Andrew Offutt - The Tower of Death

That man had been a druid, his name Sualtim Fodla. He was nearly nine years dead. He was long mentor to the boy Art’s son of Connacht had been, and Cormac was long past those days. Indeed, it seemed a score of years agone when he’d been the more than promising young weapon man in Connacht, and then in Leinster, until the treachery of kings and his own momentary hotheadedness had resulted in his exile.

Zarabdas’s twin beard was black as the wing of the raven, and Cormac had to wonder if the bald fellow weren’t dyeing it. The five men sat, most privily, at table. Ere they could begin to discuss ships and shipbuilding, crew and payment, Cormac brought up the matter of the vampire weed from the sea. When Zarabdas frowned, the Gael fixed him with a narroweyed look and recounted what he and his shipmates had discovered.

“This is the second time those managing the lighttower have fallen to such an attack,” Irnic said, who was in general command of the horse-soldiers of little Galicia. “Though on the previous occasion,” he said with teeth tightly set, “there were no signs of the killer of three men.”

“None?”

“None, Cormac mac Art. For that reason I ordered the crew increased to five.”

“And they died,” Wulfhere said, “just as three did.”

“The solution is not in numbers,” Cormac said. He sat back, legs asprawl, and toyed with the mug he stared at. “My lord Irnic… it is in my mind-I cannot be sure, o’course-that… the deadly kelp we found is somehow directed . With intelligence behind it, I mean.”

Mac Art gazed only at the mug, but saw nonetheless that Zarabdas frowned and seemed to arrange his features into a scoffing expression. Zarabdas appeared Irnic’s opposite: he must have weighed ten or so pounds less than whatever was normal for his height and his weight. In consequence he looked taller than he was, and his face was wrinkled like that of an old hound of Britain.

Cormac said, “Else why did the vampire weed withdraw after it did death on those manning the tower, and leave no trace of its presence or nature?”

“Such things are not possible,” Zarabdas said, in his voice that was dry as wind through the desert whence he came. “I would see such seaweed with these eyes.”

“An I see the kelp again, it’s calling ye I’ll be. See ye bring a sharp blade.”

Immediately Veremund snuffed, in his throat. “I am most pleased you are here, Wulfhere and mac Art. And I admit, Zarabdas, I am impressed with this canny Gael. His mind works logically even when it reaches an apparently illogical conclusion.”

Wulfhere tipped more ale into his mug. “Oh, it does that, all right.”

Cormac gave the king a little smile. A good man for avoiding trouble, this Veremund of the Suevi! “Myself has had thoughts on the matter. I’d be coming forward in an attempt to remove such a danger, an we’re to be dealing otherwise with my lord king.”

“Good!” Veremund and Irnic said, almost together, and they smiled each at the other then, so that Cormac knew they were friends.

“The weed,” Cormac said, “fears me.”

“ Fears you?” Irnic echoed.

“And how is that?” Zarabdas asked, nor was his tone solely that of one seeking information.

Cormac tugged at the chain around his neck until he’d drawn up the Egyptian sigil from beneath his tunic. He displayed it with a dramatic air of significance.

In truth, the Gael had no notion of the thing’s meaning, or if it had one… or indeed if it was aught other than jewellery, which he did not wear. As he had thought it wise to lie about Clodia’s station, he was minded now to impress these people and create some mystery-and to test the Palmyran, who was bending forward to gaze upon the sigil. Zarabdas’s mahogany eyes peered keenly, like those of a hunting hawk.

Cormac said, “It is not merely by armour and arms of good steel that I am protected, my lords.”

Cormac was gambling. Superstition held power even over kings. For aught he knew it was a bit of jewellery, this odd sigil that hung glittering on his mailed chest. He knew of no magickal significance it held. Nor was he the sort to rely on such even when their repute as talismans was established. No, it was that he had need, though, to impress these people. Too, he wanted to test the king’s mage, who had bent forward to stare closely at the golden serpent. Zarabdas’s narrow right hand was crooked possessively around the solar disc on his own thin breast. Cormac had observed how the Palmyran fondled it constantly.

As for the king, he was gazing questioningly at mac Art.

“It’s from slumbering Egypt this bauble comes, and men have killed each other for it. Excepting the most ignorant of them, that slaying was not merely for its value as precious metal.” Cormac paused for effect. “I am content to test its powers in your deathly tower, lord King, in attempt to remove the danger. As I believe I can.”

Veremund disrupted the silence so that Zarabdas jerked; the king brought a hand down on the table in a slap of decision.

“A noble offer,” Veremund said, “to be treated nobly!” And he strode to the door, which he flung wide so that it banged echoically. He gave the ornate ring from his first finger to a guard in a leather war shirt studded with iron. “Take this for authority, and fetch me Motsognir’s Chain from the treasure room.”

Turning back swiftly, Veremund surprised gape-jawed looks of consternation on the faces of Irnic and Zarabdas. Their dismay did not escape Cormac, or Wulfhere either. While the reivers did not know what Motsognir’s Chain might be, they grasped well that it was kept in the treasure room. They traded glances of bland meaning.

“My lord-” Zarabdas ventured.

“I know to the word what is on your tongue to say. Let it rest.”

Zarabdas let it rest. Nobody said aught more. Mage and horse-soldier were clearly plagued by unease, while the king’s guests were all waiting attention. Veremund himself did not seem disposed to talk until he had that which he’d sent for, and wise men obliged kings.

It came.

Three strong servitors were bent by the weight of the thing called Motsognir’s Chain. The guard led them. Behind, the very mirror of grave dignity, came a Hispano-Roman in grey and tawny brown, with a ring of ornate keys stapled to his belt. Anthemius his name, they soon learned: he kept the king’s monetary records and had responsibility for the royal strong room. Hair stuck out in grey and russet shingles from his oddly-shaped skull. His eyes blinked and watered much.

Him the two sea-rovers scarce gave a glance. The great chain was forged of nine times nine massy links and each was deeply incised with an ancient rune. Through the last-or first-link ran a large iron ring, a circle of smaller runes cut around it.

Every link was of shining silver.

“Aye, look well,” Veremund bade his guests. “This thing came from the land of my fathers, long agone, when they saw rivers but never in all their lifetimes the sea. The dwarves made it. It bears the name of their king. Time out of mind has it been the chief treasure of the Suevic kings. Anthemius: how burn the trenchfires?”

“Low, lord King. However, we feasted late and the coals are hot still. I have had the great hall cleared and more fuel thrown on. None will be there to gawk.”

“That’s well. Wulfhere Hausakliufr, Cormac mac Art-what you see now you will long remember. It is my desire that you speak no word of it in Brigantium. This chain has a special property, the which is hardly a secret, but… one does not make public display of such. Thus it is dismissed as rumour even ten leagues away, and thus there be fewer ambitious thieves to guard against.”