Part 17 (1/2)
Into his mind came a face. A simple man, an innkeeper, once had soldiered with a stranger from the north, whom he believed had come to set him free. Behind him were the faces of a hundred such men, a thousand, ten thousand, who had stood with him at Baxendala, unflinching. Peasant lads and hillmen, their hands virgin to the sword a year before, they had faced the fury of s.h.i.+nsan and had refused to show their backs. Not many had been as lucky as that innkeeper. Most lay beneath the ground below the hill on which Karak Strabger stood. Thousands. Dead. Laid down because they had believed in him, because he and this woman who lay here growing cold had given them a hope for a new tomorrow.
What had Kavelin demanded of them?
”Oh, G.o.ds!” he swore, and smashed that faithful blade against stone till it flew into a hundred shards. ”G.o.ds!” He buried his face in his hands, raked his beard with his fingers. ”What do I have to do? Why must I endure this? Free me. Slay me. Keep the blades from going astray.”
Wachtel, Varthlokkur, and Gjerdrum tried to restrain him.
He surged like a bear throwing off hounds, hurling them against the walls. Then he sat beside the torn body of his Queen, and again took her hand. And for a moment he thought he saw a tiny smile flicker through the agony frozen upon her dead face. He thought he heard a whisper, ”Darling, go on. Finish what we started.”
He threw himself onto her still form and wept. ”Fiana. Please,” he whispered.
”Don't leave me alone.”
Elana was gone. Fiana was gone. What did he have left?
Just one thing, a tiny mind-voice insisted. The b.i.t.c.h-G.o.ddess, the changeable child-vixen which he had come to love more than any woman.
Kavelin.
Kavelin. Kavelin. Kavelin. d.a.m.nable Kavelin.
His tears flowed.
Kavelin.
Henceforth there would be no other woman before her....
He lay there with his head on Fiana's breast till long after sundown. And when he rose, finally, with night in his eyes and tears dried, he was alone except for Gjerdrum and Ragnar.
They came to him, and held him, understanding.Gjerdrum had loved his Queen more than life itself, though not with the love of a man for a woman. His was the love of a knight of the old romances for his sovereign, for his infallible Crown.
And Ragnar brought him the love of a forgiving son.
”Give me strength,” said Ragnarson. ”Help me. They've taken everything from me.
Everything but you. And hatred. Stand with me, Ragnar. Don't let hate eat me. Don't let me destroy me.”
He had to live, to be strong. Kavelin depended on him. Ravelin. d.a.m.nable Kavelin.
”I will, Father. I will.”
TWELVE: The Stranger in Hammerfest
Hammerfest was a storybook town in a storybook land cozy with storybook people.
Plump blonde girls with ribboned braids, rosy cheeks, and ready smiles tripped up and down the snowy streets. Tall young men hurried from one picturesque shop to another in pursuit of the business of their apprentices.h.i.+ps, yet were never so hurried that they hadn't time to welcome a stranger. Laughing children sped down the main street on sleds with barrel staves for runners. Their dogs yapped and floundered after them.
The thin man in the dark cloak stood taking it in for a time. He ignored the nibbling of a wind far colder than any of his homeland. It was warmer than those he had endured the past few months.
Tall, steep-roofed houses crowded and hung over the rising, twisting street, yet he didn't feel as confined as he had in towns less densely built. There was a warm friendliness to Hammerfest, a family feeling, as though the houses were cuddling from love, not necessity.
His gaze lingered on the smoke rising from a tall stone chimney topped by a rack where storks nested in summer. He watched the vapors rise till they pa.s.sed between himself and a small, crumbling fortress atop the hill the town climbed. Peace had reigned here for a generation. The brutal vicissitudes of Trolledyngjan politics had pa.s.sed Hammerfest by.
A sled whipped past, carrying a brace of screaming youngsters. The dark man leapt an instant before it could hit him, slipped, fell. The snow's cold kiss burned his cheek.
”They don't realize, so I'll apologize for them.”
A pair of s.h.a.ggy boots entered his vision, attached to pillars of legs. A huge, grizzled man offered a hand. He accepted.
”Thank you. No harm done.” He spoke the language well. ”Children will be children. Let them enjoy while they can.”
”Ah, indeed. Too soon we grow old, eh? Yet, isn't it true that all of us will be what we will be?”
The man in the dark clothing looked at him oddly. ”I mean, we must be what our age, s.e.x, station, and acquaintances demand.”
”Maybe....” A beer hall philosopher? Here? ”What're you driving at?” He s.h.i.+vered in a gust.”Nothing. Don't mind me. Everybody says I think too much, and say it. For a constable. You should get heavier clothing. Ander Sigurdson could outfit you. That all you wore coming north?”
The stranger nodded. This was a real fountain of questions. Nor was he as full of good-to-see-you as the others.
”Let's get you up to the alehouse, then. You're cold. You'll want something warming. A bite, too, by the look of you.” He danced lightly as a sled whipped past.
The stranger noted his deftness. This would be a dangerous man. He was strong and quick.
”Name's Bors Olagson. Constable hereabouts. Boring job, what with nothing ever happening.”
”I took you for a smith.” The stranger refused the bait. ”Really? Only hammer I ever swung was a war hammer, back in my younger days. Reeved out of Tonderhofn a few summers, back when. That's why they picked me for this job. But it's just a hobby, really. Don't even pay. My true profession is innkeeper. I own the alehouse. Bought with my share of the plunder.”
They pa.s.sed several houses and shops before he probed again. ”And who would you be?”
”Rasher. Elfis Rasher. Factor for Darnalin, of the Bedelian League. Our syndics are considering increasing profits by bypa.s.sing the Iwa Skolovdans in the fur trade.
I've begun to doubt our chances. I didn't prepare well. As you noticed by my outfit.”
”And you came alone? Without so much as a pack?” ”No. I survived. The Kratchnodians and rest of Trolledyngja aren't as friendly as Hammerfest.”
”Indeed. Though it was worse before the Old House was restored. Here we are.” He shoved a tall, heavy door. ”Guro. A big stein for a new guest. The kids just knocked him into a s...o...b..nk.” He grinned. ”Yeah. Those were my brats.”
I I I.
The stranger surveyed the tavern. It was all warm browns, as homey and friendly within as the Hammerfesters were outside. He sidled to the fire.
Bors brought steins. ”Well, Rasher, I admire you. I do. You're one of the survivors. Weren't always a merchant, were you?”
The questions were becoming irksome. ”My home is h.e.l.lin Daimiel. I saw the El Murid wars. And I'm no countinghouse clerk. I'm a caravaneer.”
”Thought so. Man of action. I miss it sometimes, till I remember drifting in a rammed dragons.h.i.+p with my guts hanging out on the oar bench....”