The Demon Lord (12 page)

“Unclean?”

He nodded, saying nothing more aloud and thus managing to imply reluctance to discuss the situation further. It was all nonsense, at least for an orthodox Alban, no matter how devout—which Aldric certainly was not—for such things had no part in their religious observances. Yet it was easy to connect their well-known fondness for bathing with a requirement to be ritually cleansed of blood.

Gueynor moved aside, her face clouding with concern at her apparent indiscretion in mentioning the matter. Her discomfort, indeed, was communicating itself so strongly to him that he regretted using such an excuse at all, lest in every truth some blasphemy pollute him. When that uneasy notion joined the thoughts already in his mind, he was repelled. But something would have to be done to the torn arm, and quickly…

Almost unconsciously his right hand traced a pious gesture between lips and brow, blessing himself against ill-luck or worse, and he murmured, “Avert, amen.” Then blinked; those words had not been spoken since his childhood, and never even then with such honest sincerity.
Why use them now
. . . ? he wondered nervously, and left the house more quickly than he had intended.

Opening a pannier of his pack-saddle, Aldric rummaged carefully for several seconds before withdrawing the object he had come for. Gemmel’s parting gift… At first sight it appeared to be a piece of jewellery, an armlet made of silvered steel whose gemstone was protected by a bag of soft white leather. The Alban stared at it in silence, then drew in a deep breath and secured its triple loops about his left wrist, settling the covered jewel comfortably in the hollow of his palm above the four pale criss-cross lines of his Honour-scars. He flexed his fingers, closing them into a fist; and when he opened them again, undid the lace and pulled the buckskin pouch away.

Lambent azure brilliance pulsed from the crystal the pouch had contained, rising to a tapering blue flame three feet in height before it died down to a pulsing glow that lapped and coiled about his hand like burning brandy. Yet there was no heat emanating from it. None at all.

The spellstone of Echainon… One of seven lost to the Wise for many hundred years, this one had been found by Aldric, accidentally, on the battlefield of Baelen Fight. The aftermath of that discovery was something that the Alban had no wish to recall. It was a potent talisman of great antiquity, imbued with such power that even Gemmel did not know its limitations; yet the old enchanter had entrusted him with this awesome thing… The responsibility scared him. What scared him more was Gemmel’s certainty that he shared some affinity with the crystal, because the last man of whom that was claimed had been Kalarr cu Ruruc. Heedless of Aldric’s protests, he had removed it from its setting on Ykraith the Dragonwand and placed it on this bracelet as a luck-piece for his foster son.

“It is not a weapon, Aldric,” the old man had told him firmly. “Not like the Dragonwand, at least, although you can use it as such. But I can trust you to treat it honourably, as I could trust few others in this realm. Take it, with my blessing.”

“How can I use it?” Aldric had protested. “I don’t know how! I’m not a wizard!”

“You
will
know, when you have to. As it will know you.” Aldric had hot liked the thought of being recognised by a piece of enchanted glass and had said so. “Remember the Claiming of Ykraith,” was Gemmel’s only further comment; he had not been drawn again.

No matter what he had been told, Aldric knew the spellstone was dishonourable, unAlban, unTalvalin before God! But he had accepted it and carried it—and taken great care not to use it. Until now, and only through necessity. His gloved right hand groped unseeing for his
tsepan
and tugged the still-sheathed dirk out of his weapon-belt. Its massive pommel glittered in the crystal’s light like a chunk of ice; pure silver, and anathema to evil magic. Not caring what might happen, he touched it firmly to the spellstone and closed his eyes.

Then opened them again, his breathing coming rather easier already. There had been no adverse reaction— indeed, no reaction at all. The stone’s cold fire throbbed now in time with the beating of his heart; it was a part of him, its energies an extension of his own will. Aldric sank down crosslegged in the straw of the stable floor, his back braced by the wall, and set his
tsepan
back in its accustomed place before raising the talisman level with his eyes.

“
Abath arhan
,” he said softly, not fully comprehending where the words came from. “
Alh’noen ecchaur i aiyya
.” There was a faint humming and he felt the Echainon stone grow warm against his skin, its sapphire nimbus flinging out tendrils of smoky light that poured like mist between his outstretched fingers.

He was no longer frightened of this sorcery, because he was no longer ignorant of what to do. Relaxed in mind and body, he pressed the palms of both his hands together, fingers interlaced as if in prayer or supplication, and bowed his head until his knuckles touched his forehead.

And after that, nothing…

So tired… Aldric opened leaden eyelids and rolled his head back on a neck whose muscles seemed incapable of supporting any weight. Tired…

There was no light in the stable; he had brought no candle, risking neither fire nor discovery, and the dilute trickling of moonbeams through almost unseen cracks did not count as illumination. No light… ? Spreading his clasped hands, Aldric looked down at the spellstone. It was quite clear now, and magnified the lines and creases of his palm beneath it as a lens might do; except that, deep in its very core, there was a tiny fluttering of blue-white fire. Other than the faint crawl of minute flames there was nothing to betray the crystal as anything but a fine, first-water diamond cut without facets.

And other than the draining weariness which he had expected after Gemmel’s warning, there was nothing but wet blood to betray that Aldric had been wounded. Inside the sleeve his arm might show a scar, but it would be that of a wound completely healed and healthy. The stone had taken energy from his own body and focused it, greatly enhanced, on the injured tissues of that same body, accelerating the healing process. A useful magic indeed; but the strength it had withdrawn left him utterly fatigued.

“Sorcery,” Gemmel had told him often, “is not free, as the air is free. It has a price which must be paid. Sometimes that price is higher than might be expected— but not even the mightiest wizards can evade it.”

Aldric was paying his price now.

He dragged himself upright with an effort that brought sweat to his skin, and leaned panting against the stable wall for many minutes before he dared to take the steps which would bring him to his saddlebags. Aldric had heard of people so exhausted that they fell asleep on their feet, and had never believed the stories… Not until this minute. Vaguely he wondered if using the talisman as a weapon would kill him before it killed his enemies… then his outstretched fingertips hit the saddle-rack with a jarring impact that shocked him painfully awake. Moving as fast as he was able, Aldric stripped the spellstone’s metal framework from his wrist and pushed it deep into the pannier, tugged a few pieces of clothing down to hide it and fumbled the straps back into their buckles.

Only when everything was as he had found it did he stagger to the door and out into the moonlit night. The charm of healing had not taken long—he could tell that from the still-liquid blood on his left arm—but even so it would be better if he was in the bath-house when anyone came looking for him. As they inevitably would.

The copper boiler evidently backed onto the cooking-fire of Evthan’s house, for it was brimful of scalding water when Aldric looked inside. “Civilised, at least,” he muttered, and used most of it to fill the bath-tub— but before he climbed in and inevitably fell asleep he squirmed free of his sticky armour and rinsed it carefully. If there was an unseen crack somewhere in the lacquer proofing, salt blood would etch rust into the metal underneath as quickly as immersion in the sea, corroding it until one day the mail would give beneath a blow…

His precautions explained the odd smell of hot oiled metal which pervaded the steamy atmosphere of the bath-house; but it still puzzled Gueynor when she entered unannounced, bearing ointments, bandages—and more ominously, a small brazier of glowing coals with a broad knife thrust into it.

Aldric opened heavy, red-rimmed eyes, gazed at it and had no delusions about why he slithered down into the tub. “You don’t believe in knocking, then?” he wondered in a weak attempt at humour.

“No—should I?” There might have been genuine surprise in Gueynor’s voice, but the Alban somehow doubted it. Setting her burden on a bench, she spread her skirts and sank down on both knees, drawing the single oil-lamp closer to avoid the splashes on the floor. Aldric watched her kneel with a degree of curiosity; he had seen court ladies perform that self-same action with less grace and elegance. Then he forgot about the things he had or had not seen when she took his left arm in a gentle grasp and drew it closer to examine the ripped bicep.

An instant later she dropped the limb as if it had burned her and her eyes, staring into his, were suddenly the only coloured thing in a shock-bleached face. “Lady Mother Tesh protect me,” she whispered, drawing a protective ward-mark between them. “
What happened to your arm
?”

Aldric’s own dark agate eyes did not waver. “It healed, as you can see,” he said, and flexed the muscle for her inspection. A narrow, slightly uneven line ran white as chalk across the tanned skin; it was not scar tissue, merely a mark such as a brush might leave—but nowhere near as natural.

, “What kind of man are you,
hlensyarl
? An enchanter?”

Aldric shook his head. “A man, like other men. Perhaps a little better educated in strange subjects than most, I grant you. But nothing more.”

“What do you know of Sedna?” The question was strange; it confused him, and on his tired face the confusion showed. “Sedna ar Gethin,” Gueynor added by way of expansion, “Lord Crisen’s mist—Consort.”

The name told Aldric little but the woman’s origin: Vreijaur, to the west of here. And… No, impossible… ! Dewan ar Korentin’s birthplace! He damned the weariness that clogged his mind, because he should have picked up that particular connection straight away. Dewan ar Korentin, presently the champion, confidant and friend of King Rynert—but ten years an
eldheisart
in the Imperial Bodyguard at Drakkesborg!

Not that he suspected the Vreijek of turning traitor, or of betraying him; after what the Empire had done to make him desert a favoured and highly-decorated post, Dewan was most unlikely to offer any aid to
that
source. But Aldric knew a little of how ar Korentin’s mind worked and that nothing, no matter how convoluted, was beyond him. A sudden vivid memory struck him: he was sitting in the captain’s chair of the galion
En Sohra
, absorbing the knowledge that Dewan had used his ignorant—and therefore unfeigned—innocence to fool the commander of an Imperial battleram. Having considered ar Korentin’s explanation for some time, he had finally said: “You are a devious bastard!” He had meant what he said, everyone who heard him knew it. And Dewan had smiled, and bowed, quite happy with the compliment…

“Give me a towel, Gueynor, please,” said Aldric, just as the girl thought he was drifting back to sleep. “And would you turn your back… ?”

Even through her shock, Gueynor had to stifle an automatic smile at his request. Most of the men that she had known in her young life were not exactly over-nice… Water sloshed in the tub and spattered noisily across the tiled floor, then she heard the slap of bare feet and the scrubbing of the towel being put to use. It was thrown aside when she chanced a rapid over-shoulder glance—but by that time Aldric had resumed his leather breeches and was having some small difficulty with their calf-laces.

Gueynor analyzed what she could see of the young Alban’s body, and if her scrutiny was a little less dispassionate than a doctor’s might have been she concealed it well. He was muscled like an athlete, well-defined but lithe, and there were several traces of past injuries sketched lightly on his skin; yet none could properly be termed scars, apart from that beneath the right eye. All the rest had that strange chalked on look, as if a damp cloth might wipe them away—and as if the wounds had been repaired by something other than the passage of time.

“Now,” he said, straightening, “what about Sedna?” And yawned hugely.

“Never mind questions now,” Gueynor replied, even though she had a great many of her own. “You should be in bed. You look,” her hand reached out and touched his scarred cheek just below the drooping eyelid, “as if you haven’t slept in days.”

“But…” Gueynor’s hand touched his mouth, silencing him.

“Hush! In some ways you may no longer need my help, but in others I can still prove useful.” She smiled, but without coquetry.

Aldric blinked and sifted what she said. Despite the content of her words the girl was not playing the seductress; she was genuinely concerned for his health. Why that should be so important, he did not know—unless her reason was tomorrow’s hunt… But surely Dewan would have told him… ? Irrelevancies blurred together in his brain and the room began to swim. He staggered slightly, and might have fallen had not Gueynor caught one outflung arm and helped him regain his balance.

“Bed, Kourgath!” she insisted. “Better lie down—next time I might not be able to hold you.” She wondered briefly if he had been drugged, for though he had drunk heavily and rapidly after coming into the house, Gueynor felt sure that three-and-a-half cups would not be enough to get this man into such a state.

It was all very, very strange…

... I know that I am lost, and none can help me now… Night surrounds me… I am lost… None can help me… Lost… Help me… help me… help me… help me help me
help me HELP
—

“NO!”

And he was awake.

Aldric lay flat on his back, shuddering all over. Even though he was far too familiar with nightmares, that had been the worst of all: the kind of dream which would make him too afraid to ever sleep again, if he could recall its details afterwards. But it was gone now, vanished like mist in the morning, and only the cold sweat of fear remained.