Andre Norton - The Duke's Ballad

There two of his human friends were held unable to move. There, a man who stank of pain, crawled. There too another lay shuddering. One who’d been kind to Wind Dancer, now struck down by an enemy. His human was closing with that enemy. She should not fight alone while Wind Dancer, hunter, warrior, son of Shosho remained alive. He felt approval flow from the presence that stood by him. It warmed him, although he had no need of approval. He was a cat; he would do what he willed, and he willed to attack. He screamed again as he leaped.

Beset on two sides Kirion lost his temper. He cast a curtain of fire about Wind Dancer and Aisling. The cat ignored it and appeared on the other side before the surprised Kirion. Aisling had diverted the fire cast at her. To one side the wall hangings were smoldering. Her fingers wove frantically as she tried to contain the dark power her brother had stolen. Varnar reached his master. The strength Kirion leeched from him was slowly stopping his heart, but he had strength enough to reach up.

He ignored the duke, crawling past him as Shastro sprawled, deep in his own pain. The white fire was consuming the man who’d ruled, but Shastro didn’t care, not since he’d seen his cousin’s faces. He’d seen Aisling’s transformation and dimly understood she was the sister Kirion had spoken of before. The cat’s change was more puzzling, but he had no strength left to bother with that. He clung to the remnants of his life. Something told him he should, and dumbly he obeyed.

Varnar crawled to where Kirion stood looming over him, back carelessly turned. Long ago Varnar had been given a broach. It was tawdry, tarnished brass with the glitter of glass jewels. But the woman who’d gifted it had owed him a debt. He might not be lovely, but he was strong. He’d saved her child from danger, so she gave him the only gift she had that her man would have allowed. Varnar had kept it, the sole gift freely given and with honest gratitude and kindness that he’d ever received. Laboriously he unfastened it with one hand as he crawled.

Within his rooms and tower Kirion wore boots of soft leather. They came to mid calf, sagging a little in elegant black creases. Down the back they bore insets of patterned gray lizard skin. Varnar fixed his eyes above the boot tops, where Kirion’s calf muscle bulged out.

The broach lay open in his hand. It was large enough, a typical ornament of the poor quarter, where size and show were counted as status. The pin behind it was a full four fingers in length. Varnar opened it, and as Aisling and Wind Dancer attacked again, he drove it into his master’s leg from behind, deep into the fleshy calf just above the boot top. Kirion’s initial yelp was more surprise than pain. Buried in bleeding flesh the pin did no true damage, but the distraction did.

From one side Wind Dancer latched on to Kirion’s wildly waving arm. Maddened, Kirion reeled, unable to concentrate on further spells or chant as the brass pin stabbed pain with every movement of his leg. The cat’s claws and teeth sliced savagely into one arm. The sorcerer howled inhumanly in pain and fury. He’d wreak such a vengeance on these who defied him as would warn others for a generation. His free hand fell to his sword. It was a pretty toy, but the point was needle sharp. He’d kill both cat and sister. He drew, stepped back and away from the wall to gain room for his thrust, and his heel came down beside Shastro.

The duke lay still, the white fire burning too deep for him to make a sound, but he knew how desperately others battled his enemy. He’d liked Murna. He did not wish to see her die, whoever she really was, Kirion’s sister or Shastro’s friend. Sharna’s beloved face drove him on. Maybe if he redeemed himself a path would open, and he would go where his kin had gone. In his hand he felt the chased hilt of her grace knife. He drove it home, slicing deeply through the soft leather of the sorcerer’s boot.

He’d cut crossways, and severed the tendon at the back of Kirion’s heel. This time Kirion’s scream was genuine agony as well as surprise. It echoed from the walls as he howled, reeling, trying to keep his balance on one foot, the other foot turning under him, as the severed tendon refused to take his weight. Wind Dancer released the mangled arm to spring again.

With the weight gone abruptly from his arm, Kirion waved it frantically in the air trying desperately to save his balance. He was falling. Instinct told him that to fall before these foes was to lose the battle. He fought to remain upright. Wind Dancer sprang high, his teeth bit into the bone in the sorcerer’s wrist even as some thirty-five pounds of cat jerked down against the savaged limb. It was enough. The big cat leaped free again as the sorcerer stumbled, his balance gone. Kirion landed hard on the floor beside his puppet duke.

With a bitter smile Shastro raised himself on one elbow, leaned over, and carefully cut Kirion’s throat. Then he slumped back to lie beside his fallen sorcerer. Aisling cried out in horror. Kirion’s eyes closed. His power was gone. His heart slowed, stopped, and in the room where so many others had died at his command, he followed them.

Wind Dancer had halted, waiting to see what would happen when Kirion fell. He padded back now, sniffed his dead enemy, and spat vigorously through bristling whiskers. Then, turning his back, he pawed the floor as if covering waste. After that he marched over to stand by his human. Wind Dancer had delivered his verdict on events. No one else need comment. By the door Keelan and Had-rann, freed by Kirion’s death, began to grin.

Aisling dropped to one knee beside the duke. He was dying. She could not prevent it, and she was not sure she would have tried. He too had been part of the geas. His rule had not been good for the land yet he’d been kind to her. She had liked him. She was grateful only that his death had not been at her hands and that he did not have to die writhing. She laid her hands against his chest, took away the pain, and waited. His eyes opened slowly to study her. The pain had gone, but he could feel the ice of death closing about his heart.

“Kirion’s dead.” It was a statement, but she answered it.

“He’s dead. You killed him.”

“Murna? Who are you really?”

“Aisling. Sister to both Keelan and Kirion.”

“Why?”

She understood the question. “Why did I fight him? For Karsten. Over-mountain where I studied, a geas was laid on me. Sister against brother for the life of our land. If Kirion had lived he’d have persuaded you to wage war with Estcarp. In that war both our lands would have descended into darkness. Karsten would have been destroyed. When a land is weak enemies gather. Even if we could have defeated Estcarp those others would have come hunting, with Alizon likely to be the first.” She took his hand.

“I love Karsten. It’s my land. I couldn’t let it die if I could save it. So I came back, hid my identity, and waited.” Her finger lay over the pulse in his wrist. She could feel it fading. “You loved Kars. In the end you’ve helped to save it. You liked Murna, Shastro, and she liked you too. You helped to save her—me—as well. What service do you ask for that?” His lips parted slowly, she leaned close to hear his whisper.

“Bury me… Sharna… Paran.”

She took his face in her hands, focused his gaze. “You shall lie with them, I swear it. In the tombs of the rulers of Kars.” His eyes met hers, and he smiled. Then the life went out of him. Aisling laid down the head grown heavy.

Over-mountain, Hilarion sighed. It was done. The trap jewel had not been used as it had been crafted to be, but Kirion had been forced to waste his stolen power to protect himself from it, which had led to his death. Hilarion and Escore would settle for that. His good student had completed the task. Lines of power faded; the geas was fulfilled.