Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword of Avalon (4 page)

“You have spent too much time at your prayers, Lady of Avalon. No doubt the babe will appreciate the motion if you take some exercise.”

She gestured to the girl who had brought the ale to continue onward, and Anderle did the same, but Durrin and Uldan both held out their beakers to be refilled. Perhaps that was just as well. If they drank together, Durrin’s charm might accomplish what Anderle’s authority could not.

“Shall we go, cousin? Let the men drown their wits if they will. They will regret it when morning comes.” Irnana rose.

“Indeed, if you mean to drag me all over the plain tomorrow I had better get what rest I may.” Anderle managed a smile.

 

 

 

THE BED WAS TOO soft. In the house of the Lady of Avalon, even the high priestess slept on a pallet of straw on the floor. At Azan, the bedplace reserved for honored guests was of a different order entirely, a yielding mattress of goose down laid atop one of straw supported by a web of rope strung across a frame. Each time Anderle or Ellet turned, it creaked and swung. She had expected to fall asleep quickly. The younger priestess had nodded off as soon as they retired, but Anderle lay wakeful, listening to the snorts and whistles coming from the other sections. The partitions of wicker or woven wool between the posts and the wall did little to muffle the sound.

Even the disciplines that were a part of the training of a priestess had brought her no more than a few hours of rest. True sleep eluded her, and at length she sighed and carefully levered herself upright. Ellet stirred with a mumbled query.

“Sleep, child,” she whispered. “I am only going to relieve myself. There’s no need for you to get up too.” It was true enough that with the baby sitting on her bladder it had been months since she had been able to sleep the night through, but whether the reason was discomfort or anxiety, Anderle could no longer bear to lie still.

She parted the hangings that defined their sleeping place and carefully stepped over Durrin, who lay snoring on a straw pallet just outside. The dim glow of the coals gave enough light for her to thread her way between the warriors who lay by the fire, and ease out past the hide that curtained the main door.

It was the still hour just before dawn, dank and chill. Ground fog curled among the buildings. Anderle took a deep breath as she emerged from behind the wicker screen and coughed as an acrid reek caught in her lungs. Shock pebbled the skin of her arms. That was no fog! She was smelling smoke, illuminated by the first faint glow of a fire. The thatch of one of the smaller roundhouses was burning. For a moment despair paralyzed her limbs. It was the scene of her vision. But in her vision
she
had not been here.

She swallowed a shout as she lumbered back across the yard. What good was a warning if she could not use it to change the outcome? Swiftly she slipped through the door, bending to shake the shoulder of the first sleeping warrior.

“Up, man! There are foes within the ward. But quietly, and you may take them by surprise before they know you are warned.”

She felt rather than saw the ripple of motion as the word was passed. Men leaped to their feet, scrambling to snatch swords from their pegs on the posts and shields from the wall. Anderle clung to one of the uprights. Indoors, she risked being trapped in a burning building, but would she be safer outside? No man of the tribes would knowingly harm the Lady of Avalon, but even if she had been wearing the blue robes of her calling instead of a shift and a shawl, they might not have recognized her in the dark. She tried to convince herself that she was safest here.

Metal clanked and someone swore. She heard Uldan’s voice, low but firm, and felt her galloping heartbeat slow. The lack of imagination that had made him ignore her warning kept him from panic now. Tall forms shoved past her, gathering in front of the doorway. Then a curt command sent them pounding forward. There was a cry, a clash of bronze. “Ai-Zir! ’Ware the horns of the Bull!” came the full-throated roar, and “Fear the Fang! Ai-Ushen!” drawn out in a wolf’s shrill howl in reply.

She should have expected it. The tribe to the north was under constant pressure from mountain dwellers who had suffered worse still. No doubt the heifers of which Irnana had boasted were already on their way to the Ai-Ushen fields. Productive land was the greatest treasure, but gold and bronze could buy food from those who still had fields in which grain would grow.

Someone stirred up the hearth fire and she met Ellet’s horrified gaze. Durrin was struggling to his feet, blinking at the commotion around him.

“Get our cloaks! Irnana, are you here?”

But the king’s wife was already pushing toward her. Red hair streaming wildly, she clutched at Anderle’s arm. Outside the shouting was louder, the scent of smoke stronger now.

“Help me get to Mikantor!’

For a heartbeat the priestess stared. Then she remembered that the child slept with his nurse in one of the other roundhouses. Anderle quailed at the turmoil she could hear outside. Her spirit, if not her body, had been weakened by Kiri’s cosseting. No use to protest she was unable to help—Uldan’s men were fighting; Ellet and Durrin looked to her for direction. Pregnant or not, she would have to use whatever power she had.
And if the Lady of Avalon cannot find a few spells for protection,
she thought then,
our line deserves to fail.

“We will go together. Be still, and remember your training!” she said aloud. “Take a deep breath, blur the air around you. If we rush out in a panic, they will cut us down!” She hoped Zamara had the sense to stay inside. Her house was in the center of the enclosure, marked by the standard on its pole. Even the Ai-Ushen wolves would not dare to kill a queen.

We must be shadows . . .
She drew power from the earth and wrapped it around them, extending her inner awareness to sense the flow of energies outside. There was no one near. She squeezed Irnana’s arm and drew her through the door.

The body of one of the house guards lay before it, other forms littered the ground nearby, but near the main gate bronze flared as struggling figures moved in and out of the fitful glow. A woman screamed as a warrior forced her down, tearing at her clothes. Anderle’s gut twisted as a child’s wail went on and on.

“Which house?” she whispered as they edged forward, and Irnana pointed toward a smaller building behind the house of the queen.

Behind them light flared as someone set a torch to the thatch of Uldan’s feasting hall. Men were running in and out of the building, bundling goods and gear into the woolen hangings that had insulated the walls. If Irnana had not begged her help she would have been inside. Could either rank or magic have protected her against men maddened by battle lust and greed?

They had nearly reached the house where Mikantor slept with the other children. Anderle recoiled, hands flashing a gesture of warding as a slight figure darted toward them, then recognized her as one of the maids who had served in the hall.

“My lady, you’re safe—” The girl clutched at Irnana’s arm.

“Be quiet, you fool—” hissed Anderle. But it was already too late. The maid’s movement had caught the attention of one of the warriors as the scurry of a mouse will bring an owl. As the man leaped toward them Anderle tensed, then recognized the bulky figure as the chieftain from Oakhill who had been in the feasting hall.

“Galid!” cried Irnana. “Guard us—I must get to my son!”

The man shook his head, lips curling in a mirthless grin. “Let Uldan’s spawn die as my sons died. Uldan has lost the favor of the gods!”

For a moment Irnana stood staring. “Was it you? Are you the traitor who let in the wolves?”

Galid’s gaze kindled as he looked her up and down, firelight glinting on the bands that confined the many braids of his hair. “Indeed, and you are a bleating ewe, but a pretty one. I’ll spare you to warm my bed if you behave.”

Fury blazed in her face—no, Anderle could see it so clearly because the Children’s House was on fire. As Galid reached for her, Irnana ducked under his arm and dove through the doorway.

As the man turned back Anderle drew herself up, rage and terror beating in her veins. “Do you dare to oppose the power of Avalon!”

His eyes widened. What was he seeing? This was the first time Anderle had put on the glamour of the Dark Mother in earnest. She had not known if she could, especially now. It was need that had unleashed the power, observed that part of her mind that was not gibbering, need channeled by the disciplines of Avalon. She had never truly
needed
that power before.

“You will stand aside,” she said in a compelling voice. “We are not your enemies. . . .”

Her heart leaped as she realized that the cruel triumph in his face was giving way to fear. She turned to follow Irnana through the door.

“Anderle, it’s too late!” Durrin grabbed her arm. Heat seared her face, and she realized that not only the thatching but the walls were aflame. Had smoke already overwhelmed those within? She reached out with her spirit, and heard a child’s wailing cry.

“No!” Anderle denied the words that reverberated in memory. The smoldering hide that curtained the door was pulled aside. Through a swirl of smoke she glimpsed Irnana with her son clasped to her breast.

“Save him!”

Anderle jerked free of Durrin’s grasp and leaned into a blast of heat like a demon’s forge, staggering as Irnana thrust the child into her arms and swayed back, robed and crowned in flame. In the next moment her triumphant smile contorted. Anderle reeled away, shutting her eyes as the vision of splendor turned to a horror of blazing hair and crisping skin.

Her scream broke Galid’s trance. Seeing the child in her arms, the warrior grinned and swung up his sword.

“Anderle!” yelled Durrin, thrusting past her to grab Galid’s arm. “Run!”

Ellet shoved her away from the struggling men. Anderle saw Durrin break loose. His anguished gaze sought hers. Galid turned as well. Durrin shouted his name, and threw himself into the swing of Galid’s sword.

“Run!”
The plea came to her heart, not her ears. Weeping, she allowed Ellet to drag her away.

TWO

M
y lady, we can’t stop here!” Ellet stared at the dim bulk of the barrow. “This is a place of ghosts!” She clutched at Mikantor, who began to cry. Despite her words the younger priestess was reeling where she stood. Ellet had carried the baby most of the way across the ford of the Aman and up the rise, and even her youthful energy had come to an end.

“The ancestors will not hurt us. But if we exhaust ourselves now, we will join them.” Anderle got her own breathing under control.
I am carrying a child too,
she thought grimly,
though she weighs less than Irnana’s boy.
She looked back the way they had come.

The scene below was the reverse of the one on which she had gazed when they arrived. The reek of burning thatch had replaced the scent of hay. The beasts that grazed in the fields had been driven off, the roundhouses that had seemed so snug behind their palisade were now cones of flame in whose light black figures capered. Thank the gods she could not hear the screaming anymore.

But on the track behind them nothing moved.

Were the Ai-Ushen wolves simply too busy looting to go after fugitives now? Images of those last moments in the clanhold wrenched Anderle’s heart. She had seen Galid’s blow bring Durrin down.
He died to save us. When we are safe I will mourn him.
. . . That litany kept her moving down the road.

Galid would come after them. Durrin’s sacrifice had bought them time, not safety, and it was up to Anderle to use it well. When pursuit did come, they would expect to find the fugitives on the road to Avalon. It was only a matter of time.

A dog howled and Ellet began to tremble once more, obviously remembering stories of the demon Guayota who haunted lonely places and was said to take the form of a hound.

“You are right—I think we must leave the road.”

“But where can we go?” Ellet gazed at the gently rolling landscape around them, lumped with the barrows built by men whose names had faded from memory but whose power dwelt here still.

“Let me take Mikantor—” The priestess drew the whimpering child from the girl’s arms. The boy was barely three months old, but big for his age.

After a few moments, Ellet’s breathing began to ease. Anderle’s gaze moved to the Henge, its uprights blocks of shadow beneath the stars. Even from here, she could feel the energy it focused as a faint buzz along her nerves. At Avalon it was said that it had been built by a priest from beyond the seas who was an ancestor both to her and to the babe in her arms. She had been taught the disciplines to wake its powers, but to do so might be dangerous to her own unborn child. Their situation was not so desperate. Not yet. But Mikantor was descended from the men who had built the barrows as well as those who had built Avalon. Perhaps they would be willing to help him.

“Old Ones!” she called softly. “Grandmothers, grandfathers of Azan, hear me! Behold your heir!” She held the squirming baby high and slowly turned. He ceased to whimper and stared. Ellet’s eyes were huge in her pale face as she too felt the change in the air.
Something
was listening. Anderle took a deep breath and went on. “The clanhold has fallen and enemies pursue him. Only you can help us now! Come forth to guard the way. Confuse those who come after us.” Her grip tightened on the boy’s strong limbs. “By blood of your blood and bone of your bone, I adjure you! Lead them astray, and guide us safely home!”

Anderle staggered and clutched at the child as a sudden wind whispered around her. When she could see again, the grass was still. But her awakened Sight showed a glimmer of radiance above the barrow. The same light glowed above the other mounds scattered across the plain. It blazed from the mighty stones of the Henge.