Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (22 page)

The life he had known was shattering. It was odd how little he felt, now that the time had come. He began to understand why his brothers had yearned for battle. Everything had suddenly become very simple. He nocked another arrow and sent it toward the men who were still crowding up the ramp. He would shoot until he had no arrows left. Then he would draw the leaf-shaped blade whose form he had learned from his foes, and strike—not until there were no more enemies, but until they cut him down.

More crashes told him that the enemy had broken through the double doors at the end of the roofed corridor.

“Woodpecker”—he cleared his throat—“you have done more than enough. It is time to seek what refuge you may.”

The boy shook his head. “I told you already. I stay with you.”

Unexpectedly Velantos grinned. “You have put muscle on those skinny arms, helping me at the forge, but even your strong arm will do no good once they get this far. There are too many, lad. Go to the smithy. Your hair and skin will tell them that you are no man of this land. Tell them you understand forgework and they will spare you.”

Reflexively he touched the hammer he had thrust through his belt that morning when he said farewell to the smithy. It was not a warrior’s weapon, but if—no,
when
it came to close enough quarters for him to use it, no one else would be left to care.

“Lord, I want no other master. I know them, or men like them. Better to die with you.”

Were those tears that glimmered in the boy’s dark eyes? It must be the smoke, he told himself. His own eyes were smarting too.

“Must I make it an order? Or bind you and have you carried below?” Velantos glared. “I will do that if you do not obey! You have served me well, but this is not your fight. We are not your people. Go!” For a moment he thought the boy would continue to argue, but Woodpecker gulped, bent suddenly to seize and kiss his master’s hand, and clattered down the stairs.

Velantos let out his breath on a long sigh. Everything that he had said was true. He told himself that at least he had saved one of those he cared for, but his post seemed suddenly very lonely. No matter, he thought grimly as the sounds of slaughter grew louder. He would have plenty of company soon.

The sound of combat echoed from the lower levels but a great quiet seemed to surround him. “Goddess, I’ve had little time to speak to you and nothing to offer,” he whispered, “and now all the time is gone. I thank you for the help you’ve given me. Farewell . . .” He closed his eyes, seeing in memory the image below which Woodpecker was no doubt sheltering now. And in that moment he felt a stir in his awareness and a voice in the silence of his soul.

Before he could wonder what he had heard, or if indeed there had been anything at all, the first rush reached the court below. He set another arrow to the bow, feeling his muscles creak as he drew the string back to his ear. He could hear the thud of axes once more as the enemy reached the barricade they had thrown up across the passage to the Great Propylon. But the monumental entry, with its red pillars and painted processional scenes, had been intended to impress with its beauty, not its strength. It would not hold them long. As more and more men poured through, he continued to shoot into the crowd, dodging as javelins arched upward, bounced off the parapet, and rattled across the floor.

A shriek from the southern side of the citadel brought him around, staring. Velantos had known the attack on the western bastion to be a feint—it was the strongest of their defenses. But he had thought the southern face of the akropolis too sheer to tempt an assault. The oversight hardly mattered, for even if he had suspected its vulnerability they had no men to defend it. He could see the first foes to get over threading through the passageways between the buildings now.

He tried to remember whom he had put in charge of defending the propylon.

“Andaros—beware behind you!” he yelled as they burst into the open space before the entry to the courtyard. He nocked an arrow and shot, saw a man near the leader fling his arms wide and fall with the black feathers sticking from his chest, reached for another and scraped his fingers on stone. All his arrows were gone.

With an oath he flung down the useless bow and reached for his sword, leaped from the platform to the roof, and from that to another and ran across to the Archive Room, praying that the ladder by which in other times the women had climbed up to watch the moonrise would still be there. As he reached the ground, he saw the defenders edging back from the inner door of the propylon into the outer court, swinging around to face the new threat behind them. No need to guess what the enemy intended—the citadels were all built to the same plan. One had only to go upward to reach the central courtyard and the megaron beyond it. And there they would find the king.

Velantos drew his sword as the first foes reached them, bracing his feet as the shock drove the man in front against him. He gaped as a spearpoint burst through the man’s back, swung up his blade as the slain man slumped, and chopped down as his killer struggled to withdraw the spear. The sword caught in the man’s collarbone and he nearly lost it as the enemy in turn began to fall, wrenched it free with a gasp, and swung against the next contorted face beneath a bronze helmet, aware at the same time of a dim wonder that it should feel so much like hitting the goat carcass on which he had tested the blade. And why not, he told himself as the man reeled back from his blow. They were meat, man and goat alike, compacted of bone and muscle and red blood that fountained when the sword bit through. He whirled and struck again, understanding at last the meaning of the battle dance the priests of the Kouretes taught the boys when they were initiated as men.

“Retreat to the entry! We’ll hold them there—” he gasped, dodging a spear and sprinting between the pillars of the smaller gatehouse beyond with the others behind him. They had not barricaded it, for the best defense in this narrow space was a hedge of spears. Orange sunlight poured through from the central court on the other side. He ran out into the court. A quick glance showed him the warriors of the king’s guard forming up on the far side before the entrance to the megaron.

“Be ready—” he called. He turned at a sound more sensed than heard, and reeled aside as a javelin sliced across his upper arm. There was a man on the roof of the smaller propylon. In the next moment another appeared behind him, then more. The ladder! He should have brought it with him. But that did not matter now. He dashed back to the shadow of the propylon.

“Andaros, they’re behind us! Everyone, to the megaron!”

Men tumbled out of the shadows of the smaller propylon as more and more foes reached its roof. They were the ones who could throw down missiles now. But they were too eager to come to grips. They brought up the ladder from the other side and began to scramble down. It became a chaotic running fight between the retreating defenders and the foes who were streaming after them.

Panting, they attempted to form up in front of the king’s guard. With a shout the Eraklidae charged. The first men clutched at the spears that spitted them, tearing them from the defenders’ hands. Then it was work for swords. Accustomed to using either hand in the forge, Velantos hewed with the blade in his right hand and swung the hammer with his left. At such close quarters, the one was as effective as the other. The sword bit deep into flesh, but the hammer shattered bone. In such a scramble no one could go unscathed, but Velantos never felt the blades that stung him. No decisions remained, no care, not even for his own life, only the need to strike and strike again until he could strike no more.

He blinked as he found himself forced into the shadow of the porch, only then realizing that he had been retreating across the court. Four of the king’s guard stood with him, all that remained to guard the three doors that led within. A swing of the hammer missed and smashed into the alabaster rosette on the wall, blue-painted chips flew into his opponent’s eyes, and the man reeled backward. Velantos edged back through the middle door and cast a quick look behind him, glimpsed the king on his throne with the queen standing beside him, tried to turn back as foes filled the doorway, and went sprawling as they crashed through, sword and hammer sliding across the floor.

He expected that moment to be his last, but a curt order halted the rush that followed him into the room. Velantos started to lever himself upright and stopped as a spearpoint swung down to prick his throat, the instinct to flinch battling the desire to lean into the blade and show his father that he too could die like a prince of Tiryns. In the distance he could hear the clamor of battle, and from somewhere closer, a woman’s scream, but in the megaron, all was still.

Heart hammering, Velantos tore his gaze from the spearpoint and looked around him. A dozen warriors stood between him and the throne, big men in red kilts with scars on their bare chests, carrying spears and swords. Through their legs he could see the king and the queen.

There was no point in trying to prove his courage to his father, he thought numbly, seeing the old man slumped as if he had fallen asleep in the great chair. The king was dead already, had been dead, perhaps, since word came that the Gate was down. Had he taken poison, or had his heart mercifully given way? The queen stood like an image beside him, the same faintly disapproving expression as always on her lips and brows. For a moment their eyes met, and he saw in her gaze a flicker of something that might have been pity, though he found that hard to believe.

There was a stir at the doorway and men stood aside to let in another group of warriors, better armed, and unwounded as the men of the king’s guard had been until a little while ago. Behind them came an older man in a red cloak with grizzled hair tied up in a warrior’s knot, the scars on his face deepened by the lines of passion and power.

“Queen Naxomene . . . I am Kresfontes, son of Aristomakhos, and my brother and I claim this citadel.”

The queen nodded. “I see that it is so,” she said harshly. “I will not bid you welcome.”

He shrugged. “Your husband has escaped us, but it is you who carry the sovereignty.”

“Do you think to claim it by taking me to your bed?” She laughed. “It is long since the Lady of Love shared her gifts with me. My sons are all dead, and my daughters all married into other lands.”

“Then you shall act as nursemaid to the children I get on other women.”

“How kind! Shall I give you a gift in return? You have taken Tiryns, but in times such as these the women of my line receive the gift of prophecy, and though you have asked no question, I will be your oracle. The line of Pelops is ended, and with it the Age of Heroes. From this time forward, the Plain of Argos will be ruled by the Children of Erakles, but it is our stories that your sons will tell. And though you may have captured this citadel, you will not hold it for long.”

Now Kresfontes was the one who laughed, although through the ringing in his ears Velantos seemed to catch a note of strain. “Do you think Tisamenos will thunder down from Mykenae to avenge you? Once we have finished here, his citadel will be the next to fall.”

“You may conquer men, but can you stand against the gods?” asked the queen.

“We are the heirs of Erakles,” Kresfontes said proudly, “and we come to claim our own. Will the gods not support our right?”

“Erakles was denied this city by the will of E-ra, and she opposes his blood still,” the queen replied. “Posedaon Enesidaone will shake down these walls rather than leave them in your hands.” Some of the warriors made a sign against evil and she smiled. “That is not a curse; it is a prophecy.”

“I give this for your prophecy—” Kresfontes made a rude gesture, and his warriors laughed. “You are no longer a queen. You are my slave, and you shall grind the grain to bake my bread. Bind her—”

Velantos realized that all the warriors were staring at their leader and the queen. He raised himself on one elbow. The hilt of the leaf-shaped sword lay just behind his hand. If he could reach it—what could he do? Leap between Naxomene and the men who were starting toward her, to delay for a few more moments the death of her pride?
I can die like a smith,
a deeper knowledge replied,
with my last work in my hand . . .

As the first warrior reached for the queen’s arm, Velantos grabbed for the sword, but before either could reach their goal another blade flashed. A twitch of her wrist brought the dagger the queen had held reversed against her inner arm out and up and into her heart. Bright blood blossomed on the fine stuff of her gown as she curled around the blade, sank to her knees, and then to her side on the tiled floor.

“It is my blood that curses you. . . .” she gasped, and then a last shudder took her and she lay still.

Velantos surged to his feet, the sword whipping out to take the nearest warrior in the side. Beyond him he saw Kresfontes and lunged toward him. But the enemy were already recovering. Swift as hounds they turned on him. His left leg gave way as a spear slammed into the calf. Swords that would have pierced him clanged above his head. As he hit the floor, a heavy sandal stamped down on his arm and the sword was torn away.

At least,
he thought with a last flicker of triumph,
the boy will live. . . .
He saw blades gleam above him and turned to welcome them.

 

 

 

THE SOUNDS FROM THE upper levels had changed. Woodpecker lifted his head, listening. The full-throated shouts and the clangor of arms had given way to footsteps and voices. Except for the screaming when some woman was seized, it might have been the noise of a crowd on a festival day. But the clamor was all from above.

Here, nothing moved but the dust motes that swirled in the shaft of sunlight that came in through the high window. But Woodpecker knew that the safety of the smithy was an illusion. When the palace had been secured, the enemy would begin to search the rest of the citadel, and they would find him, and he would be a slave once more. He tried to tell himself that nothing had changed, that he had been a slave since—His mind shied away from the image of a grinning bearded face. The harsh reek of smoke merged with memories of mist that clouded a rocky shore.