“For a BattleAxe he has compassion,” Azhure said quietly. “When he arrived in Smyrton yesterday he was so furious at the treatment Hagen had dealt to Raum and Shra that he attacked Hagen, gave Shra to me to tend, and had his lieutenant Belial personally supervise two Axe-Wielders who cleaned Raum’s cell and made him comfortable.”
“Belial…the man you attacked?”
Azhure looked uncomfortable. “Yes, GoldFeather.”
Both GoldFeather and Barsarbe stared at Azhure for a moment as they walked, both frowning.
Azhure looked even more uncomfortable as her guilt rose, and GoldFeather turned a little to Barsarbe. “There is much to speak of here, Barsarbe. Perhaps we can wait until we are in your camp and have tended to Raum. But whatever she did, remember that Azhure saved Raum and Shra’s lives.”
Barsarbe’s frown did not leave her face, but she turned her eyes from Azhure. Azhure remembered Barsarbe’s remark to Grindle; obviously the Avar abhorred physical violence. What will they think when they find out I caused Hagen’s death last night, Azhure thought frantically. Will they insist I leave the Avarinheim? They walked silently for some minutes, GoldFeather well aware of Azhure’s increasing distress. Finally she touched Azhure’s arm gently. “The Avar are a peaceable people, Azhure, but they will also be grateful for what you did for Raum and Shra. If you had to commit violence to save them, then they will take that into account.”
Azhure relaxed a little. “I hope so, GoldFeather. I only wanted to help. I did not think that I would…that I would…”
GoldFeather smiled to reassure the girl. “Shush now, Azhure, I know how badly you have wanted to help.”
Azhure was quiet for a moment. “GoldFeather, I cannot go home now. May I stay with the Avar?”
GoldFeather turned and raised her eyebrows in query at Barsarbe. “We will have to ask the Clan,” Barsarbe said eventually, her voice terse.
Shortly afterwards they arrived in a modest camp in a small glade close by the banks of the Nordra. The camp consisted of two circular leather tents stretched over lightweight curved wooden supports. A small fire smouldered on a stone hearth before them, a pot simmering to one side of the coals. Grindle had laid Raum down beside the fire and two women and a number of children hovered anxiously about them, looking immeasurably relieved when Barsarbe and GoldFeather appeared. The children hung back shyly, uncertain about Azhure’s presence, but the two Avar women continued to kneel by Raum’s side, Grindle standing behind them looking as angry as he had when Azhure had first told him that he was injured.
Barsarbe pushed the younger of the Avar women to one side and crouched down, inspecting Raum’s neck and ankle. She looked anxiously at the other woman. “I’ll have to work quickly on this, Fleat. Can you find me some splints?” The woman nodded and rose and Barsarbe turned to one of the children, a boy about fourteen summers. “Helm, I’ll need some pots of fresh water if you can heat me some, and Skali,” to a girl a year or so younger than the boy, “will you fetch me my basket of herbs?” The boy and girl nodded and rushed off, and Barsarbe started to wipe some of the blood away from Raum’s neck to inspect the gash made by Axis’ sword. Raum was only barely conscious now. She looked up at Grindle. “Grindle, you will need to keep Raum still while I clean and set the ankle. Will you hold him?”
Grindle knelt down by Raum’s shoulders. “Can you save him, Barsarbe?”
She smiled reassuringly at the man. “Grindle, I will do my best. At least the wound is fresh, it has not been left to fester. I have saved worse than this.”
GoldFeather waved over the young Avar woman. Dressed in a tunic and leggings like Grindle, the woman was carrying a small infant strapped to her breast. She stepped up to GoldFeather and Azhure, and smiled as she saw that Azhure held Shra.
“Shra!” she exclaimed, relief flooding her face, and the little girl held out her arms to the woman. “She is well,” Azhure reassured the woman.
GoldFeather smiled. “Pease is Shra’s mother, Azhure, and Grindle is her father. Pease?” The woman looked up from her daughter. She looked too small and frail to hold both infant and daughter, yet she seemed to cope with ease, and Azhure thought that although the Avar women were much shorter and more fine-boned than their menfolk their frail appearance hid considerable strength. “Pease,” GoldFeather continued. “This is Azhure, and she has helped return both Shra and Raum to your Clan. But she—and I—are exhausted, and we would be grateful if you could find us a place to sit and perhaps some tea to drink.”
“Of course,” Pease looked apologetic. She glanced anxiously across as Grindle carried Raum inside one of the leather tents, followed by Barsarbe and the other Avar woman, Fleat. “Come, sit by the fire.”
Both Azhure and GoldFeather sank gratefully in front of the fire and Pease reluctantly laid Shra down as she poured them some tea from the simmering pot. Azhure smiled her thanks as Pease passed her the tea in a wooden mug skilfully carved with a pattern of leaves along its rim. Pease sat cross-legged beside them, the baby in her lap, Shra curled up as close as she could beside her mother. The youngest of the three other children, the only one not actively involved in helping with Raum, hung back shyly until Pease motioned her forward to sit with them at the fire.
Pease inclined her upper body gracefully in Azhure’s direction. “Please excuse my rudeness in not greeting you promptly, Azhure. Let me do so now. Be well and welcome to the camp of the Clan of the GhostTree, may you always find shade to rest in and may your feet always tread the paths of the Sacred Grove.”
Azhure was not quite sure how to reply to this welcome. “Thank you, Pease. I am very pleased to be here and grateful that you have welcomed me so kindly.”
“You must be confused by all these people, Azhure. Grindle is Clan leader of the GhostTree Clan, and Fleat is his senior wife. Her children are the older ones you have seen here—Helm, Skali and Hogni. Five summers ago I was honoured when Grindle asked me to become second wife to the GhostTree Clan, and Shra and this infant are my children. Our Clan is honoured that Bane Raum and Bane Barsarbe also occasionally travel with us.”
Azhure was still trying to absorb the fact that both the women were married to Grindle. “Grindle has two wives?”
Pease frowned. “Is that not the practice among your people as well?”
GoldFeather smiled and spoke before Azhure could answer and possibly insult Pease with some ill-considered words. “No, Pease. As with the Icarii, among the Plains Dwellers it is the custom to take only one wife or one husband at a time.” She turned to Azhure. “Among the Avar, children are valued above all else. If a woman is not honoured to become a man’s first wife, then she will gladly become a second wife. Grindle is as honoured that Pease consented to join his Clan as she was to be asked.”
The baby started to whimper and Pease bared a breast and began to feed it. For a moment she fussed with the baby before she looked back at Azhure curiously. “How many children do you have, Azhure?”
“Why, none—I am not married.”
Now it was Pease’s turn to look aghast. “At your age?” Azhure promptly felt like a grey-haired old crone. “Why, Fleat had borne all her children before she had reached her twenty-third year. I am only nineteen.”
A cry suddenly rang out from the tent where Barsarbe worked on Raum’s leg. All three women about the fire paled as they heard bone crunch. GoldFeather reached over and patted Azhure on the knee. “Barsarbe is skilled at healing, Azhure. If anyone can save Raum’s life, she will do it.”
Azhure nodded tightly.
35
STARMAN
Axis staggered out of the Forbidden Valley, his face expressionless, his sword still dangling naked in his hand, words and images jumbling chaotically through his mind. The Avar man had said he had the soul of an Enchanter…an Icarii Enchanter. The woman had said that all Icarii sang, that music coursed through their blood. He had sung and played music that no-one had ever taught him. Now more music, strange songs, were surging to the surf
ace of his mind from long-hidden traps within his soul. He had sung an ancient ward against evil to protect himself against the apparition of Gorgrael. He had sung again yesterday to the Avar child, and had done something to her that had shocked Raum. His instant reaction to the sight of the trapped Avar had been sympathy, not hatred.
Who was his father?
Axis did not want to make the connection, could not make the obvious connection, lest he drive himself mad. All he wanted to do was put one foot in front of the other and somehow get himself back to the Axe-Wielders, back to a world that he understood and that understood him.
How could he be the son of one of the Forbidden when he had dedicated his life to serving the Seneschal—whose foremost enemies were the Forbidden? How could he have Forbidden blood coursing through his veins when all his life he had hated and feared the Forbidden?
Had his sympathy for the Forbidden been prompted by the fact that he was Forbidden too?
“No!” he whispered, “it cannot be!”
And Raum had said that Faraday lived. How could that be? How could Raum have known that? If he let himself hope it were true, and it were not, then he would truly be damned.
“No,” he whispered, “it cannot be.”
“BattleAxe!”
Axis raised his head with a conscious effort. Arne was spurring his big roan gelding towards him, relief written across his face. Several Axe-Wielders followed close behind. Axis slowly straightened.
“BattleAxe! We found Belial hurt and Hagen murdered and the Avar missing. Are you all right?”
Axis grimaced. “The Avar escaped. With the help of Azhure.” He sheathed his sword.
Arne’s face twisted into a snarl. “That Artor-cursed bitch! She murdered her father and dealt Belial a grievous blow.”
Axis wiped a tired hand across his eyes, almost staggering with the effort. “How is Belial?”
Arne looked down at his BattleAxe with concern. “Belial will live. Ogden and Veremund are with him now. They say they can help him.”
“Ogden and Veremund.” Axis’ eyes gleamed. “Yes. I must speak to them,” he said to himself, very quietly.
“And the Avar and Azhure?”
Axis sighed and looked over his shoulder into the Forbidden Valley. “They had too great a start on me. They disappeared into the Shadowsward.”
“Cursed misbegotten animals!” Arne growled, and Axis flinched, losing even more colour. He wavered slightly, and Arne lent down his hand. “Swing up behind me, commander.”
The good people of Smyrton were standing about in the main street and square. Word had spread quickly about the murder of their Plough-Keeper and the escape of the Avar man and the child. None of them were unwilling to believe that it had been Azhure who had murdered her father, attacked the Axe-Wielder (and the lieutenant to the BattleAxe at that!), and then fled with the Avar man and child. No-one doubted Azhure’s part in the crime. No-one had liked her, they all agreed, shaking their heads in a great public show of sorrow, she had never really fitted in, and wasn’t this just like her mother? Except worse? Far, far worse. Never trust a Nors woman, they all clucked to each other. Hagen’s infatuation with that woman had been his only fault, and, in the end, the death of him.
Hagen’s corpse had been removed to Goodman Hordley’s house, where several of the village Goodwives were weeping and wailing as they washed it (and stitched the evil wound in his belly) and dressed the Plough-Keeper in his best habit. Later the entire village would file past to view the body. In Hagen’s home the floor had been mopped and scrubbed and the bed prepared for the grievously struck Axe-Wielder.
Still, if denied a burning, the villagers at least had a burial to entertain themselves with. How fortunate that the two other brothers were in the village to conduct the Service for the Dead.
Axis slipped off Arne’s horse at the house of the Plough-Keeper. “Arne,” he said, steadying himself against the horse’s flank. “Who is inside?”
“Only Ogden, Veremund and Belial were in there when I left them, sir.”
Axis nodded to himself. “Very well. Arne, stand guard here for me. Let no-one else in. I do not want to be disturbed for a while.”
Arne nodded. One word from Axis was worth an entire edict from King Priam as far as he was concerned.
Axis headed for the door. Would Arne still believe in him if he knew who, what, he really was? He took a deep breath. Now was the time for some direct questions for Ogden and Veremund. Axis was tired of vague answers. Now was the time for these two…brothers…to tell him all they knew.
For a moment he leaned against the door, trying to find the courage to enter, then he slipped the door catch, shutting it very quietly behind him.
Ogden and Veremund did not notice his entrance. They stood across the far side of the room, leaning over Belial who was stretched out straight and still on the bed. Ogden had his hand splayed over Belial’s face and faint golden light emanated from his fingertips. Veremund stood close beside him, his hand on Ogden’s shoulder, muttering very quietly to himself.
Axis leaned against the closed door and looked at them. Belial wasn’t in any danger, otherwise he would have rushed to his aid. Suddenly he felt a surge of anger. Ogden and Veremund were very much not what they pretended to be. Well, the time for playing games was over.
It was Veremund who noticed him first. He leaned over to a side table to reach for a damp cloth to wipe Belial’s face when he spied Axis from the corner of one of his faintly glowing golden eyes. Instantly the golden light died. “Axis!” he breathed, and Ogden lifted his hand from Belial’s face. They both turned from Belial to stare at Axis, both uncertain what to say and do. They had wanted to wait longer yet before they revealed themselves.
Axis pushed himself off the door and strolled lazily across the room, his stare holding both Ogden and Veremund’s gaze until he pushed past them to Belial’s side. He dropped his eyes. Belial lay quiet on the bed, breathing easily, a cool compress over his forehead and across the back of his neck. As Axis watched, Belial opened his eyes and grimaced in self-reproach.
“BattleAxe. My apologies. I should never have turned my back on her.”
A corner of Axis’ mouth lifted at Belial’s apology. “You were lucky she did not knife you. She has a steady hand, it seems, when it comes to murder.”
“I did not expect it of her,” Belial said quietly, gently touching the back of his head with a trembling hand.
“Well, if it’s any comfort, she was distraught at the thought that she might have killed you—she sent her apologies. Your smile must have charmed her just enough to stop the killer blow.”
“Always had a way with the women,” Belial whispered, then closed his eyes again, a spasm of pain crossing his face.
“You spoke to them?” Ogden whispered anxiously at Axis’ side.
Axis turned and moved so swiftly that Ogden was unprepared for his action. All he knew was that suddenly Axis had one hand buried in his hair, holding his head tilted back in a tight grip, while the other hand was at his throat with a short but lethal blade.
“And was she in your pay, old man?” Axis whispered fiercely, his own face not a handspan from Ogden’s. “This has your smell all over it.”
“Axis!” Belial whispered weakly from the bed. “Do not harm them! They have done my head good.”
“As well they should, Belial,” Axis said tightly, his eyes still staring into Ogden’s. “I am not so sure they did not plan the whole escape.”
“Axis!” Veremund fluttered helplessly at Ogden’s side, unsure what to do, frightened that whatever he did might cause Axis to slide the blade a little too far into Ogden’s neck.
“Will you answer my questions, old men?”
“Yes! Yes!” Veremund said, his hands flapping impotently. “Just let Brother Ogden go.”
Axis let Ogden go so abruptly that the man slid to the floor, then sat down at the foot of the bed and sheathed the knife back into his boot. Belial, who had struggled into
a half-sitting position, sank back upon the pillows again.
Ogden glanced at Belial anxiously. “Perhaps this would not be the best place, BattleAxe.”
Axis took a deep breath and looked at his lieutenant momentarily. “No, old man, this is very much the right place. I would rather that Belial heard this. I will value his advice.”
“Very well. Veremund, would you mind assisting me to a chair?”
The tall old man helped his plumper companion to sit in a chair facing the bed, then pulled up a chair beside him. Veremund turned to Axis. “What do you want to know, dear one?”
All the anger had drained from Axis’ face. Now he simply looked tired. “Do you remember when we spoke the night of the attack at the Barrows?”
Ogden and Veremund nodded.
“I said then that reading the Prophecy had opened a dark dungeon that had previously been locked tight all my life. I said that I did not like what I saw in that dungeon. Well, old men, too many things have crawled out of that once dark hole for me to ignore, and unless I get some explanations from you I am going…to…go…insane.”
His stress was so clear that Belial reached out a hand to him. Axis grasped it tight. His eyes, however, did not waver from Ogden and Veremund. “Old men, whatever you might be, I no longer believe this fiction that you are simple Brothers of the Seneschal, devoted to learning and driven halfway to dementia by your isolation of the last thirty-nine years. What are you?”
Again Ogden and Veremund exchanged glances, and they grasped hands too, unsure what to do. “Dear one,” whispered Ogden, “is the time upon us?”
“You have no cursed choice!” Axis almost shouted from the bed. “Because if you do not tell me I will break free this knife again!”