staring.

“Only a fighting man need be feared,” said Albrecht. “But no man can fight without a sword hand.” He took Helmut’s right hand in his own huge one. “This to go, that you be protected against any desire for revenge years from now; that the fruits of your own grace and bounty in forgiveness do not turn bitter. This sword hand. To be cut off.”

Helmut chilled with horror and fought back the desire to scream and blubber. But certain conduct was forbidden to a prince.

Gustav’s face paled. “By the Gods, Uncle—”

“In this must you trust my judgment. Better that his head goes, really—”

“No, no. That I forbid!”

“Then the hand. Eero, summon the physician. Tell him to make ready to seal an amputation. First, hot iron for cautery, then hot pitch for final sealing. After that, in the barge, the boy is to be taken to the boundary of the Gray Lands and put adrift on the river, so that his fate thenceforward is not our responsibility but that of the Gods. Thus he vanishes from Boorn, and his exile can in truth be proclaimed.”

Helmut twisted, tried to run, but wolf hands seized him and held him immobile.

“Gustav, my brother—” It was a scream. Albrecht turned to the young King. “I do not think this is a matter that you need to watch, nor that your ears should be abused with caterwauling. If Your Majesty cares to leave the room—”

“Yes, thank the Gods,” Gustav whispered. He strode to the door, a plump, nervous youth, really no more than a child himself. As the door was opened for him, he halted, turned—“Helmut.” His voice was a croak. He raised a hand impotently, then dropped it, turned, went out. The door slammed behind him.

After that, it was a dream. The physician arrived and everything was made ready.
But I will not cry,
Helmut thought.
No matter what, I will not cry again.
He kept his mind on his father, on the great Sigrieth.
He I shall do honor in this matter,
Helmut thought, as Eero held his arm stretched out across the block of stone and Albrecht himself raised a keen-bladed battle-ax.
Him I shall do honor, do honor, do hon
—As the ax came down, he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The pain was like nothing he had ever felt before. Somebody—it had to be himself—screamed. After that, he remembered nothing.

But now, a voice came to him through the fever dreams. It was a strange voice, one gentle, then angry, then gentle again. Hands touching him, soothing, healing hands. He felt himself coming back into his own body and his own mind. But it was a long time before he understood anything the voice said. The first words he comprehended were these:

“This shall I promise you. That you will return to Boorn. That in time you shall reign as Emperor of the Gray Lands. And that when you go back, Vengeance will carry you at full gallop, and you shall lay about you with Rage, and Death and Destruction shall run beside you at your stirrup-irons. And that, though your left hand shall be deadly, your right hand shall be even more fearsome. All this, Helmut, bastard of Sigrieth, heir to Boorn and the Empire of the Gray Lands. But, for now—only sleep.”

CHAPTER II

Helmut awakened. Pain was gone, now: physical pain. But as his eyes opened and consciousness returned, the agony of remembering made him cry out. That single wail exhausted his resources of strength. It brought also to his feet the man with the iron gray hair who kept watch at the bedside.

“By and by, it will not be so terrible,” the old man said in a gentle voice. “Besides, Albrecht will be repaid in his own coin.”

The boy stared at the old man. His lips moved soundlessly, uttering the question in his mind. The old man smiled; this could be told, though his mouth was hidden deep in beard, by the wrinkling at his eyes. “Fear not,” he said. Then, taking Helmut’s left hand in his, he added: “I am called Sandivar. For now, that is all you need to know.”

Presently Sandivar’s grip was released. The old man turned away from the bed. Helmut, too weak for fear, lay quiescent. Above him, there was vast space; he was in a tower of some sort. Thirty feet high soared the wall beside him before a stone ceiling blocked his view. Then he was aware once more of Sandivar’s presence by the bed, and the old man’s hand slipped between the small of his back and the mattress of dried grass. “Now, good child of Sigrieth,” Sandivar said, “drink this.” His voice was deep, resonant, and reassuring as he gently lifted Helmut a little and put to his lips a terracotta cup.

From it came a spicy odor not unlike the best white wine, the aroma of spring and summer, sunlight and rain, rich earth and growth. All at once Helmut thirsted for it; and he drank eagerly. The taste was better than the promise; and as it entered his body, he felt a strange stirring within himself, a filtration of strength into muscle and joint, as if what he drank were new blood. Sandivar held him while he drained the cup. And when it was empty, Helmut gasped eagerly: “More.”

“Not yet,” said Sandivar. “For the moment, this is enough, and perhaps more than that. Only wait.” Gently, he eased the boy back. Helmut closed his eyes and savored the sensations the draught had evoked. They were marvelous ones, a mixture of all the good feelings he had ever known: of awakening on a fine morning; of resting after good sport; of the revival the body knows when sweated dry and given clean, cold water; of the new strength of a red-meat meal well cooked. And with every second that passed, as he lay there, he felt his soul coming back into his body again and fastening itself there; and presently he knew he could sit up alone and even speak. But he did not do so at once. Instead, he took better stock of his surroundings.

A tower indeed; and now he knew what kind, for he had accompanied Gustav and Sigrieth, his father, into many of them on inspection tours. The watchtowers on the borders of the Gray Lands were more than thirty meters tall and built of the strongest, hardest stone from the quarries of the mountains of Dolo. They were maintained in perfect order, self-sufficient to withstand siege, and the keystone of the defenses of the Gray Lands. This was such a tower, but none under the rule of Sigrieth or Gustav, for it was of a stone either so soft or so ancient that it had begun to crumble: in the circular walls that soared above him, there were niches and chinks that let in bright daylight; and the access door in the stone floor above him was partly open; even as he watched, a raven, entering at some hole above, perched on its edge with a mouthful of carrion, then disappeared, nesting up there where soldiers once had kept their guard.

Nor was the lower floor where he was bedded in much better order. This was jammed and littered with an incredible array of furniture and discarded gear of all sorts and many things which he did not recognize. And there were, too, books—what a quantity of books! This surprised him greatly, for nowadays books and those who could read them were of equal rarity. Legend held that in the old world, before The Fire, there were many books, and reading was a common skill; this, it was said, had contributed to the holocaust. In any event, now reading was equated with sorcery—

He sat up quickly. “Sorcery!” he said, his voice a croak. With sudden fear, he reaped new meaning from the shelves of books, the strange glass and terra-cotta instruments on the circular table around the wall, the skins and skeletons of small animals; the apothecar’s jars neatly ranked row upon row with indecipherable labels thereupon.

Sandivar, who had turned away from the bed and was bent over the table, stirring something in a bowl, turned, the rough cloth kirtle swirling. For the first time, Helmut noted the strangeness of his eyes, how deeply set, slanted, and with what strange light glowing. Fear gripped the boy, and his heart pounded. But when Sandivar smiled again, the fear subsided quickly, as if it could not stand against such a smile.

“Aye,” said the old man. “Sorcerer indeed. And well for you that I be such. For without the powers that I possess, never would I have known of the intrigue of Albrecht, Regent of Boorn, against the sons of Sigrieth. Nor, without those powers, would I have known where to intercept the boat in which you were set adrift. Another half day in that, with sun at full glare, would indeed have finished you, as Albrecht planned. Only that he underestimated the lion cub’s strength and took me not into account… For a lion cub you surely are. A child not of Sigrieth’s blood would long since have lost his eyes to the ravens.” He stroked his beard. “Now,” he said, “have you appetite?”

At those words all questions in Helmut’s mind were lost in sudden, ravening hunger. “By my father’s sword,” he said, “I could eat a Frorwald boar, uncooked and unsalted.”

“Not likely are you to find boar here,” said Sandivar. “Nor other royal fare. We sorcerers, banished, must make do as best we can. But fish have I, baked by a Southern art, some fen rice, and wine. That will have to serve. It will be ready shortly. Meanwhile, here—to clothe your nakedness.” He tossed the boy a rough-woven kirtle like his own, and instinctively, Helmut reached out his right hand to catch it. But his right hand was no longer there and he gave a cry as the garment fell to the floor.

Letting it lie unregarded, he stared in horror at his wrist. It felt, weirdly, as if the hand were still affixed, but the forearm stopped short in a livid, puckered stump of ghastly aspect. Suddenly Helmut’s throat was hot, stinging with nausea, and tears burned in his eyes.

Aware of Sandivar’s gaze upon him, he regained control. The arm dropped. “I had forgotten,” he muttered, reaching for the kirtle with his left hand.

“Aye,” Sandivar said tonelessly. “Do not let it trouble you overmuch.”

Helmut struggled with the kirtle, attempting to get it over his head one-handed. When he finally succeeded, he said, “Only that now I shall never be a man.”

“Oh?” Sandivar’s brows arched, and the lynx eyes flamed. “And what leads you to that conclusion, my princeling?”

“A man wields sword and spear and chain-mace with a strong right arm. Even Albrecht said it. Less my hand, I shall never be feared.” He kept his face turned away from Sandivar.

“Ah,” said the sorcerer. “And it troubles you that you shall never be feared?”

“Yes,” the boy said. “By Albrecht, and his wolf guard, Eero. For, by my father’s sword, have I debt enough to collect from both. There was a man named Vincio, whom I loved—”

“I know of Vincio,” Sandivar said. With a sweep of his arm, he shoved back some of the apparatus on the table. Turning to a stone oven, he produced two stone plates piled with savory mounds of fish and the wild rice of the fens. From a bottle, he poured wine; then he pulled up a rude, wooden bench. “Come and eat,” he said.

They sat side by side on the bench. It was awkward for Helmut to handle his wooden spoon with his left hand. He kept the stump of the right one out of sight, lest it take his appetite, for it seemed to him that never had food been so delicious. He ate ravenously; and yet, until he began to approach satiety, the serving scarcely diminished; it was almost as if it were replenishing itself. Finally, though, as he slowed down, the bare stone of the trencher at last became visible. He belched quite loudly, and then became aware that he was also full of questions. “Where is this place?”

For answer, Sandivar arose, went to the oaken door, and flung it open. Beyond, Helmut saw marshes and fens stretching without limit to the dead-level horizon, slow, still water gleaming in the sunlight, reeds, cane, and grasses swaying in the breeze. “The Southern Wetlands,” said the old man, coming back to the bench. He sipped his wine and began to pick his teeth. “Whence Albrecht banished you. Had I not caught you, the Jaal would have carried you at last into these marshes, and you would have vanished without trace. Here—” he made a gesture that encompassed the tower, “—some centuries ago, soldiers stood guard against invasion from the sea. But the danger no longer lies that way, and this watching place has long since been abandoned. Still, what is unsuitable to soldiers may be very acceptable to one of my profession, and here I live as happily as a hedgehog under a bush.”

Helmut almost wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand; shuddering, he remembered just in time. “And how long have I been here?”

“Not overlong. A week. Long enough, however, for your exile already to have been proclaimed in Boorn on the grounds of high treason—some fabricated conspiracy between yourself and one Vincio, now dead. Some rumbling and grumbling was there among the nobles, but Gustav and Albrecht, together and united, stilled them.”

Helmut looked down at the trencher. At the sound of his half brother’s name, he felt again the burn of tears, though whether of grief or rage, he could not tell. That his brother could have so used him, believed him guilty of such foulness—And yet, how could Gustav have stood against the evil counsel and strong will of Albrecht? Heroic enough of poor, uncertain Gustav to block his execution. But Gustav had let his right hand be cut away, and what was a prince without a sword hand? Forgetting Sandivar, sorely baffled and confused, Helmut shook his head.

“Yes, much you do not understand,” the old man said gently. “Some I could explain, had you strength to listen.”

“I have strength enough for whatever be necessary.”

Sandivar laughed, with a ring of admiration. “Aye, there speaks a warrior’s son. Well, then…” He strode to the wall, pulled back a ratty hanging, and revealed a chart. “This is a map,” he said. “You read and you know—?”

“I read, somewhat. The map I know. Vincio has taught me—” Grief closed his throat for a moment; he swallowed, and it was gone.

“Well, then, only briefly.” The great land mass was zoned in three colors, the sea around it a brilliant blue. To the north, encompassing the coldest lands and the wildest, Sandivar swept his hand across the black band. “The Dark Lands,” he said; and his voice rang with contempt, but maybe with a bit of fear as well. “Rife with barbaric tribes, fierce and savage as the great wild cattle that they ride. Ignorant, cruel, and superstitious, children of darkness indeed, and their land well named.”

“Yes, I know,” said Helmut. “They press always on our borders.”

“Aye.” Sandivar’s hand slipped down to a broad gray band extending all across the continent. “The Empire of the Gray Lands.” In its center, one long, spatulate finger paused. “The Kingdom of Boorn. And here—” he made a great sweep, from one end of the Gray Lands to the other, “home also of the strongest of fighting men, the most accomplished of warriors… in the days of Sigrieth. But—” He dropped his hands farther, to lands illumined in bright yellow. “Here,” he said, “the Lands of Light. Unwarlike, true, but wondrous full of knowledge, and not the kind, either, that once destroyed the world, but a new understanding which, growing slowly and unfolding like a bud, may, when full-flowered, make of this world of ours something sweet and lovely as a ripened pomegranate. Yes, truly, this is a glorious knowledge that men of learning discover, grain by grain, in the Southern Reaches. Fully known, it may, someday, eliminate the need either for sorcerers or for war-captains. But in the meantime—”

He turned away from the map. “In the meantime, only the Emperor of the Gray Lands stands between the barbarians and the New Learning. The sword of your father, Sigrieth, was the guardian of all this learning; and no barbarian dared test its edge. But Sigrieth is dead, and Gustav is only a boy who also will be dead before his time—”

Helmut sprang to his feet. “Gustav?” he cried.

Gravely, the bearded Sandivar nodded. “Aye. Nor is there ought can save him. Die he will, and soon; soon, indeed, as Albrecht can arrange the so convenient accident in manner which will not provoke those nobles loyal to Sigrieth’s son and full of contempt and disgust for the handsome Albrecht and his rank-smelling wolfmen. For he must not do that, you understand. He must have their good will, for a time at least. But… Helmut, the king’s bastard, is in exile. Gustav, the King’s son and King in his own turn, dies by unfortunate accident; then does not the Regent naturally take the throne?”

“Vincio said all this—”

“And was right. Wherefore he died. At the King’s command—and Albrecht’s poisonous urging—the palace guard went nearly all to Wolfsheim. Then, knowing your obedience, you were summoned in the night, when only a remnant of those who remained could be laid hands on. Thus defenseless, you and Vincio were easy geese for plucking; poor, fat-rumped Gustav shall be easier.”

There was such authority in the old man’s voice that it was impossible to disbelieve him, and Helmut turned his face away.

“Bitter news,” said Sandivar. “And bitterer still to come.”

“Say,” managed Helmut after a moment.

Back to the map went Sandivar, lynx eyes glowing. “For generations have the barbarians sought passage across the Gray Lands, to feast on the defenseless riches of the unwarlike South. And for generations have the Emperors of the Gray Lands staved them off, as I have said, while the New Learning bloomed in the Lands of Light. But suppose now that Boorn should have a king and the Gray Lands an emperor who would make common cause with the Dark tribes against the South. Then cataclysm truly is unloosed upon the world, and all light dies, pinched out by barbarism like a candle flame by rough fingers. All hope dies…”