Chapter Five

 

It was early afternoon when they awoke and eyed each other with half-humorous smiles. “I have not yet thanked you for saving my life,” Hal remarked.

“Forget that.” Alan was surprised to find himself reddening. “There is no need of such words between us, brother."

“There never was, even before yesterday.” Hal knelt, fussing with the fire. “But nevertheless, Alan, I am ashamed. You freed me from a stronghold at great risk to yourself, and all I could find to say was, where is my sword."

Alan had to laugh, hearing his own sentiments so neatly mirrored. “Well, you have need of a noble weapon,” he conceded. “How were you taken, Hal?"

“Dreaming,” Hal admitted with a grimace. “Or thinking more of Corin than of the road.... Arundel tried to warn me, but I blundered right into the lordsmen. They knocked me down before I had a chance to draw a weapon. Then they tied me up and knelt to cast lots for my horse and gear. I had told Arundel not to fight; the odds were too great. But one of them held him slackly, like a palfrey, and I shouted at him to go. He broke away easily. And that,” Hal added, grinning, “is when they started beating me."

“I thought as much,” Alan said. “I thought you could not be taken knowingly. Well, I suppose we shall have to be off after your sword."

“Not today. I am exhausted, and the day is half spent."

Alan felt the same, utterly fatigued, though more from emotion than from exertion. So they tended their horses and hung their blankets up to air, and ate the meat that Corin had left them.

“What is the lineage of the sword?” Alan asked. He was still trying to understand Hal's recklessness in taking them onto the Waste.

“I don't know. Trigg gave it to me.” Hal smiled sheepishly. “I am loath to lose his gift."

“And also,” Alan ventured, “you had some plan in coming north?"

“At first I rode north to put more distance between myself and Nemeton.... Now I am worried about Corin. And I need to explore, to find friends and learn to know my land.... But my plans are more like dreams, Alan."

“Tell me."

“I thought to circle Isle from east to west ... and of course I must go to Welas,” Hal added with a faraway look in his eyes. “I have kinsfolk there, whom I have never known."

“And Iscovar?"

Hal sighed. “Well, I shall not have to be a father-slayer, Alan. The One be praised, that nightmare at least is kept from me. Within four years, the King should be dead of the disease that feeds upon lust. When I was not yet sixteen I knew this from my mother, who knew it from the royal physician. He told her then, five years, and one of those has gone by while I lived with Craig the Grim. So if I am to be King—and make my people some amends for the horrors of my forebears—I must have my bid ready in time.

“I have two great advantages over my enemies. One, that they do not know of this illness of the King. The secret is well kept, as you can imagine, or already the great lords would be worrying at Iscovar's throat instead of fawning at his feet. The second advantage is that they do not know I am out of the Tower. If they realized how far I am from the throne and the royal armies, they would have already moved to the kill and commenced quarreling over the spoils. So the King keeps that secret as well, though you may be sure he searches for me diligently.

“You saved me from a more horrible fate than you knew, Alan, when you spirited me out of that smelly tower of Gar's. Like all the great lords, he came to court often; Iscovar insists on such attentions. So he knows me, and if he had once seen me I would have become his pawn and prisoner, eternally dishonored."

Alan listened intently. “Then it is not the King you must fight, but the host of quarreling lords who will try to seize the throne upon his death."

“Ay. They who are now his liegemen will turn against him in his sickness, like the wolf who rends his wounded brother. Just as he would do to them.... Most of the ambitious lords are clustered in the fertile south, as you know. Daronwy of Bridgewater, Mordri of the Havens, Kai Oakmaster, and of course Iscovar's puppet at Laueroc. But more are scattered all over Isle. Nabon of Lee, Guy of Gaunt—and we have had a taste of Whitewater's power."

“Far too much power for my taste,” Alan complained. “How can you ever fight them all, Hal?"

“With help,” answered Hal earnestly. “I have said I am a dreamer, Alan.... But all over Isle are people who ache to be rid of the oppressors, if only they can be brought together, and given hope.” He gazed into the treetops. “I see a signal in the night. And at that signal, folk rising up silently, taking their lord's horses, his cattle and sheep, the grain in his storehouse, the gold in his treasure room, the weapons in his armory. Any of these things, if done with stealth, would greatly cripple his garrison when he awoke to hear the brazen trumpets roaring the news of the King's death. And the peasants safely away, and the lords far too busy to retaliate.” He sighed and turned his eyes back to Alan. “If only I needed no more force than that."

“Proud lords are not likely to yield without bloodshed,” Alan stated wryly.

“I know it. Craig the Grim has great store of weapons, and the influence to muster over a thousand men, all skilled archers. I spoke with him before I left him, and surprised him little, for he, too, has his spies, and had long since guessed. Ket the Red is another one who will fight for me, I think. And if I am not mistaken, Margerie can be a powerful friend to us in Whitewater. The time has not yet come to tell them my need—so far, only you and Craig know of me—but they will be there when I have need of them. And others, Alan; I have heard that there are strange folk in the north. Perhaps the roving warlords of the Barrens will see fit to aid me, or I may find even better friends, fearsome friends to bring a swift peace, if my dreams lead me truly....” His eyes glittered as be spoke, and Alan was reminded once again of his Welandais blood.

They did not turn at once to the north, however. First they backtracked to look for Corin and the sword. After their day of rest they left the Forest toward White water and cast about on the Waste, searching the occasional small thickets they had been forced to speed past before. They found an old campsite, perhaps Corin's, but they found no other traces. Several times they sighted lordsmen in the far distance and fled northward, still on the open Waste. They spent two nervous nights on the bare, stony ground, sleeping restlessly in spite of the watchfulness of their horses. Finally, Hal admitted temporary defeat.

“Those two are farther to the north now, even at a footpace,” he grumbled. “And the only reason the lordsmen haven't come after us is because they can't believe we would be such fools."

They returned to the Forest for a sound night's sleep, then traveled northward for a few days within its shelter. Oak and beech trees began to give way to pine and fir. Hal felt more secure from lordsmen now, and ready to search for Corin once more. It was reaping time at the isolated cottages of the Waste. Hal and Alan found that their help was welcomed at the hot, dusty work, and they were paid as generously as the struggling landholders could afford. But no one had any word of a blond boy or his bald, blacksmith father.

For days they traveled northward on the Waste, returning to the Forest only to sleep or hunt. As they went on, the holdings of cottagers grew fewer and farther between, and the land grew wilder and more lonely, until at length there came a day when they saw no living creatures except rabbits and sparrows. It was a strange land they traveled now, not much changed by the passing of time, for everywhere were signs of ancient dwellers—cairns, strange mounds and earthworks, and standing stones raised like monstrous fangs toward the sky. Hal's gray eyes gleamed as he regarded the great gray stones, but Alan shivered in their shadows. He was a native of the gentle green southlands, and he felt naked and exposed in this high, windy place.

“Ages ago, this was Forest,” Hal said. “All of Isle was Forest, the soul and dwelling of the Lady Mother. Small dark people roamed from grassy glade to glade and fed their animals on acorn mast. But iron-armed men came, who wanted to make themselves a great nation, so they felled the trees with their iron axes and turned the ground with their iron tools, and raised great stones to their dead and their gods, and piled mounds of dirt for their timber towers, and circles of dirt for their timber battle walls.... Season after season they made war, and played at love and valor. And season after season the sea winds blew, and the sea rains fell, until all the rich earth was blown and washed from the land, and only rocky waste remained. This was long ago, long before the invaders came from the east, long before any Kings ruled in Laueroc or Eburacon or the north. Those iron-sworded newcomers moved on to become the Kings we remember in legend, and the small dark folk came out of the Forest to reclaim their wasted land."

“How in the world can you know?” Alan exclaimed.

Hal could not answer. “Dreams,” he said at last. “And there come some now.” He pointed. The ancient tribes of Romany."

The Gypsies flowed darkly toward them over the Waste, ragged folk and shaggy beasts all in one rippling mass. Hal and Alan sat quietly on their horses as the band surrounded them. A ring of sober, dark-eyed faces looked up: solemn black-braided children in stammel frocks; stocky ponies; old crones with tame ravens on their shoulders; short, frowning men with shepherd's staffs and small stone-tipped darts in hand. No one made a sound; even the sheep were silent. Alan felt his flesh crawl at the thought of a dart in his back.

“Laifrita thae, mirdas arle,” Hal greeted them with curbed excitement in his voice. ["Greetings to you, people of the earth."]

The staring circle gasped, then stirred into movement and welcoming smiles. A chieftain stepped forward, his rank marked by the broad metal collar that arced around his neck, shining like a crescent moon.

“Welcome, Mireldeyn,” he said. “Welcome, Elwyndas."

They ate with the Gypsies, and shared the warmth of their campfire against the chill sea breeze. Hal spoke their strange language, and talked late into the night with the oldest men and women. Alan, who could converse with the others only in their broken dialect, was nevertheless much attended to. He was surprised to find that the Gypsies, horse experts that they were, had a high opinion of Alfie. “He is not handsome, nay,” they agreed with him, “but he has much heart.” As for Arundel, their dialect failed them, and they could only say, gesturing, that he was elwedeyn. When Alan signaled his noncomprehension, they shook their heads hopelessly, and sank back into the shelter of their dark faces around the fire.

“What are those names they called us?” Alan asked Hal in a whisper when everyone had settled for the night.

“Man-spirit, friend of the wind, some such....” Hal stirred irritably. “I'm not sure."

“Never mind. What did you talk about all night?"

“They have seen a pair that I think are Corin and the smith.” Hal cut short Alan's delighted response. “But we must be more careful. The talk of the Rough Road is that Lord Gar has set a fine price in gold on our heads."

After that, they kept to the Forest when they could. But the going was hard. This rocky northern land was scarred with shelving jumbles of rock, and sometimes thick with brambles. Often they were obliged to use the Rough Road that traversed the Waste from Whitewater to Rodsen. A few times they met travelers, and inquired about Corin to no avail. Some nights they shared the fires of Gypsy bands. But the dark tribesmen had no further news of the smith and his boy.

The day after a night with the Gypsies, just after noon, Hal and Alan were startled to hear hoofbeats approaching them from behind. They took cover in a copse atop a small rise until the rider came into view. It was one of their hosts of the night before, galloping hard on his sturdy pony.

With faces full of foreboding, they rode out to meet him. He spoke rapidly to Hal in his own language. Hal touched his hand in gesture of thanks, and the man sent his pony quickly back the way he had come. Hal spun Arundel and set off at full speed toward the rise, with Alfie clattering after. Once over the crest, he changed direction, then pulled up behind a ridge of rock.

“Some time after we left this morning,” he explained, “strangers came to the Gypsy camp, describing us and offering gold for news of us. Ten rough-looking men, mounted, with bows. Likely they are close by us, right now. The Gypsies told them nothing, of course, but if they are not fools they will have followed our friend. I hope he comes to no harm."

“Bounty hunters,” muttered Alan. He felt suddenly quite uncomfortable. He was used to thinking of sword-fighting as an unavoidable part of life in these hard times, but he did not relish the thought of ducking arrows.

“We must get to more open ground,” continued Hal, “where they cannot stalk us."

They moved gently off, glancing over their shoulders. “I fled before,” Hal added, “to draw the chase on us. But it's no use running now; we could blunder straight into them. We must make them show themselves and then outrun them, if we like."

Threading their way cautiously among the rocks and thickets, they proceeded in what they hoped was the direction of a clearing. At last they came to a windswept space, which they carefully surveyed. Then they touched heels to the horses’ sides and sped across the barren expanse, heading for a lonely clump of trees near the center. To their relief, they reached it without incident.

“There!” Hal exclaimed. “We might as well spend the afternoon here as anywhere else. Only to the south can they come near being within bowshot. They will set an ambush to the north, but they will see that we do not intend to move, and they will be forced to rush us from the south."

“They could split up,” grumbled Alan. He was not nearly as well pleased as Hal with their situation.

“I think they will not. They fear our swords, and probably they do not trust each other. We might as well sit down."

Arundel lifted his head and snorted at the distant thickets to the north.

“Allo,” Hal told him. “Very well, Arundel. I know they are there."

Letting the horses graze, Hal and Alan sat in the shade, leaning against the tree trunks, facing away from each other so as to watch the largest portion of ground. The afternoon crept slowly by, and the sun grew low.

Alan broke the long silence. “What will they do when dark comes?"

Hal shook his head. “They cannot afford to wait. They might surprise us, but we might also slip away from them. They will make their move soon."

Even as he spoke the distant brush stirred. The two vaulted to their saddles. But instead of rushing away as Alan expected him to, Hal tarried, dancing Arundel slowly northward, until the last of the hunters had broken cover. Then he grunted in satisfaction. “All ten of them,” he said. “Let's go."

They sprang into a gallop. But the foremost men were now within bowshot, and stopped to take aim. Alan whistled and cursed Hal's boldness as an arrow grazed his ear with its honed metal head; warm blood trickled down his neck. They were almost out of range when Hal gave a moan. A lucky shot had hit Arundel in the foreleg. The arrow passed neatly between the bones, then stuck.

Even though wounded, Arundel still ran faster than the ponylike beasts behind them. But Hal knew that every step added to his injury. They burst into the wall of thickets at the edge of the clearing, and plunged through a labyrinth of rocks, copses and undergrowth. Hal sighed with relief when they came to another clearing. A gentle rise faced them. Halfway up was a long outcropping of rock screened with bushes and stunted trees. At the crown of the rise was one of the ancient barrows or cairns, a large one, ringed by upright stones.

“This will do,” called Hal as they pulled up behind the natural stone barrier. “Keep the horses behind the tallest cover, Alan, and see what you can do for Arun."

He grabbed his bow and arrows from his blanketroll, and ran to a position behind the stone ledge just as their pursuers broke into the open and sent a shower of arrows into their cover. Hal aimed his first arrow at the apparent leader, and the man yelped as his arm was pinned to his side. Hal's next shot tumbled a man from his horse, shot through the heart, and his next arrow parted one's hair.

The hunters stopped abruptly and looked at each other. They had not known that their quarry possessed a bow, and especially not such a powerful and accurate one. Though they were nine bows against one, he had shelter and they had none, and they were being picked off in the open like birds on a branch. Even as they paused, another of their number fell from his mount with a scream. They retreated hastily to the thickets from which they had come.

“Two down,” sighed Hal. “How is Arundel, Alan?"

Alan had not enjoyed working while arrows whistled overhead, landed underfoot and rattled in the branches of the copse that sheltered him. Nevertheless, be had removed the arrow from Arundel's leg and dressed the wound. He brought Hal a bunch of arrows he had gathered from the outlaw assault.

“The wound is not bad,” he reported. “The shaft passed between muscle and bone, hurting little but the skin. Still, he should not run on it, or carry weight."

Hal nodded, frowning. “Have I ever so many arrows,” he muttered, “I can only shoot them one at a time. It will soon be dark. They must rush us, and we have nothing to set our backs against. They are four against one. We need some help."

Alan snorted at the understatement. “There is nothing to help us on this Waste except the crying birds and the little rabbits. I fear we must trust in our own luck, which has been a bit overstrained, lately."

The bounty hunters left their cover and ranged themselves in the open, just out of bowshot. Each one carried a freshly cut staff, long and stout, usable either as a blunt-headed lance or as a cudgel. The leader's arm was bandaged, and his face did not look friendly.

Hal looked at them and swallowed, as if he were swallowing his pride. Then he raised his head at an angle and called out in a clear, carrying voice: “0 lian dos elys liedendes, on dalyn Veran de rangrin priende than shalder.” ["Oh spirits of those who once lived, a son of Veran from peril prays your aid."]

As if from very far away, as if from the heart of the earth, a low voice replied: “Al holme, Mireldeyn.” ["We come, Mireldeyn."] As if from the dome of the sky, and very far away, a gray voice called, “Al holme, Mireldeyn."

“What is it, Hal?” Alan whispered, frozen. His hair prickled.

“Friends,” Hal replied.

“Holmé a eln!” ["Come to us!"] spoke the low voice. Alan could not tell from what direction it came. It seemed to fill the world. But Hal started walking up the gentle slope, toward the barrow and the ring of standing stones. Alan and the horses followed him. From behind them came terrified screams. Alan stopped in spite of himself.

“They are not being harmed,” Hal said. “Look."

Alan forced himself to turn. In the failing light he could see the men running, stumbling, falling in blind terror, getting up to run again. From what they ran he could not tell, unless it was the same nameless fear which he felt choking his own mind, so that his eyes saw black and his legs felt numb. The cries of the bounty hunters faded into the distance.

Hal turned and continued up the rise. Arundel and Alfie followed him. As he was calmly passed by his own horse, Alan's pride was stung, and somehow he willed his reluctant legs to move. He drew abreast of Hal and felt the focus of the fear, ahead of them, at the barrow. They walked closer; Alan moved like a blind man, step by slow step. Then his legs stopped. They wanted to turn and run. He kept them still, but he could not force them to go on. He could not see. His tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth. With great difficulty, he moved it.

“Hal,” he whispered, “help me."

He felt Hal take his hand, and with that touch warmth moved through the frozen blood in his veins. “Come on, brother,” Hal said gently, and Alan walked on. He met the fear; he walked through it; and it melted away before him. Then a feeling of comfort and friendliness filled his heart, and the darkness left his eyes, and he found that he was within the circle of standing stones. That which had been a forbidding fear was now a protecting embrace which welcomed him in. Hal hugged him.

“I doubt if there is another man in all of Isle who could have done that!” he exclaimed proudly.

“Except present company,” Alan retorted wryly. “You walked in here as if you were going to market. What was it that frightened me so?"

A low chuckle sounded close by Alan's ear; he jumped. A gentle voice spoke rapidly in a language he did not understand. Hal nodded and turned to Alan. “He says he is sorry he startled you. He did not mean to."

“Tell him no harm,” Alan gasped politely. “But who, or what, is he?"

Hal sat down and leaned against the stone wall of the barrow. “They,” he corrected. “They are the spirits of the men buried here."

“Ghosts?” Alan asked weakly, sitting also.

“I dare say you could call them ghosts,” Hal answered doubtfully. “But most of what is said of ghosts is false. They do not clank chains, or rattle bones, or wander in the night, or in any way interfere with human affairs. Indeed, they are powerless to speak or move from their barrow unless someone calls on them for help, as I did."

Alan felt faint. “Are they all around us?” he asked uneasily.

“Ay. This ring of standing stones is their fortress. No mortal can enter it without withstanding the fear. The amount of fear depends in part on the amount of evil in his heart. I do not think the bounty hunters will disturb us again."

“You must be perfect in goodness, then, for you did not fear."

“Nay! I said ‘in part,'” Hal protested. “Fear also arises from that which is unknown. I understood, and you did not."

“In very truth,” Alan muttered, holding his head in bewilderment, “I never believed such things existed, and I always laughed at the tales the countryfolk told of them."

“You may continue to do so,” Hal smiled, “for they are mostly nonsense. Yet they remind us that there are great mysteries in earth and sky, dwellers far beyond our comprehension. But always, in the peasants’ tales, the denizens of Otherness come to work men woe. It is not so. Remember this, Alan, and you will walk beneath the dark of the moon like the Gypsies, without fear: no creature, neither flesh nor spirit, mortal nor immortal, will do you any reasonless harm, except one—and that is your fellow man."

They spent the night within the barrow ring, nestled against the lee side of the central mound. Alan felt warm and comfortable in spite of the cold, damp stone. He was full of wonder and questions. He learned that not all the dead became shades like those he had met; these spirits must have died in rage or hatred, Hal thought. Perhaps they had been warriors. But whether in life they had been good men or evil was of no concern. Their passing had purged them; good and evil had gone from them with their mortality, and they were now only bodiless reflections of the fears and loves of those who encountered them.

And they could be summoned, Alan knew. “What is the language that you speak to the spirits, Hal?” he asked. “Is it the same that you speak to the Gypsies?"

“Ay."

“And to Arundel?"

“Ay."

“Is it Welandais?"

“Nay —"

“What language is it, then? Where did you learn it?” Hal frowned helplessly. Even in the flickering light of their campfire, his discomfort was evident. Alan retracted the question. “Never mind."

“I would tell you if I could,” Hal said plaintively.

It was late before Alan finally settled into sleep, still marveling. He awoke to a foggy morning, and found Hal already speaking with their invisible hosts in his mysterious language.

“You know they see everything, and they travel with the speed of the wind,” he explained to Alan. “Though ordinarily they may not move from their resting place.... But last night I sent some of them scouting. Our friends the bounty hunters have quarreled among themselves, it seems, and are either dead or fleeing. And Corin and his father Col are camped a day or two farther to the east, near the sea."

“But Arundel cannot travel far or fast, with his wounded leg,” Alan grumbled.

“I know it. I shall be walking, for a while."

They ate some breakfast, rabbit and a few stunted sorb-apples. Then they loaded all the gear on Alfie. But as they prepared to leave, the low voice spoke. Hal stared somberly, but made no reply. He motioned Alan to help him remove some stones from the wall of the barrow.

When they had made an entrance, they crawled through, being very careful where they placed their hands and feet. The interior of the barrow was high enough to stand in. By the light which filtered through the open stonework, they could dimly see faded ruins of cloth, dusty bones and dull gleams of once bright metal: helms, swords and breastplates in odd, antique shapes. These were indeed warriors who lay here.

The low voice spoke again, beckoning, and they advanced to the center of the domed barrow, where there lay a still figure on a raised slab. By its ashy skull lay a crown, blackened with age. By its right band lay a naked sword. Even through the grime of ages, they could see that it was a glorious weapon, the hilt intricately set with jewels, the whole of it golden, large and heavy so that it would deal a mighty blow. The voice of the dead king spoke again, at length, and Hal went to the sword. He raised it and reverently kissed the massive hilt. He set it down, and spoke quietly to the disembodied listener. Then he and Alan turned and left. As they led their horses down the hill, the warmth of the barrow followed them, slowly fading away with the morning fog.

Hal waited until they were well away before he spoke. “That king wanted me to take his sword,” he said in a low voice.

“The golden sword!” Alan almost shouted. “But Hal, it is a marvelous weapon! Why did you not take it?"

“I have need of my own sword,” Hal muttered.

Alan groaned in disbelief. “Hal, you are incredibly difficult. The jewel-studded brand of a former monarch—was it not enough for you?"

“More than enough,” Hal retorted wryly. “He said that it was filled with the power of the Beginnings, that with it I would be invincible."

Alan stared. “The magical sword of the High Kings!” he breathed.

“Ay, it throbbed through my arms as I lifted it, and it throbs in me yet; I can scarcely walk for the ache of it. Alan, may I tell you a tale?"

They sat on the ground and let the horses graze. Hal did not seem to look at anything, not even at Alan, as he spoke.

“The king's name was Claryon, High King at Laueroc, and the mighty sword Hau Ferddas hung above his throne to enforce his will, and the writings of Cuin the Ancestor lay open in the council-chamber, and the weeping stone stood in the courtyard as a reminder that the Kings of Laueroc were honored vassals of the Very King who had gone beyond the sea. The water trickled down from the cracked stone and dripped from its golden pedestal to form a pool on the cobbles. The princes were Culean, Culadon and Cuert. When they were little, they would make boats from sticks and sail them in the tears of the Sorrowing Stone.

“Cuert grew to be a scholar, and Culadon to be a statesman, but the eldest, Culean, had no talent for bookish learning so he trained to be a warrior. He was not much honored as a warrior; there had been peace for half an Age, and it was thought that Hau Ferddas could keep peace forever.

“When the princes were grown, or nearly grown, Veran sailed into the Bay of the Blessed out of the west. Cuert, the youngest prince, knew him to be Very King as soon as he heard report of him, for Veran had brought with him a rayed silver crown. Culadon knew only that Veran had taken power in Welas, where the Kings of Isle held no sway. But Culean saw only a rival. And Claryon, the old king, found any change a threat.

“The real threat came from the east. Within the year Herne landed his warships, and old King Claryon took horse to meet him, proud in the invincibility of his legendary sword. A few hundred men followed him on the long forced marches across Isle. They met Herne in the midlands near the Black River. Hau Ferddas slew mightily, but Claryon's aging arms lost strength to hold the weapon. He staggered back before his foes, and only the coming of darkness saved him and the sword from capture. His remaining men carried him back toward Laueroc, and in a few days he died, though he had suffered no wound. His people met the invaders in confusion and despair, and yielded before them like grass.

“Herne's close companion was a sorcerer named Marrok, that is to say, the Werewolf. He had seen the battle, and had seen the sword Hau Ferddas, and coveted the blade for his master's sake, or his own, perhaps. With his secret arts he contrived a spell which would rob it of its mystic strength, for a time. The price was high; men lost their lives to the making of that spell. But Herne was well content.

“Veran had marched with five hundred men to Laueroc, for the danger which threatened Isle threatened Welas also. He bowed his elf-crowned head at old Claryon's funeral pyre. But Culean, the new High King, scorned his help, and set off hotly to rally his own people against the invaders. Culadon threw in his lot with Veran, and Cuert, barely fifteen years of age, stayed behind to steward Laueroc.

“Many brave men found their place at Culean's side, and for a time Herne was halted in his advance. Veran pressed him from the south and west, and Culean battered him from the north, and if only those two could have taken cause together, Herne might have been forced to yield. But they each fought separately from the other, not to best advantage. Then Marrok's spell took effect, and Culean fought with only manly might. And, as evil chance would have it, Culadon was slain by Veran's side. Then many followers fell away from the defenders of Isle, and Herne's armies moved again.

“Veran made his stand between the mountains of Welas and the Gleaming River, where the border runs to this day. All of Welas rallied to him, and he was able to bring Herne to terms for his own land's sake.” Hal turned to Alan, seeming conscious of his listener for the first time. “Cuert went with him and through him you are of that line, Alan; Deona wife of Alf was his granddaughter."

“I?” Alan murmured.

“You are of that royal blood. The king, High King Culean, was hounded through the north of Isle as the power of his sword waxed and waned with the power of Marrok's spell, until he could plainly see that Herne held all of Isle and wished only to hold Hau Ferddas as well. Then Culean and his few loyal liegemen devised a plan to keep the sword from Herne's hand, and I dare say to preserve their own pride—for they could have thrown the weapon into the sea. Instead they stood on a rise of the stony Waste, and they cursed fate with their deepest curses, and they died by their own hands. Their companions who had chosen not to follow them built the barrow over them, then departed. And there the sword has stayed to this day, for their sleepless shades protect it, as they knew they would."

The two sat silently for a while as the grim tale echoed down the passages of their minds. “Did—Culean—tell you this?” Alan asked finally.

“Nay."

“Who, then, Hal? The Gypsies?"

“No one, Alan.” Hal spoke with a kind of desperation. “It is the—vision—I have seen, of how the sword is a shadowed thing."

So he is a seer, as well as a warlock, Alan thought. He accepted the fact almost casually; the recent events and Hal's revelations had shaken him beyond astonishment.

“If I could,” Hal said softly, “I would take that bright blade and hurl it into the sea. But once it was in my hand, I think I would not have the strength to give it up. It is a seducer, Alan. But it is yours by right of lineage, more than it is mine."

“It was not offered to me,” Alan shrugged. “Come, let us find your own sword, that Trigg gave you."

“He was like a father to me, for a little while....” Hal looked away, remembering the love in the eyes of the good-hearted fellow as he presented the gift. “Ay, let us be going."

They rose, and Hal took a few weary, painful steps. Suddenly he dropped to the earth again, striking the stones with his fist. “Confound it, Alan! Why was this offered to me? Was it a trap which I rightly spurned? Or was it a key which I have thrown away? If a test, then why? If not, then I have made the wrong choice!"

Alan smiled wryly. “Trust yourself, Hal, even as I must. Do not things always seem to come to rights for you?"

“You think I should have taken it,” Hal muttered.

“I would have taken it, ay, and probably got myself killed because of it. But you are not I, praise be. Perhaps you do not need such a sword."

“Do not mock me, Alan,” said Hal tiredly.

“After all I have seen?” Alan faced him squarely. “Do I mock you, brother?"

Hal met his eyes with growing wonder. “I wish I thought as well of myself,” he said at last.