Part 3 (1/2)
”I was pretending to hide from marauding Feichs, if you must know. Learning the ways of a Hillwild warrior.”
Gwynet glanced again at the sword. ”Surely it belongs to somebody.”
”Surely it doesn't. The bag was so old it was rotting away.
Whoever put it there must have forgotten all about it. So it's mine now.”
”But why, Airleas?” Gwynet touched the freshly polished blade gingerly. ”Why should you have a sword at all?”
”You said it, Gwynet. I'm Cyneric Airleas. A Malcuim. The Malcuim, now. If anyone is going to retake Mertuile and pry the Stone out of Daimhin Feich's hands, it must be me. I have to do that, or I'll never be set before the Stone.”
”Do you know how t'use it?”
”Of course. I've had lessons in swordplay.” He didn't add that they were with a much flimsier sporting blade, a blade that weighed about a quarter what this one did. ”Besides, I watched the Claeg's men practicing at Halig-liath. They gave me some pointers, too. Here, I'll show you.”
Clutching the sword in both hands, Airleas moved to the center of the little courtyard. There, he closed his eyes. The mountain fortress dissolved away and he stood in the Great Hall of Mertuile beneath the House banners. That was a fitting place to face Daimhin Feich, for it was here that his father's treacherous Durweard had taken up a crossbow with the intent of murdering Taminy-Osmaer, while Colfre Malcuim, who should have been defending her with his life, cowered behind his throne.
Airleas Malcuim would not cower, would not run, and would defend Taminy-Osmaer to his last breath. He brought the sword up, saluting his imaginary foe, then swung it in a circle over his head. The blade caught air and sang. It was a magical sound to Airleas and his blood rose in harmony. He danced and bobbed, following the blade around and around.
In moments, he had Feich on the run and was backing him against a wall. Good thing, too, for his found weapon grew heavier with every swing.
Slas.h.!.+ He caught the flat of Feich's blade and ripped it away. Now, in for the kill.
Airleas lunged, his feet sliding on the stone foundation at the bottom of the kitchen steps. Over-balanced, he pitched face first onto the stone risers, releasing the sword in a desperate effort to catch himself. He sprawled on the steps, bruising body and spirit. He heard Gwynet squeal, but the sound of the sword striking stone never came. What he heard, instead, was laughter-loud, raucous laughter.
He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his bruised elbows. Another boy stood above him on the kitchen steps, shaking with laughter, the sword propped carelessly on one shoulder.
Bristling at the open mockery in the tawny eyes, Airleas gathered his Malcuim dignity and held out his hands. ”May I have my sword back?”
”Your sword? And where would a midge like you come by a weapon like this?”
”It's mine.”
The boy lowered the sword and gave it a careful glance. ”This is a Hillwild blade, midge. Made at Moidart, by the crest.” His thumb brushed a design worked into the blade just below the hilt. ”No one gives a boy a weapon like this. I'll just take it back to the armory where it belongs.”
Stung, Airleas lunged, his hands grasping, but the larger boy was quicker. He leapt from the steps, landing behind Airleas in the yard . . . still laughing.
Airleas spun on him. ”Give me the sword! It's mine. I found it.”
”You'll never make a decent swordsman if you give up your moves in your eyes like that. That ogre you were play-fighting almost got the best of you, midge. You're lucky I came along.”
”It wasn't an ogre. And I only lost my footing. Give me back the sword.”
”Sorry, midge.” The boy turned to go, the sword flung over his shoulder as though it weighed nothing at all.
”Don't you know who I am?”
The boy paused. ”Ah, let me guess-you're the Ren Morgant of Moidart in disguise. I'd pictured you as a larger man, Ren . . . and older.”
”I'm Airleas Malcuim-Cyneric of Caraid-land. Head of my House. Son of Cyne Colfre Malcuim and Cwen Toireasa. And you will give me that sword.” He put all the authority he could behind that.
The taller boy merely looked amused. ”So, you're the Malcuim brat. Well, Cyneric. All the more reason for me to keep this dangerous toy. I'm sure our good Ren Catahn'd be madder'n a treed catamount if one of his royal guests got nicked up.”
Chuckling, he resumed his journey cross-court toward the covered flight of narrow steps Airleas had descended earlier.
Uncertain, Airleas glanced aside at Gwynet. She still stood by the bench, her face radiating amazement. His pretensions to Malcuim dignity evaporated. Gwynet was the only person he knew who looked up to him. The only one in all of Airdnasheen who treated his station as if it mattered. To look foolish before Gwynet . . .
The young Cyneric launched himself at his adversary's retreating back, catching him not quite unawares. The boy flung the sword away and met him face to face, falling beneath him in a grapple of arms and legs. Gwynet squealed again and was silent.
Airleas knew more of wrestling than he did of swordplay, which was fortunate, because the enemy was a strapping lad who left the young Malcuim only the advantages of quickness and flexibility. He used them as best he could, managing to trip his opponent and get a lock on his neck before superior strength sent him flying end over end.
Snarling and snapping like wild foxes, they met again, struggling and straining one to fell the other, ending up again in a scrabble of arms and legs. Airleas got another neck hold and wove his legs with the other's, pinning him. It gave him a moment of respite in which to wonder how one determined a winner in these affairs.
A hand on his collar rendered the quandary academic. Airleas found himself dangling well above the ground, glaring into his adversary's dunnish eyes. The two boys were at once separated and connected by the same things-a pair of huge arms and a broad expanse of chest.
”Hold, both of you!” The roar of the Ren Catahn's voice was enough to rattle Airleas's teeth. ”What in the name of all holy are you about, Broran Hageswode? Have you no idea who you're sc.r.a.pping with?”
Airleas's feet touched down, but the hand on his collar stayed.
”Says he's Cyneric of Caraid-land,” snarled Broran, trying to shake hair from his eyes.
”Happens, he is Cyneric of Caraid-land,” Catahn agreed. ”A cousin of yours, too, a few dams removed. It won't do to a.s.sa.s.sinate your blood relations.” He set Broran down. ”Now what's this about a sword?”
”Here, master. This is the sword.”
Airleas and Catahn both turned. Behind them, Gwynet stood, the Moidart blade clutched in two hands. Its point dug into the dirt between her feet, the sword was taller than she was.
”Airleas found it in an old leather bag in the stable, master. He wanted to use it to retake Mertuile.”
Catahn was surprised into a sharp laugh, Broran sn.i.g.g.e.red, and Airleas thought he would sink into the earth.
Still smiling, the Hillwild Ren fetched the weapon from Gwynet's hands, lifting it easily with one of his own. ”Well, Cyneric Airleas, I once had similar thoughts about this sword. Oh, not that I'd take Mertuile with it, but that it'd prove I was battle-ready. That I was a man just in the having of it. But I stole it, you see, so it proved nothing of the sort.”
”You stole it!” repeated Airleas.
”Aye. I was of an age with you boys, head full of tales I'd heard about the Battle of the Banner, aching to prove myself a hero. Round about that time, we had a bit of trouble with the Deasach. My Aunt, who was Renec then, took me over to Moidart to a Council. While I was there, at loose ends and looking for trouble to get at, I saw this sword. It belonged to the daughter of the Ren Gaineamh. Her name was Geatan. She was thirteen and she'd just celebrated the Crask-an-Bana. I thought her the most beautiful, brave and wonderful woman I'd ever seen.
”I snuck the sword from her room, leaving a thistle-rose in its place, and I thought of a grand scheme. With Geatan's sword, I'd take up arms against the southern harriers and become a hero to my people. Then I'd be worthy to take the Crask-an-duine and then, once I was a proven man-then I'd ask young Geatan to marry me. And, of course, I'd make a grand gesture of returning her sword.”
”But you didn't,” Gwynet observed.
”Well, the theft was noticed, which should've been no surprise to me, and the talk of her parents about it chilled me so, I decided I must try to put it back. But I couldn't. There were guards everywhere I turned that night and the next morning we were bound for Airdnasheen. I carried the sword home, knowing I'd never be able to use it, and feeling an idiot. I buried the d.a.m.n thing at the bottom of that grain bin over twenty years ago. I figured never to see it again.”
”Might she forgive you if you returned it now?”
Catahn's eyes seemed to lose their focus momentarily. ”Oh, that lady's long dead, Gwynet. She died when our daughter was twelve years old. I never did tell her about the sword, though she might've known, she was that fey. I suppose Desary should have it, now.”
Airleas's heart sank. ”What would Desary do with a sword?” he asked.