The Silver Sun (10 page)

It was fifteen days of walking and gentle riding before they came to the coast. The sea cliffs dropped straight from a weedy, windswept plain, and the surf crashed far below. When Hal heard the sea and felt the salt breeze, he straightened in the saddle, and his gray eyes gleamed with a silvery sheen. But to Alan, the roaring of the sea was a sound of doom, and the sad cries of the gulls were like weeping. It took the warmth of evening's campfire to drive the cold weight from his heart.

Autumn was fast approaching. The nights were chill, the mornings damp. The leaves of the twisted trees hung limp in the heat of the days. Thundershowers came and went. Hal and Alan zigzagged northward along the coast, looking for Corin; and one evening, when the ground was still wet from the afternoon's rain, they found a trail. Two pairs of feet had made it, one large and one smaller.

“Finally!” Hal exclaimed.

They followed the smudgy traces until it was too dark to see; then they pressed on, afoot and feeling their way through the brush, watching for a campfire. Before long they spied a flicker in the distance.

“What luck!” Hal whispered. “But softly now; we can't be certain it is only the smith and the boy."

To Alan it seemed like an eternity that they stalked through the troublesome thickets. His heart pounded with the suspense of slow movement, and he winced at every clumsy noise he made. Hal went like a silent shadow before him. But as they neared the fire at last, Hal drifted back beside him and touched his arm.

“Kingsmen!” he breathed. Alan could feel the tremor of his fingers and hear the catch in his voice. He had named the name of terror; yet he moved forward again, toward the firelight.

In a moment, Alan could see why. Corin sat there, tied to a scrubby tree. Even in the ruddy glow of the flames, the boy's face looked as pale as death. Col lay stretched on the ground, near the fire. The kingsmen stooped around him. King Iscovar bragged that his retainers wore helmets of gold, but the metal was cheapened with copper until it glowed orange, the cruelest color; their cloaks were dyed black in imitation of the King's sable, and they were obliged to wear them even in the summer heat. They circled around the fire and Col like black priests of the horned god around a ritual victim. Alan could see that Col was staked to the stony ground. The man had stained the earth with his blood. Alan shuddered and struggled for breath.

“If we fight them,” Hal warned in the lowest of whispers, “we must slay them all, for our lives’ sake."

There were six kingsmen. The leader raised a sword, Hal's sword, above Col's straining face.

“There is still time to tell me where you found this,” he crooned, “before you die by it."

The smith turned away his head. “No matter,” another kingsman remarked. “We will have it out of the pup, then."

“I tell you, I stole it!” Corin cried, but the man whipped around and clouted him with a heavy fist. The boy's head thudded into the tree, and Col screamed though his son did not, a roaring cry of despair. While the sound still echoed Hal and Alan drew their swords, and in voiceless unison they sprang.

They were not inclined to be sporting, at the odds. Hal lopped the head off Corin's assailant before the man could rise; the body lurched onto the boy, splattering him with blood. Alan sent a kingsman stumbling into the fire. The fellow shrieked as his heavy cloak burst into flame, and ran madly through the melee. Alan and Hal each stood battling desperately against two swords. Alan was backed up against Col's inert form, sick at the thought of stepping on the man. Shieldless, he had already taken half a dozen cuts. Hal found himself pitting a thick, hacking sword against the grace of his own lighter blade. He whistled a long, shrilling blast, then blinked; one of his foes had fallen, crippled. Someone had struck the man in the leg. The boy Corin, still reeling from the blow to his head, staggered toward the fire to help Alan, lifting a captured weapon.

But Arundel got there first, and Alfie. They bowled over the enemies with the force of their charge. After that it was soon over. Six kingsmen lay dead; Hal made sure of each of them. Alan sank down beside the body of the smith. Corin knelt there, quivering and pressing his father's hand, but Col was dead. It did not take much looking to tell that.

Hal came up with the flask, and a kingsman's shirt for bandaging. He glanced at Col and the boy, then silently handed the flask to Alan. Like Alan, he was bleeding from cuts on his arms and shoulders, though not as many. Alan gulped some liquor and got up, shakily.

“We had better be off quickly,” he muttered, “in case there are more such vermin about."

“Arundel will tell us if anyone comes near,” Hal replied. “We can take time to lay the smith to rest.” He hastily wrapped Alan's worst cuts, and his own, then knelt by Corin. He bandaged the boy's raw wrists as he spoke. “Lad, my sword brought you the worst of luck. I am sorry."

“May it bring you better, for your goodliness,” the boy whispered. “My father said it was a princely weapon; and you have won it worthily."

Already Hal had buckled it on again; a strong blade, but lightweight, a weapon of skill more than of force. The hilt and scabbard were of silver-gray metal, sparingly decorated with black enamel scrollwork. The lights which played on the glossy metal were the same as those which appeared in Hal's eyes, sometimes, when he thought of his enemies and his task. Alan had seen the weapon before, but now he looked at it anew. Without doubt, it was Hal's connate sword.

“My father was angry at me for taking it,” Corin added, “and now he has paid the price of my folly....” The boy's voice broke, and he silently wept. Alan put his good arm around him and led him away; then he went to help Hal.

They cut Col's body loose, wrapped it in Hal's cloak and laid it in a shallow depression of the hard ground. They covered it against harm with loose rocks, piling them into a cairn. The bodies of the kingsmen they dragged into the brush. Horses were tethered nearby, as foul-tempered as their masters; Hal searched the saddlebags for food and then let the beasts go loose. He and Alan wanted no part of the kingsmen's gear. They stamped out the fire. It was the mid of a cloudy, moonless night, but they were eager to be gone from this place in spite of the dark.

“Come on, Corin,” Alan murmured, and seated the boy before him on Alfie.

They rode through the night and the next day, heading north between the Forest and the sea cliffs. Bit by bit, through the day, Corin's story came out.

“Smiths have magic, you know, when it comes to metals,” he explained. “When your broth had given him strength, my father was able to cure himself by the touch of your sword. Later, we were hungry, and he used it to conjure food. A gray goshawk came, and dropped a coney by our feet."

“It seems,” Alan remarked to Hal, “that there is more than one magical sword."

“A sorcerer can work wonders with a stick,” Hal snapped. “And those warlocks who den with Iscovar can smell such sorcery even from Nemeton."

“The magic in that sword is magic of perfect craftsmanship,” Corin fold them haltingly. “That fine smithcraft went into it at its making, and there is no evil in such power.... But Father did not like to use it often, just the same. There is more honor in catching your own fish than in drawing on another man's magical net."

“There is no fishing off these cliffs,” Alan grumbled. The salt breeze was cold. Even the last stunted remnants of the Forest were behind them now, and only a ragged, treeless expanse faced them. They were riding the Marches now.

“We kept on walking north, to get well away from Whitewater,” Corin said, much later. “And also Father was afraid of your anger, though I told him.... Well, and also the land grew harsher and harsher. There was no tilling it. Father thought we might walk as far as the Barrens, and wander with the warlords. He had grown fond of walking, I think. But those black and orange ghouls came up behind us.” Corin stopped.

“So they followed the smell of sorcery from Nemeton,” Alan said. “But how could they have known it was your sword, Hal? Or if they did not know, why would they care?"

“I can't say, either way,” muttered Hal. “I know nothing of my own sword."

It was nearly dusk when they found a hollow sheltered by four standing stones. Here they decided to spend the night, protected from the never-ending sea breeze and from prying eyes as well. The mention of sorcery had put Alan on edge; he was imagining invisible trackers, relentless pursuit. What Hal was feeling, he could not tell.

They had Corin help with the camp chores, hoping that the work might ease his sorrow. Hal served up his best rabbit stew, with precious bread plundered from the enemy saddlebags; but the lad scarcely ate. Afterward Alan offered him his blanket. The boy politely refused.

“I cannot sleep,” he said. “Do not let me hinder your rest; I shall sit by the fire."

They had to respect his wish to be alone. But Alan slept fitfully in spite of his fatigue, and it was not long before he rose to find the lad huddled over the coals of the fire, sound asleep, with tears still wet on his eyelashes. Gently Alan wrapped him in his blanket and laid him down. Then he himself hunched over the dying coals, warming himself in his cloak. Hal awoke from a doze and silently joined him.

“I'm glad he's asleep,” he murmured, studying their new companion. “What a plucky young nuisance he is, Alan! To rip himself out of those bonds—his wrists are mangled nearly to the bone—and heave himself out from under that headless body, and come to our aid with a dead man's sword.... And he can't be more than thirteen."

“Twelve, he told me. But he's likely to have the girls after him in a year or two. He's a handsome rascal, and well grown."

“Poor fellow,” Hal whispered. “What are we to do with him, Alan? This is no life for him."

Alan shook his head helplessly. He supposed they would have to worry about that later.

But they had to worry about Corin sooner than they expected. At daybreak, when they arose, Corin did not wake, and his forehead was hot to the touch. Hal frowned. “He needs his sleep worse than he does his breakfast, but he shall have both. Let us ride till he awakes."

So Alan gathered him up, blanket and all, and took him onto Alfie with himself. The lad moved and muttered restlessly, but did not wake. It was midmorning when he suddenly started from his doze and looked around him, bewildered. Arundel moved up alongside Alfie as Hal reached over to Corin's forehead, asking him how he felt.

“Things keep going around,” he answered. “Sometimes I can see your face, but then it fades into a fog."

Corin did not want to eat, but they persuaded him to drink some meat broth strengthened with Hal's herbs. As soon as they took to the saddle again, he lapsed into a sleep that was half faintness.

They rode all day, turning inland in search of some nameless succor, and not stopping until after dark. Corin awoke at intervals, but his eyes were glazed and he said little. He drank water and broth, but could eat nothing. They took turns sitting up with him that night. By dawn he was delirious with fever, moaning and calling for his father. Hal was dismayed. “My brews have no effect,” he said. “He needs shelter, and the help of a wiser healer than I."

They rode on, desperately looking for some sign of human habitation. In late afternoon they found a camp of Gypsies. The dark folk gave them as much assistance as they could. They had blankets, food, shelter from the wind and a little medicine. They got some bread into Corin, and some more broth. They all took turns sitting by him, giving him water and swabbing his burning forehead. But he was no better.

“He is not fighting it!” Hal exclaimed.

Corin indeed seemed to be sinking into despair. He cried out for his father, and from time to time he shouted in desperate anger, “Murderers! Murderers!” Hal spoke with the Gypsy chieftain.

“Is there any holding nearby, or manor, or town, where the folk would be willing to help us, and where a healer might make his home?"

The Gypsy shook his head. “As you value your lives, do not go west, for Arrok's raiders scour the Marches even as far as the Forest, though his holding is in Rodsen. If you continue north, you will come to the trade town of Firth, on the Great North Cove. The lord there, Roran, is a good man, just but merciful, and kind to those in need. Surely be has a healer. But it is a seven-day journey. I doubt the lad will last."

“We will make it in three,” Hal said grimly. “Tell me the way."

They left the Gypsy camp before day had quite broken, with Corin blanket-wrapped and with water, food and medicine in their saddlebags. They rode at a steady, loping run through that day, stopping only to give Corin drink. The miles melted away and the land swept past them faster than it ever had before, although to them the pace seemed slow. They went on until they could no longer see to ride, then stopped to boil some meat for broth. When the moon rose they went on again, and did not stop until the next nightfall. They gnawed bread in the saddle. Arundel and Alfie cantered tirelessly. Alan's heart bled for the steeds, but Hal spoke to them in his strange language, and they raised their heads and surged on like colts fresh out of pasture. Though the land they rode was still flat or rolling, jagged peaks now rose between them and the sea. They were moving into the Northern Barrens.

By the end of the second day Corin had ceased to cry out for his father. He lay as still as death in their arms, scarcely breathing, and they could feel the heat coming off his face as off a fire.