Katharine Kerr - Dawnspell

‘Thirsty, lad?’

‘I am, good sir.’

The old man dipped water from a wooden barrel into the golden cup, then knelt down and helped him drink.

‘My horse?’ Maddyn said.

‘He’s safe and at his hay.’ The old man laid a hand on Maddyn’s forehead. ‘Fever’s broken. Good.’

Maddyn just managed to smile before he fell asleep. This time, he dreamt of his last battle so vividly that it seemed he could smell the dust and the horse-sweat. His warband drew up on the crest of the hill, and there were Tieryn Devyr and his men waiting across the road – over a hundred to their thirty-seven, but they were going to make the hopeless downhill charge anyway. Maddyn knew it by the way Lord Brynoic laughed like a madman, lounging back in his saddle. There was naught they could do but die; they were trapped, and they had naught left to live for. Even though he felt like a fool for doing it, Maddyn started thinking about his mother. In his mind, he could see her clearly, standing in the doorway of their house and holding out her arms to him. Then the horn blew for the charge, and he could only think of riding. Down the hill, on and on, with Devyr’s men wheeling to face them – the clash came with a shriek from both sides. In his dream Maddyn relived every parry and cut, choked again on the rising dust and woke with a cry when the sword bit deep into his side.

‘Here, lad.’ The old man was right beside him. ‘All’s well now.’

‘Can I have some water?’

‘All you want.’

After Maddyn gulped down six cupsful, the old man brought him bread and milk in a wooden bowl. Since his hands were shaking too badly to hold a spoon, the old man fed him, too, a spoonful at a time. The best feast in the Gwerbret of Cantrae’s hall had never tasted as good as that meal did.

‘My thanks,’ Maddyn said. ‘Truly, I owe you the humblest thanks I can give for saving my life.’

‘Saving lives is somewhat of a habit of mine. I’m a herbman.’

‘And wasn’t that the luck of my life, then!’

‘Luck?’ The old fellow smiled in a sly sort of way. ‘Well, truly, it may have been, at that. My name is Nevyn, by the by, and that’s not a jest; it truly is my name. I’m somewhat of a hermit, and this is my home.’

‘My name is Maddyn, and I rode for Lord Brynoic. Here, do you realize that I’m an outlawed man? By every black-hearted demon in the hells, you should have let me bleed to death where I fell.’

‘Oh, I heard me of Brynoic’s exile, sure enough, but the pronouncements of tieryns and suchlike mean little to me. Cursed if I’ll let a man die, when I can save him, just because his lord overstepped himself at court.’

With a sigh, Maddyn turned his head away. Nearby was his shield, leaning against the wall, and a tidy stack of his other gear, including his small ballad-harp, wrapped safe in its leather sack. The sight of the fox device stamped on everything he owned made tears burn in Maddyn’s eyes. His whole warband, all his friends, men he’d ridden with for eight years now – all dead, because Lord Brynoic had coveted another man’s land and failed in his gamble to get it.

‘Did the tieryn bury our dead?’ he whispered.

‘He did. I found the battlefield some days after I brought you home. From the sight of the slaughter, I’m surprised that even one man escaped.’

‘I ran like a coward. I made the charge and got my wound. I knew I was dying, then, and I just wanted to die alone, somewhere quiet, like. Ah ye gods, I never dreamt that anyone would save me!’

‘No doubt it was your Wyrd to live.’

‘It was a harsh Wyrd, then. I’m still an outlawed man. I threw away the last bit of honour I had when I didn’t die with my lord and my band.’

Nevyn made a soothing remark, but Maddyn barely heard him. For all that his shame bit at him, deep in his heart he knew he was glad to be alive, and that very gladness was another shame.

It was two days before Maddyn could sit up, and then only by propping himself against the wall and fighting with his swimming head. As soon as he was a bit stronger, he began wondering about the strange room he was in. From the smell of damp in the air and the lack of windows, he seemed to be underground, but the fire in the enormous hearth drew cleanly. The room was the right size for that massive hearth, too, a full fifty feet across, and the ceiling was lost above him in shadows. All along the wall by his bed was a carved bas-relief, about ten feet above the floor, that must at one time have run around the entire room. Now the severely geometric pattern of triangles and circles broke off abruptly, as if it had been defaced. Finally, on the day when he was strong enough to feed himself for the first time, it occurred to him to ask Nevyn where they were.

‘Inside Brin Toraedic. The entire hill is riddled with chambers and tunnels.’

Maddyn almost dropped his spoon into his lap. Since Lord Brynoic’s dun was only about five miles away, he’d seen the hill many a time and heard all the tales about it, too; how it was haunted, plagued by demons and spirits, who sent blue lights dancing through the night and strange howls whistling through the day. It certainly looked peculiar enough to be haunted, rising straight out of an otherwise flat meadow, like some old giant long ago turned to stone and overgrown with grass.

‘Now, now.’ Nevyn gave him a grin. ‘I’m real flesh and blood, not a prince of demons or suchlike.’

Maddyn tried to return the smile and failed.

‘I like to be left alone, lad,’ Nevyn went on. ‘So, what better place could I find to live than a place where everyone else is afraid to go?’

‘Well, true enough, I suppose. But then there aren’t any spirits here after all?’

‘Oh, there’s lots, but they go their way and I go mine. Plenty of room for us all.’

When Maddyn realized that the old man was serious, his hands shook so hard that he had to lay down his bowl and spoon.

‘I couldn’t lie to you,’ Nevyn said in a perfectly mild tone of voice. ‘You’ll have to shelter with us this winter, because you won’t be fit to ride before the snows come, but these spirits are a harmless sort. All that talk about demons is simple exaggeration. The folk around here are starved for a bit of colour in their lives.’

‘Are they now? Uh, here, good sir, just how long have I been here, anyway?’

‘Oh, a fortnight. You lay in a fever for a wretchedly long time. The wound went septic. When I found you, there were flies all over it.’

Maddyn picked up his spoon and grimly went on eating. The sooner he got the strength to leave this spirit-plagued place, the better.

As the wound healed, Maddyn began getting out of bed for longer and longer periods. Although Nevyn had thrown away his blood-soaked clothes, Maddyn had a spare shirt in his saddlebags, and the old man found him a pair of brigga that fitted well enough. One of the first things he did was unwrap his ballad-harp and make sure that it was unharmed. With his right arm so weak, he couldn’t tune it, but he ran his fingers over the sour, lax strings to make sure they still sounded.

‘I’m surprised that Lord Brynoic would risk a bard in battle,’ Nevyn remarked.

‘I’m not much of a bard, truly, more a gerthddyn who can fight. I know a good many songs and suchlike, but I never studied the triads and the rest of the true bard lore.’

‘And why not?’

‘Well, my father was a rider in our lord’s warband. When he was killed, I was but thirteen, and Lord Brynoic offered me a place in the troop. I took it to avenge my father’s death, and then, well, there never was a chance to study after that, since I’d given my lord my pledge and all.’

‘And do you regret it?’

‘I’ve never let myself feel regret. Only grief lies that way, good sir.’