The Starfollowers of Coramonde (12 page)

Gil had
removed guns, sword and byrnie, stacking them with his gear and Angorman’s
along with Red Pilgrim in a corner. He relaxed, ecstatic at being able to
scratch his chest and back at last.

Angorman had
always confined his conversation to matters of travel and stories of his Order,
tales of errantry with moral overtones. Now he made an effort to be breezy,
witty, to entertain Dulcet. Their talk kept turning down old, private paths. To
keep Gil involved, she inquired, “Has Lord Angorman told you how he came to be
here in the warmlands? Few are the times he has told that story. Come,
Saint-Commander; give us that rare treat.”

Only because
it was Dulcet who asked, Angorman settled himself deeper in his seat, to
conjure the story. “Where I come from, it is dark for months of the year. In
spiked boots we crossed the ice fields, hunting the white bear, the seal and
breaching whale-fish. Of ten children, perhaps four lived to the graying of
their hair. There, the wildmen of your northern isles were what
we
called warmlanders.

“In due time,
at seventeen, I inherited the axe of my father. He had died battling the white
bear, and the weapon’s helve was snapped in two. I fared out to seek a new one,
but became lost in a blizzard. Then the weather broke, and I happened upon a
ship stuck in the ice, her crew in embossed armor and silken remnants, frozen
in the yards and rime-fastened to her deck. How far she had come I cannot
imagine, but she had been there a long, long time.

“On her bow
sprit was a figurehead. Its shape was the Bright Lady. The bowsprit had struck
the ice, and the figurehead was cracked along its length. One great splinter
stood out, straight and sharp in its rime jacket. I had found my axe-haft. I
broke it off with much effort; the wood was tough as metal. I had my bearings,
so I went to find my people, to share my incredible find.

“But the
blizzard settled in again. We could not stir out of our ice-lodges for a day
and a night. I passed the time mounting Red Pilgrim’s new helve. It was another
day before we could start for the ship. We had no trouble finding her; a column
of smoke marked where she had struck the ice. My tribesmen halted, wondering
how many enemies must be there; in the far north fire means men, and men are
most often adversaries. I left the others behind, bellowing a war challenge. In
my mind was the ethereal face on the bowsprit, that must come to no harm. But I
was too late.

“There were
raiders, wildmen from the Isles who go abroad to steal and slay. They follow
the Druids, hating the Bright Lady and all Her works. They had lit fire all
round the ship, fed with oil. Craftsmanship that had survived for—perhaps
centuries—was blackened, withered in coils of flame.” Angorman’s thoughts were
far away, holding some of the anguish he’d felt that day.

“I do not
know how many there were. They had a large, outrigged sea-canoe drawn up,
outfitted for winter voyaging. I went among the lot with my axe. I was young
then, coming into my strength, faster with the greataxe than anyone. Many died.

“The rest,
fearing a trap, or maybe my madness, launched their canoe and dug their paddles
with vim. I saw the ship was past saving, a framework of fire. That proud, holy
figurehead was consumed, the ice sizzling under the hull. The ship burned for
an hour more, then slid down into the sea, the ice around her melted through.
Her chains and metal fittings, molten hot, hissed like dragons at combat as
they hit the water.

“But my heart
revived. Here was a reason to live, and not just eke out existence. I would
find that Lady, whoever she was, and put myself at Her disposal. I set out with
my axe and little else, having come upon my Destiny.”

His face
creased in a moment’s introspection. “I came at last to join the Brotherhood of
the Bright Lady, which Balagon led, and leads still. They all agreed I was worthy,
but they numbered one hundred, and are allowed no more members under their
bylaws. This inadequate patience of mine soon wore out, so off I went to found
the Order of the Axe. You will hear them curse me as a heretic or call on me
for miracles, Gil MacDonald, but I am nothing more than a man who, like most,
needed a dream. Finding it, I have held fast to it, grateful that She chose
me.”

Dulcet had
lain a hand on his arm. He covered it with his. The candles burned low.

Gil came back
from the story, uncomfortable. He shifted uneasily, studying weapons, shields,
trophies and paintings hung on the walls. On a huge disk over the hearth was
the device of Dulcet’s family, a single rose.

Dulcet said,
“Perhaps you would care to see my nephew’s study? He is a collector of rare
books and scrolls. You will find it at the top of those stairs there. Shall I
have a servant show you?”

“No. Thanks,
I’ll find it.” They wanted to be alone. He decided he’d find a place to rack
out after he’d looked in on the study.

It was an odd
place, more given to discarded clothing and empty cups than to books. He
wandered through it lackadaisically, by candlelight. A few of the scrolls there
were very old indeed.

There was a
clatter of hooves and baying of hounds in the courtyard. Figuring it would be
Newshield, Dulcet’s nephew, he laid down the codex he’d been skimming. His
glance crossed the table where he put the codex, went beyond, then back to the
loose page lying there. He held it up to the light.

It was the
title page from
Arrivals Macabre.

He made a
fast search, yanking curtains aside, opening chests and cabinets. He pulled up
the lid on an ornate oaken box and saw what he’d sought, a glass apparatus of
twin retorts like the one in Yardiff Bey’s sanctum at Earthfast. There were voices,
loudly, from downstairs. He wished he hadn’t taken off his pistols.

He went back
down hesitantly. His first impulse was to get to his guns, and warn Angorman.
Moreover, he had to pass through the dining hall to get to Andre and the
others. Drawing a deep breath, he re-entered the hall.

Newshield—it
must be he—was a young man with pouchy eyes too old for him. He wore mud-caked
boots and a fine, ermine-bordered cloak of embroidered silk over a gilt
cuirass. Behind him, men hung around the main doors, hands close to swords. Two
of them held straining, leashed hounds with either hand. The dogs’ slaver
stained the carpet; their muddy paws left tracks. Precipitous tension hung in
the air.

“These
premises are not my aunt’s, Lord Angorman, but mine.” Newshield’s tone was
unreasoning. “I do not like my hospitality extended without my let.”

The
Saint-Commander’s effort to control his temper was visible. “I knew your aunt
in days gone by. Surely her kindness can be no great transgression.”

Gil came to their
notice. “Where has this fellow been?” Newshield snapped. “My study? Oh, that is
beyond the beyonds!”

“Then,”
answered Angorman, “we will get us gone. Our apologies.” Gil, hoping Newshield
would buy it, headed for his guns. But Dulcet’s nephew raised his hand, and
swords were drawn.

“No, Lord
Angorman. Having come, you must stay.” The heavies at the door ranged
themselves frankly around the room, waiting. Gil’s stomach clenched, but he
hesitated to make a long move for the pistols; Dulcet and Newshield were both
in his way. There were just too many men, too near, with bared blades.
Newshield shed his cloak and loosened his own weapon.

“The rest of
this party will doubtless be in guest quarters,” he said, picking six of his
men with a sweep of his arm. “You come with me.” He selected four more. “And
you others make your way round, through the garden. Post yourselves beneath
their window, against escape.”

Dulcet was
stunned. “You… you knew they would be here?”

“He’s got
pages from
Arrivals Macabre
upstairs,” Gil told Angorman. Newshield
appraised the American.

“Yes, I
harbored a very important patron when he was in need. He did not find what he
sought in the loose pages he brought, and so left them behind.” He smirked. “We
would have taken you when you first came, but my aunt’s chief servitor got wind
of it somehow. He fled, and would have betrayed me. It took us all afternoon to
track him down in the marshes. He perished with the Bright Lady’s name on his
lips, stupid zealot.”

He turned
back to his men. “You know what is expected. Bear up; within the hour, the
Flaming Wheel will be on the wing to the Hand of Salamá. In one hundred
heartbeats we will go in at them. Harrowfoot, you will stay here with the
remaining men and guard these three.”

They took
torches and moved out, six to the staircase that led to the guest quarters,
behind Newshield, and four more for the garden. That left eight in the dining
hall. They waited with unsheathed swords, leaving no doubt what would happen if
someone shouted a warning. Gil felt sick to his stomach, angry at himself, very
much afraid.

Perhaps the
other servants would help? No, not against so many men-at-arms. He felt a split
second’s pity for the hapless chief servitor, driven to desperate courage by
faith in the Bright Lady, run to ground by horsemen and baying dogs.

Something
clicked. Short on time, he didn’t even stop to look for flaws. “Harrowfoot, you
look like a reasonable guy to me.” The man, hard-bitten ugly whose mid-section
had gone to paunch, glared suspiciously.

“I mean, who
doesn’t want to turn an honest profit?” Gil hastened. Angorman eyed him
noncommittally, but Harrowfoot’s interest had been piqued.

“What profit
is that, witling?”

“Hey, listen,
I’m not with these people. Why can’t you just let me walk? It’d be worthwhile
for you; there’re a hundred gold bits in my saddlebag. You take ’em and I’ll
take off, how’s that? Newshield won’t care; he’s got what he wants.”

Harrowfoot
plucked the saddlebags out of the pile of gear in the corner, set them on the
table and rummaged through them. Gil tried to estimate how much time he had.
Hurry!
“The right bag, the one that’s tied off. They’re at the bottom.” He bit his
lip, trying to tell Angorman with eye contact,
It’s coming, get set.
The
Saint-Commander only displayed contempt.

Harrowfoot,
tearing things out of the bag, grinned to himself. If there were money, he’d
take it, but the outlander would never leave the room alive. He pulled items
out and tossed them aside: a spare shirt, socks, a whetstone, a wadded swatch
of red cloth.

Gil saw that,
and gathered himself. The dogs growled, showed fangs and fought to break free
with insane ferocity. One handler was dragged headlong, losing his hold. His
two dogs flung themselves directly at Harrowfoot and the strip of red bunting
Gil had saved from the attack on Woodsinger at Earthfast.

Harrowfoot
went down with a scream. Everyone in the room was shouting. The armsman nearest
Gil was distracted. The American took a long step inside his guard to knee him.
He jumped the next man, whose sword pointed at Dulcet’s heart. The man was just
turning, having heard the thud of the kneeing and the first guard’s moan. Gil
clamped an arm around his throat and, kicking the back of his knee, hauled him
back off balance. He bellowed to Andre and Ferrian, wherever they were, to
watch out. To Angorman he screamed, “Go for it!”

The
Saint-Commander wrestled the sword from the second man, thrust Dulcet over to
the wall, and wove through confused foemen toward his axe.

The second
handler’s animals had turned on him and savaged him. They, too, now threw
themselves at Harrowfoot. Two guards were trying to beat them off him with the
flats of their blades. Men and hounds stabbed, bit, growled, cursed and fought.

Gil put his
second man away with a hammer blow to the base of the skull, but the first was
stumbling to his feet. The American damned himself for not having nailed him
right. Another guard came around the table. Caught between them, Gil dove under
the long, wide dining board, strawberrying his hands and forearms.

Angorman had
eluded one opponent. The melee of dogs and men diverted most attention from
him. Another foe closed with him. They flailed at each other, using their
broadswords two-handed. Angorman, used to his axe, was forced on the defensive.
He managed to draw his adversary around until their positions were reversed.
Cautiously withdrawing out of dueling distance, he threw his weapon at the man,
pivoted, and seized his greataxe.

The swordsman
stepped back. One of his comrades, chasing Gil, broke off and came around the
table to his aid. Red Pilgrim was in the old man’s hands. He nodded to himself.

“Now, we
shall see,” he told them. Gil, scuttling along between the table’s ornate legs
as blades whistled past him blindly, heard a new sound, an ululating war cry.
He realized it was Angorman, and spotted the swirl of the old man’s robes and
the shuffle of feet as the fight resumed. There was the metal-to-metal clash of
the duel. A man hit the floor, blood running from his side.

Gil took a
quick survey of stamping feet and running boots, rolled past polished wooden
griffin’s limbs, and came up where he thought he’d be least noticed.

The hall was
filled with turmoil. Harrowfoot was wheezing out his life, and the dogs were
dead or dying. Several of the opposition were down; as he watched, Angorman
dropped another.

Gil saw no
stiffness in the Saint-Commander now. There was only lethal precision, a
facility with the six-foot axe that was nearly gymnastic. It whipped through
the air, taking red stains coming and going. It changed direction in midair,
hitting from any arc and every quarter, as if Angorman had transcended gravity
and velocity, ignoring or employing them at his pleasure. Sheer dexterity was
at work.

He advanced
up the hall, his flickering shadow thrown huge on the walls by light from the
hearth. Red Pilgrim spun through loops and angles of its own fatal geometries.
Another armsman jumped forward, broadsword raised. The crescent axehead eluded
him, flew through his rib cage. Blood spurted and he toppled sideways. Gil,
ignored, back to a wall, caught his bearings.