There were almost as many rumors as there were men. The best information came from the women who labored to feed the growing horde. They were grateful for Velantos’ strength, and happy to talk to a man who did not confuse a smile with an invitation. When he said he was looking for his cousin and described Anderle, they told him she had been there, but three days ago she had gone.
He was chopping wood outside the palisade when a chariot came rattling in with sweated horses and a wild-eyed driver. “And what was that all about?” he asked the cook when he brought in the next load.
“Oh, it is a great secret—” The woman sniffed. “So of course the whole camp knows. Keddam has had the chore of taking food to the fair-haired girl that Galid captured a moon ago, the one who made us clean the hall. They had her in a shepherd’s hut out beyond the Henge. Anyhow, this afternoon he found the door of the hut barred as always, and the girl’s clothes within, but the girl herself was gone. Everyone is saying now that she was a witch, though when she was here she seemed a sweet girl, even if she did have a bee in her bonnet about keeping things clean.”
Velantos turned away heart pounding as he realized that this was the information for which he had come. If there was a witch involved, it was not Tirilan. Anderle was safe, but where were she and Tirilan now? Galid had scouts out scouring the plain. Two had returned with the news that a great force was coming down from the north. Already men were gathering their weapons. Commanders strode through the crowd with orders to form up outside the palisade. He had best be gone before he found himself in the middle of a battle—on the wrong side.
“My lord!” Another scout was pushing through the throng. For a moment the crowd parted and Velantos caught sight of Galid coming out of the roundhouse. The warlord had put on weight since his last visit to Avalon, but he moved with a nervous energy that reminded the smith of a rabid wolf he had once seen.
“Lord Galid,” stammered the scout, “I saw smoke coming from the great henge. I could not go too close without being seen, but a woman with yellow hair was looking out from between the stones—”
“Was she now?” Gaild replied. “Keddam, harness the horses. While Dammen gets the men in motion, let us go and see if the bitch has been found . . .”
“He saw a spirit, lord,” said the warrior who had followed Galid through the door. “If it is she, she is a sorceress, and best left alone.”
“I will kill her before Mikantor’s eyes, or she will kill me—” snarled Galid in reply. “And I don’t much care which it is just now. It is time to make an end—”
And time for me to go— thought Velantos.
“SOMETHING IS MOVING DOWN there,” said Ulansi. “Men are marching. I think the bastard knows we are coming.” They had crossed a fold in the land and found a slight vantage point as they came over the rise beyond.
“Good,” muttered Mikantor. “It will give him more time to be afraid—” He bent his head so that Aelfrix could finish lacing up the coat of bronze scales they had found at the smithy. The boy said that Velantos had made it while he was waiting to forge the Star Sword.
“Ah, in this coat you will blind your foes.” The boy stepped back. “In the sunlight you shine like a god.”
“A god of vengeance,” said Ulansi. In the last two days contingents from the Ai-Utu and Ai-Giru had joined them. The force that marched behind Mikantor now included men from all the tribes.
He held out his hands for shield and spear. He felt an inner stillness now that the time for action had come. His mood seemed to have communicated itself to his army.
“For the Lady Tirilan!” he cried, shaking his spear, and five hundred voices echoed him.
VELANTOS SPLASHED THROUGH THE Aman and climbed up the bank, straightening his shoulders and shedding the servile hunch along with the water. When he left the barrow he had noted the landmarks carefully. As the line of humps came into view along the skyline he veered to the right, casting a quick glance to the west where the Henge was coming into view. He could see no smoke there now, but dust was rising to the north—that could only be Mikantor and his men. His lips drew back in a feral grin and he hurried on.
Sunlight showed full on the face of the barrow, but the opening was as secret as before. Was it imagination that made Velantos sense a pulse of power from the Sword, as if it knew its destined master was near? He drew out the bundle and started north.
He had just crossed the processional way that led to the Henge when he heard hoofbeats and the rattle of wheels behind him. A quick glance showed him five chariots driving toward him across the plain. Behind them was a dark moving mass that must be the army. The chariots were coming fast, and there was no cover anywhere. He should have stayed hidden by the barrow, he should—There was no time to think what he should have done. What could he do now? Cursing, he pulled his threadbare mantle over all and forced his shoulders to slump once more.
The hoofbeats were too close now to pretend he did not hear. Velantos did not have to feign his recoil as the first pair of horses plunged to a halt beside him.
“What have we here?” said the warlord.
“My home burned, lord—” Velantos muttered, head bowed. “Now I wander . . .”
“You’ve chosen a bad time and place to go wandering,” Galid replied.
“He’s no vagrant, lord,” said the chariot’s driver. “I’ve seen him carrying wood at Azan-Ylir.”
“A deserter, then? Why aren’t you carrying a spear in my army? You look strong—” His tone sharpened. “Hold up your head, lout, and look at me!” He gestured, and one of the others approached with leveled spear. Velantos gathered himself to run, but the spearpoint was already at his throat.
“No wanderer indeed . . .” Galid said in a different tone. “I know this man! He is a bronze dealer I met on the road two years ago.”
“I’ve seen him too—” Keddam said suddenly. “He fought with axes at the battle in the Vale!”
“My lord—” said the driver, “the enemy—”
“—is on foot,” snapped Galid, “and cannot reach us until noon. Let’s have the pack off and see this merchant’s wares . . .”
Velantos dodged the spearpoint; the shaft caught him on the neck and he went to his knees, grabbing the spearman’s leg to pull him down. But they were too close, and too many.
“Take him alive!” cried Galid as Velantos snapped a spearshaft with his next swing. Then something hit him from behind.
He continued to fight, though his head was ringing and he could hardly see. But in moments, his hands were bound and the contents of his pack were strewn across the grass. His vision was just returning when they found the Sword.
For an endless moment no one said a word.
“Are there gods after all?” Galid said in a shaken whisper as the blade came blazing into his hand.
There are gods, and they have betrayed me, thought Velantos, ceasing his struggles at last.
“MOTHER, I HEAR CHARIOTS—” Tirilan looked up, the stick with whose frayed end she was painting symbols on the leather sheath poised in her hand. Her eyes were wide with fear.
Anderle’s heart sank. Tirilan had been so much better. She had been working on the sheath steadily since the day before, gaining the same strength from the sigils she was painting that she was infusing into the leather she held. Today, she might even be strong enough for them to leave the Henge.
Then she heard the hoofbeats too. “Your ears are better than mine.” She forced her voice to calm. “You know what to do. . . .” She stood up and the two women clasped hands. “Reach down, tap into the power and send it through the stones . . . ” Her skin prickled as the air pressure within the circle changed. Even if the intruders could see them, they would find it very hard to enter here. Humming softly to maintain the energy, she positioned herself behind one of the uprights at the edge of the circle where she could see eastward across the plain.
There were five of them. A flare of hatred shook her concentration as she recognized Galid??
?s grizzled head. After him came Soumer and Keddam and two others she had seen at Azan-Ylir. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm. Beyond the chariots a dark mass moved upon the horizon, as if instead of wheat the fields had sprouted warriors. Even when the chariots halted, the earth trembled beneath the feet of marching men.
“If Galid is sending out his rabble, Mikantor must be near. We will have a good view of the fighting.”
“You will forgive me, Mother, if I am less than eager to see.” Tirilan made a brave attempt to match her mother’s tone.
Galid had dismounted from his chariot. He seemed to be shouting, but a murmur of sound was all they could hear. Then he gestured, and the men in the second chariot heaved a body out onto the grass—a burly man with black hair. His hands and feet were bound.
It was Velantos. But how changed! He had always had a certain polish even when stripped for work, clothing mended and beard trimmed, as one might expect of a man raised in a king’s hold. Now he looked as if he had been sleeping in ditches. And even at the height of his frustration over the Star Sword every movement had radiated tension. Now she saw him emptied by despair. Instinctively she thinned the barrier so that she could hear as well as see.
“Tirilan!” Galid cried. “This man’s blood will be on your head if you do not come out to me!”
But it was Anderle who stepped out from between the stones.
“Lady Anderle!” Lust and loathing were contained in those syllables, fear and a desperate need.
“Myself—” she replied. “Did you think you could take my child captive and I not know?” She cast a quick glance at Velantos, who had raised himself on one elbow. She flinched from the anguish in his gaze. “This is between you and me, Galid. Let the man go.”
“No, Anderle!” Velantos cried. “Get back behind the stones!”
“Do you know him?” Galid favored them both with a nasty smile. “He seems to know you. Do you care if he keeps his head?” He giggled suddenly and reached back into to the chariot for a long bundle. “That stiff neck might take some cutting, but look! He himself has provided me with a sword!” Radiance flickered across the stones as he drew what looked like a bar of light from the wrappings and swung it high.
“Pretty, is it not?”
Velantos’ eyes closed as Anderle stifled a cry.
“What do you want, Galid?” Anderle said evenly.
“Does that matter?” He spoke with a frenetic gaiety. “Your gods have given this island into my hand. No one will resist the man who wields this sword.”
And that, Anderle thought numbly, was no more than the truth. That was the power that she and Velantos had forged into the blade. But not for him—
She wondered that the Star Sword did not leap in disgust from his hand.
“I suppose I should test it,” Galid went on. He stood over Velantos, twirling the blade with a wrist that had clearly lost none of its skill, though his belly hung over the belt of his kilt. “A slash, or a stab? Which would be the best way?”
“Oh that will be a brave deed,” Anderle said scornfully. “To slay a bound man!” She turned her gaze on the men in the chariots. “Surely the bards will sing scorn of the men who follow him!”
Galid looked sidelong at his men, who were beginning to grin as they scented a fight.
“Not that it will prove much of a contest, if the sword is as good as you believe . . .”
“Let the wretch up, my lord—” called Soumer. “There’s no sport in sticking him like a hog!”
The others were leaning forward, avid as she had often seen them when the yard rang to the snarls of fighting dogs. They had no honor to appeal to, but if she could challenge Galid’s manhood, he would have to respond.
“Prove it, Galid!” she cried. “Your tame giant is dead. Prove that you have the stones to face a man with a weapon in his hand.” To stand against the Star Sword might be hopeless, but she could at least give Velantos a chance.
The earth was still shaking, and another dark line had appeared on the northern horizon. Mikantor was coming, and from the length of that line, half the Island must have joined him. She took a deep breath. Great powers were converging, and if she did not yet dare to hope, she sensed that perhaps the gods had not quite abandoned them after all.
“Very well,” Galid said at last. “Cut his bonds and give him a spear.”
As Velantos stood, rubbing his wrists where the ropes had scraped them raw, resolve began to harden the lines of his body once more. There was no hope in the dark eyes that met her own, but that leashed tension was something she recognized from the forge. Still holding her gaze, he bent in formal salutation, as if she had been a queen.
Her throat ached as she bit back all of the things she had never had a chance to tell him, but she responded with a smile.
She felt Tirilan’s fingers close hard on her shoulder. “Mikantor is coming,” she told her. “Velantos can buy us time.”
“Mikantor would fight as hard for Velantos as he would for me,” her daughter replied. “If I thought it would change anything, I would give myself up to Galid now. But we can only watch and pray.”
And send energy to our champion, thought Anderle. She reached out to Velantos with her mind.
“Fight hard, my beloved . . . fight well. . . .”
VELANTOS BENT TO STRETCH the muscles of his legs, trying to remember everything he had heard about fighting with a spear. The left ached a little from the old wound, but he was used to that. He straightened, working his shoulders back and forth to ease them, and flexed his arms. No doubt tomorrow they would complain about the wrenching they had received bouncing around on the floor of the chariot—if tomorrow he was still alive to feel anything at all. But his muscles were moving smoothly enough for now.
He was surprised to find himself so calm. This was not the first time he had faced a foe who meant to destroy all he loved. He could even die content, if it were not for the Sword. Lady, why did you give me the craft to forge that blade if you did not mean to set it in Mikantor’s hand?
One of Galid’s men tossed his spear rattling across the grass. The bronze head glinted in the morning sunlight. Velantos grimaced as he picked it up, recognizing it as one of his own.
The shaft was of sturdy ash wood, a little over his own height, quite long enough to keep an enemy out of range—until the first time it was hit by the Sword. Velantos got a good grip on the spear, planted his feet in the grass, and took a deep breath, surprised to feel energy flowing up from the earth on which he stood. Did the land itself fight for him, or was it Anderle? Perhaps just now they were the same.
He gripped the shaft and jabbed, getting a feel for the heft of the spear. Galid swung; Velantos gauged the angle and batted at the blade. The sword rang, turning in Galid’s hand, and a splinter flew from the shaft of the spear. Velantos feinted and thrust once more, grinning as Galid lurched backward. If he could lame his foe . . . He jabbed toward Galid’s head. As the sword swung to deflect it, he flicked the spearpoint around the blade and plunged it downward.
But Galid was learning. The Star Sword came around in a whirl of light. Velantos tried to drop the spear, but the blade caught it halfway down the shaft. As the shock reverberated up Velantos’ arms, the blade slashed through. Unbalanced, he went over and kept rolling. He came upright with the stock of the spear in his hand, batting wildly at the Sword. The other half had fallen near the stones. He ducked Galid’s next blow and dove toward it.
Galid was laughing, peal upon peal of bitter glee. Velantos’ fingers closed upon the other half of the spear; he rolled again, came up with a piece in each hand and danced to one side, whirling both sticks to distract his foe. The Sword flared toward him and took another handbreadth off the end of the one in his left hand.
My greatest work will kill me . . . I wrought too well.
He had no defense. The Star Sword could shear through bronze; it would reduce wood to splinters. That knowledge brought an unexpected peace. If Velantos no longe
r had to worry about survival, he could focus on saving the Sword.
He dodged another slash, that strange clarity allowing him to foresee his opponent’s movements even while his own seemed to slow. He had all the time he needed to bend, feigning a jab at Galid’s feet with the spearpoint. As Galid reversed his hands on the hilt and stabbed downward Velantos rose, head tipped back, arms opening as if to embrace his foe.
The point of the Star Sword entered his breast just above the collarbone, stabbing down through the lung and scraping along the underside of his ribs, his body a living sheath for two-thirds of the blade. His momentum brought him the rest of the way up, wrenching the hilt from Galid’s hand. Velantos felt the impact, but his body did not yet understand what had happened, and there was no pain. As he reeled toward the stones, he saw Galid fall back, eyes white rimmed, and the other warriors standing beyoned him, too startled to move.
“Anderle!” he cried in a great voice, as once he had cried out on their bed in the smithy. “Anderle, let me in!”
She came suddenly into focus, standing by the stone, and he knew the barrier was down. The world dimmed and brightened as shock began to take hold, but Velantos was still on his feet. He took one step and then another, put out a hand to support himself and felt the gritty surface of the stone. Then Anderle’s arms were around him and she and Tirilan were pulling him into the circle. Everything beyond was lost in a distorted shimmer as Anderle snapped the warding into place once more.
The first wave of pain hammered Velantos to his knees, but it did not matter now. He had brought the Sword to Anderle. She would give it to Mikantor. The world was a whirl of light around him as he fell.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The bronze disks sewn to Mikantor’s leather shirt chimed faintly as he trotted forward, his spear resting on his shoulder and his Companions running to either side. To begin the last stage of their race they had risen before the sun. The skin of the lynx he killed in the great mountains was draped across his shoulders, for in this battle he would need all his allies. Galid’s forces were taking up position on the plain before the great henge even now. Mikantor ran with grim exultation. Soon he would kill Galid and find Tirilan.