Fallowblade (24 page)

Experimentally, the damsel weighed the hilt in her hand. She sliced the air.
Swoop
sang the blade, like a gust passing through tight-strung wires, or through ship’s rigging; but behind the hair-raising threnody another note breathed, as of bright, untame voices singing without language. This sound was accompanied by the eerie sensation that the world, for an instant, had slowed.
Wild and strange the melody
, Asr
ă
thiel whispered to herself,
the blood-song played by winds against the leading edge.
She had felt and heard these phenomena before when holding the sword, but never so forcefully, so immediately. Perhaps the runes of gramarye written along the blade were wakening, now that goblins were in the vicinity.
Mé maraigh bo diabhlaíocht
—
I am the Bane of Goblinkind.

The swordmaster’s usual advice floated through Asr
ă
thiel’s mind.

Remember—to make a thrust truly effective you must use
your shoulders, hip and thigh to give impetus to the blow. To deliver the thrust with maximum force, push your body weight through behind the weapon
.

‘Wrapcut!’ she cried, aiming at an invisible opponent with a thrust at head level. When she judged that the blade’s fulcrum had passed the adversary’s spine, she flipped her wrist, turning the blade perpendicular to his body, and behind his neck. Abruptly she leaned backwards, as if dodging her opponent’s swing, bringing her own blade towards her. An imaginary head flew off a set of fictitious shoulders, and crashed silently to the floor.

Asr
ă
thiel returned to her balanced stance, holding the shimmering weapon pointing outwards like a horizontal streak of living sunlight. The observers uttered not a single word. She wondered if she had erred in some manner; until the sword-master suddenly applauded, and it came to her that her audience was dumbfounded. They were regarding her with looks of astonishment.

‘A pretty decapitation,’ Desmond Brooks said admiringly. ‘’Twas a shame I barely saw it. I commend you. Never have I witnessed such speed! That is to say,’ he amended, in an undertone, ‘never until last night.’ He brightened. ‘Perhaps it is true what they say about Sioctíne.’

‘I believe it
is
true,’ said Asr
ă
thiel, lavishing her gaze on the creamy loveliness of the blade in her hand. ‘It alters time. Methinks it slices between time’s very particles. That is how it feels to me.’

The swordmaster stepped close to the damsel and adopted a more serious tone. ‘A heavier and stronger fighter has a huge advantage,’ he said. ‘So does one with a longer reach, or one who is faster. Therefore,
you
must be faster. Do not depend on the enchanted blade. You must have quicker reflexes, be better balanced, possess greater endurance. Naturally your tolerance of pain is greater than that of any mortal creature, but you must be more cunning than your opponent, better trained, defter.’

‘Luckier,’ added Asr
ă
thiel.

‘If your adversary is a lot bigger than you, you cannot afford to let him close with you. He would just push your sword out of the way and mow you down. And be sure, those unseelie warriors we saw last night are no dwarfs.’

‘Pushing Fallowblade away would be no easy task,’ said the damsel. ‘This blade is so sharp that I’ll warrant it could sever your shadow from the soles of your feet. Some compare broadsword fighting to killing an opponent by degrees, because one is more likely to maim a limb than succeed in driving a thrust to a vital organ. I sense that Fallowblade, on the other hand, would kill instantly, with the slightest touch.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Brooks pragmatically, ‘but it is always a mistake to rely on one’s weapon rather than one’s training. Eventually it all comes down to practised reflexes—you cannot actually think through a fight because it happens too fast. Once a serious exchange of blows starts, a bout is usually over in a very short time. Your body reacts, and you are either defeated or triumphant. Now practise!’

Needing no further encouragement the damsel rehearsed swordplay all morning. Her audience gradually dispersed. Many urgent tasks awaited them; they could not afford to spend time idling. All must prepare for nightfall—a night that might prove to be their last. Asr
ă
thiel was their greatest hope—perhaps their only hope—but they must take every measure to aid the cause.

Patrolling troops reported no sign of goblin riders returning on the northern horizon, so after partaking of refreshment when the sun reached its zenith, Asr
ă
thiel resumed her sword drill, staying at it throughout the afternoon.

As the shadows were lengthening Avalloc entered the ballroom. ‘Cease your exertions, dear child!’ he exhorted. ‘Take your ease. You will need all your strength if they come back tonight.’ He said ‘if’, to indicate hopefulness, but he meant ‘when’.

Asr
ă
thiel was reluctant to desist, but eventually she sheathed the golden sword and tried to obey her grandfather. Relaxation, however, eluded her. She felt keyed up with excitement. If the goblin knights reappeared after sunset and battle started afresh, then she would be severely tested for the first time in her life. With Fallowblade in her hands, she would confront the unseelie horde. It would be her part to strike down beings that resembled human men.

Hitherto, the closest she had approached to doing such a deed was smiting Desmond Brooks with a sword of birch-lath, or plunging a rapier into the heart of a straw-stuffed scarecrow. The notion of extinguishing life, even the life of a creature that would continue to exist in some altered, confounded state, filled her with revulsion. Yet there would be no avoiding it.

To work herself into a killing mood she called to mind the faces of the refugees on the streets of King’s Winterbourne, and her memories of butchered copses in the cellars of Silverton. It seemed sufficient to summon determination, but she could not know whether she would pass the test until the circumstance eventuated. When confronted by a magnificent warrior, strong and vigorous, eyes flashing with intelligence and vitality, could she bring herself to skewer him through the heart? Or would she drop her sword and run away? Would the prospect of such a morally confusing deed be too dreadful to bear?

After dinner, restless and fidgety, the damsel set out for a walk in the forest park behind the
chastel
. Alone she went, shunning company, for she wished to contemplate in silence, with no distractions. There could be no danger; vigilant sentries surrounded the parklands, and the entire area had been scoured for signs of anything untoward. King Warwick and his household were well guarded, and the sun was still in the sky.

She wore no cloak but a gown with layered skirts in weathermaster hues; dove-grey, blue-grey, ash, steel and slate, all stitched with silver thread. Strapped at her side, the golden sword in its scabbard slapped her thigh with each step she took. Since morning, she had not allowed Fallowblade out of her sight. Even as she strolled beneath the wind-sculpted pines, deep in thought, her fingers found their way to the hilt and she caressed the intricate embellishments on the elemental ores. It was in her mind to practise fighting moves alone, one final time before battle.

No weeds grew underfoot in the springy carpet of fallen needles. Pine fragrance sharpened the air. The dark green boughs were fruiting with pendant bunches of cones. Asr
ă
thiel glimpsed, between their rough-rinded boles, a glimmer of water in a hollow, and directed her steps towards the pool. Overhead, cirrus wisps dry-brushed into watercolour blue. The sun’s lower rim was almost grazing the distant hills, burnishing the west to copper. Twilight was prolonged at this time of day, in this season, at this latitude. Indeed, to Asr
ă
thiel, Summer evenings evoked a long moment of timelessness, when the world paused as the sun kissed the horizon and let forth a spill of radiance with the glow of honey mead.

Narrowing her eyes the wanderer looked up through the fretwork of nodding branches. Long streaks of cloud were taking on the colours of sunset. She was aware they were forming along the upper edge of a front, at such a high altitude that they were wholly composed of ice crystals. Her mage-senses informed her of the onset of a depression; back at Hundred House her grandfather and the prentices were wielding the brí, to ensure that there would soon be a major change in the weather.

A south-westerly breeze shivered through the forest.

‘Yes, we are the deathless ones,’ said a familiar voice, ‘but when it comes down to it, all other things have a beginning and an end.’

Beside the pool the urisk was seated, amongst the gnarled roots of one of the most ancient trees. Something within Asr
ă
thiel leaped for joy.

The wight’s penetrating eyes were directed upon her with a curious look; whether joy or anger, tenderness, predacity or something else, the damsel could not discern. ‘And in millennia of millennia,’ he continued, without offering any form of greeting, ‘five billion years to be fairly precise, when the sun has exploded and this world is nothing, not even a ball of seared stone rolling through the firmament, what shall we be then? Shall we exist as conscious particles of dust lost in that chaos, knowing, being, watching the long, slow death of tortured stars, until frozen darkness is all that remains, and we hang there, changeless motes, in night eternal . . . ’

Still water held the wight’s reflection, dark-veiled, and mirrored the venerable tree also. He turned his head to stare down at it. ‘You are the only human creature ever to be born immortal,’ he said, ‘which means you are one of a kind. You have no true kindred. Even your father, who gave you the gift of eternal life, was not born with it, but acquired it. You are unique. You are alone.’

The damsel nodded. She was accustomed to the creature’s unpredictable ways. His melancholy mood could not dampen her delight at seeing her companion again. ‘That is so,’ she agreed. ‘It is hard to endure, but it is so.’

‘I too am alone. There is no one like me. We are not so different from each other, you and I.’ Again he fixed his gaze on her.

‘You have come to me,’ she said, acknowledging that he had kept his promise, ‘in my most bitter hour. After tonight I might see you nevermore. I am invulnerable but my kindred are not, and if I fail to protect them, there will be nobody left to guard me from eternal captivity. Glad am I that you came, for it is my chance to bid you a last farewell. If I never set eyes on you again, be assured that I will—’ suddenly she found herself stammering, ‘—I will miss you.’

As she spoke, she found herself unable to look the wight in the eye. She was forcing herself to proclaim her inner sentiments because it seemed right to do so, but unaccountably she felt embarrassed and discomfited, especially by her last four words. She felt her face grow hot, and suddenly wished herself far away. The battlefield seemed like a simpler challenge than dealing with this wayward and subversive creature.

Seeking a way to deflect the topic she cast about in her mind for some token of friendship she might give. Her fingers closed around the jewel at her neck, and she thought,
Why not?
Unclasping the chain she held out the dazzling stone on its necklace, offering it to the wight. Not lightly did she do this. Had the urisk not been a kind of family heirloom, like the jewel, she would not have acted thus. She told herself that it seemed fit that two things that had been passed down through the generations should reside together.

The urisk sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘You certainly persevere with these acts of bestowal. Very well, if you insist.’

Rising to stand upon his hoofs, the little wight approached her. She leaned down to pass the ornament to him. The jewel sparkled in the urisk’s hand.

‘Will you not wish me luck in battle?’ Asr
ă
thiel asked, straightening up.

‘I never asked for your gifts, nor did I comprehend they came with an obligation to compensate you with good wishes in return.’ The urisk slipped the jewel into a pocket of his shabby clothing.

‘Well, there is no obligation.’ Asr
ă
thiel frowned. She felt foolish, and somewhat vexed, until it came to her that this prickle of annoyance was a sting she would feel the loss of, if she never saw the urisk again. ‘It is true you do not ask for gifts,’ she said penitently. ‘You have never asked me for anything at all.’

‘And would you prefer it if I had?’

‘Yes.’

‘As it happens,’ the wight said casually, folding his arms and leaning against a tree bole, ‘it was my intention this evening to make a request of you.’

At this revelation, Asr
ă
thiel could not help but feel intrigued and surprised. It seemed out of character.

‘Anything,’ she said. ‘Anything you ask of me, if it is within my power, I shall grant it.’

‘Oh, it is within your power all right,’ said the urisk, and there was something about the way he uttered those words that gave Asr
ă
thiel the feeling that she ought not to have responded so unthinkingly. A foreboding squeezed her heart.
Why did I just now promise him anything he desired? I have made an unspecified vow to a wight! What a fool I am. Such oaths cannot be broken without dire consequences, if at all!