Dragon Heart (19 page)

“Which isn't there anymore, you know,” Mervaly said sharply.

She laid the broom down, and spread her arms. From all around the room, the birds fluttered in around her, to perch on her shoulders, nestle in her hair, lean against her cheek, and she began to dance. The birds chirruped and sang and Mervaly danced slowly around the room with them.

“He says they'll fix it when the men come back. We'll wake up some morning,” Jeon said, “and they'll have walled us up in a tomb.”

Tirza gave a sudden explosion of laughter, looking around at them, as if to share some joke. Jeon buried his head in his arms.

The music of the birds trilled out. Mervaly swung slowly in circles toward the window, the birds all clinging to her like a mantle of feathers. “Luka will know what to do.”

Casea said, “You said that same thing about Mother.”

*   *   *

The table was small but impossibly heavy. Marwin with all his strength could not budge it, and when he brought in another man to help him still it would not move. It was as if the low black rock table was fastened to the floor. Marwin thought of telling Broga he could not do this, but Broga would be angry and Marwin could not think of a way to deflect his anger onto someone else.

The table looked like the common rock of the walls; long and narrow, it had a shallow well at either end, maybe to catch the blood of feasting or sacrifice. Marwin could see why Broga wanted it for an altar. He went out to the antechamber and brought in all the men he could find.

With a dozen hands lifting, the table rose off the floor enough that they could carry it away, through the hall and into the antechamber, where they had to set it down, and once again the table seemed to fasten itself to the floor. Grunting and groaning, they managed to hoist it up and then drag and heave and push it up the stair to Broga's chapel.

The redheaded Prince was sitting on the steps on the landing. A man with a torch stood by the door into the chapel and moved out of the way as they struggled in. The Archduke was pacing up and down the middle of the room, frowning, his hands behind his back. “What took so long?” He pointed. “That's the east wall, there.”

They wrestled the table over against that wall and then he barked at them that it was too close and made them push it back a few feet.

“Now.” Broga clapped his hands together. “Where's that priest? Where are my lamps?”

Marwin had not seen the priest since Erdhart danced off the terrace into the sea, but he himself was not a man to do much praying. He nodded to the man beside him. “Go bring the lamps from the hall, there.” He sent away the rest of the soldiers, so that Broga would notice him more, and busied himself around the room, straightening and neatening as if it were not already straight and neat. He liked the greystone walls here, even if there was no window.

The soldier came back with two lamps, shaped like snail shells. Marwin took them, one in each hand, and set them on the altar. Broga said, “Nearer the ends. I need a striker.” Marwin found his tinderbox in his belt and handed it to him, and Broga lit each lamp.

He stood back, smiling. The room brightened, warmer, even the black table shining. Marwin waved his hand, and the man with the torch went out, past the little priest coming in.

The priest crept in the side of the doorway, holding up the hem of his black robe, as if he dared let nothing but his feet touch the floor. His bald head shone. He bowed to Broga, at the same time making a blessing with his hand. Broga said, “You will consecrate this place.”

The priest bobbed his head. “My lord, that may not be possible.”

Broga flung his head back, scowling. “In the Empire nothing is impossible. Do as I say.”

The little man before him shrugged, his face drawn. “Please, then, I need water. From outside the castle.”

The Archduke shot a glance at Marwin. “Fetch water.”

“My lord!” Marwin strode off.

The priest came out to the stair landing after him. The redheaded Prince was sitting on the stairstep, looking bored. The priest caught Marwin's sleeve.

“I need fresh, clean water, soldier.”

Marwin smiled at him. He had no intention of going all the way outside the castle to get water. He knew where there was water much closer. He went down the stair, listening behind him to make sure the priest did not spy, and took his helmet and went across the antechamber into the great hall. The tide was high and the waves were crashing up over the edge of the terrace, throwing sweeps of water over the rock. At either end of the terrace the overflow streamed back toward the sea, and he went to the near end and filled the helmet. So they would think he had gone outside the castle, he lingered awhile in the hall.

He thought of Dawd, off on patrol. Things generally went better when Dawd was around, because he worked so hard. But now while Dawd was gone Marwin had some inside way to Broga, and he should use that, put himself forward, make sure he was there, ready, snappy with the salutes. Judging that he could have gone outside and back by now, he went on across the antechamber and up the stair to the chapel.

The priest was standing there wringing his hands. Broga said, “Good; that was quick.” The Archduke had brought in a sword, not a soldier's sword but a ceremonial one with a gilded hilt and a sparkling blade. He kissed the blade and, going behind the altar, held the sword up against the wall.

The symbol of the Empire. Marwin signed himself, enjoying a warm, good feeling. Broga said, “Bring me the hammer. I shall place this with my own hands.”

Marwin brought a hammer, and Broga drove a spike into the chinks between the stones, high above the altar, and hung the sword, point down.

“Do it,” he said to the priest.

The priest with the helmet full of water sprinkled the altar, and said some words in the old tongue. He went off around the room, dampening the corners and flicking droplets from his fingers into the air.

“That's enough,” Broga said. “It is done now. Holy.” Backing away, he folded his hands before him and lowered his head. “We shall think for a moment of the God-given mission of the Empire and the glory of the Imperial Family. We are called to purify the world. And now we have brought that mission into even this infernal place.”

Marwin bowed his head. The silence stretched on; out on the landing, even the redheaded Prince made no sound. Finally Broga signed himself and straightened.

“I shall pray now. You may all be gone. Let no one disturb me.” He nodded to Marwin. “You stand guard.” Broga's gaze shifted; Marwin saw he was looking toward Prince Jeon, and took his meaning.

“Yes, my lord! Glory!”

“Glory,” Broga said, and turned back to his altar.

Marwin went outside onto the landing. The Prince was slumped on the step, looking bored. The priest stood there staring down at his hands, and suddenly he licked his fingers. He turned abruptly to Marwin.

“That water. That water was salt.” His voice squeaked. “That was seawater.”

“Oh, well,” Marwin said.

“You fool,” the priest said. “You complete fool.” He pattered away down the steps. On the steps, the Prince was still looking half-asleep, but he was smiling.

*   *   *

Luka and Oto reached Terreon two nights later, with the rain pounding down on them. As they rode up, the gate in the wall ahead of them brightened with torches; news of their coming had gone on ahead of them, obviously, because fifteen or twenty people waited and they cheered as the two men rode up. Luka pushed his hood back, riding into the midst of the light.

“I am King Luka.”

In the crowd, suddenly, a voice rose. “It is Luka. My lord, remember me—” That man pushed forward to the front, talking to the others. “I followed you back from the massacre— The King is come! It is him! We have a King again!” He turned and thrust his hands up over his head and everybody cheered and rushed forward. Oto's horse shied back from the noise, and he let it carry him off a little, out of the turmoil.

In the midst of it, Luka was reaching down to touch people, to be touched. A single hand with a knife, Oto thought, and he is gone.

There was no knife. Oto followed the crowd with their torches and cheers, escorting Luka through the little town. Inside its wooden palisade Terreon was no more than a dozen dwellings, hardly more than huts, with walls of wood and plaster, blankets of straw for roofs. In the steady hard rain they went on to a house of some size, in the center of the town, and Luka dismounted and went in, and Oto followed him, glad to be out of the slop.

Inside, the building was a long, low barn, the floor covered with straw. The massive stone hearth in the center of the room threw out billows of smoke. The man who had recognized Luka ushered them to a table while as many of the people as could fit crowded into the room facing them.

Luka sat on the bench, his hands in front of him on the table. “Tell me what is going on here.”

Several voices all went up at once, but the first man, whose house this clearly was, turned and waved them quiet. He faced Luka again. He was a round man, with popping eyes and a gusty voice.

“My lord, it's pigs.”

Oto almost laughed; he put his hand over his mouth. They had come all this way to save the place from swine. There was a fable, he thought, but he could not bring it right to mind.

Luka was not smiling. The fat man was rushing on. “They started showing up in the fall. From the beginning there were lots of them, more than most sounders. They ruined one of the orchards, first, and when we went out to drive them off—”

In the crowd a woman cried out, “They killed her!” The other people called out.

“There is a great boar leading them,” the balding man said. “As big as a cow. It's not an ordinary pig, sir; it's a demon. It did kill old Mamy when she tried to drive it off, brave thing she was; everybody else ran.”

A woman called, “They ate her!”

In the crowd, a man's voice rose. “It's a wer-boar, out of the mountains! It's a ghost!”

At that, Oto noticed, Luka gave a start. He said, “It came from the mountains?”

“Where else?” the fat man said. “We had gotten in the harvest, for which at the time, too soon, I thanked God. The boar means us ill. It led them to break into the storage barn and ruin half the barley. They went through the midden and scattered the refuse, and they attack anybody who goes outside. They are beginning to come through the fence.” The balding man squeezed his hands together. “Help us. We thought you would bring soldiers.”

Luka said, “You have able-bodied men here; we don't need soldiers.” His voice rang, steely. “Where is this boar now?”

The fat man said, “Not in the rain, they won't come. But when the rain stops.”

Luka nodded. “Very well. My companion and I have ridden far. I want something to eat, and something really good to drink. Tomorrow the day should be fine, and we'll get ready for your pigs.”

*   *   *

Luka made three spears out of farm tools, long, stout staffs tipped with iron, each one fitted with a stout crossbar a foot above the point. He knew the people here would do nothing until he showed the way.

He and Oto rode out in the afternoon to find the pigs and the whole village followed, but those people stayed well behind Luka. Oto rode at his stirrup, saying nothing.

Beyond the town fence, the fields spread out in broad skirts under a thin crust of snow, the furrows like pleats, the stubble of the cropped barley poking through. Up ahead, where the forest came down to the plowed ground, he could see something moving, and drawing closer he saw the pigs, ranging out of the trees onto the fringe of an old field, rooting at the snowy ground. Big black and brown sows with flopping ears, and little piglets, and scrawny half-grown shoats, they snorted and tore at the ground with their hooves, all the while the whole sounder moving steadily toward the little town behind its fence. Luka stuck two of the spears under his stirrup leather, and held the other in his left hand. As he rode toward them, the pigs all clustered together, their heads toward him.

Behind him, someone screamed, “There it is!”

The hackles rose on the back of his neck. Around the edge of the pig herd came the boar.

It was twice as big as any of the sows, black as a hole in the ground, covered with bristles like spines. Its head was like a plowshare, its tusks as long as Luka's forearm. When it saw him, it charged.

The horse jumped and twisted, but Luka forced it straight to meet the boar, hefted the spear in his hand, and as the beast rushed to him, he leaned out from the saddle, let the horse wheel out of the way, and drove the spear down at the boar as it turned to follow.

He felt the spear strike the boar, right down into its withers, and then the boar wrenched around and struck at the horse. Halfway out of the saddle, Luka leaned down on the spear, trying to drive it deeper. His horse screamed and reared and went over backward.

He leapt off, losing hold of the spear. The horse thrashed on the ground, and the boar drove its curved tusk into the upturned belly and tore it open with a single jerk of its head. Blood splattered across the dirt, the stench of spilled guts. As it did this the boar for an instant was broadside to Luka, the spear still jutting from its back, and Luka flung himself on it, hands on the haft, all his weight driving the spear deep.

The boar ramped up before him, lunging for him, its hind legs slipping in the uncoiling wreckage of the horse's guts. He could see the wiry hairs on its snout, the tiny eyes like an afterthought in the gross map of its face. He braced himself and drove the spear with the weight of his body, and with a grunting squeal the boar lunged and twisted back and away from him and the spear broke off in his hands and he tripped and sprawled on the bloody, slimy ground.

The boar charged him again, its jaws trailing rags of spittle. Luka rolled away, taking his belt knife in his hand, and when the great snorting filthy head thrust toward him he slashed a red stripe across its muzzle. The blood leapt across its face. The boar backed up a step, and charged, swinging its head, hooking at Luca with its tusks. Luca jumped across the hurtling body. The other spears were still stuck under the saddle leather on the dead horse and he ran for them, the boar grunting and slavering after him. He tripped in the stinking mess on the ground and went flat, and the boar lunged full into him and a searing pain went through his side.