Forging the Runes (32 page)

The slow hours passed, day into night, and Ardagh continued to take what information he could from the delighted, flattered youngster. It was complicated enough, with no guarantee of accuracy save for his own instinctive little shock of magical recognition with each new rune. But each rune had its literal meaning, its symbolic meaning, its magical meaning—complicated, indeed. He couldn't even be totally sure, not without a chance to test this new learning, that Einar was telling him enough to make it of any practical use.

And there was a limit to what could be absorbed, even with the aid of magic. That night, while the Lochlannach talked and joked about what they'd accomplished, the prince slept and heard not a word.

But the runes were there in his mind when he woke, midway through the next day, and with them, a rudimentary understanding of their use. No easy achievement to comprehend even this much, the prince thought with a touch of pride; to truly understand a magical system, one needed to understand the culture that had discovered it, and he could hardly claim to be an expert on the minds and ways of thinking of either Saxons or Lochlannach, let alone to be on speaking terms with the multitude of the latter people's deities.

But I don't need a thorough understanding of either people or their names for the Powers-That-Be to make use of the basic techniques of defense. And attack.

What it was, Ardagh realized, was that as far as he—a Sidhe, a member of an innately magical race—was concerned, the runes, the whole . . . what was the word? . . . the whole
futhark
served to crystallize certain aspects of Existence. This might not be true for humans as well, but the runes were, for him at least, a means to focus his Power in new ways. Being of the Sidhe, of course, also meant that he could absorb meanings and methods and sort them out in his mind with far greater speed than could any human.

It will be interesting to see if these methods still function in my—in the Sidhe Realm.

No. This path of thought was too depressing. Better to concentrate on the here-and-now and see what else could be gleaned from Einar's mind. Better to see if he could, at last, learn enough to combat Osmod. If he couldn't return to his true home, Ardagh told himself, he could at least try to insure the safety of his human sanctuary.

And, he thought with a little shiver of longing, of his love.

Ae, Sorcha, Sorcha, human lives are so short, human emotions run their course so swiftly. Do you still love me, my love? Do you even still remember me?

Human emotions, Osmod mused, were so quick to rouse. So easy to shape. He listened to Ealdorman Cuthred as though truly interested in the plain-faced, plainly dressed man's piteous tale of dishonest servants.

Honest, indeed, our Cuthred, totally, utterly. And totally, utterly dull.

Yet Osmod listened, and every now and then delicately inserted a word, a touch of will, an implication that wasn't quite there that this dishonesty was linked. This dishonesty was part of a plan.

"What plan?" Cuthred said suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing overt, of course. But," Osmod let his voice drop ever so slightly, "I've noted certain signs myself. How better to demoralize a land than to start with its nobility? Nothing overt, as I saw, just small things. Suspicious things. Like that servant of yours— what's his name?"

"The one who stole some coins? Edric. But a few coins—"

"Exactly. Just a few coins. Just a few bolts of inferior cloth or a few ears of spoiled wheat."

A little more will, now, a touch more Power.

"B-but who would be behind such a plot?" Cuthred asked.

Ah, I have you now.
"Why, who do you think?" Osmod murmured, and smiled to himself to hear the whispered:

"Mercia."

"Good day, ealdorman," Osmod said, and moved on. One swayed; dozens more to go.

"Ah, there you are, ealdorman."

Osmod, whose thoughts had been elsewhere—he'd only been able to speak with a few of the Witan, not nearly enough and yet he was already weary—just barely kept from starting, bowing and smiling charmingly instead. "King Egbert. What would you, my liege?"

"Come, Osmod. Walk with me a bit."

Do you really think I'd argue?
"
Of
course."

They strolled about the royal enclosure for a time, the king, and therefore Osmod, silent, as casual as though neither had a thing on their minds other than the nice, warm summer day. And then Egbert said suddenly, "Why are you so sure we must attack Mercia?"

Osmod raised a startled brow. "Are you not?" he asked, pretending great daring.

"Oh, eventually," the king began, then cut himself off abruptly, as though he'd already said more than he'd planned.

And so you have,
Osmod thought, pleased,
and that means my hold over you is returning nicely.
"Why, then—"

"But why
now,
Osmod? Why so soon?"

"The assassin—"

"May or may not have come from Mercia, may or may not have come from Eriu—may or may not have come from far Cathay for all we know."

"My liege, please." Osmod stopped, turning to face the king with his most winning of smiles. "We both know that the assassin's origin or hiring—"

"Or even if he was, indeed, an assassin."

"Well yes, of course, that, too. But we both know that's not truly the issue."

Egbert snorted and started forward again. "No more than Lord Paris's stealing of Queen Helen was the true issue behind the Trojan War—yes, yes, I learned that tale at Charlemagne's court. But those antique kings were secure upon their thrones, rulers of many years. I am neither. Why risk all now?"

Why? Because I wasted sixteen years of Beortric's dull reign? Because I grow impatient for power and Power both?
But he could say nothing of that to the king. Instead Osmod smiled and sighed and lowered his head. "Perhaps I have been too hasty, my liege."
Perhaps my hold over you isn't as strong yet as it needs to be.
"Perhaps I . . ."

"What."

"No, my liege, I—I . . . dare not."

"Don't play games, ealdorman. Say what you would or say nothing."

"Ah. It's just . . . King Offa was a mighty ruler—"

"Granted. King Offa is also dead."

"Yes, but the by-now Emperor Charlemagne is not. And we both know that he and the late king were allies."

"Which he is not with Offa's successor."

"Not yet."

"King Cenwulf is hardly the mighty Offa."

"No, of course not. But that's not stopping him from eyeing Essex and Kent hungrily."

"Let him. Even if Mercia engulfs them both, I still have enough might to engulf Mercia in turn. But only if I am left alone long enough to win Wessex to me!"

Osmod said nothing. And after a time, Egbert stopped once more. "Look you, do you think I learned nothing in my years at Charlemagne's court? I had more than sufficient time to study how an empire should be forged, how it can be worked together out of all those small and independent units into a successful whole."

"That was done in Frankish lands," Osmod murmured.

Egbert glared. "And can be done here as well."

But then the king caught himself again. "The future is the future," he said flatly. "And no man can claim to read it well."

Not even me,
Osmod agreed.
But you admit ambition, Egbert, you admit it secretly to me alone. You trust me as far as a king can trust, and suspect nothing. And with that, my liege, I am, just now, content.

Just now. There was the Witan to continue to rouse, man by man; the more murmured hatred against Mercia—rather than some quick to burn, quick to fade flame of outrage—the more likely genuine action would be taken. Mercia meant Kent and Essex, indeed most of Britain in a neat little fall of kingdoms. And then . . . oh, no limit to that "and then."

As Osmod bowed and watched his king walk away, he smiled a thin little smile.

I should never have wasted myself on petty sacrifices. Whores. Children. Bah, no wonder I squandered so much time. Killing someone as strong as Octa was the wisest move I ever could have made. And if I'm careful, his strength should stay with me as long as I need it.

Of course, there was still Prince Ardagh to consider. But Prince Ardagh, if the runic readings continued to be as they were, was far from here, not a threat.

Yet.

But I know the limits of his Power. He cannot harm me; I've already seen proof of that.

"And threats," Osmod murmured, amused at his own melodramatics, "can always be . . . removed."

Storm Warnings
Chapter 32

Ardagh stretched wearily. By the end of this, the third day after the Lochlannach shipwreck, the work on the steering oar was nearly complete, the weather had stayed dry, the Lochlannach had hunted and fished without seeing a sign of humanity or a clue as to their exact location, and the prince had gathered more runes to his memory than he would ever have imagined possible.

The accompanying, almost never-ending headache he considered a reasonable exchange.

"Time for us to return to Wessex," he murmured to Cadwal.

The mercenary snorted. "Wonderful choice: Stay with these barbarians or return to the
Saesneg.
"
But then he added quite seriously, "Are you ready for this?"

"To take on Osmod, you mean? I don't know. In fact, the only way I
will
know is if I succeed."

"No disrespect meant, but—
Iesu,
you don't give a man much assurance."

"What do you want of me, Cadwal? I cannot lie. And I never have understood the human yearning for false hope."

"I'm not yearning for false hope," the mercenary countered. "Just a little bit of the real thing. We're on an island; can't get off unless it's in company with the Lochlannach."

"Oh? What about the villages the scouts sighted?"

"You can't be meaning to walk right into the market square and say, "Here I am, fresh off a raiders' ship'?"

"Hardly. But if the two of us can't steal away from these folk and past those others . . ."

"There's something very wrong." Cadwal grinned. "Tonight, eh?"

"Tonight," Ardagh agreed. "It's time for the 'Ljos Alfar' to up and disappear."

No way to try his newly won knowledge, not until he could carve the runes. But the night was conveniently dark, lit only by the faint, distant glow of starlight, and Ardagh moved silently out of the Lochlannach camp as easily as ever he'd slipped unseen through the royal fortress of Fremainn, even with the burden of one of the Lochlannach's leather water sacks slung over his back, closely followed by Cadwal, guided by the prince's hand on his arm. Cadwal, too, had a sack slung over his back, this one containing some dried meat and fish. It was not, they'd both wryly agreed, true theft; the Lochlannach could find more than enough fresh supplies to replace what they took.

They're going to think this a magical disappearance,
Ardagh thought with a grin,
just as I threatened to Thorkell. Put the fear of the Ljos Alfar into them. Keep them, I trust, from trying to find me again. Ever.

"That way," Ardagh said in the mercenary's ear. "Follow the coastline."

It wasn't a difficult walk for the most part, not even for Cadwal, for whom the night must have been exceedingly dark, the only real handicap being the need for silence, first to avoid the Lochlannach, then to avoid the villagers. Ardagh paused, considering. Low stone huts, roofs shingled with tile, and a definite smell of new and old fish over all. Good. A fishing village was certain to have the boat they needed.

Yes. There it was, drawn up the beach: one-masted and small enough to be managed easily by two men. Ah, and whatever human owned it was trusting enough to leave the oars aboard.

Cadwal grunted. "I might have known there'd be another boat involved. We're never going to get that launched silently."

"No, we're not."

"And if they have dogs, they're going to be barking their heads off any moment now."

"So they are."

Silence.

"Any idea," the mercenary asked, "how we're going to do this?"

"Yes . . ." Ardagh said slowly. "Ha, yes." He glanced at Cadwal. "Do you think that you can launch that boat by yourself?"

Cadwal shrugged. "Never tried it before, but yes, I'd guess so, if given enough of a diversion for cover."

"That," Ardagh said with a grin, "is my job."

The prince laughed soundlessly in the darkness. It was turning out to be remarkably easy to make an amazing amount of noise without being caught—easy if one had flawless night-vision and could move quickly and quietly enough.

"Here!" he shouted roughly. "You and you, come in this way!" Darting off to a new location, Ardagh yelled in a deeper voice, "No, idiot! No fire arrows, not yet!" And at still another spot, "Attack! Attack!"

One of the oldest tricks in the tales—but by all the Powers, it's working!

Ah yes, here they came, a whole swarm of alarmed, determined humans, spears and knives gripped in their hands, grim anger in their eyes. Ardagh roused the entire village before he was done, sending them off in every direction save the beach.

No time to waste in this hoax. They'd be realizing the trick soon enough, particularly since yes, they did have dogs who would be picking up his intriguing Sidhe scent soon enough. With a last shout of "They've seen us!" Ardagh raced silently back to the beach.

Cadwal, swearing under his breath, was struggling with the boat. Ardagh joined him, and together they shoved it into the waves and scrambled aboard. At the prince's hastily gestured commands, Cadwal grabbed the oars, clumsily rowing them further out while Ardagh struggled with the lines to unfurl the sail, fighting to remember long-ago days in the Sidhe Realm when he'd actually tried his hand at sailing, and done a fairly good job of it, too—

Ha, yes, here toe go!

The unfurled sail caught a sudden gust of wind. Ardagh gestured hastily to Cadwal to ship the oars, wincing as the mercenary splashed them both, then grinned as the boat obediently dashed over the waves, light as a bird.

They'd escaped.

"At least we're not out-and-out thieves," Cadwal muttered, his face faintly green from the boat's motion. "At least we've given the villagers some repayment by rousing them; they'll be ready for the Lochlannach."

But Ardagh, trimming the sail, wasn't really listening.

Be wary, Osmod. Be wary, for what good it will do you, for I am coming after you at last.

They came ashore on a rocky little stretch of beach, landing so roughly that Cadwal nearly went right over the side onto the rough sand. "We're here," he said dryly, pulling himself back on board with Ardagh's help. "But where here may be—somewhere back in Cymru, I'd guess."

"Probably."

"Now what? It's going to be a long walk to Wessex."

"Now," Ardagh said, leaping lithely down onto the beach with a crunching of sand, "we go hunting suitable branches so that I can carve myself a set of runes. After that, ae-yi, the way things have been going, I'm sure we'll find some swift and unexpected means of transport!"

"Wonderful. Can't wait."

The prince raised an amused eyebrow at that flat sarcasm, but said only, "Enough speculations. Come, friend Cadwal, let us go hunting branches."

Osmod swept a sly sideways glance over his ealdorman fellow as they strolled together through the royal enclosure. Big, loud and full of bluster, this Eadwig—and usefully weak of will.

". . . and so," Osmod continued, dipping his head courteously to this lord and that lady as they went, "we must consider not only the insult to the kingdom but the insult to
you
as well."

He put only the smallest trace of emphasis on that "you," knowing that was all he needed, and managed not to smile at his target's sudden frown.

"Insult to
me?
"
Eadwig blustered. "How so?"

Look at him, large and florid as some pagan warrior of Wotan. No, no, like an ox from Wotan's feasts.
"It's very clear," Osmod said, one man of the world to another. "Any insult to Wessex—and Mercia, by its sly, dishonorable actions has definitely offered insult—any insult to Wessex is an open offense to the Witan—to
you.
"

There, now, that was convoluted enough to nicely confuse Eadwig. The man could only seize upon the most obvious: that his honor had been insulted and must be avenged. Osmod listened to him splutter, and smiled inwardly.

He is mine.
"No. We can't act, not quite yet. You understand, ealdorman, of course you understand, that the Witan and the king must be ready to act as one."

Ha, yes, look at this. Eadwig was promising to do his best, and meaning what he said. Not the most politic of tools, maybe, but as useful as any other tool. The work of swaying the Witan, man by man, was going painfully slowly—but by all the Lords of Darkness, it was going well.

No more work with this tool, though, at least not right now. Push too hard, Osmod had already discovered, and his delicate web of a spell tore apart. Excusing himself with a cheerful smile, leaving Eadwig to ponder and try to understand what had just happened (or what he thought had just happened, which was far from the same thing), Osmod returned to his hall.

One more divination, just to be sure things continue going well.

He set the proper Wards then spread the white cloth in his bedchamber. Holding the runes in his hand, Osmod murmured the proper spells, then cast the runes and bent to read what he had cast. . . .

Prince Ardagh. Bah, of course Prince Ardagh! The man seemed determined to thrust himself into every divination. But it hardly mattered, since Prince Ardagh was safely somewhere out at sea—

No. Osmod stared at the runes, then gathered them up and cast them anew. And got an almost identical reading.

He was coming back. Prince Ardagh was coming back to Wessex.

"Damn him,
damn him!
"
Osmod gasped, all at once so overwhelmed by a blazing storm of rage that he could barely breathe. No, no, he mustn't let himself lose control, not now, not with the runes still so charged with Power!

Struggling out of the hot red madness, Osmod forced himself, shaking, heart racing, back to some measure of calmness, amazed and terrified at his own overreaction.

And then he knew in a sudden wild flash of comprehension what all this meant, just why he was feeling this all-out-of-proportion rage, why he felt it every time the runes showed him the prince.

It's not just me, but the Lords of Darkness, it has to be the Lords of Darkness or Whatever They represent. They're
—Something—
is real.
He started to his feet, fell back, still too stunned to stand.
It's the Lords of Darkness who hate the prince so terribly, so—so irrationally. No, not irrationally, inhumanly. That's it, almost—almost as though They see the prince as a barrier to Their plans—
which, he prayed, coincided with his own—
no, no, more than that, it's as though They know that Prince Ardagh isn't even human, as though he doesn't even belong in this world!

Ach, no and no again. That was ridiculous, that was more than ridiculous, that was just too impossible to even consider, and he was not going to let himself keep babbling like some hysterical woman.

But . . . the Darkness . . . a sentient force or forces . . . this explained so much. Osmod, struggling again to rise, sat back down with a jolt as he took in what could only be total truth:

The Lords of Darkness were, indeed, real, and he— ach, he was their vessel. Or maybe vassal? The Lords of Darkness certainly did seem to agree with him that his plans for conquest were well and right—or maybe it was the Darkness itself that had put the ambition into his mind.

No, no, he wasn't going to start wondering like that; such dithering over details led to madness.

Dithering, yes. No wonder I was hesitating so long under Beortric's reign. No wonder it took me such a time to focus my will, my desire. It could not have been an easy thing for the Lords to merge Their so much more than human will with mine.

That stunned him anew. For a moment, Osmod could do nothing more than try to accept that what this all meant was that the Darkness owned him, that the Darkness lorded over him even as he lorded over the common folk, for that one moment it was so terrifying, so alien that the blood thundered in his ears and his breath caught in his chest.

But as suddenly as it had come, the horror was gone. Still sitting where he'd collapsed, Osmod began to laugh, weakly at first, then with genuine humor. Terrifying?

Horrible? Oh no, nothing could be further from terror! Think of it, think of it! Who else in all the history of the world had ever had such allies? With Power such as this behind him, who could possibly ever fail?

Partial Power, Osmod thought with sudden slyness. After all, if the Lords of Darkness were so almighty, why oh why couldn't They act directly? If They were so all-powerful, why did They need a human to act for Them?

There we have it. Not a slave, not me. An ally, indeed. They need me and I need them. Fair enough.

"Let the prince return." It was said both to himself and to Whatever might be listening. "He has no Power here. Let Prince Ardagh return. And let him," Osmod added, this time welcoming a new surge of that hot, definitely inhuman rage, "let him once and for all,
die!
"

This was, Ardagh thought hopefully, perched halfway up an oak, legs locked about the trunk and dagger in hand, the last branch he was going to need for the runes. He was growing thoroughly weary of playing squirrel, particularly in this continual gentle drizzle that made the trees treacherously slippery. Yes, and he was weary of constantly rousing then quenching his Power all the while chanting the necessary ritual with each cutting. This was oak, now, a good, useful, magical tree, and yes, only one rune left: