Dragon Death Part 2

"You heard the tale?", "Of course I heard! I was standing at the side of the dais this afternoon. The sorcerer looked like a trampled puppy.''

Having never fought in a war, Lytham a.s.sumed that fighting was fighting, just as he a.s.sumed that conflicts between nations were conducted in a fas.h.i.+on similar to the arguments between village bullies: with shouting, and catcalls, and pummeling with fists, and rolling about in the dust of a shabby little street while a crowd of excited admirers looked on. "Cvinthil would not lead us into Vaylle if certain death waited there," he said. "And he has wise councilors."

"Had wise councilors, you mean," said Dryyim. "Santhe and Karthin went off to Vaylle." He glanced over his shoulder as though expecting to see hounds materializing at his back. "And they did not return."

"Marrget and Alouzon, too," said Lytham.

A sniff. "What good are they?"

"Well . . . they were councilors ..."

"Far better they should have gotten themselves husbands and left the fighting to men." Dryyim scowled, Shook his head. "Marrget was the worst: she gave herself such airs that I am surprised Cvinthil did not put her on the block." '

Lytham shrugged. "She is dead now."

"I would have given a great deal to see her in my village. My father never tolerated insolence in women. He beat my mother regularly.''

Haryn stifled a grin. "And was beaten back upon occasion."

Dryyim glared at him, then turned back to Lytham. "She should have been taught her place from the beginning. And Alouzon ..." Dryyim's mouth tight- ened. "Kerlsen was a friend. She killed him in cold blood."

Lytham frowned. "I thought the hound killed Keri-sen. He was drunk, and-"

"Alouzon killed him," Dryyim insisted. "She stood aside and let the hound tear out his throat while he was helpless. It is better that she is dead. She brought nothing but grief to this land, and then Cvinthil began his reign with his decrees." He spat. "Women!"

The gruel was growing cold. Lytham bettered his grip on the bowl and shrugged. "I like it no more than you, but we can do nothing."

Haryn straightened. "Here comes Relys. Look out: she is playing the man again."

Dryyim snickered. "It would be interesting to bed her-if one could knock some sense into her first.''

Lytham glanced over his shoulder as the new captain of the First Wartroop pa.s.sed by, head bowed as though in thought. When she looked up, though, the young men felt the immediate scrutiny of her dark eyes, and they hid their laughter and looked attentive.

Lytham stepped quickly through the door and made his way hastily down the corridor to the guest chambers. There he found the sorcerer sitting propped up in a chair, furs and blankets piled up about him in spite of the large fire that roared on the hearth a few feet away. Helwych's eyes, half closed as though in meditation, flicked fully open as Lytham entered. "Ah, my brave guard," said Helwych, "come with my supper. My thanks."

Lytham put the bowl into Helwych's hands and shuddered at the sight of the lacerated flesh. Even Helwych's hair was shredded and patchy.

Moving as though in pain, Helwych set the bowl on his lap and stirred its contents. The skin that had formed on the surface of the gruel clung to the spoon in a damp clot as pale as the sorcerer's face. Lytham took a step back. Helwych's eyes flicked back to him, dark blue, almost black. "Do I frighten you, lad?"

Lad? Lytham was struck for a moment. Helwych was scarcely older than he himself. But sorcerers, he recalled, were a strange lot. Mernyl, it was said, had often been called womanish by Dythragor; and so perhaps where one man foolishly a.s.sumed the concerns of women, another might do better and take on the privileges of age. It was not the business of a soldier to question any of it.

Helwych's question hung, waiting. Lytham felt acutely embarra.s.sed. "I... ah ... that is to say . . ."

The sorcerer shrugged. "Vaylle is a terrible place," he said, dipping up a spoonful of gruel. "I am glad that Gryylth has such men as you to oppose it."

Helwych's tone was warm and fervid, and it carried with it a deep sense of pride. And feeling suddenly as though praise from a sorcerer was of infinitely more worth than that of even the king himself, Lytham blushed. "I ... am glad that you think so, master sorcerer.''

Helwych bent over his gruel. "Call me Helwych. And your name is ... Lytham, is it not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Helwych." The sorcerer grinned out of a pale face crisscrossed with welts and patched with scabs.

Lytham swallowed. "Helwych."

"Good."

The sorcerer sucked and mumbled the gruel, the fire roared, and Lytham felt the sweat begin to pool beneath his armor. "Is there anything .else I can do for you . . . Helwych?"

The blue-black eyes examined Lytham, and the soldier was suddenly afraid that the praise Helwych had so unexpectedly bestowed was going to be abruptly withdrawn. But the sorcerer only smiled-a little sadly, Lytham thought with a pang of sympathy-and shrugged. "If you could spare a few minutes, Lytham," he said, "I should be glad of your company. ''

"Ah ..."

"Fetch up a chair, now. There is a good fellow."

Without knowing really why, save that he did not wish to give Helwych reason to regret his compliments, Lytham pulled up a stool and sat down as far away from the fire as he could.

Helwych did not speak for some minutes. Finally: "People have so little time for a wounded man. Cvinthil had me in to tell my tale, and now I do believe he has forgotten me entirely.''

"I am sure, sir, that he thinks of you a great deal."

Helwych smiled tiredly. "Helwych."

"Ah ... Helwych."

"Just so." Helwych nodded in the manner of an aging grandfather. "I am more than likely wrong. It is so easy to be wrong . . ." He stirred his gruel. "You are afraid, maybe, of Vaylle?"

"I am . . ." Sorcerers could read the truth, it was said, in one's eyes, but Lytham was unwilling to admit weakness. "I am . . . cautious," he said, trying to sound like an experienced captain of the Guard.

"Ah . . . caution. That is a good thing, caution." Helwych seemed to savor the word. "And is Cvinthil also cautious?"

"He is a good king."

"But is he cautious?"

"I . . ." Helwych was asking him to p.r.o.nounce judgment upon his king. Relys, if she ever heard of such audacity, would make him wish that his tongue had been cut out. But Relys was a woman-she merely played the man by the king's good will-and so Lytham held himself up straight. "I believe he is."

"Indeed? Has he made no mistakes?"

It occurred to Lytham that that had not been the question, but he answered bravely. "Oh, I am sure he makes mistakes."

"Everybody makes mistakes," said Helwych. The blue-black eyes were fixed on Lytham, and the guard was suddenly conscious of nothing save the sorcerer's gaze. "Corrin has made mistakes."

"Oh . . . well ... that .. ."

"I am not speaking of the war, lad." Helwych leaned toward Lytham with an air of confidentiality. "I am speaking of the women."

The sweat ran down Lytham's cheek. Helwych might have overheard the conversation at the door of the Hall a few minutes before.

"Now you and your friends," the sorcerer went on, "are wise beyond you* years, and ..."

There it was: pride, respect. Lytham gulped it down and wanted more.

"...and you know better. Gryylth has been here for a long time, and so have Gryylth's customs. Now you tell me: is it a wise thing to change them?"

"But, ah, Corrin?"

"Corrin is an unhappy place these days," said Helwych, and Lytham could not but believe him completely. "It is unfortunate that Gryylth cannot learn from the mistakes of its neighbor. Now Cvinthil has to take what weapons he has and go across the sea to Vaylle, leaving an unhappy land and an unhappy people behind him."

It seemed to Lytham then that Helwych was no longer sitting down. It seemed, rather, that the sorcerer had risen, that his wounds had vanished, that his scars had disappeared. He was suddenly taller, stronger, as arrogant and as swaggering as the most flamboyant bully boy of Lytham's old village; and the guard found himself nodding in agreement and admiration, wondering not at all about the change in the mousy little sorcerer.

"But he himself sails into danger," said Helwych, and he was back in his chair, sunken among a heap of furs and blankets.

Lytham blinked. "Can you not dissuade him, sorcerer?"

"Helwych."

"Ah ... yes, Helwych."

"I cannot. But, as I said in the hall, Vaylle is not all-powerful. It has its weaknesses. And I am sure that Cvinthil will find them. And I am sure that, with such men as you under his command, he will conquer."

Lytham sighed with relief.

"But, you know, Lytham," said Helwych as his eyes bored once again into the lad's face, "matters other than Vaylle threaten Gryylth, too. Matters that Cvinthil has brought upon himself.''

"Cvinthil is a good king," declared Lytham.

The dark eyes grew wide. "Oh, I am sure that he is," Helwych said sincerely. "But would you not agree that, should Cvinthil return from an arduous campaign to find a prosperous and happy land, he would be lavish with praise and rewards for the men who made possible that prosperity and happiness?''

The blue-black eyes, as dark as void, rooted Lytham to his chair, and he saw Helwych's point as clearly as if it had been etched into the sky with liquid fire. It all made sense, perfect sense, and though he swallowed with a dry throat, the words came quickly to his lips. "Yes. Yes, I would."

Helwych nodded. "You are very wise, Lytham. I think I shall sleep now. If you would, please bring your friends with you tomorrow evening at this same time. I would like to meet them."

Lytham rose. The world seemed open and easy of a sudden, and the heedlessness he had previously found in its workings had been peeled away to reveal a willingness to serve and to be controlled. "I shall do that," he said. "Good night, sir."

Helwych smiled patiently. "Helwych, lad."

* CHAPTER 3 *

Darham's wish for further knowledge was granted, but not as he had hoped. When a month had pa.s.sed, another messenger from Cvinthil arrived bearing not only a detailed account of Helwych's report, but also a description of the lad's wounds and an impatient request from Cvinthil that Darham declare whether or not Corrin would aid Gryylth in the invasion planned for the beginning of June.

To be sure, Cvinthil's message was respectfully and formally worded, and Darham found nothing amiss in its content, but there was no mistaking its tone. The king of Gryylth was angry, and, given the circ.u.mstances, he had a right to be. So, for that matter, did everyone in Corrin.

Tylha and Calrach conferred softly as Dryyim, the messenger, finished up with the standard formalities. When he was through, Tylha raised her hand to request leave to speak, and at Darham's nod, she addressed Dryyim. ' 'The recent war left both Corrin and Gryylth with few . . . men . . . able to bear arms," she said, and though the Corrinians in the lodge understood her meaning, Dryyim did not: the women's phalanxes had been kept back during the war with Gryylth. "We of Corrin would like to know what kind of forces Cvinthil expects to raise, that we may better respond in kind."

Dryyim heard her out with a kind of mixed aston- ishment and irritation. "We estimate a body of twelve wartroops," he said. "That is twelve score men, maiden."

Tylha smiled. "I know well the number of men in a wartroop. And it has been years since I have been a maiden." She glanced at the Corrinians in the lodge. They were smiling, too.

Dryyim stared at her, annoyance plain on his face.

Darham cleared his throat. "Commander Tylha leads fully half our army, Gryylthan."

Dryyim folded his arms. "Indeed."

Tylha's smile turned brittle, an indication that she was seething. But she remained polite. The Gryylthan was, after all, a guest. The Vayllens might kill their visitors: not so Corrin.

The thought brought Darham straight back to the question of arms and war. He looked at Calrach and Tylha. They nodded. Despite the inconsistencies and the problems inherent in Helwych's story, Vaylle's treachery was clear. Darham had to respond. And he could only respond in one way.

Feeling the hollowness, feeling the loss, he stood and lifted his hand. "Let it be done, then," he said. "We will gather what phalanxes we have and send them to Vaylle. I myself shall lead them. And if Cvinthil wishes to depart come June, then we shall leave the shearing and the haying and depart with him.''

Dryyim bowed. "I shall tell my king what you have said." He glanced at Tylha and the female members of the Guard and shook his head with an almost audible sigh.

Darham sent him off with a male attendant, ostensibly for rest and refreshment, but more because Dryyim's arrogance was driving a number of his more prideful warriors-men and women both-close to violence. Even his scribe looked angry.

But Darham could not but feel that anger-even justified anger-had no place here today; and though, years ago, he had with Tarwach formulated battles and campaigns against Gryylth with seriousness and gravity, still he had never approached those conferences with such grim emptiness as now characterized his preparations for the a.s.sault on Vaylle. As Darham spoke with his commanders and advisors, in fact, he felt as though he were moving through events at an arm's length, as though it were not really Darham of Corrin who spoke of men, transport and invasion, but rather a dancing puppet of a king who was being led through his antics by strings and tethers that w.i.l.l.y-nilly jerked him about like a hapless doll.

It was late when he finished. Below the lodge, Benardis lay deeply shadowed. He dismissed his people and sat down before the fire, weary, his head in his hands.

Wykla. Dead. Such a lovely, n.o.ble child. But then, all the children he had ever seen had partaken of a sense of n.o.bility. Even when, dirt-streaked, screaming with temper in the marketplace or the town square and plunging their mothers and fathers into the depths of red-faced humiliation, still they were only themselves, as unselfconscious and immanent as a strong stallion that pranced across a spring meadow, rejoicing in his strength.

And at times-fortunate, fortunate times-a few of those children carried with them even into young adulthood some of that immediacy and that presence. Wykla had it. Manda, in spite of her sorrow, had it also. Karthin, too. And so how was it that such as these could be slaughtered in their beds in a far land, leaving a rank weed like Helwych to come home bearing the news of their deaths? It did not make sense.

Some time had pa.s.sed before he noticed that Tylha had stayed behind. She had been waiting in the silent lodge, standing at attention, not wis.h.i.+ng to interrupt yet unwilling to depart.

Darham nodded to her tiredly. "Commander."

"I do not wish to grieve you, my king. If this time be inopportune for a question ..."

Darham leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the hearth. He might have called for wine, but his stomach was already sour with frustration. "You do not grieve me, Tylha. Vaylle grieves me. Gryylth grieves me. But not you."

Tylha nodded. Her leather armor creaked. "My king," she said, "I noticed this evening that you chose your words carefully regarding the forces that would depart for Vaylle. You consistently referred to men, but not to women. Was this an oversight? Or maybe an attempt to be polite to the Gryylthan?''

"I had sent the Gryylthan off some time before, Tylha."

"Aye. Indeed."

Darham sighed. Any appet.i.te for battle he might have once possessed had been thoroughly spoiled by the final drive into Gryylth and the fighting at the Circle, and he looked towards this new conflict with a sense of leaden inertia.

"I dislike all of this greatly," he said. "I have no other reason for war with Vaylle than the fact that there is now no reason not to. If we plowed our fields with no greater excuse, we should be a.s.sured of some hard harvests."

' 'Manda and Karthin, my lord, are sufficient reason, I think. And then there is also Wykla. You called her daughter."

Darham was silent for a time. He had called Wykla daughter, but she had never called him father. Now, according to Helwych, she would never have the chance. "Your question, commander: aye, I spoke of men."

Stocky, matronly, Tylha might have been chiseled out of a block of granite. "Do you forget that my phalanxes, kept back from the war with Gryylth, can still be raised almost to full strength? Peace has sent most of the women home, and some have taken husbands and are raising children, but many are free to come and go and would be quite willing to pick up their swords and pikes, particularly in reprisal for Kar-thin and Manda, who were much loved."

The fire crackled as Darham considered his reply. Tylha had noticed. Of course she had noticed. Her women had chafed at their inactivity during the war with Gryylth. Now here again was an opportunity for battle, and ...