Crimson Fire (7 page)

She took a deep breath, her voice shaking. “I cannot an- swer your question, warrior, because the woman who stands on the rocks in your dreams lives on the threshold of your waking mind. She is that which is inside of you, that which made you. And you know who she is. You know what she is.”

She went on, her voice pleading, “Listen to me. I beg you. Face what is hidden. Break the path that leads over the sea. Let me help you do this. Let me help you.”

He looked at her, his face expressionless. Yes, he would have to kill her. It was a shame, because she was a beautiful woman, but she knew too much. But he wouldn’t have to kill her right away. He could take his pleasure with her
fi
rst.

“Perhaps you can help me,” he said, putting just the right amount of hesitation and doubt in his voice. “I have never spo- ken to another of that which is inside of me.”

“Then it is surely time. I can help you do that,” she said eagerly. “Let me help.”

He smiled at her then, willing warmth into his amber eyes. “Today I
fi
ght a battle. A battle that I know I will win. And later I will need a woman to help me celebrate.” He reached out a hand and stroked her cheek gently. “Will you be that woman?” She hesitated for a moment, her eyes taking in his hard muscles, his handsome face, his honey-blond hair, and his am-

ber eyes.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Because even a seeress can make a mistake.

A
S
H
AVGAN AND
Wulf faced each other on the
fi
eld, the shouts of the crowd sounded far away. Wulf grinned unpleasantly at Havgan as they waited for the signal to begin the
fi
ght.

Eorl Wiglaf and his retainers stood on a wooden platform at the edge of the
fi
eld. Sigerric stood with the rest of his warband to the right of the platform, while Wulf’s warband gathered on the left. The
fi
eld was ringed with spectators, and the noonday sun beat down mercilessly, making the air heavy and still.

Havgan’s byrnie of interwoven metal covered his body down to mid-thigh, and beneath it his tunic and breeches clung to him like a second skin. His plain helm was like any other warrior’s—fashioned of metal with the tiny
fi
gure of a boar at the top. His shield was painted with a boar’s head in the mid- dle, and four rays twisting out from the boar to the edge of the shield. He was wearing the Eorl’s colors of red and gold, while

Wulf wore black and green. Havgan gripped his broadsword by the hilt, his elbow bent, letting the sword trail over his right shoulder in the warrior’s
fi
ghting stance.

Wulf grinned again at Havgan. “Fisherman’s son, I hope you have said your prayers to the God. Today you will die, for I will take no pleas for mercy from a churl.”

Havgan didn’t bother to answer. He would rather save his strength for the
fi
ght. And Wulf’s taunts meant nothing to him, for he had heard it all before.

At last, the Eorl drew his sword and lifted the huge, scarred blade high. “Now do these two champions meet,” he bellowed. “These champions will
fi
ght until one is dead. Havgan, son of Hengist, and Wulf, son of Wulf bald, do you understand the terms?”

Both men nodded. “Then,” the Eorl declared, “let the bat- tle begin.”

Havgan and Wulf began to circle each other, looking for their chance. Both men held their shields close to their bodies, just under their eyes. Quick as a snake, Wulf feinted left, and as Havgan’s shield moved a fraction to counter, Wulf’s sword slipped under the shield, catching Havgan in the ribs with the
fl
at of the blade. Havgan leapt back, then moved swiftly for- ward again, grinding his shield against Wulf’s. Havgan moved his shield to the left, forcing Wulf’s shield to move away and swung his sword in low, catching Wulf in the leg. Immediately, Wulf pulled back, and the two men circled each other again.

Wulf grinned again, though sweat left a sickly sheen on his face and his leg was bleeding. “It will soon be over with you, peasant. No mercy for you. I promise you that.”

Again, Havgan said nothing. If Wulf wished to use his

energy in talk, that was all right with him. He felt very strange, abstracted and detached from the business at hand, as though he watched the battle from far away. He knew he must concen- trate on the battle, but he could not. In his mind’s eye a cross- roads loomed before him, a curious picture of two paths coming together under a darkening, stormy sky.

As Wulf opened his mouth for another taunt, Havgan moved in and caught Wulf’s shield with the edge of his own. Pulling with all his might, he
fl
ipped Wulf’s shield up and away from Wulf’s body. Even as he did so, his sword came down at an arc, knocking against Wulf’s helmet with a ringing sound. Wulf leapt back, shaking his head to clear it.

“Time now for you to die, peasant,” Wulf spat and leapt forward, hammering with shield and sword, driving Havgan back with the fury of his onslaught.

Havgan fell, tripped up by Wulf’s shield cutting below his knees. And Wulf stood over him, his sword rising, glittering balefully, beginning the deadly arc that would end with the blade buried in his heart.

No!
Havgan cried silently in panic.
It must not end like this!
And so he let the dark thing inside him reach up and out. Wulf’s blade stayed unmoving, high in the air, stilled for an all too brief moment.

And in that moment, those watching the battle thought only that Wulf was playing with his victim, savoring Havgan’s moment of helplessness. They did not know that Wulf’s muscles had frozen. They did not know that, for all his striving, Wulf could not make the blade fall. And in those few seconds, Hav- gan rolled to his feet, grasped his shield and sword, and the dark thing receded, releasing Wulf from his bonds.

Wulf’s eyes were wide and shocked. “You! How did you—” but it was too late to ask such questions. Havgan was upon him, pushing Wulf back, back, farther back with shield and sword. For now Havgan was well and truly focused on the battle. And now he showed himself as the great warrior he was.

In the end, it was easy. Just his warrior’s training, no dark thing, just his sword and his shield as he beat Wulf to the ground, laid his foot on Wulf’s gasping chest, and plunged his sword through this man who now knew him for what he was.

Suddenly, his warband surrounded him. Cheering him, they lifted him onto their shoulders and carried him from the
fi
eld, through the city streets, and to Eahl Aecesdun, the temple of the city. The crowd followed shouting, singing, and tossing
fl
owers to Havgan as he was carried by.

The inside of the temple was dark to eyes accustomed to the sun. Whitred, the Byshop of Cantware, stood next to the altar as Havgan was carried to the front bench and deposited, none too gently, upon it. Sigerric, Talorcan, Baldred, Penda, and Catha all sat down next to him, as they continued to clap him on the back and congratulate him on his victory.

The crowds
fi
led in, quieting down now, for the atmosphere

of the God’s temple dampened their enthusiasm. Wiglaf himself stamped in, followed by his three alders and his nephew, Sledda. The ceiling of the huge temple, held up by eight pillars, hung dark and shadowy overhead; its rich carvings a dizzying array of light and dark wood lost in the twisting shadows and
fi
tful light. The pillars and walls were carved with the shapes of dragons, boars, eagles, and bulls, and some animals that there were no names for. So real were these carved
fi
gures that they seemed frozen into the walls themselves, trapped there for eter-

nity at the whim of Lytir, the One God.

The stone altar by which Byshop Whitred stood was draped with a
fi
ne, white cloth, on which the golden runes for Lytir gleamed in the light of four white candles set at each corner of the altar. The altar was set with a drinking horn on the left, and the blot bowl, the bowl used to catch the bull’s blood, sat mutely on the right. The hwitel, the ritual knife, glowed wickedly. The pit in front of the altar was uncovered, and nothing could be clearly seen in its shadowy depths, though it seemed that deep inside a darker shadow shifted. Two men stood by the pit, both holding burning torches. One man held his torch up; the other held his torch pointing down to the
fl
oor.

At last the aisle cleared as the crowd took their seats on the wooden benches. Byshop Whitred had tonsured blond hair and large blue eyes. His robe was green, and his sleeves fell away from his heavily muscled arms as he raised his hands to begin the ritual. “Praise now to the Guardian of Heofen, the power of Lytir and his mind-plans who fashioned the beginning of every wonder.”

And the crowd responded, “Eternal Lord.”

“He made
fi
rst heaven as a roof,” Whitred intoned.

“Holy Creator,” was the response, rushing from hundreds of throats.

“Then made Middle-Earth as a dwelling place for men.” “Master Almighty,” the reverent crowd chanted.

Then the Byshop shed his robe, picked up the knife and bowl from the altar, and, clad only in a white loincloth, jumped silently into the pit.

From the pit came a bull’s angry bellow, rebounding throughout the temple as the bull and man fought for life. The

two torchbearers stood impassively as the battle went on. The crowd was hushed and still. Then the bull gave a
fi
nal bellow, and all was silent. A preost shuf
fl
ed to the edge of the pit, low- ering a small ladder into that pool of darkness. Triumphantly Whitred emerged, clutching the knife and the bowl, which was full of blood.

Cheers rang out as the Byshop calmly handed the knife and bowl to the preost and put back on his robe. The preost poured the blood into the drinking horn and passed the horn
fi
rst to Havgan as he sat on the front bench. As Havgan took a sip and passed the cup to Sigerric, he began to think again.

He was still stunned by his good fortune, for his waking mind had already made him forget that the dark thing had brought him escape earlier in the battle. He thought only that he had won. That today he would be Gewinnan Daeg King, and wear the golden helm of victory. That today was the crossroads, the day that the God would send him a message that would set him on the right path and help him to ful
fi
ll a glorious destiny.

At that moment he became conscious of a buzzing in his ears that he could not dispel. No, it was more of a murmur, the words too low and indistinct to be understood. Was this it, then? His message from the God? He concentrated harder, and almost he could understand. He strained to make the words clear, but his concentration was broken as, when the crowd had
fi
nished drinking the bull’s blood, Whitred took the golden hel- met and came to stand before him.

“Today is Gewinnin Daeg, the Day of the Conqueror,” Whitred said. “This is the day when we honor the great Lytir, the hero who won every tournament, who was victorious in every battle, until he sailed away to Heofen. In his honor, we

choose the strongest warrior among us for this day. Today we honor Havgan, son of Hengist, who has won the helm of Lytir.” While he said this, Whitred held out the golden helm, fashioned like the head of a boar with large, ruby eyes. The light washed over the helm, as though it was made of pure
fi
re. Slowly, Hav- gan reached out to it, and then set it on his golden head.

“We have not in life set eyes on a man with more might in his frame than this helmed lord,” the Byshop continued, his hands upraised. “Between the seas, south or north, over earth’s stretch, no other man beneath sky’s shifting excels this warrior.”

“All hail to Lytir’s heir,” the crowd shouted. “All hail to the Gewinnan Daeg King!”

As he heard these words, Havgan’s heart felt near to burst- ing with pride, for the
fi
sherman’s son had won a great honor. And it was at that moment, when his joy was at its height, that the muttered words in his mind became clear to him.

Death to all witches,
the voice said clearly.
It is not enough to bring death to witches in the Coranian Empire. We must bring death to those in Kymru, that blighted island. We must take Kymru back, we who once held it, and cleanse the land of taint.

And Havgan closed his eyes with the knowledge. This was it. This was
ansuz
, his message from the God that had been promised him. He could see it all now so clearly. He could see the stepping stones to power. He would become Bana, the Slayer, the war leader to all of the Coranian Empire. He would marry the emperor’s daughter, and the might of all Corania would be his for the asking. He would hunt the witches in Kym- ru and kill them all, every one. And perhaps, if he did that, the black thing inside him would diminish and be gone from him.
The One God will not turn from me
, he thought,
if I come to him with

the blood of witches on my hands.

T
HE CROWD CARRIED
Havgan off then for the feast in his honor, and the temple emptied. One man only remained, sitting on his bench staring at the altar. Sledda, wyrce-jaga, hunter of witches, had not really been paying any attention to the ceremony at all, and did not realize that he was alone in the temple. His thoughts were concentrated on one thing only. That, more than any- thing, he wished to go to Kymru where witches abounded, to hunt and kill them for his God. His thoughts buzzed and shot out from him like arrows, to be buried in the hearts of those who knew how to listen.
Death to all witches
, he thought.
It is not enough to bring death to witches in the Coranian Empire. We must bring death to those in Kymru, that blighted island. We must take Kymru back, we who once held it, and cleanse the land of taint.

Gwyntdydd, Lleihau Wythnos—early evening

G
WYDION
,
THE
D
REAMER
of Kymru, was on the
fl
oor of his study in the Dreamer’s Tower of Caer Dathyl. He was crouched on all fours, growling, baring his teeth at his prey. She shrieked and ran away as quickly as her legs could carry her. But he leapt forward and caught her at the door. She raised her hand and, with an unintelligible sound, called for Druid’s Fire. His back arched as the invisible missile hit him and he went down, moaning.