Bridge of Swords (12 page)

‘Wh-who are you?’ asked the oldest of the quartet.

‘I am Sendatsu of Dokuzen. I am an elf.’

‘An elf?’ The four relaxed a little at the news.

‘You are safe now. I have freed you!’ Sendatsu exclaimed proudly. He could not stay still; the reaction of the fight had him wanting to run back to Dokuzen and tell his father he was not useless after all.

The oldest of the quartet, the one who was first to speak, turned to him, wiping her eyes.

‘How can we ever repay you? I am Delia and we shall never forget what you did.’

Sendatsu grinned. ‘I am glad you said that. Because I need you four to do something for me.’

They drew away from him, drew together again.

‘What is it you want?’ Delia cried.

‘Are you really an elf?’ another asked.

‘Of course I’m an elf!’ Sendatsu roared at them.

‘Maegen, if he is an elf, then he can bring the dead back to life, change the past and save all in our village of Patcham!’ Delia clutched the second speaker

‘What? I can’t do that!’ Sendatsu protested.

‘Why not? I thought you were an elf?’

‘I cannot do such a thing! Even our most powerful Magic-weaver cannot bring the dead back to life.’

‘But all the legends speak of your powerful magic, how it can do anything!’ the woman Delia had called Maegen cried.

‘Well, I cannot do this. But speaking of legends, can any of you read another language, maybe an old language …?’

‘If you are truly an elf, then bless my elfbolt, give it the power to heal.’ Delia reached into her dress and produced a small lump of stone on a thong, holding it out towards him.

‘What?’ Sendatsu had never seen such a thing, nor heard of them before.

‘An elfbolt! All it needs is your blessing to become a powerful source of magic!’

Sendatsu just stared at them. Were they speaking another language? The emphasis on some scrap of stone totally confused him.

‘He will not do even that! Don’t trust him!’ Maegen hissed.

Bewildered, Sendatsu looked from one to the next. What was the significance of the stone and why were they so obsessed with it? It infuriated him.

‘Enough!’ he bellowed. ‘No more of this nonsense! Now you will stop this and listen to me or …’

He stopped there, partly because he did not mean to threaten them but mainly because they had run away, racing towards the tethered horses.

‘Wait! I am sorry — I mean you no harm!’ he called, the anger gone from his voice. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Home!’ Delia replied strongly. The four of them clambered into saddles and looked as though they would be galloping out of there.

Sendatsu could not believe it. He risked his life, saved them, and they were running away from him! Just what did these humans think of elves? To have such strange memories of elven magic … what legends had been left behind?

‘You could at least cook me some food!’ he shouted as they clattered away.

He kicked a saddle in frustration and anger. Even allowing for what they had gone through, this was ridiculous. He could not talk with humans. And when he did, their obsession and misconception of magic spoiled things. This was going to be even harder than he thought. How was he to get through to these humans?

It started with the Magic-weavers. They had been so firmly under the control of our forefathers that perhaps it was natural they would be the first to rebel. As the most gifted among us in magic, the most powerful, they saw themselves as something special. They were also the way to create the magical barrier and seal ourselves away from the rest of the humans.

To my face they smiled and bowed and promised to fulfil the wishes of the forefathers but, behind my back, they schemed and plotted.

They thought they should rule the elves.

That was bad enough but I didn’t realise there were other elves who thought they should rule the world.

‘What was it like at court, sir?’

Hector turned in his saddle. He had been brooding on the bad luck that seemed to have cursed his life. Once again, with triumph almost in his grasp, it had slipped away. With many miles of road to travel and little in the way of company, naturally his thoughts turned inwards. Now the sergeant of the guards he had been given had interrupted his brooding.

He glowered at the sergeant for a heartbeat before his face was transformed by a broad smile. ‘Like nothing you could ever imagine,’ he said warmly. ‘To stand in front of your king, to have the whole court on their feet and applauding you … it is a feeling
like no other. You are lifted upwards on that wave of adulation, it fills you to the brim and, at that moment, you can truly do anything.’

‘So you performed as well, sir? I thought it was just your daughter …’

‘Of course I performed! You don’t think she just woke up with that sort of talent, do you?’ Hector snapped. ‘I was the greatest singer the court ever heard! The women used to swoon all over me as soon as I opened my mouth.’ He looked around at the guards, saw he had their full attention and basked in it. ‘Sergeant, what is your name?’

‘Edric, sir,’ he reminded him yet again.

‘Well, Edric, the king himself shed a tear the first time he listened to me sing.’

‘The king cried, sir?’

Hector paused. ‘So I was told,’ he added hastily. ‘But bards used to sing songs about how good a singer I was. All of Forland was going to learn of my greatness. Your parents would have sung you to sleep with tales of my prowess, used them to calm your crying.’

‘My parents weren’t into singing, sir. More into hitting me until I shut up. But how come I never heard of you?’

‘I lost my voice,’ Hector admitted, the fire that had filled him at those memories now dying down.

‘Still, at least you have your daughter, sir. Everyone talks about her. You can be famous through her.’

‘Famous through her? She owes me everything! She would be nothing without me. Nothing!’

They rode on in silence for a little while, as Hector brooded anew.

‘So no chance you could give us a tune or two, help the miles along, sir?’

‘No.’

Rhiannon threw back her head and laughed.

The first few days after leaving Cridianton had been like some sort of nightmare. Her father, the central part of her life, had
gone. Every day she had been told what to do, what to wear, where to go and what to eat. To have that taken away was an enormous gulf in her life. The thought he had died to save her from Ward was even more devastating. Hector had prepared her for the court of King Ward, filled her head with stories about how wonderful it was and what a success she would be. To have that taken away from her at the same time as her father was almost too much for her. Without Huw, she would not have made it.

Back in Cridianton he had been her only friend. At the auditions for the king he had performed after her — and saved her when nerves left her tongue tied and her legs leaden, playing the lyre to break the spell she was under and release her ability. Then, during one of the king’s war meetings, when they had been the entertainment, he had invited her to join him in seeing the city. Even now she marvelled she had been brave and daring enough to say yes.

Together they had run through the quiet servants’ passageways and slipped out of the castle without being seen.

She delighted in every moment. She had never felt more alive. He showed her the magnificent Central Park, with its tree-lined paths and gorgeous statues, and then they watched a short play at an open-air theatre before enjoying pastries at one of Cridianton’s many fine eating houses. They talked incessantly, about everything, from what they liked to eat, to music they liked and the people they had already performed for at Ward’s court.

Rhiannon felt as though a dam had burst within her. She never got to talk much with her father, unless it was about dancing or singing — and then it was more a case of him telling and her listening. She had never had a friend to talk to, and the words poured out of her.

It became their little secret, to sneak out into the city. Her father had told her time and again that men only wanted one thing from her, that they were only interested in her face and body — but it was not like that with Huw. He told her they were only friends and she believed it.

When he revealed to her he was not from Forland but Vales she had been shocked — but also terrified for Huw. She knew as well as he did Ward’s plans for that country. Hearing Huw say he had to leave Cridianton to warn his people had been frightening. The thought of losing him, of losing this precious freedom he gave her, was too much to bear.

She had always been truthful until that day. Lying to her father was beyond imagining. But she had seen him do it often enough, when he wanted something done for him, or to get his own way. She had sworn she would never do anything like that — but found herself asking Huw to stay on, trying to persuade him to delay his trip north to warn his father and the other Velsh. After all, the Velsh could not stop the Forlish, they had no army, no flag, no ruler and no organisation. Why should he go back there and get himself killed, especially when he was no warrior himself? What could one bard do?

When reasoned argument did not work, she held his hand and hinted they could become more than friends. It had felt wrong, it had brought a flush to her cheeks, but it had worked. Huw had instantly agreed to wait a little longer.

And not only had the lie worked, it had come back to save her. For Huw had witnessed King Ward killing her father and been able to get her out of Cridianton ahead of the king’s men. As the only person she knew, and her only friend ever, she naturally leaned on him for that time. In those first days, still shocked by what had happened, she would have agreed to anything Huw had asked. The fact he had not asked anything, had done nothing more than take care of her, was now a relief. It would have made things too complicated. Since they had performed at Pontypridd, met that elf and fought the Velsh, it felt as though she had come alive. Huw was letting her decide which road to travel, where they should sleep and whether they should perform or not. After merely doing what she was told, the feeling of power was quite intoxicating.

Not that they were having any more luck in warning the Velsh people that the Forlish were coming. After the incident at
Pontypridd they had tried to talk to the people at another village, with a singular lack of success. They could not understand why the Forlish were coming, did not know what to do — and took little notice of a bard and a dancer. Some thought it was just an elaborate jest.

Now they had arrived at a mining village called Caerphilly, and had been drawn to its elven-built inn. This was another chance to persuade the people, Huw told her.

Rhiannon thought this was hilarious. ‘The Velsh won’t believe us — they think we are fools, like the pair we spoke to a day ago. What was that couple’s name? Blodwen and Bedwin! They thought it was all part of an act, and wouldn’t listen.’

‘Yes, but they were both several sheep short of a flock, if you ask me. But leaving aside idiots, I think we need to try again.’

Rhiannon smiled fondly at him. ‘Fine. One more time. But don’t blame me if it goes horribly wrong!’

Sendatsu was tired and irritable when he came across the next human settlement. He had spent a wet and cold night in the woods and dearly wanted a hot bath, as well as some proper food. He had even resorted to eating animal flesh, rather than starve. He felt so dirty that even his teeth itched. And the business with the women of Patcham bothered him, more than fighting and killing their captors. He had no sympathy for murderers and rapists but having their victims run away from him had left him with a strange unease. Why were they so obsessed with magic? And the power they thought he had … Sendatsu could do a few small things with magic but bringing people back to life …! It was obvious they knew nothing about magic.

How was he going to find the evidence, the answers he needed to return home? What if he could never return …?

That was eating at him as he wandered into the settlement of Caerphilly. This was a mining village carved into the side of a hill. A huge open pit showed where the humans dug out iron ore. Sendatsu knew of such mines, to the far north of Dokuzen, but
he had never seen one before. One look was more than enough, he decided after a few moments, and walked into the small town.

What gave him a little hope was some of the houses here were obviously elven-built. They stood out from the low, rounded human huts like fires at night. Although, from the number of drunken men staggering in and out of them, it seemed the humans were using them as halls and drinking houses, rather than for their original purpose. He avoided a pair of humans sprawled in the mud and walked into the largest elven building he could see.

Inside was as bad as he had feared, just like the one at Pontypridd. The windows were all gone, while the tiled floors were ripped up in places, or covered in fetid rushes, while the plastered walls were smeared with grime, the delicate designs obscured by dirt or crumbling off the bricks. He looked around, horrified by the way the humans had treated it.

‘Who are you?’ someone asked, and he turned to see a table of miners staring at him.

‘Sendatsu,’ he said shortly, turning his back on them and walking over to another long wooden table, where a human stood, smearing dirt around on the top with a grubby rag.

‘Are you the owner?’ Sendatsu demanded.

‘What?’ The human glared at him. ‘Who wants to know?’

‘What do you know of this building’s history?’

‘I bought it off my uncle,’ the barman replied, mystified.

‘Where can I find him? Does he know much of elven history?’

‘He’s dead these past eight moons.’ The barman shrugged.

Sendatsu cursed and looked around, wondering if anyone else in here might know something — it looked as though the drinking hall was full.

‘Would anyone here know about the town’s history?’

The barman sniffed. ‘Who knows? But maybe you can ask the performers I’ve got. They’re a dancer and a bard, all the way from the court of King Ward himself!’

Sendatsu stared at him. Was this the same pair from Pontypridd?

‘Do you know them?’ the barman asked.

Sendatsu shrugged and turned to leave, only to see a miner stand and stagger across to join him.

‘Are you going to buy us drinks?’ the miner asked.

‘No,’ Sendatsu said.

‘Who is this? Do you know him?’ the barman asked the miner.

The miner swayed to a halt beside Sendatsu, where he inspected him drunkenly.

‘Well, shag me like a sheep if it’s not an elf!’ he exclaimed.

‘Well, I certainly won’t be doing that,’ Sendatsu told him politely, hoping that was the right response to make the man walk away.

Instead he leaned in closer and Sendatsu was treated to the full blast of his foul breath, as well as a host of other smells. He had some food caught in his tangled black beard, and from the colour of his skin he had obviously only washed lightly after coming out of the mine — if at all — while his clothes had been changed perhaps last year.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, grabbing Sendatsu’s sleeve.

‘I’m here to find some nice woods that I can make up a poem about,’ Sendatsu said shortly, prising the man’s fingers off his shirt. ‘Now please leave me alone.’

The miner had arms and shoulders hardened by days in the mine but could not stop Sendatsu and gasped at a greater strength than his own.

‘So it’s true what they say about you elves — that you’re magically strong!’ He wrung his hand but did not seem too bothered by it.

‘Absolutely. And we live forever.’ Sendatsu could feel his patience slipping.

‘Show us some magic! Go on!’ the miner encouraged.

‘Magic, we want to see magic!’ the table behind him took up the cry.

‘Come on! Do some magic. You’re not getting out of here until you show us something,’ the miner declared, grabbing hold of Sendatsu’s pouch, where his children’s toys stayed safe.

That was too much.

‘You want to see some magic? How about watching a man fly?’ Sendatsu growled.

‘Aye!’ the miner began, but Sendatsu pounced, grabbing him by the throat and crotch, lifting him up and hurling him onto the table full of his friends. Chairs, miners, drinks and food went in all directions and everyone else jumped to their feet as well.

Into the silence that followed, as Sendatsu glared around the room, a lyre struck a single perfect note and the dancer bounded into the room.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, all the way from the court of King Ward of Forland himself, may I present Rhiannon of Hamtun!’ the bard bellowed.

But nobody looked their way as they danced into the centre of the room; all were focused on Sendatsu and the groaning table of miners behind him.

‘You!’ Huw and Rhiannon exclaimed.

‘Not again!’ Sendatsu glanced around the room nervously.

‘Is this some part of the act?’ the barman asked.

Sendatsu did not hang around for what he was sure would come — instead he turned and raced for the door.

‘Get back to your room — I’m going after him, I’ll bring him back!’ Huw hissed at Rhiannon and then tore after Sendatsu.

The inn full of Velsh miners watched the three of them race off, then looked at each other, dumbfounded. One began to clap doubtfully, then they all clapped, before turning back to their drinks with relief.