Under the Green Star

Chapter 19 FATE PLAYS A HAND

“War!”—the murmur ran through the assembled throng of outlaws like a gust of wind rustling tall grasses. Hands fell to sword-hilts; fingers tightened on pommels.

Siona fixed the Ardhanese envoy with a piercing eye.

“So … your master—knowing that I have great and good cause to hate and detest the folk of Phaolon, for they thrust my father forth into the wild, in the time of the late prince, father of the present sovereign—thinks to enlist my warriors in his own squabbles, so that my brave foresters can fight and bleed and die to make him regnant over the Jewel City!”

She mused, fingering her mouth. No one spoke. Beside me, Niamh huddled trembling; and I knew now why it was she hid her face from the outlaw queen and concealed her identity with such fearfulness.

The envoy was speaking again.

“The forest outlaws who follow the bold and gallant Lady Siona are masters of the wild and know every path and vantage and vista,” he observed. “Keen and clever scouts would they be, in the event of war between the two cities! Of very great cunning are they, wise in the ways of stealth. Unseen, unheard, they move at will through the great trees, and there be none can mark their passing—”

“True,” Siona cut in. “The value of my band as scouts of war, however, is many times the sum of these few paltry bangles your master has seen fit to cast at my feet.”

“When the Jewel City is taken, will there not be wealth enough for all?” the envoy cried. “The casket is but in the nature of a first payment; there will be many more.”

“There will indeed,” Siona said decisively, “and the full and total amount agreed on beforehand. But the aerial cavalry of Phaolon is justly renowned in war, and the knights that will rally to the standards of that lady, their queen, are not without bravery. Furthermore, I have heard that a very great warrior has come among them to coach them in the martial arts, a certain Chong. How can Akhmim your master be so confident that from this contest he will emerge the victor?”

The envoy chuckled expansively, jowls jiggling.

“Fate itself has played a hand in deciding the outcome of our strife,” he beamed. “The Lord Chong and the Princess Niamh are slain—fallen into the great abyss from a high branch, their very bodies devoured by the beasts—and thus is Phaolon thrown into utter confusion, in lack of a true heir to claim the golden chair of sovereignty. While the wise men and lords of the Jewel City worry and wrangle in their councils, doubt and terror have unmanned the folk of that realm. Now—now—is the time to strike, and bear away the victory!”

Siona’s eyes flashed; she rose to her feet with a start.

“What is this you say! The hated Niamh dead—am I robbed of my revenge, then, after so long a wait? Is my father’s honor not to be avenged at last upon the body of the daughter of his persecutor? Niamh—dead?”

And then it happened.

A shrill, whining voice rose in a shriek of triumphant glee.

“Not so, mistress! Not so at all! For the Lord Chong and the Princess Niamh did not die when they fell into the abyss—indeed, they yet live—they stand among us now, within this very hall!”

It was Sligon, of course. The spiteful, ugly little thief sprang upon the dais, gathering all eyes with a dramatic sweep of his arm—then shot his arm out, pointing directly at us where we stood in the shadow of a pillar.

All eyes flew to us. Amazement and wonder and dawning speculation were visible on every face. Yurgon stared at me in blank wonder. Young Kaorn stood bewildered and slack-jawed.

As for Siona, she was transfixed. She stood rigid as if frozen, her face white to the lips, her eyes dead and lusterless. Then they gleamed and there came into her features such an expression of snarling, feline fury and gloating cruelty that I pray I may never again see such an expression on a human face. The writhing torment of the Pit glared in her twisted features—and an unholy glee flamed in her eyes until she no longer resembled anything human, but looked like a vengeful Fury or some maddened Medusa from the darkest nightmares of elder myth.

I did not wait for her to speak, but flew into action. There was no chance at all that I could fight my way free of the hall and escape, bearing away the woman I loved from the vengeance of Siona. My only hope was to somehow seize Siona herself, while all stood frozen with astonishment by this swift turn of events. With my sword-edge at her throat, it was just barely possible that we might effect our escape, using her as our hostage.

In one great bound I was on the dais. My hand flew out, striking the nearest forester to the floor, wrenching his sword free of its scabbard with a hiss of razory metal against old leather. But I had not taken the hunched, sidling little thief into account. For Sligon sprang directly in my path and stood between Siona and myself. And a wicked, hooked knife glittered in his hand—the same knife be had drawn on me once before, when I had caught him peering into our sleeping cubicle and had given him a boot in his ugly face by way of reward.

Firelight flashed on knife metal. We engaged our weapons, and such was the fury of his attack that fierce sparks struck hissing from the clash of blades. A little man with a hunched back and a twisted leg he might be, but Sligon knew every vile and despicable trick of gutter fighting, and he used them all.

Under ordinary circumstances, one armed with a knife would have but little chance against a man armed with a sword. But the blade I had seized from the fallen forester was not the great broadsword wherewith I had trained in the exercise yards of Phaolon, but a curved, heavy-tipped cutlass or tulwar—almost a scimitar. It felt clumsy and poorly balanced and I handled it badly, giving Sligon the advantage. His blade slid past my awkward guard and I felt a stinging blow somewhere in my chest. There was only a moment of pain, and then the sting was replaced by a cold numbness, so I thought little of the chance blow and dismissed it as a mere cut, and fought on.

Sligon was not only a cunning and vicious fighter who knew every dirty trick of infighting ever invented by human ingenuity, but his warped and twisted little body concealed a surprising vigor. Deformed his limbs might be, but they possessed a steely strength that was most unexpected. The spiteful little thief was spliced together from whalebone, rawhide and steel wire, and he fought with the fury of thirty devils.

It was his consuming hatred of me that drove him to excel himself. This hatred had rankled and festered at the roots of his soul, devouring him like a canker. How he hurled himself against me, his hooked blade flickering, a blur of brightness in the firelight! It was all I could do to hold my own against him; and a strange weariness was spreading through me, as I grew curiously weaker with every second that passed.

Then came the moment for which Sligon had cleverly waited. My foot edged into a puddle of spilled wine, I lost my balance and fell to my knees. A flash of cruel and gloating glee lit up his slitted eyes. Taking advantage of my momentary inability to defend myself, his blade flashed for my throat as he struck like the loathsome and slinking little coward be was at heart.

One voice soared above the uproar—the clear, silver voice of a woman, hoarsened with emotion—“No!”

Then a slim form darted between us. It was Siona, who leaped between the hunched assassin and me like an angry leopardess defending her mate. Sligon paused, his blade hovering, his face transformed from a smirking mask of triumph to blank bewilderment. Then he flinched, grunting. For Siona had driven into his chest the little gold-hilted dagger she wore at her waist; like a striking fang, the slender steel needle had slid into his heart!

Sligon peered down at his breast where a stain of wet crimson spread. His swarthy features paled to the hue of dirty wax. He whimpered, deep in his throat, like a hurt beast. With one hand he pawed at the place where she had hurt him; and then his knees gave way and he fell sprawling on the platform, eyes glazing in death.

So died Sligon the Betrayer, whose treachery had resulted in his own death…

There was no time for me to ponder the implications of Siona’s strange and impulsive act. In a flash I had sprung to my feet, seizing her in a strong grip, my blade at her throat. She did not move, did not try to fight my grip or break free, but lay in my arms panting. I turned to face the throng. A score of burly foresters were about to launch themselves upon me.

“If one of you moves, Siona dies,” I said grimly. They froze, eyeing me indecisively. My face was a grim mask of determination, my eyes intent and steely. But to this hour I cannot say if I would have actually carried out my threat. I like to think that I would not—after all, Siona had just saved my life, although her actions were surprising and mysterious—and it would not have been in me to have slain a woman, even a woman who was my deadly enemy, and the enemy of the woman I loved.

The foresters and the foreign envoys stood motionlessly. Niamh came quickly through their frozen ranks to my side, her face pale but unafraid. Her slight, girlish bosom rose and fell with her quick breathing, but she seemed composed. She bent and snatched up the hooked knife that Sligon had let fall.

My strange weakness had grown. My arm was like a leaden weight and as I held my blade to Siona’s throat my muscles trembled with effort. But there was no time now to think about myself; in the next few moments we would be either safe—or dead.

“We are going out,” I said to the room filled with silent men. “Let no one oppose our going, or this blade drinks the life of your mistress. If no one interferes, she will be set free unharmed.” There was no answer to this.

“Stay close behind me,” I said in low tones to Niamh, “and keep your eyes open. Beware of treachery… “

I shoved the Amazon girl with my arm.

“Move,” I said.

We stepped down from the platform whereon the corpse of Sligon lay in a pool of spreading gore. We walked directly for the door of the ball, and as we approached men they stepped aside. My eyes roved constantly from side to side, wary of the slightest move, but not one of the foresters dared to oppose our going with the life of Siona at stake.

Outside, the world was drowned in impenetrable blackness. We found the pens wherein the zaiph were stabled, and I told Niamh to single out two steeds for us and to saddle them up. It was a difficult task to perform in such complete blackness, and it must have been doubly hard for her to do it, having never had to saddle her own mount before.

It seemed to take her forever. Siona still had not uttered one word, but stood submissively under my hand. I was watching and listening for some sign of activity in the darkness. There were a thousand small, stealthy sounds in the night, wind among the leaves, the creaking of boughs, the stir and rustling of the zaiph. In my fancy I pictured a hundred vengeful foresters creeping upon us under cover of the night. But nothing occurred.

I knew that if we could but mount and fly, no power in the world could take us captive in this impenetrable darkness. The foresters could search all they liked, but we could fly in any direction, to a higher or a lower level, hide in any one of ten thousand places. In the black moonless night we could fly free of pursuit-if only we could make it into the air!

My heart thudding, the taste of desperation like oily brass on my tongue, I stood, taut and trembling, waiting for Niamh to finish saddling the zaiph.