Krull, Page 2

  "All the way from Turold . . . How did you slip through the Slayers? Did you come all that way, only the four of you . . .?" The questions came too fast for ready reply, even had the riders been inclined to answer them.

  The soldiers moved aside as their own lord approached with his royal escort. They would have to sit on their curiosity for a while longer.

  Turold dismounted, concealing from the party of newcomers the ache in his numbed legs. Exhausted he might be, but he would not ask for assistance from his son's future father-in-law. Colwyn remained on his horse, mindful of procedure, though he thought it foolish.

  The two kings regarded each other without affection. Turold was in no mood to bandy protocol. "We sent to you for help. More than one messenger departed and did not return with that aid. Though we have arrived in good health, it is through no thanks to you."

  Eirig did not back down, though his daughter's accusation stuck in the back of his mind. "Your messengers never reached us. The Slayers spread a tight net, especially at night. Even so, twenty men were dispatched in hopes they might find you."

  "We lost three hundred reaching here!" Turold replied angrily. "One hopeless rearguard action followed upon another so that we might make the 'safety' of these walls. The land between here and Turold is marked by too many graves. And you sent twenty men to help us."

  "The Slayers are everywhere and this time of year the army of Eirig is more fiction than reality! Most of my fighting men are away bringing in the year's harvest, so that if the Slayers attack they cannot starve us out. I have my own people within these walls to worry about. Women and children. I did what I could." He took a belligerent step forward. "I did not choose this marriage, Turold."

  "Nor did I, Eirig."

  Colwyn had had about enough. Royal precedent be damned! He slid off his horse, stepped between them.

  "I chose it," he said quietly.

  Colwyn was not a big man. He had cousins who stood taller, marshaled more raw strength. But none were as quick. He had a tendency to brood, especially in the presence of persistent stupidity. There were those at the Turoldian court who thought him reckless and a bit too wild to wear the crown.

  But none questioned his honesty or courage, and though no scholar, he had a way of penetrating obfuscation that allowed him to go straight to the heart of a problem, a talent most disconcerting to those schooled in the arts of argument and debate. Unlike his relatives, he attracted no crowd of fawning sycophants. Put a query to Colwyn, it was said in Turold, and you will have a straight answer right off, but for your sake it had best be a worthwhile question.

  "Your daughter chose it," he went on, speaking to Eirig. He looked back to his own father, then again at the king who had welcomed them with something less than open arms. "It will be done. Argue all you wish, fight if it pleases you, but nothing will prevent this marriage. This alliance must be made.

  "Now if you will excuse me, I would like to greet my bride." He turned from them both and inspected the courtyard. After a moment's study he started for the doorway leading into the keep, walking as though the way were well known to him.

  Eirig couid not find words to stop him, but neither was he willing to let a mere boy depart their confrontation having the last word. He gestured back at Turold and the two surviving members of the escort.

  "And is this the great army you will join with Eirig to lead against the Slayers?"

  Colwyn paused partway up the stairs. His voice was firm, assured as he replied. "Whatever army I have I will lead against them. I brought two warriors with me. If Eirig can provide two as good, then I will have an army of five.

  "This I do know. I will not squat cowering behind castle walls, neither here nor in Turold. and wait for the Slayers to come for me the way a pig waits for its butcher. The Slayers are used to being the attackers. Perhaps it will surprise them to be the defenders for a change, no matter what size the force that goes against them. I will fight them, King Eirig, with whatever army I can raise from your land and mine and whichever other might choose to join me." He resumed his climb, hesitating again at the top of the staircase.

  "I will fight them until I have won, or am dead." He disappeared into the castle.

  Eirig stared after him, then turned back to his royal counterpart. "I do not know if he has your skill at arms, Turold, but the boy surely has inherited your tongue."

  Turold looked past his host, toward the portal that had swallowed up his son. "There is more to the youth than that, Eirig. Sometimes I do not understand him. Sometimes I think he sees with other than his eyes. Even the wise men of my court are in awe of him and not a few are afraid. A most unusual son. On balance I know he is more blessing than curse, but there are moments that give me pause. In truth, there are."

  Eirig digested that, then frowned. It seemed to him that this was not the first time such thoughts had been expressed with respect to a royal offspring.

  I hate these damned great castles, Colwyn thought as he made his way into the central hall. He slowed and thought to wipe some of the sweat and grime from his face. Around him brightly colored banners and insignia of territory hung limp from the rafters. Torches flickered on mounted armor. Eirig's kingdom was not particularly rich but it was extensive. Its people were not given to ostentatious displays of wealth. In that respect they had much in common with Turold.

  It was not money that he sought from the alliance, but brave men ready to fight for their homes and their world. The wise men at court had tried to show him that such an adventure was doomed from the start. The depredations of the Slayers could not be prevented; even to think of doing so was foolishness. It was best to accept one's fate, much as one did a harsh winter or summer flood.

  Colwyn refused to accept the inevitability of disaster that some of the wise men had forecast. There was no fear in him of the Black Fortress, nor of the shadowy master it was home to. It did not terrify him that the Fortress apparently came from another world. Just because this affliction was new and alien did not mean it couldn't be cured.

  Slayers could be slain like any man, for all that they possessed horrible weapons and did not fight like men. All that was required was the will to fight them, the will and an army of dedicated warriors. Between them, Eirig and Turold might mount such an army.

  He started forward again, stumbled over his own tired feet and caught himself. His gaze darted leftward. There had been the briefest giggle.

  His eyes stopped at a half-opened doorway. Even in the dimly lit hall it would have been difficult to pass over that flash of color.

  Lyssa did not laugh again. She stepped out into the light. Her dress was finely but not elaborately embroidered and she was as clean as Colwyn was sweaty. Their eyes met and all such simple thoughts were instantly put aside.

  She's so slight, Colwyn mused. A strong breath could blow her away. Or could it? There was something about her that suggested otherwise. A thin tree can have strong roots, he reminded himself. Slim but strong, then, in mind as well as body. Such was the Lyssa he'd been led to expect. She came toward him.

  "I have chosen well," she said softly, without guile.

  It was there, he thought. The power he sensed deep within her, the same power that had been in her letters. It was in her voice too, every syllable, for all that they were softly uttered. He had thought to greet a much larger woman, but as he continued to stare at her she expanded in his eyes.

  "So have I," he thought to murmur.

  "Handsome." Her inspection was direct. "I had not counted on that. It would not have made a difference, but I suppose it's good that a wife should find her husband pleasant to look upon."

  "Life is long and full of mornings," he responded. "One should not be displeased by the first face one sees every day."

  "You speak of days to come. I see by your appearance that the past ones were not as promising. Your journey was as difficult as it was delayed?"

  "But necessary. The land between Eirig and Turold is filled with the misery infl
icted by the Slayers. We left as many as we could lying in the fields they had destroyed."

  "You boast of killing?"

  "I never boast of killing. There is nothing praiseworthy in making murder."

  She nodded slowly. "I was told that you were brave but until now did not know what my advisers meant when they kept telling me you were not the usual sort of warrior. You are wise. And handsome as well. A rare combination." She spread out the folds of her dress and did a little pirouette for him. "Then, you do find me attractive?"

  "These past months I've had to deal with innumerable idiotic questions at court. Do not ask me more of the same." He grinned slightly.

  "I think I like you, master of the indirect compliment." More seriously she inquired, "How fares your homeland against the Slayers?"

  "No worse than most and better than many. They seem to be attacking the poorer kingdoms and smaller towns first. Our turn will surely come if they are not stopped."

  "You believe they can be stopped?"

  "They can be killed, though they do not die like men. I do not side with those who believe it is our fate to be overrun by them. I do not believe in inevitable happenings. If I did I would not have made this marriage against my father's wishes."

  "Nor I against mine."

  "We shouldn't waste time. Will the ceremony be held here?" He indicated the vastness of the great hall.

  "No, there is a special place within the castle. Tonight, at moonrise, we will begin according to the ancient rites. I have no love for ritual but my father has insisted. He desires that you prove yourself."

  "I don't doubt it." He went quiet, his thoughts momentarily elsewhere.

  Say something, Lyssa told herself as the silence deepened between them. The man is uncomfortable. Help him to relax. You are to be husband and wife, not business partners.

  "My father says that good fighters make bad husbands."

  "I too have heard that, only the other way round. What does your mother say?"

  "My mother died when I was small. I scarcely remember her. No"—she put a hand to his lips to restrain him from mouthing the usual condolences. "It is long done with and now is not the time to look to the past." She smiled reassuringly at him. "Some say it depends on the husband. What would you say?"

  A woman as clever as she was beautiful, Colwyn mused. All that he had been told seemed truth. There were many attractive damsels in both kingdoms, many princesses in kingdoms close by, but only one Lyssa of Eirig.

  "I would say that peace and love, whether established between nations or man and woman, depend not on believing old tales and superstitions but rather on forging a relationship free of the meanderings of others."

  Her smiled widened. "A good answer . . . Colwyn. I believe this match is well met." She leaned forward and kissed him lightly. The brief touch reminded him of the hot breath from a kitchen oven quickly opened and as quickly shut again. It was both welcoming and promising. They separated with reluctance.

  "Proprieties," she whispered, glancing past him to make certain the great hall was still empty and that no one had observed. "We will marry only once, so we must take care to do it properly. I am sure of you, but we must be certain of each other." Her hand brushed his cheek lightly. Then she turned and retreated back through the door from which she'd emerged.

  Colwyn stared until the door had closed behind her. His cheek burned where she'd touched him. He was aware that his hands were still steepled together as if still holding hers, and that he was holding his breath like a swimmer who'd just crossed a goodly distance underwater. He exhaled slowly.

  The Slayers had best beware. With such a woman at his side he felt there was nothing he couldn't do.

  II

  No one could remember who had designed the nexus. The architect of the castle was little more than an honored memory and the plans he had drawn were buried somewhere in the royal archives. The nexus was a special place, utilized only for the most profound ceremonies.

  Nor was the reason for its design immediately apparent to the casual observer. An advanced mathematician would have noted the schematic with a start of surprise, but there were no advanced mathematicians in Eirig now.

  Two corridors wound a strange course through the lower part of the white castle, twisting and turning until they finally met at the nexus. A small altar and water basin that filled from a stone spigot dominated the far end of the chamber.

  Distant music penetrated the special place, but few of those participating in the ceremony paid it much attention. Eirig and Lyssa approached down one corridor while from the end of the other Colwyn and his father anxiously awaited the bride's arrival. Colwyn was impatient for the proceedings to be over and done with, but he did not try to hurry matters. He remembered what Lyssa had said about observing the proprieties.

  The men-at-arms kept their eyes forward as the royal pair walked between their ranks, though several could not keep themselves from stealing a look at the exquisitely beautiful Lyssa as she passed them by. Everyone knew that she had turned down many suitors and each man privately measured himself against this successful visitor, the solemn-faced Colwyn of Turold. There was little envy in their thoughts, however. Most of all there was admiration mixed with hope. All knew what benefits the alliance with their powerful neighbor to the west could bring.

  As Lyssa's torch passed each opposing pair of soldiers, their own torches sprang to life. Though they had been warned, the sudden combustion still came as a shock. It was this power of the princess's that had put off more than one weak-spined suitor, the power that danced in her eyes and could make the strongest man go queasy in the belly. That such an implied threat had not dissuaded this Colwyn was the strongest point in his favor.

  And as Colwyn's own torch had given light to the torches held by the men in the other corridor, glances of approval had come from the men-at-arms. Here at last was a fit match for their princess. Who could predict what good might come of such a union?

  They met at last in the domed chamber that was the nexus, the ancient place of bringing-together, the sanctuary where those of power might demonstrate secret truths to one another.

  As was his right, Turold spoke first, his voice firm and unwavering. "From this day, my kingdom is no more."

  Colwyn removed his hand from the torch he held together with his father. His eyes were half-closed and it almost looked as if he might be falling asleep. But he was more than alert. The torch went out. He blinked and turned to face his bride.

  "Nor is mine," Eirig said, assured at last that this Turoldian might be a fit match for his daughter.

  Lyssa let go of their firebrand and the flame fled from the wood as quickly as it had from its counterpart. Turold took a step forward, extended a hand, and placed it on King Eirig's upper arm. Eirig reciprocated.

  "A single kingdom under our children. From this day forward let no man speak for Turold or for Eirig. Let our people mingle free and unafraid with each other and help one another in times of prosperity as well as chaos. If any more blood is to be spilt in either land, let it be not the blood of brothers but of Slayers!"

  "Agreed," said Eirig quietly. The import of this moment had wiped out most of his lingering doubts, and there was gruff friendship in Turold's tone. "Now to the great hall, that the marriage ceremony may be properly concluded and the bond fastened."

  Both pairs turned and started up the right-hand corridor. Colwyn and Lyssa marched side by side behind their fathers, careful to keep their eyes from each other. The ponderousness of ceremony weighed heavily on Colwyn and he was anxious to be done with speeches and invocations. Lyssa's sideways glances counseled patience and she whispered without turning her head: "Gentle go, husband-to-be. All this will be over and done with soon enough."

  "I have no taste for these primitive rituals," he muttered back at her.

  "They are necessary. The books say it is so."

  "The books have been of little help to us in combating the Slayers. Why should I take their advice
where marriage is concerned?"

  "Because I ask it of you, Colwyn."

  He couldn't repress a grin. "Do I detect the sound of hands clapping?"

  She fell a step off his pace. "Only if you cannot see that I follow you around."

  Eirig looked back at them. They were starting up a circular staircase. "Quiet, the both of you! Remember your positions."

  "I will strive to do so, Father, when the proper time comes."

  He made a face at her but said nothing. Perhaps it would not be such a hard thing, to give away so impertinent a child.

  The wedding party emerged from the stairwell and entered the great hall. At the far end, to one side of the throne, was a font filled with freshly drawn springwater. The music which had filled the castle all evening was drowned out by the sound of swords beating on shields as the king's guard acknowledged the approach of the bridal couple.

  Lyssa and Colwyn halted before the stone basin, their fathers looking on approvingly. A single torch stood upright in a metal sconce nearby. Colwyn stepped forward and removed it from its resting place. It burst into flame without so much as a glance. Murmurs of approval rose from the watching ranks of soldiers. Here was a man they could follow. Yet the critical test was still to come.

  Colwyn composed himself. Again it seemed as if he were half-asleep as he spoke. No one could tell for certain if he was addressing them all, his bride-to-be only, or the wood he held tightly in his right hand.

  "I give fire to water. It will not return to me except from the hand of the woman I choose as my wife." Eirig in particular was watching closely as Colwyn recited. Were the old books right? Was this the match they sometimes alluded to?

  Colwyn held the flaming brand over the basin and let it fall. It dropped like a fisherman's line and landed upright on the bottom. Beneath the surface it continued to burn as brightly as ever. A great sigh arose from the onlookers while King Turold looked proud.

  The sentry who stood atop the gate cursed his rotten luck at pulling guard duty on this night of all nights. Here he was, stuck out in the damp and cold, while most of his brethern were inside the keep, their armor polished and sparkling, enjoying the wedding ceremony.