7 7 THE WINTER WAS fierce in the Caledones, snowdrifts blocking trails, ice forcing its way into the cracks in the wooden walls of the cabin. The surrounding trees, stripped of their leaves, stood bare and skeletal, while the wind howled outside the sealed windows.
Cormac lay in the narrow bed with Anduine snuggled beside him and knew contentment. The door rattled in its frame, and the fire blazed brightly, dancing shadows flickering on the far wall. Cormac rolled over, his hand sliding gently over Anduine’s rounded hip, and she lifted her head and kissed his chest.
Suddenly she froze.
“What is it?” he asked.
“There is someone on the mountain,” she whispered. “Someone in danger.”
“Did you hear something?”
“I can feel their fear.”
“Their?”
“Two people, a man and a woman. The way is blocked. You must go to them, Cormac, or they will die.”
He sat up and shivered. Even here in this bright, warm room, cold drafts hinted at the horror outside. “Where are they?”
“Beyond the stand of pine, across the pass. They are on the ridge leading to the sea.”
“They are not our concern,” he said, knowing his argument would be useless. “And I might die out there myself.”
“You are strong, and you know the land. Please help them!”
He rose from the bed and dressed in a heavy woolen shirt, leather leggings, a sheepskin jerkin, and boots. The jerkin had a hood lined with wool that he drew over his red hair, tying it tightly under his chin.
“This is a heavy price to pay for your love, lady,” he said.
“Is it?” she asked, sitting up, her long dark hair falling across her shoulders.
“No,” he admitted. “Keep the fire going. I will try to be back by dawn.”
He looked at his sword lying beside the hearth and considered carrying it with him, but it would only have encumbered him. Instead he slipped a long-bladed hunting knife behind his belt and stepped out into the blizzard, dragging the door shut with difficulty.
Since Culain’s departure three months before Cormac had stuck to his training, increasing the length of his runs, working with ax and saw to build his muscles, and preparing the winter store of wood, which now stood six feet high and ran the length of the cabin, aiding the insulation on the north wall. His body was lean and powerful, his shoulders wide, his hips narrow. He set off toward the mountain peaks at an easy walk, using a six-foot quarter-staff to test the snow beneath his feet. To hurry would mean to sweat; in these temperatures the sweat would form as ice on the skin beneath his clothes and would kill him as swiftly as if he were naked. The straighter paths on the north side were blocked with drifts, and Cormac was forced to find a more circuitous route to the pine, edging his way south through the woods, across frozen streams and ponds. Huge gray wolves prowled the mountains but kept clear of the man as he made his slow, steady progress.
For two hours he pushed on, stopping to rest often, saving his strength, until at last he cleared the pine and began the long dangerous traverse of the ridge above the pass. There the trail was only five feet wide, snow covering ice on the slanted path. One wrong or careless step and he would plummet over the edge, smashing himself on the rocks below. He halted in a shallow depression sheltered from the wind and rubbed at the skin of his face, forcing the blood to flow. His cheeks and chin were covered by a fine red-brown down that would soon be a beard, but his nose and eyes felt pinched and tight in the icy wind.
The blizzard raged about him, and vision was restricted to no more than a few feet. His chances of finding the strangers were shrinking by the second. Cursing loudly, he stepped out into the wind and continued his progress along the ridge.
Anduine’s voice came to him, whispering deep in his mind: “A little farther, to the left, there is a shallow cave. They are there.”
He had long grown used to her powers. Ever since he had given her—albeit briefly—the gift of sight, her mystic talents had increased. She had begun to dream in vivid pictures of glorious color, and often he would allow her the use of his eyes to see some strange new wonder: swans in flight, a racing stag, a hunting wolf, a sky torn by storms.
Moving on, he found the cave and saw a man huddled by the far wall, a young woman kneeling by him. The man saw him first and pointed; the woman swung, raising a knife.
“Put it away,” said Cormac, walking in and looking down at the man. He was sitting with his back to the wall and his right leg thrust out in front of him, the boot bent at an impossible angle. Cormac glanced around. The shelter was inadequate; there was no wood for a fire, and even if he could light one, the wind would lash it to cinders.
“We must move,” he said.
“I cannot walk,” replied the man, his words slurred. There was ice in his dark beard, and his skin was patchy and blue in places. Cormac nodded.
Reaching down, he took the man’s hand and pulled him upright; then he ducked his head to let the body fall across his shoulders and heaved him up.
Cormac grunted at the weight and slowly turned. “Follow me,” he told the girl.
“He will die out there,” she protested.
“He will die in here,” answered Cormac.
He struggled to the ridge and began the long trek home, his burden almost more than he could bear, the muscles of his neck straining under the weight of the injured man. But the blizzard began to ease, and the temperature lifted slightly. After an hour Cormac began to sweat heavily, and his fear rose. He could feel the ice forming and the dreadful lethargy beginning. Sucking in a deep breath, he called to the young woman.
“Move alongside me.” She did so. “Now, talk.”
“I’m too tired … too cold.”
“Talk, curse your eyes! Where are you from?” He staggered on.
“We were in Pinnata Castra, but we had to leave. My father broke his leg in a fall. We … we …” She stumbled.
“Get up, damn you! You want me to die?”
“You bastard!”
“Keep talking. What is your name?”
“Rhiannon.”
“Look at your father. Is he alive?” Cormac hoped he was not. He longed to let the burden fall; his legs were burning, his back a growing agony.
“I’m alive,” the man whispered.
Cursing him savagely, Cormac pushed on. They reached the pine after two torturous hours and then began the long climb downhill to the woods. The blizzard found fresh strength, and the snow swirled about them, but once they were in the trees the wind dropped.
Cormac reached the cabin just as dawn was lightening the sky. He dropped his burden to the cot bed, which creaked under his weight.
“The girl,” said Anduine. “She is not with you.”
Cormac was too weary to curse as he stumbled from the cabin and back into the storm. He found Rhiannon crawling across a snowdrift and heading away from the cabin. She struggled weakly as he lifted her, then her head sagged on his shoulder.
In the cabin he laid her before the fire, rubbing warmth into her arms and face.
“Strip her clothes away,” ordered Anduine, but Cormac’s cold fingers fumbled with the leather ties, and she came to his aid. He removed his own clothes and sat by the fire, wrapped in a warm blanket, staring into the flames.
“Move away,” Anduine said. “Let the heat reach her.” Cormac turned and saw the naked girl. She was blond and slim, with an oval face and a jaw that was too strong to be feminine. “Help me,” asked Anduine, and together they moved her nearer to the fire. Anduine pulled the warm blanket from Cormac’s shoulders and laid it over Rhiannon. “Now let us see to the father.”
“You don’t mind if I dress first?”
Anduine smiled. “You were very brave, my love. I am so proud of you.”
“Tell me in the morning.”
Stepping to the bed, Anduine pulled the blanket clear of the injured leg, which was swollen and purple below the knee. When Cormac was clothed once more, she bade him twist the limb back into place. The injured man groaned but did not wake. While Cormac held it, Anduine placed her hands on either side of the break, her face set in deep concentration. After some minutes, she began to tremble and her head sagged forward. Cormac released his hold on the man’s leg and moved around to her, helping her to her feet.
“The break was jagged and splintered,” she said. “It was very hard forcing it to knit. I think it is healing now, but you will need to cut some splints to support it.”
“You look exhausted. Go back to bed; I’ll tend to them.”
She grinned. “And you, I take it, are back to the peak of your strength?”
“Assassins!” screamed the girl on the floor by the fire, sitting bolt upright. Slowly her eyes focused, and she burst into tears. Anduine knelt beside her, holding her close and stroking her hair.
“You are safe here, I promise you.”
“No one is safe,” she said. “No one!”
The wind howled outside the door, causing it to rattle against the leather hinges.
“They will find us,” whispered Rhiannon, her voice rising.
Anduine’s hand floated over the girl’s face, settling softly on her brow. “Sleep,” she murmured, and Rhiannon sank back to the floor.
“Who is hunting them?” asked Cormac.
“Her thoughts were jumbled. I saw men in dark tunics with long knives; her father killed two of them, and they escaped into the wilderness. We will talk to her when she wakes.”
“We should not have brought them here.”
“We had to. They needed help.”
“Maybe they did. But you are my concern, not them.”
“If you felt like that, why did you not drop your burden on the high mountain when you thought you were going to die?”
Cormac shrugged. “I cannot answer that. But believe me, if I thought they were a danger to you, I would have slit both their throats without hesitation.”
“I know,” she said sadly. “It is a side of you I try not to think about.” She returned to her bed and said nothing more about the strangers.
Cormac sat by the fire, suddenly saddened and heavy of heart. The arrival of the father and daughter had cast a shadow over the mountain. The ugliness of a world of violence had returned, and with it the fear that Anduine would be taken from him.
Taking up his sword, he began to hone the edge with long sweeping strokes of his whetstone.
* * *
Anduine slept later than usual, and Cormac did not wake her as he eased from the bed. The fire had sunk to glowing ashes, and he added tinder until the flames leapt. Larger sticks were fed to the blaze, and the warmth crept across the room. Cormac knelt beside the blond-haired girl; her color was good, her breathing even. Her father was snoring softly, and Cormac moved to the bedside and stared down at the man’s face. It was strong and made almost square by the dark beard, which glistened as if oiled. The nose was flat and had been twisted by some savage break in the past, and there were scars around the eyes and on the brow. Glancing down at the man’s right arm, which lay outside the blankets, he saw that it, too, was crisscrossed with scars.
The snoring ceased, and the man’s eyes opened. There was no sign of drowsiness in the gaze that fastened on the young man.
“How are you feeling?” Cormac asked.
“Alive,” answered the man, pushing his powerful arms against the bed and sitting up. He threw back the covers and looked down at his leg, around which Cormac had fashioned a rough splint.
“You must be a skilled surgeon. I feel no pain. It is as if it were not broken at all.”
“Do not trust it overmuch,” said Cormac. “I will cut you a staff.”
The man swung his head, staring down at his daughter by the fireside. Satisfied that she was sleeping, he seemed to relax and smiled, showing broken front teeth.
“We are grateful to you, she and I.” He pulled the blankets over his naked body. “Now I will sleep again.”
“Who was hunting you?”
“That is none of your concern,” was the soft reply, the words eased by an awkward smile.
Cormac shrugged and moved away. He dressed swiftly in woolen tunic, leggings, and sheepskin boots, then stepped out into the open. Icicles dripped from the overhanging roof, and the slate-gray sky was breaking up, showing banners of blue. For an hour he worked with the ax, splitting wood for the store. Then he returned as the smell of frying bacon filled the air.
The man was dressed and sitting at the table, the girl beside him wrapped in a blanket. Anduine was delicately slicing the meat, her blindness obvious. Her head was tilted, her eyes seeming to stare at the far wall.
She smiled as Cormac entered. “Is it a beautiful day?”
“It will be,” he said, sensing the change in the atmosphere. The man was deep in thought, his face set and his eyes fixed on Anduine.
Cormac joined them at the table, and they broke their fast in silence.
“What are your plans now, Oleg Hammerhand?” Anduine asked as the meal was finished.
“How is it, lady, that you know my name?”
“How is it that you know mine?” she countered.
Oleg leaned back in the chair. “All across the world men seek news of the Lady Anduine, the Life Giver. Some say Wotan took her, others that she died. I met a man who was close by when her father was slain. He said that a man dressed as a monk yet wielding two swords cut his way through the assassins and rescued the princess. Was that man you?” he asked, switching his gaze to Cormac.
“No. Would that it were!”
Oleg swung back to face Anduine. “Wotan has offered a thousand gold pieces for news of your whereabouts. Can you imagine? A thousand pieces! And there has been not a word. Not a sign.”
“Until now,” said Anduine.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But we will not betray you, lady—not for ten times ten times that amount.”
“I know. It is not in your nature, Oleg.” Anduine leaned toward the girl and reached out, but the girl shrank back. “Take my hand, Rhiannon.”
“No,” whispered the girl.
“Do it, girl,” ordered Oleg.
“She is a demon!”
“Nonsense!” Oleg roared.
Anduine leaned back, withdrawing her hand. “It is all right; we all have our fears. How close behind were the hunters?”
“We lost them in the mountains,” said Oleg, “but they will not give up the search.”
“They want Rhiannon,” said Anduine. “For she, too, has a talent.”
“How did you know?” Oleg asked, his eyes fearful.
“She called me from the mountains; that is why Cormac came.”
“I am sorry we have caused you trouble. We will leave as soon as my leg is mended.”
“You think to escape Wotan?”
“I do not know, lady. All my life I have been a warrior, a wolf of the sea. I fear no man. And yet … this Wotan is not a man. His followers are crazed. They adore him, and those who are less than adoring are rooted out and slain. A kind of madness has infected the people of the Northlands. The god is returned. The grim, gray god walks among men. Can I escape him? I fear that I cannot.”
“Have you seen this Wotan?” asked Cormac.
“Indeed I have. I served him for three years. He is strong, which is all we ever asked in a leader. But he is more than this. He has power in his voice and in his eyes. I have seen men cut their own throats on his order … and do it gladly for the honor of pleasing him. He is like strong wine; to listen to him is to be filled with a sense of glory.”
“You sound like a worshiper still,” whispered Anduine.
“I am, lady. But I am a man also, and a father. The brides of Wotan die. My Rhiannon is not for him.”
“How did you escape?” Cormac asked.
“I was told to deliver Rhiannon to his castle in Raetia. I said that I would, but instead we boarded a merchant trireme bound for Hispania. Strong winds and fear of the following storm made the captain seek shelter near Pinnata Castra, but the storm winds were Wotan’s and his assassins attacked us outside the castle. I killed two, and we fled into the blizzard.”
“How many hunters are there?” Cormac wanted to know.
“Only five attacked us, but there will be more. And he has other forces to do his bidding, though I will not speak of them before the Lady Anduine.”
“Do not fear for me, Oleg. I am aware of the demons; they have attacked me also.”
“How, then, did you survive?”
“Through the courage of others. Cormac saved my life, as did the monk you heard of.”
“Then the demons are not invincible?”
“Nothing is invincible. There is no evil that cannot be conquered, not even Wotan.”
“I would like—dearly like—to believe that. But he is now the king across the water, and all the nations pay him homage. Even Rome sends gifts with ambassadors who bow and scrape.”
“Uther does not bow and scrape,” said Cormac. “Wotan has yet to face the Blood King.”
“That I know. It is the whisper of the world, Cormac. In every tavern men wonder at the outcome. It is said that Uther has a magic sword, a gift from a god, that once it parted the sky like a tearing curtain and men saw two suns blazing in the heavens. I would like to see the day he and Wotan face each other.”
“And I,” agreed Cormac. “Blood King and Blood God.”
Rhiannon tensed, her head jerking upright and her hands covering her face.
“What is it?” asked Oleg, his huge arm circling her shoulder.
“The hunters have found us,” she whispered.
In the silence that followed Cormac could feel his heart beating hard inside his chest. His fear rose as bile in his throat, and he felt his hands trembling. All his life he had been subject to the whims of others, lashed and beaten, allowed no opportunity to stand tall and learn the virtues of pride; he had had no time to absorb the strength-giving qualities of defiance. With Culain his anger had carried him on, but now, as the enemy approached, he felt a terrible sense of despair crawling on his skin, bearing him down.
Anduine came around to stand beside him, her soft hand touching the skin of his neck, her fingers easing the knot of tension in his shoulders. Her voice whispered inside his mind.
“I love you, Cormac.” The depth of her emotion warmed him like a winter fire, the ice of his panic fleeing from it.
“How many are there?” he asked aloud.
“Three,” whispered Rhiannon.
“How close?”
“They are on the hillside to the south, approaching the cabin,” the girl answered.
“And I have no sword!” thundered Oleg, crashing his fist to the table.
“I have,” Cormac said softly. Standing, he took Anduine’s hand and kissed the palm, then walked to the hearth, where the sword of Culain stood by the far wall.
“I’ll come with you,” Oleg said, gathering a carving knife from the table and pushing himself to his feet.
“No,” said Cormac. “Wait—and deal with any left alive.”
“You cannot defeat three men.”
Cormac ignored him and walked into the cold sunlight. He moved swiftly to the chopping ring, laid his sword beside it, and took up the ax. The six-pound blade hammered into a chunk of wood, splitting it neatly; he lifted another piece and carried on working. After several minutes he heard the hunters moving across the yard and turned. As Rhiannon had said, there were three men, tall and bearded, their hair braided beneath bronze helms. Each wore a sheepskin cloak, and the man in the lead carried a round wooden shield edged with bronze and a longsword.
“Are you seeking shelter?” asked Cormac, sinking the ax blade into the ring.
“Are you alone?” responded the leader, his voice guttural, his eyes as cold as the snow around him.
“You are waylanders,” said Cormac. “Are you lost?”
Two of the men moved toward the cabin, and Cormac lifted his sword from the ground, brushing snow from the blade. “Shelter will cost you coin,” he called, and they stopped and looked to the warrior with the shield.
“Good sword,” he said. “Very good.” He turned to the others and spoke in a language Cormac had never heard. The men chuckled. “I like the sword,” he said, turning back to Cormac.
“You have a good eye. Now, are you going to pay for shelter or move on?”
“You think I would pay to enter that cattle shed?”
“You don’t enter if you don’t pay.”
“Do not make me angry, boy. I am cold and have walked far. You have a woman in there?”
“She’ll cost extra.”
The warrior grinned. “Is everything for sale in this cursed country?”
“Yes,” said Cormac.
“Well, I don’t want a woman. I want hot food and information.”
“The nearest settlement is Deicester. You should head back down the hill and then east along the deer trails. You could be there by dawn tomorrow. Other than that, there is Pinnata Castra.”
“We are looking for a man and a girl, and for that we will pay coin.”
“Why are you looking here? There is no one else on the mountain but me and my wife.”
“In that case you are of no use to me.” As he turned to his comrades and spoke softly, Anduine’s voice whispered inside Cormac’s mind.
“He is telling his men to kill you.”
Cormac took a deep breath and walked forward, smiling. “There is one place you might care to search,” he said, and the three men relaxed as he approached.
“In hell,” he answered, still smiling.
Suddenly Cormac’s sword swept up to slash through the neck of the nearest man, and blood fountained into the air. The second tried desperately to drag his sword clear, but Cormac reversed the blade, sending it double-handed through the man’s collarbone and deep into his chest. The leader leapt back, hurling his shield aside and taking a double-handed grip on his longsword.
Cormac launched a swift attack, but the Viking blocked it with ease and a vicious riposte nicked the skin of the youth’s throat.
“The sword is only as good as the man who wields it,” said the warrior as the two men circled.
Cormac attacked once more, slashing wildly, but the Viking blocked and countered, this time ripping through the buckskin tunic and slicing the skin of Cormac’s chest. Cormac stepped back, swallowing his anger, forcing it down, and clearing his mind. The Viking was skilled, battle-hardened, and confident. He watched Cormac back away, smiled grimly, and then with dazzling speed attacked, the sword whistling for the youth’s skull. Cormac blocked the cut, swiveled on his heel, and rammed his elbow into the man’s head, spinning him to the ground. Then he ran in for the killer blow but slipped on the ice.
The Viking rolled to his feet. “A good trick. I shall remember it.” Blood was seeping from a gash on his cheek.
The two warriors circled. Three times the Viking attacked, but each time Cormac countered swiftly. Then Cormac lunged, but the Viking’s sword flashed down to block and then twisted as he rolled his wrists. Cormac’s blade spun from his grasp.
“Another good trick,” said the Viking, advancing on the defenseless youth. “But you will not live to remember it!”
Diving to his left, Cormac rolled and came to his feet against the chopping ring. Tearing the ax loose, he faced the Viking once more. The man grinned and backed away to where Cormac’s sword lay in the snow. Stooping, he lifted it, feeling the balance. Sheathing his own sword, the warrior faced Cormac.
“To be killed by your own blade … not a good way to die. The gods will mock you for eternity.”
Cormac’s eyes narrowed, his rage returning, but he quelled it savagely. Hefting the ax, he launched a murderous swing, and the Viking leapt back. But halfway into the swing Cormac released the haft, and the ax flew from his hands, the six-pound head smashing into the Viking’s face. The man stumbled back, dropping the sword, whereupon Cormac jumped forward, swept up the blade, and hammered it into the Viking’s chest. The man died without a sound. Dragging the sword clear, Cormac wiped it clean of blood and returned to the cabin.
“That was well done,” said Oleg. “But you need to work on your grip; you held the sword too tightly.”
Cormac smiled. “Next time I’ll remember.”
“Next time it will not be so difficult, lad.”
“How so?”
“Next time the Hammerhand will be beside you. And then you will learn something.”