Andrew Offutt - The Tower of Death

That thought had occurred to Cormac, but he’d not indulge in gossip with such as Rhodoghast-or indeed anyone else. He asked, “And the Antiochite leech? Did he slink off to Gothish lands, or all the way back to Golden Antioch?”

“Oh no, neither. He is still here, though out of favour with those of us who count. Say something to me in Gaelic.”

“Legach boina boinin,” Cormac said, quoting a homile among those who’d been his people: “To every cow her calf.”

“Hmm… what does that mean?”

“It means I am a vicious bloodthirsty pirate and am interested in Lucanor, not in language lessons. I will tell you this: the Gaels have no verb ‘to have’, but there are several ways of saying ‘to do death on.’”

Rhodoghast chuckled, but the two sidewise looks he shot the “vicious bloodthirsty pirate” bespoke his nervousness. Cormac was careful not to smile.

“Lucanor remains here. He is leech for the weaponmen, and others. He stays very busy, though hardly as prosperous as beforetimes.”

“Think you the lady queen is cured by sorcery?”

“Some do,” Rhodoghast said, and grew most interested in the tumbler and female juggler who entered the king’s dining hall then, bounding and jingling bells.

The entertainers were fair, Cormac thought, surreptitiously observing Zarabdas while he pretended interest in the leggy woman with her minimal juggling ability and less chest.

They departed amid applause, and the floor was clear. Veremund rose to announce that the Masters of Raven were here to serve the crown-and that mayhap the first act should be the creation of a new target for ax-practice. Amid general laughter, Wulfhere looked about, and grinned, beaming… and reddened.

“We would now take counsel with these twain,” Veremund said, “on a matter of passing import to our realm, and our children. I would have Zarabdas and Commander Irnic join us, with Salvian.”

All others were thus dismissed, as the king said naught about their continuing in the hall. The Lady Plotina-well overweight, Cormac noticed as she rose from board-sought to catch his eye, but he was careful not to see her. Or Eurica, though he made a head-bow to Venhilda, who despite her thinness and pallor, was a most handsome woman. Yet-gods, those eyes! He and Wulfhere followed the king, his cousin Irnic, Zarabdas, and the Hispano-Roman secretary, Salvian. They entered the same small chamber in which they’d talked earlier in the day. This time bowls of wine and fresh melon, prepared in little balls, awaited them.

Soon Cormac was saying that the way to begin their task was to learn more about the mysterious beacon that appeared when the real one was extinguished. Irnic inquired as to whether he had a theory.

“One I like not, my lord.”

“Call me Irnic, and say it out anyhow, Cormac.”

Twice tonight had mac Art been invited to call nobles by name. While he had betrayed no reaction to Rhodoghast who sought to be friend of the exotic pirate, he smiled and nodded acknowledgment to Irnic. This fellow weapon-man, Cormac thought, just couldn’t be bothered with the “lord” business.

“Suppose,” Cormac said slowly, “that some… presence… knows when a ship approaches, and sends then the kelp to do death on those in the tower.”

“Sends?” That from Zarabdas.

Veremund asked, “To what purpose?”

“To lead the ship astray,” Wulfhere said, shrugging.

“To what purpose,” Veremund repeated, and Cormac did not like the mind of one who knew causes from effects and motives from purposes.

The Gael was nevertheless forced to shake his head. “Who knows? Hopefully it’s that we’ll be ascertaining, among other things.”

Veremund looked about. Irnic and Zarabdas were nodding. Salvian was making his notes. The king looked at Cormac, and nodded.

“It’s my own self I propose to man this lighthouse, with a few men… and a large supply of quicklime.” Cormac gave the king a questioning look. “A large supply.”

The king nodded. “Lime is plentiful here. I’ll have the preparation of quicklime begun on the morrow, heat or no. At dawn.”

“Just before sunset then, Wulfhere will take Raven well out, and sea-anchor. Then I and my troop, with the quicklime in quantity, will mount into the tower. Assuming that quicklime affects the vampirish kelp as it does other plants, it’s we ourselves will be extinguishing the beacon in the tower. If the false one appears, Wulfhere will give chase-with all care, being forewarned.”

Irnic’s eyes were alight and he was smiling as he nodded repeatedly, a soldier hearing a bold tactic he more than approved. It was Zarabdas who spoke.

“There is the additional danger… The wreckers, or whoever is responsible for the false beacon, may well have this dread seaweed with them. As… armour, and arms as well. It could surely swamp your ship, and drag the crew to the bottom.”

“I will advise the men of that possibility,” Wulfhere said in an equable tone, “and ask for volunteers only.”

Veremund said frowning, “Great risks are being taken in this.”

Wulfhere nodded, and with eyes full on the king he said, “Aye, and the most of it falls on me. Far be it from me to bargain like a Saxon, King Veremund, but my men will hereafter want and deserve wine, not ale, and… female companionship.”

Irnic but smiled; when his royal cousin glanced at him, the Breaker of axes said in the same equable tone Wulfhere had used, “That is… within my powers.”

“We will bid our Danes be discreet,” Cormac said, staring at Wulfhere, “and not flaunt their… receipt of this largesse.” He challenged Zarabdas with his gaze, and then with words. “And would my lord Zarabdas care to be joining us weapon-men in the accursed tower?”

Was Veremund ended the ensuing moments of tension, during which Zarabdas eyed Cormac coolly: “I forbid it,” the king said, and there was an end to that. The five men looked about at each other, all knowing they were pitted against the dangerous unknown. Only Salvian’s scratchings broke the silence. Veremund took up his wine.

“To our mutual success,” he said, and they drank, with Irnic and Wulfhere first making sure to spill a bit of wine. They parted, and only Zarabdas tarried a moment with the reivers.

“Ye be brave men,” he said, in his dry almost-whisper. “Be ye well.” And he and his robe ghosted away into the dark deeps of the royal hall.

“Ah… wolf,” Wulfhere said, laying a hand on his comrade’s shoulder. “I’ve ah, been invited to spend the night elsewhere.”

“Good,” Cormac said. “Great pleasure will be on me, not to be listening to the Thor’s hammer of your snoring! Do try to get some sleep, Wulfhere.”

He was standing under a patriarchal chestnut when his peripheral vision reported a swift movement but a few yards away, at the hall. Automatically he eased into the shadow of the tree. He was unpleasantly aware that he wore no sword, for suspicion was on him; the exiled Gael had achieved no renown for a trusting nature. Now he saw a human figure well-muffled in a hooded cloak that was so dark he could not distinguish its hue in the night. It seemed to be a woman or girl, moving furtively. Cormac watched, motionless.

The cloak had just left the hall, and took care now to skirt moonlit areas as it hurried from the courtyard. The cloak was voluminous, and so dark that it soon disappeared into the night.

Assignations , Cormac thought, relaxing. Well, it’s no need I have of such, thanks to Clodia’s little visit to my room this afternoon! And he returned through the cool, clear night to the kinghouse.

“Hivernian!”

The voice was female, and the single word was spoken scarcely above a whisper. It was the Roman name for his isle of Eirrin; Rome lingered on everywhere. Cormac, turned warily to squint in the darkness. He was able to make out a smallish figure pressed against the hall’s outer wall, on the lee side of the moon’s light. Fabric rustled and a hand, pale and pale-sleeved, emerged from a long cloak. The hand beckoned.