Forging the Runes Page 18

  Overwhelmed, Ardagh threw back his head with a wild shout, almost drunk with the fierce joy of it, the joy of at last—after how long, how long?—feeling true magic blazing within and without. He cried out defiance in the Sidhe tongue, defiance and magic and pure, inhuman mockery, and hurled a savage flame of Power at the Sending.

  And hit the mark. Whatever Osmod had sent flinched away as though seared by white-hot flame, screamed like the wind and, like the wind, was gone.

  Dazed, nearly bewildered by the threefold Power still surging in the circle, Ardagh staggered and almost fell. Cadwal, wild-eyed, reached out a tentative hand, but the prince shook his head, gasping, "I'm all right."

  "You sure? Good." The mercenary whirled at a distant shout. "Because," he added laconically, "we've got real trouble now. They've caught up with us."

  "So that's why the Sending was so weak!"

  "Weak! What—"

  "Osmod knew he couldn't slay us. No, no, delay us was his plan, delay us just long enough—damn him!"

  Neither the king nor Osmod were with this group; Osmod would have been too weary, and Egbert . . . it was all too plain why Egbert had sent the hunters on without him.

  Cadwal saw it, too. "They mean to kill us. Without staining royal hands with inconvenient blood."

  And they weren't going to waste time or energy about it. Ardagh saw spears raised, knew there wasn't a chance of escape.

  But I will not die, he thought, still half-maddened by the magic crackling all around him, I will not die, no, not with all this Power still alive, even if the humans, stupid, stupid things, can't sense a thing, all this Power and this will to live—

  And Cadwal saying something about Cymru and coming all this way just to die—

  —and Osmod to be repaid—

  And Cadwal saying something else about at least he'd see his Gwen again—

  —and we aren't going to die, not like this! We will not die!

  Even as the spears cut the air, Power surged up in a blaze of intolerable wildfire. Ardagh heard himself scream in shock and rage and pure, fierce determination to survive, even as he felt reality tearing itself to shreds about him. He snatched blindly, convulsively at Cadwal—

  And then there wasn't anything at all.

  "That's impossible!" King Egbert shouted. "Men do not simply—disappear! Don't tell me these ridiculous stories not even a child would believe. If you lost them, be honest enough to admit it!"

  Miserably, the men repeated their story. Yes, they had found Prince Ardagh and his man trapped on foot in the middle of nowhere. Yes, they had cast spears at the two. And yes, somehow, no one could say exactly how, the prince and the warrior had disappeared in one great, fierce rush of wind.

  "Sorcery," someone murmured, and hands moved in furtive signs against evil. "Demons."

  "Idiots!" Egbert roared. "Come, we shall see this oh-so-miraculous site for ourselves!"

  He urged his horse into a swift, ground-eating trot, and the others hurried after. As they rode off, Osmod moved beside Egbert, doing his best to keep up the facade of outraged defender-of-the-king. Not so easy, since he was fighting an inner battle with wave after wave of horror. The truth was so plain, if you had the knowledge to understand it. Of course the prince and his man had disappeared. It really had been sorcery, though he doubted anything as drastic as demons had been involved. Sorcery, yes—but sorcery more powerful and alien than anything he'd ever wielded.

  "There it is, King Egbert," one of the men was saying nervously. "That's the very spot. See? Those are our spears still sticking in the ground."

  Egbert, much to Osmod's dismay and ignoring the storm of terrified protest from the others, dismounted and stalked the area on foot. "Nothing," the king said at last. "No place they could have hidden, no way they could have escaped . . . nothing."

  "Men," Osmod reminded him delicately, "do not simply disappear. But we don't need anything as dramatic as sorcery, either."

  "No?" Egbert crooked up a wry eyebrow, a world of skepticism in his eyes.

  So, now, Osmod thought. The king doesn't want to believe in anything as indifferent to royal power as Power. Good, Egbert, very good. You make my work so much easier.

  "No," the ealdorman echoed. "Remember that Prince Ardagh claims to be from Cathay. We have no reason to doubt him. About that, at any rate."

  "Meaning?" Egbert asked.

  "Meaning, my liege, that of course it wasn't sorcery! The prince must have had some small Cathayan charm for—for bewildering the eye."

  "But . . . we saw . . ." one of the men began hesitantly.

  "What you saw, all of you," Osmod said with a carefully casual smile, "was nothing more than a trick, a clever trick. We've all heard stories of the false wonders Eastern conjurers can work."

  "A trick," Egbert said flatly, showing not the slightest sign of belief or disbelief. "So be it. As for what the man intended . . ." He studied Osmod thoughtfully. "We shall discuss that matter. Later."

  So be it, Osmod repeated silently. And wasn't this a ridiculous thing, having to defend Prince Ardagh from charges of sorcery?

  But he didn't dare let that perilous subject be considered even briefly.

  Ah no. Lords of Darkness, no. Worse, far worse, than alien magics was this sudden realization: Now Prince Ardagh had nothing to lose. Now he had no need to keep secret either his own Power—or that of Osmod.

  Maybe he won't care. He's escaped, after all.

  No. With all that princely pride and arrogance, the man was not going to be the sort to forget an enemy, or the wrongs done to his honor by that enemy.

  I must find him. No matter how I do it or what it requires, I must find him. And silence him, theatrical thought or no, forever.

  A Game of Fox and Hounds

  Chapter 19

  Ardagh groaned. Powers . . . he ached in every bit of him, mind and body together. And this bed was ridiculously cold and hard, and there didn't seem to be . . .

  A bed at all. Frowning slightly as consciousness began to slide back into him, the prince opened his eyes a crack to find himself lying facedown on bare ground, his fingers dug into the soil as though he'd been trying to take root. Astonished, he pushed himself halfway up, only to sink back down with a second groan. Moving swiftly was not a wise idea.

  "You all right?"

  That was a familiar voice . . . ah yes. Cadwal. Ardagh turned over onto one side very, very carefully, realizing only now that he was wrapped not only in his own brat but in that of the mercenary as well. Kind of Cadwal, keeping him warm.

  Warm? From what? It had been full day—it was still full day. The prince managed to roll all the way over onto his back, staring up at green: leaves far overhead, dappled with sunlight. Trees? Forest? Where . . . ?

  "Are you all right?" Cadwal asked again, worry and urgency in his voice.

  "I . . ." Ardagh swallowed dryly, tried again. "I think so." He sat up warily. The air smelled and felt different, more richly green-scented than before, less civilized. "How long was I . . . ah . . ." in trance? asleep? Ardagh gave up trying to find the right word and finished awkwardly, "Not conscious?"

  "You were asleep—at least I think it was sleep—for pretty much a day. Didn't so much as stir for the whole time, and I have to admit I kept checking to make sure you really were still breathing. You sure you're all right?"

  "Give me a moment." He had, then, had that long-overdue collapse, close to a genuine magical backlash in intensity. But apparently, judging from the restored way he felt, he'd spent the time unconscious instinctively drawing Power from the earth back into his exhausted self. Clever me. A pity I don't remember any of it.

  But all of him finally seemed to agree on being awake and aware. "Yes," Ardagh said belatedly. "I'm all right."

  "Good! Then—what the hell happened? And where the hell are we?"

  Ardagh took another deep breath of the foresty air, looking about at ancient trees growing thick together, a wilderness that plainly hadn't been touched by hum
ans for a long while. Yes, and he and Cadwal were inside an even more ancient circle—

  A circle made not of long-rotted wood but of badly weathered stones like so many worn grey fangs. Ardagh stared at them in wild wonder.

  "Good questions, Cadwal," he murmured. "I wish I had an answer."

  "But you put us here!"

  "I . . . did, didn't I? A shame that I don't know how."

  "What do you mean?"

  "All that Power . . . the spears coming at us . . . I was past the point of clear thought by then."

  "Iesu, yes. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought you were drunk."

  "I was. In a way." Ardagh brushed tangled hair back out of his eyes with a hand. "I really don't know what I did, not specifically. There was Power from the circle, from the forest, from me. . . ." He paused, considering. "The only possibility is that, in all that confusion, I somehow opened a primitive form of Gateway."

  A Gateway! For an instant Ardagh froze: Powers, the implication of what he'd just said so casually—

  No. He knew with sudden bleak Sidhe honesty that whatever he'd done had never been strong enough to cross Realms.

  "A Gateway," he continued, his voice not quite steady, "that threw us from one circle to another. Yes, before you ask, both circles are very firmly in the same human Realm."

  Relief flashed across Cadwal's face, but he said only, "Thought so. Hoped so, anyhow. In fact, I could almost have sworn at first, from the . . . the feel of things, that we had landed in . . ."

  His voice trailed off. "Go on," Ardagh prodded.

  "Nothing."

  He clearly wasn't going to continue. After an awkward moment of silence, the prince said, "At any rate, both circles, wood and stone, were presumably built by the same or at least by closely related peoples. Otherwise, we would never have been transferred so neatly."

  The human blinked. "How casually you say that!"

  "Ae, Cadwal, believe me, there was nothing casual about it! Working with so many different strands of Power, improvising so wildly—by rights I should have torn my mind—or us—apart."

  "Dewi sant! I'm glad I didn't know that at the time."

  Ardagh shrugged, deliberately casual. "Obviously I didn't damage me or us. But as to where, or even when we landed—I'm afraid that I haven't the vaguest idea."

  Cadwal shook his head wryly. "Just when I start forgetting who you are—really are, I mean—I get this sort of reminder."

  "Eh?"

  "No human could ever be so—so damned calm about magic."

  Ardagh looked at him blankly. "What good would panic do?"

  "See what I mean?"

  "Cadwal, we're alive and unharmed and safely away from our foes. . . ." Osmod. "For the moment," the prince added darkly.

  Cadwal caught that change in tone. "You mean to go back."

  "Indeed. Once was foul enough; I will not let my name be blackened a second time. Most certainly not by a lying, treacherous . . ." He censored himself just in time.

  "Human," the mercenary finished without expression. "Before you start planning any revenges, let's see about surviving here and now, shall we?"

  Ardagh gave a sharp little laugh. "Excellent idea." He got warily to his feet, testing. Yes, his head was clear, his body under his control, though he was all at once hungry enough to eat wood. "The ones I don't envy right now are our men."

  "The ones stuck back in Wessex." Cadwal paused an instant, then shook his head. "Och, well, we can't help them. Hopefully, they'll find their own way out of trouble."

  "Indeed." Unwrapping the mercenary's brat from about himself, the prince tossed it back to him. "Thank you for the loan."

  Cadwal caught the length of wool deftly in midair. "Think I wanted to see you freeze in the night? And be left alone in the middle of nowhere?"

  Ardagh hesitated, puzzled, trying to imagine a human's point of view. "It couldn't have been easy for you," he hazarded, "not knowing what had happened to me, not knowing where we were."

  Cadwal only shrugged. "Couldn't help it. Can't be as calm as one of your folk, but I try not to worry about what I can't help."

  "Wise man." Ardagh glanced about at forest and forest, and felt a sudden wild shudder shake him. "I seem to be repeating myself. Being falsely accused of a crime, I mean, then thrown all unprepared into a strange land. Ae-yi, at least this time I'm not alone."

  "And the season's spring. Shouldn't be difficult to live off the land for . . . however long it takes."

  Ardagh raised a brow at this complete self-confidence. "It was spring back then, too, when I first arrived. I didn't find living off the land so easy!"

  He'd obviously sparked some unpleasant memory. Cadwal glared. "Of course not! You're a prince."

  "Yes, but—"

  "You think a mercenary's life's all nice and comfortable and under a roof? Hell no, there were long stretches back before we was lucky enough to get into Aedh's employ when my men and I were hardly living any better than a pack of wolves. Believe me, I know the value of everything down to the smallest grub."

  "I . . . see." It was delicately noncommittal.

  "Ah well," Cadwal muttered, almost in apology, "you are a prince, aren't you? Can't expect royalty to have any wilderness training."

  "Very true." Chastened, the prince asked, "I . . . don't suppose there's anything to eat?"

  "Here. Figured you'd be hungry after sleeping so long." Cadwal unwrapped a packet of leaves—not grubs, the prince thought wildly, oh, surely not grubs—and handed Ardagh a good-sized, thoroughly well-cooked lump of meat. As the prince took it gingerly, the mercenary explained, "A rabbit blundered on us last night. I'm still pretty good with a sling."

  Ah, rabbit! Relieved, Ardagh bit into the meat. It was tough and decidedly chewy and could have used seasoning, but it was food. "You didn't have a sling," he managed between mouthfuls.

  "Want to bet?" Cadwal grinned. "Easy enough to make one out of any handy strip of leather."

  "And the fire? Of course. You made it by rubbing sticks together."

  "Hell, no! I'm not that primitive. Always carry flint and all that in my belt-pouch. Look you, we're not as unprepared as you seem to think. We're both dressed in good, solid hunting clothing, and neither of us is afraid of a bit of walking."

  There was an unvoiced question at the end of that. "No," Ardagh agreed.

  "Good. We've got two swords and knives between us, several useful bits of cloth and leather, the means for making fire and finding shelter, plenty of food if you're not too fussy about what's edible—we'll survive."

  The bare edge taken off his hunger, Ardagh rubbed his hands together to clean them as best he could. "Right now, I don't think I'd be fussy at all about what's edible."

  "Not a problem. We'll forage as we go along."

  "Assuming we can figure out where we are and where we want to be." The prince glanced about. "That oak looks like a good, sturdy tree, and it's taller than its neighbors. Let me see if there's anything out there worth finding."

  "Right. You may be the taller of us, but with that lean build of yours, I suspect you're the lighter."

  Glad to be doing something useful, Ardagh caught a convenient branch and scrambled up and up, peering through leaves.

  Mm. Forest and more forest all the way to the mountains looming on the horizon, though he suspected that rough ground hid beneath the canopy of leaves. Wait, though . . . a hint of smoke, there to the west . . . too narrow and regular to be wildfire. He came hurrying back to the ground. "That way. There's an estate of some sort, maybe . . . two days of walking away."

  Cadwal snorted. "Make that two days to a week."

  "Two days."

  "Och, well, whatever. The time's not going to get shorter for the waiting."

  "And now who's being calm about the whole thing? Who's so beautifully under self-control?"

  "You think so?" Cadwal glanced back over his shoulder with a grin. "Unlike some I could name, I am human, and we humans do have our fears of the unk
nown. Particularly after we've been dumped from one place to another without so much as a warning."

  "Ah."

  "Let's just say it was one long and lonely night, and leave it at that."

  The tiny garden was barely more than a small, quiet pool surrounded by grass. It was a private little place, set almost by chance up against a windowless wall of Lord Morfren's own manor house, blocked off on two of the other three sides by equally windowless outbuildings.

  Right now, it was also a crowded place. Three plain men in plain white robes ringed the pool, staring as intently into the still water as if they were hunting their own salvation.

  Which, in a way, they were. They called themselves simply Tywi, Tegan and Tegid, all three no longer young, all three clean-shaven save for drooping, greying mustaches and so ordinary of face and form that not one of them would have been noticed in a crowd.

  All three styled themselves mages.

  By contrast with their blandness, the fourth man, much younger than they and pacing restlessly behind them, stood out like a blazing beacon. Clad in a rich woolen tunic and hose dyed a spectacular red-violet and blue, gold glinting from the torque about his neck and the thick bracelets on his wrists, he was lean, sharp-faced and aristocratic, bright gold of hair, dramatically dark of eye, and stubbornly narrow of mouth.

  He was also fairly radiating a very dangerous impatience.

  "Well?" His voice was sharp as a whiplash. "You've been staring long enough. What do the omens say?" The three plain men glanced nervously at each other. Dyfyr ap Meilyr had been a hard master, fierce and cruel and totally without patience. Morfren, his son had, in these ten years since Dyfyr's death, all too often proved his father a master of self-control by contrast.