The shaft of an arrow, jaggedly broken off, protruded fromthe links of mail, a bit of wine-dark blood drying on the polished wood andstaining the armor. Hafydd cursed. It had been one of those meddlers from thenorth who’d shot him-which he would not forget.
He cleaned the shaft with a fold of his cloak, then tookhold of the wood. Pain coursed through his shoulder, far worse than when thearrow had entered. For a moment he closed his eyes and let the pain washthrough him, like a wave of fire. He focused his mind on the feel of the shaftin his fingers. In a single, slow motion, he drew the arrow out, then doubledover, gasping. He tried to press a fold of his robe against the wound, but thearrowhead was caught up in his mail and stymied his efforts. The world began tospin, and he fought to keep his balance and push back the blackness at the edgeof his vision. Nausea shook him, and he broke out in an unhealthy sweat.
After a moment, the pain subsided enough that he could situp and examine the wound, half-hidden beneath his armor and the padded shirtbeneath.
It appeared worse than he expected-the foul Stillwater corruptedit, no doubt. He would have to bathe it in the River Wyrr. That would healalmost any hurt he might have. He covered the wound, ignoring the ache. Risingto his feet unsteadily, he set out into the wood in search of the river, whichhe sensed was nearby.
Less than an hour later he saw the Wynnd sparkling throughthe trees. He drank from the waters, and sat for a moment on the grass,exhausted-unnaturally exhausted. With great effort and pain he managed to pullhis mail shirt over his head and bathed his wound in river water. Almostimmediately, the pain receded, as though it had been driven deep, almost beyondfeeling-almost.
He set off, again, along the bank, where a narrow footpathhad worn away the covering of green. The breeze was redolent with the scent ofpine trees and the musky river. And then a tang of smoke reached him.
Hafydd was not beyond caution when it was deemed necessary.He was, after all, without his guards and not wearing a shirt of mail. Andthough he could press back an army with his spells, he was ever vulnerable toan arrow, as recent events had shown.
Creeping through the underwood, he pulled aside thethin-limbed bushes and peered through the leaves. Flames crackled, and he heardvoices speaking softly. People crouched around a cooking fire-a woman, a man, achild-eating from crude bowls. Beyond them, angled up the bank, an old skifflay burdened with their baggage, oar blades pressing down the summer grasses.
Hafydd watched them warily for a moment. Watched the womanclean their dishes in the river while the man doused the fire and the childpicked a few huckleberries from low bushes bordering the path. As he searchedamong the branches, the child sang quietly to himself, his plain, freckled facebobbing among the summer-green leaves.
To a man who had seen so many conflicts, they looked likerefugees to him-a family displaced by war. By their dress, likely people oflittle or no wealth, no property, certainly. Tenant farmers.
He decided they would likely not want to help him, agrim-looking man-at-arms, obviously wounded, likely on the run.
Hafydd drew his dark blade and stepped out into the open,grabbing the boy child by the scruff of his neck with his bad arm. If the boystruggled, he would easily break free, so weakened was this arm and so painfuleven this small movement.
“I want only passage across the river,” Hafydd said. “Nothingmore. Bear me over, and I will set your child free. Refuse, and I will kill youall and row myself.”
The father had stepped forward, but stopped when he realizedwhat he faced-a trained man-at-arms bearing a blade, his manner deadly.
“Don’t hurt him,” the father pleaded, his voice breaking,hands up in supplication. “Leave him, and I’ll bear you across. You need notfear.”
“He will accompany us,” the knight said. “I’ll release himupon the other shore, and you may go where you will.”
The frightened father nodded. His wife, white-faced and nearto tears, had begun to tremble, so that Hafydd wondered if she would collapse.The knight pushed the boy forward as his father stooped to retrieve his oars.
Caibre’s long life of battle had brought Hafydd memories andskills he had never dreamed of. Almost before the father knew it himself,Hafydd could see that the man intended to strike him with the oar. And when hedid, the knight easily stepped aside, pushing the boy down roughly and puttinga foot on his chest, the point of his blade to the boy’s heart.
“And I had intended you no harm.Yet this is how you repayme!”
The woman did fall on the ground, then, or perhaps threw herselfforward on her knees. She was sobbing uncontrollably, her entreaties almostlost beneath the tears coursing down her cheeks. Her hair fell out of itsribbon and clung to her wet face.
“Don’t …” she cried. “Don’t hurt him! ’Twas a foolishthing my husband did. Foolish! I’ll row you across myself and offer you noharm.”
Hafydd stopped, his sword poised over the heart of the boy,who was too terrified even to cry. If he’d had both his arms, he would haveconsidered killing them all and rowing himself, but he was one-armed for themoment, and the Wynnd was broad.
Before the father could move, Hafydd struck him across theside of the face with the flat of his sword, a vicious blow that drove the manto his knees. Upon his face two thin, parallel lines of blood appeared, and theman swayed, dazed.
“Get up, boy,” Hafydd said. “You will sit in the stern withme.”
The woman strained to push the boat down the bank, but shemanaged and scrambled into the bow with the oars. Hafydd put the boy before himon the pile of baggage and took the stern seat, sword in hand.
“Row,” he said.
They set out into the river, the slow current taking hold ofthem. The woman put her back into her work, pulling at the sweeps with obviousfamiliarity. She was pale and shaken, her hair breaking loose from a braid andshivering in the wind. The boy sat still as stone, his hands covering his eyes.
“There be patrols upon the eastern shore,” the woman panted.“The river is watched.”
“And why is that?” Hafydd asked. She was obviously trying toingratiate herself with him, fearing for her child.
“The war,” she said, clearly surprised. “The Prince of Innesinvaded the Isle of Battle. That is what put us on the river. But we’ve heardnow that the Renne drove him back over the canal, with the loss of many.”
Hafydd sat back a little in his seat. That fool Innes wouldn’tgo to war without him? Would he?
“Is this a rumor, or do you know it for truth?”
“’Tis no rumor. We left the Isle as soon as the Princecrossed the canal. The roads were choked with people fleeing. We could havesold our skiff a dozen times, but we used it ourselves, to keep safe our child.”
Hafydd cursed under his breath. He left Innes alone for afew days and what did he do? Attacked the Renne-and lost!
The eastern shore was steep and falling away, trees leaningdangerously, their roots exposed. Hafydd had the woman row south a little, forthey were north of the Isle of Battle, she said. Shortly, the bank sloped down,and there they found a patrol of men-at-arms in purple and black-men servingthe Prince of Innes.
Hafydd hailed them, and they recognized him. The woman putthe boat ashore, silent now, looking warily at the men-at-arms, then guardedlyat Hafydd. The knight stepped ashore, tossing his shirt of mail down on thegrass.
“I must bathe in the river,” he said. “And then I will takea horse. Two of you will accompany me.”
The captain of the patrol bowed his head, not arguing.
Hafydd looked back over his shoulder at the mother andchild. “And these two …” He paused. “Kill them.”
There was a second’s stunned silence, then one of the mendrew a sword and stepped forward. The woman threw herself over her son, whereshe lay sobbing as the sword was raised.
“No, let them go,” Hafydd said, unsure why. Unsure of theodd feeling in his heart. “He is only a boy. Death will find him soon enough.”
He was cast down upon cold stone in a place of fainttwilight. The creature, the servant of Death, fled into the night, its cry echoingnightmarishly. The claws of Death’s servant had poisoned him, he was certain,for he could barely move his limbs, and lay on the stone waiting for Death tocome breathe him.
To his right, gray waters lay mercury still, to his left, ashadowy cliff. To his shame Beldor sobbed, sobbed like a child now that histime had come. But he sobbed half from frustration, for he had been about tosend Toren to this very place when Samul had interfered; and then the servantof Death had swept him up into the sky. He could only hope that the foulcreatures would find Toren, too.
The stone beneath him began to tremble, and a terriblegrinding noise assaulted his ears. Above him, the cliff shook, then appearedto move.
Death’s gate!
He tried to move, to crawl away, but at the same time hecould not tear his eyes away. Here it was, life’s great mystery. What lay beyond?No one ever returned to tell. And now, he would know.
The grinding of the gate seemed to continue for hours, adark stain spreading out from its base. Beldor had managed to wiggle a fewinches, and there he stopped, exhausted, his sobs reduced to whimpering.
How vain all of his pursuits seemed at that moment, all ofhis absurd pride, his boasts, his petty triumphs. He lay there trembling infear, like every ignorant peasant, his Renne pride reduced to whimpers.
From beyond the gate he heard scuttling and muttered wordshe could not understand. For a moment he closed his eyes, suddenly unable tobear the sight of Death.
Silence. But he could feel a presence-a cold, like openingan icehouse door. When he could bear the suspense no more, he looked.
A shadow loomed over him, black as a well by night. Not evena shimmer of surface, only fathomless darkness.
“So, we meet at last, Lord Death,” Beld whispered, his mouthdry and thick as paste.
“You flatter yourself, Beldor Renne,” a voice hissed. “Deathbarely noticed your passing-nor did life. But perhaps you will yet gain achance to leave your mark. To do something to affect the larger flow of events.”The voice paused, and Beldor felt himself being regarded, weighed. He struggledand managed to gain his knees, where he gasped for breath, his head bowed becausehe had not the strength to lift it.
“You might be of some small service, yet,” the dark voicehissed. “I am the Hand of Death, and I will give you an errand, Beldor Renne.If you manage it, you will be returned to the kingdom of the living for yournatural span of years-though likely a sword will see you here much sooner. Whatsay you, Lord of the Renn? A second life is granted to few.”
“Yes, whatever you ask,” Beldor gasped, “I will do.”
“Then you will deliver this to the knight known as Eremon,councilor to the Prince of Innes.”
“Hafydd,” Beldor whispered.
“So he was once called. You will tell him that Wyrr was laidto rest beneath the Moon’s Mirror.”
An object appeared from the shadow and was thrust into Beld’shands. It was hard-edged and bound in soft leather, warm as a woman’s skin. Abook.
“H-How do I proceed from here?” Beld stammered.
“Like this,” the shadow whispered.
From above a dark form fell through the twilight, and Beldwas snatched up in the claws of Death’s servant. He closed his eyes and clungto the book as though it were a shield that protected his life.
Hafydd leaned back in his chair, staring gravely at thebook. Beldor Renne stood by, watching, glad to have the cursed book out of hispossession. Just holding it had filled him with fever and dread.
Hafydd put a hand to his temple, the other arm immobilizedin a sling. “Have you any idea what you bore into this world, Beldor Renne?”
“It is a book, Sir Eremon. I know nothing more.”
“You did not open it?”
“I did not. To be honest, I was afraid to.”
“And for good reason,” Hafydd observed, still staring downat the open pages. “You could not have read it anyway, for it is written in alanguage that has not been spoken in a thousand years. It is a long, veryelaborate spell. One that, to my knowledge, has only been performed once in allof history-to catastrophic results.” Hafydd leaned forward and with great careturned the page, for a moment taking in the text. Beld thought the knightlooked paler since he’d opened the book, as though the blood had drained fromhis face.
There was a ruckus in the hall outside, and the door wasthrown upon. In strode the Prince of Innes, followed by two of Hafydd’s blackguards.
“Tell your guards that when I wish to see you, they do notstand in my way!” the Prince demanded. He was shaking with anger.
Beldor had only ever seen the man at tournaments, but he despisedhis arrogance. Coupled with the man’s obvious dullness of mind, it was anenraging combination. The Prince glanced at him with disdain.
“What is it you want?” Hafydd asked, as though he were beingannoyed by a child.
“I want to know if Lord A’denne is a traitor. How we shallprosecute our war, now? What your spies have learned of our enemies’ intentions…” This seemed to exhaust his list of questions for the moment.
“Of course A’denne is a traitor. Have him killed-ortortured. Whichever will give you the most satisfaction.”
This took the Prince aback. “Should you not speak with himfirst?”
Hafydd went back to gazing at the dreadful book. “I don’tneed to.”
Innes tilted his head toward Beld. “And what of this one? Heis a Renne … here, where he can do great damage.”
“Lord Beldor?” Hafydd said, still engrossed in the page. “ThePrince doubts your loyalty. Take my sword out of its scabbard.”
Beld took two steps and pulled Hafydd’s sword from the scabbardthat hung from the back of a chair.
“Now kill the Prince with it,” Hafydd said.
Beld turned on the shocked nobleman, wondering if his ownpleasure showed. The Prince dodged the first cut, but Beld did not miss thesecond time, catching the nobleman at the base of the neck and cuttingdiagonally down until the blade lodged in the ribs. The Prince fell andtwitched terribly for a moment, before he lay still in a growing pool of red.
Hafydd looked up at one of the guards standing just insidethe door. “Find a retainer of the late prince and bring him up here. We’ll killhim and tell anyone who cares that he was the assassin.”
Hafydd closed the book, picked it up somewhat gingerly as herose. “Leave the sword,” he said to Beld, “and come with me.”
They walked out into a hallway and in a moment enteredHafydd’s rooms. Hafydd took a seat in a chair but left Beld standing. The bookhe laid on a small table and, from within the folds of his cloak, took out agreen gem on a gold chain. He held this up so that it sparkled in the light,like a shard of the river in sunlight.
“Tell me the message again,” Hafydd said.
Beldor closed his eyes a moment, and slipped back into thenightmare. “‘Wyrr was laid to rest beneath the Moon’s Mirror.’That isall.” He opened his eyes to the light and filled his lungs with air.
“And those were the Hand’s exact words?”
“Yes. I’m quite sure. The few moments I spent before …that place are burned into my memory. I fear I shall never forget them, wakingor sleeping.”
“No, you shall not. Call in one of my guards.”
Beld opened the door, and one of the silent guards camequietly in, his presence reminding Beld of the Death’s gate, for reasons hecould not quite explain.
“Send out word. The legless man who goes about in a barrow-Kai,he calls himself now. He must be found and brought to me immediately-unharmed.”The guard bowed and turned toward the door. “And one more thing. Find all thelocal midwives. I require the corpse of a stillborn child.” Hafydd nodded, andthe man left.
“Prepare yourself for a journey, Lord Beldor,” Hafydd said. “Ithink we shall take Lord A’denne with us as well.”
“The traitor?”
“Yes, I like to have one of my enemies in my company-like awhetstone, it keeps me sharp.”
“What of the war, Sir Eremon?”
Hafydd looked up from the gem, which spun slowly on itschain. “It is of no concern to either you or me. Let Menwyn Wills fight it ifhe wants. Let him lose. It matters not at all. We’ve made bargains with thedarkness, Beldor Renne. There is no going back.”