Dark Vengeance (2 page)

Snarling, Jalandral reached for one of the long daggers sheathed at his belt—only to flinch back as Bloodblade kicked his sword back to him.

He hesitated, fearing the Ravager would strike at him if he bent to take it up, but Bloodblade yawned and stepped back with a bow, waving his hands at the fallen spellblade with a flourish, like a Talonar servant presenting a flamboyant feast dish. Behind him, Taerune watched in silence, her arms crossed—for all Talonnorn like a House crone watching rampants spar with practice swords.

With a hiss of rage Jalandral ducked down, plucked up his sword, and sprang to the attack again, calling up the fire the spellblade could spit, to cook his foe.

It boiled up, warm and raging.

The dagger in the fat Ravager's hand pulsed again, and an astonished Jalandral found the spellblade's fire . . . contained!

Snarling in its imprisonment, nigh-numbing his arm in its restless hunger . . . yet he could not unleash it.

Hundreds of times he'd willed these flames to lash out at a foe, just as he was seeking to unleash them now, but this time, nothing happened.

He strained, jaw clenched.

Nothing at all.

Humming a jaunty tune, Old Bloodblade stepped forward and crossed swords with Jalandral as if they were two House younglings being taught the first basics of blade-work.

With a snarl of rage Jalandral struck at his foe, seeking to bind the Ravager's blade with his own and thrust his point home, at the same time abandoning its inner fire in favor of the lightning it could also spit.

Which awakened obediently, sending the usual thrumming numbness up his arm as he danced to one side, parrying and counterthrusting as swiftly and deftly as he could. The lightning reached its height and then roiled, caged just as the fire had been.

Some magic in that damned dagger must be—

Jalandral found his hand empty, and heard his spellblade clang off stone somewhere behind him.

The Ravager had disarmed him again, just as casually as before.

“You—” Rage making him grope for an insult florid enough, Jalandral plucked out one of his knives as he stepped back.

“Stop posing,” Bloodblade growled at him, “and start treating other Nifl as equals. Then, perhaps, you'll live. Perhaps.”

Jalandral stared silently at the older, shorter, and fatter Nifl for
a long time. Then he sighed, sheathed his knife, and asked, “And if I do?”

Taerune stepped forward.

“Then you'll have time to listen, while we all talk,” she said calmly. “As there is much to talk about.”

Nightskins come and nightskins creep
Keep your sword right sharp
Nightskins catch and nightskins keep
So may your sword drink deep

—
Orlkettle firesong

“
G
ood hinges,” Harmund the weaver said happily, moving them in his hands.

Not so long ago he'd have said that grudgingly, if he'd have admitted it at all. Yet with the passing days upon days, Orlkettle had warmed to the terse giant who worked tirelessly at the village forge.

Old Bryard the Smith might have been more than grudging, for the giant who called himself Firefist did better work than Orlkettle had ever seen—hinges and door-strapping and handles, not just picks and axes and war-blades. Instead, Bryard trusted this Orivon Firefist.

By night and by day the muscled giant stood at the anvil or the forge, saying little but nodding and smiling often as he worked. More and more, Bryard sat on his own guests' benches and talked with the men of Orlkettle, as they all watched the man of lost
Ashenuld—the man who had been taken as a boy by the nightskins and enslaved in the Dark Below, only to escape alive all these years later—craft better work than Bryard had ever managed.

And that was saying something.

Orlkettle had been proud of Bryard, and peddlers came often to buy his forge-wares. Yet this Orivon was two clear strides ahead of the old smith in skill, and more, doing work of such strength and finish and sweeping-curves beauty that word of it had spread far.

There had come a day when a long-bearded priest of Thorar had climbed down stiff and sore from six days on a mule to bring Firefist an old, crumbling Holy Helm in need of mending . . . and gone home beaming after his tears of joy were done. And he could bring himself to stop constantly running marveling hands over the gleaming thing of beauty that Orivon had gently set before him.

Gently, that was the way of Orivon.

Not thrusting aside old Bryard or anyone else, not loudly declaiming his views or his will to all Orlkettle. He chased no lasses, and calmly stepped aside from fights and provocations as though they had never been offered, answering them only with a calm, reproachful look. He dwelt at the forge, and ate with Bryard's family or at the board of the Tranneths, who made the best kegs and barrels this side of Orlpur and rejoiced at the iron bands he made for them (and who had lost their own daughter Aumril to raiding nightskins just as Orivon had been lost, a season before he'd first stalked into Orlkettle with fearsome sword in hand and a bundle of other fine swords, all of his own making, under his other arm).

Orivon paid for all that went into his mouth with fieldwork and repairs, like any village man.

The village of Orlkettle had slowly lost its fear of him, and men now nodded to him in the street, and no longer tugged their children back from his reach.

For his part, Orivon Firefist was flourishing. Arms and shoulders of corded muscle, a torso that should have been white but that was browned all down the front by forge flames and the mottled scars of many small burns, he was usually to be found stripped to
the waist, poking his beak of a nose and scowling brows close to the forge to peer at red-hot metal without regard for its fierce heat.

His height, obvious rugged strength, and oft-bare torso proclaimed who he was from afar. Closer eyes saw flowing brown hair, beard, and mustache, and a gaze that could pierce when it wanted to, and held no fear. His wardrobe seemed to consist of scorched-in-many-places leather breeches, broad belts, leather boots, a weathercloak, and little else.

Harmund the weaver looked across the forge now, in the time of long shadows ere sunset. Orivon was patiently raking coals together to receive more wood, to make the fire hotter. When he was done, Harmund knew, he'd look up, and could then be asked the price of six hinges like the one in his hand, and how soon they could be ready.

Then they both heard the bells, and that unasked question was forgotten in an instant.

Many fine bells all jingling in rhythm meant a peddler signaling his arrival in Orlkettle, bringing wares and news.

An excited murmur arose all over the village as Orl-folk came out of their houses; Harmund the weaver was at the forge-door staring out in an instant.

“ 'Tis Ringil!” he called back over his shoulder, forgetting that Orivon hadn't been in Orlkettle for many seasons. “Years, it's been—and no wonder. He goes to Orlpur, and ports on the sea beyond, too!”

Orivon nodded, unhooked a chain above his head to let the great lid down on the coals to smother them, and stalked to the door.

In the long golden light of the dying day, the village square was crowded. Many Orl-folk were converging on it from all directions, calling greetings and questions as they came to a small, hunched man who was busy with his mules at the water-trough. As they watched, he swept off his feather-adorned cap and set it on the signal-fire dome with a flourish. When he straightened up again, Orivon got a good look at him. The peddler had a weathered, wise-eyed face and a pepper-and-salt beard. He wore a smart black
jerkin with scarlet piping; it looked like the uniform of a courtier or a ceremonial guard—which is just what it was, though Ringil had never actually been a member of that court guard. Not that either guard nor court existed anymore.

So much Harmund told Orivon ere they joined the crowd. Ringil had hung his strip of bells and was now hobbling his train of a dozen mules. He'd already reached down a folding table from among their bulging saddlebags, and set a lantern on it to be lit when dusk drew down. “People of Orlkettle, I bring you treasures from afar! Fine things,” he said jovially. “Wondrous things!”

“Flashy dross,” Dorran the miller called out, just as pleasantly.

Ringil reeled in mock horror, clutching at his heart and flinging his arms up wildly. “Strike me deep!” he gasped. “Wound me sore!”

Then he winked and added, “
Fine
flashy dross.”

The rasping voice of Old Authra cut through the ripple of chuckles that followed. “What news?”

The peddler nodded. “Plenty to tell, plenty to tell. There's a new king in Rond . . . the Silent Stone split apart and the witch Harresse stepped up out of the grave she's lain in underneath it these seven-score years; she's none too pleased, and most folk are fleeing Duncrown right now . . . and the nightskins are raiding again: they hit Tlustal and then Ormyn not so many nights back.”

“Then they'll come here, as sure as the sun rises,” Authra snapped, glaring all around as if nightskin raids were the fault of all her neighbors.

There were many murmurings of dismayed agreement—that stopped in an instant when Orivon Firefist's deep, level voice floated across the crowd.

“How many nightskins? Did they use any magic? Swords, or spells?”

Ringil blinked at the source of those questions. “Ho, you're a big one, aren't you? Thinking of fighting them?”

“Yes,” Orivon said firmly.

Orl-folk stared at him in the darkening square as if he'd turned to a nightskin himself, right before their eyes.

The peddler shook his head doubtfully. “Not sure as anyone knows how many ran through Tlustal, but in Ormyn they were ten-and-seven strong, and waved swords. They had those capture-hoods that make the poor hooded ones obey them instead of running off, but that's all the magic I heard about.” He peered thoughtfully at Orivon's burn-scarred torso and leather breeches. “You
really
thinking of fighting them?”

Orivon nodded.

Their eyes met for a long, silent moment ere the peddler said, “You're not from Orlkettle. Where, then?”

“Ashenuld,” was the flat reply.

Ringil's eyes narrowed. “Ashenuld's lost, a ruin—because of the nightskins. How is it Ashenuld fell, but you stand here alive?”

“I was taken by nightskins,” Orivon replied, “and spent years in the Dark Below. A slave.”

Frowning, Ringil took a step closer to the half-naked giant, and the crowd parted silently to let him. “I knew Ashenuld well,” he said quietly. “Who are you?”

“Orivon. Orivon Ralla's son.”

Ringil's face changed, and everyone who saw it knew that he had known Ralla well, too.

“Well, now,” he said roughly. “Well, now . . .”

“If the nightskins come,” Orivon said firmly, “I will take up my sword and fight them.” He looked around at the Orl-folk silently staring at him, and added, “If you'll let me, I will make swords and spears and daggers for every last one of you, and we will string chime-strings, and practice gathering to fight in the dark; where to stand, which doors to guard, where to watch from.
No one
should ever be taken by any nightskin, ever again.”

“You had a sister,” Ringil said softly. “She was born after you were . . . snatched. Kalamae.”

Orivon took a step forward of his own. “You knew her?”

“I sired her,” the peddler whispered. “I . . . your mother and I . . .” He shook his head. “She was never the same, after they took our little Kala.”

He held up his hand for silence, but the Orl-folk were already giving it, hardly breathing as they watched the peddler and the forge-giant standing, silently regarding each other.

“I knew your father,” Ringil said slowly. “He was a good man.”

He turned abruptly and strode through their mutely parting ranks to the stone dome beside the village water-trough. Plucking it and his cap up to lay bare the signal-fire laid ready beneath it, he struck steel from his wrist-bracer and blew the dry tinder into a little blaze. Then he beckoned Orivon with a wave of his hand.

As Firefist walked closer, he heard the peddler chanting something that made the nearest Orl-folk draw back in awe. A charm, a tiny magic that made the flames rise up like a swiftly sprouting plant.

Ringil's chant changed; he was now repeating “Kalamae” often and insistently . . . and as Orivon came to a stop beside the peddler, a face formed in the fire.

“Kalamae,” Ringil whispered one last time, bringing his chant to an end. He looked at Orivon and murmured, “This is how I remember her. She'll be older now . . . if she lives still.”

Orivon stared. Dark-eyed and long-tressed, it might have been his mother. A younger Ralla, without scars and lines of pain and worry . . .