The Silver Sun (9 page)

“I doubt if there is another man in all of Isle who could have done that!” he exclaimed proudly.

“Except present company,” Alan retorted wryly. “You walked in here as if you were going to market. What was it that frightened me so?"

A low chuckle sounded close by Alan's ear; he jumped. A gentle voice spoke rapidly in a language he did not understand. Hal nodded and turned to Alan. “He says he is sorry he startled you. He did not mean to."

“Tell him no harm,” Alan gasped politely. “But who, or what, is he?"

Hal sat down and leaned against the stone wall of the barrow. “They,” he corrected. “They are the spirits of the men buried here."

“Ghosts?” Alan asked weakly, sitting also.

“I dare say you could call them ghosts,” Hal answered doubtfully. “But most of what is said of ghosts is false. They do not clank chains, or rattle bones, or wander in the night, or in any way interfere with human affairs. Indeed, they are powerless to speak or move from their barrow unless someone calls on them for help, as I did."

Alan felt faint. “Are they all around us?” he asked uneasily.

“Ay. This ring of standing stones is their fortress. No mortal can enter it without withstanding the fear. The amount of fear depends in part on the amount of evil in his heart. I do not think the bounty hunters will disturb us again."

“You must be perfect in goodness, then, for you did not fear."

“Nay! I said ‘in part,'” Hal protested. “Fear also arises from that which is unknown. I understood, and you did not."

“In very truth,” Alan muttered, holding his head in bewilderment, “I never believed such things existed, and I always laughed at the tales the countryfolk told of them."

“You may continue to do so,” Hal smiled, “for they are mostly nonsense. Yet they remind us that there are great mysteries in earth and sky, dwellers far beyond our comprehension. But always, in the peasants’ tales, the denizens of Otherness come to work men woe. It is not so. Remember this, Alan, and you will walk beneath the dark of the moon like the Gypsies, without fear: no creature, neither flesh nor spirit, mortal nor immortal, will do you any reasonless harm, except one—and that is your fellow man."

They spent the night within the barrow ring, nestled against the lee side of the central mound. Alan felt warm and comfortable in spite of the cold, damp stone. He was full of wonder and questions. He learned that not all the dead became shades like those he had met; these spirits must have died in rage or hatred, Hal thought. Perhaps they had been warriors. But whether in life they had been good men or evil was of no concern. Their passing had purged them; good and evil had gone from them with their mortality, and they were now only bodiless reflections of the fears and loves of those who encountered them.

And they could be summoned, Alan knew. “What is the language that you speak to the spirits, Hal?” he asked. “Is it the same that you speak to the Gypsies?"

“Ay."

“And to Arundel?"

“Ay."

“Is it Welandais?"

“Nay —"

“What language is it, then? Where did you learn it?” Hal frowned helplessly. Even in the flickering light of their campfire, his discomfort was evident. Alan retracted the question. “Never mind."

“I would tell you if I could,” Hal said plaintively.

It was late before Alan finally settled into sleep, still marveling. He awoke to a foggy morning, and found Hal already speaking with their invisible hosts in his mysterious language.

“You know they see everything, and they travel with the speed of the wind,” he explained to Alan. “Though ordinarily they may not move from their resting place.... But last night I sent some of them scouting. Our friends the bounty hunters have quarreled among themselves, it seems, and are either dead or fleeing. And Corin and his father Col are camped a day or two farther to the east, near the sea."

“But Arundel cannot travel far or fast, with his wounded leg,” Alan grumbled.

“I know it. I shall be walking, for a while."

They ate some breakfast, rabbit and a few stunted sorb-apples. Then they loaded all the gear on Alfie. But as they prepared to leave, the low voice spoke. Hal stared somberly, but made no reply. He motioned Alan to help him remove some stones from the wall of the barrow.

When they had made an entrance, they crawled through, being very careful where they placed their hands and feet. The interior of the barrow was high enough to stand in. By the light which filtered through the open stonework, they could dimly see faded ruins of cloth, dusty bones and dull gleams of once bright metal: helms, swords and breastplates in odd, antique shapes. These were indeed warriors who lay here.

The low voice spoke again, beckoning, and they advanced to the center of the domed barrow, where there lay a still figure on a raised slab. By its ashy skull lay a crown, blackened with age. By its right band lay a naked sword. Even through the grime of ages, they could see that it was a glorious weapon, the hilt intricately set with jewels, the whole of it golden, large and heavy so that it would deal a mighty blow. The voice of the dead king spoke again, at length, and Hal went to the sword. He raised it and reverently kissed the massive hilt. He set it down, and spoke quietly to the disembodied listener. Then he and Alan turned and left. As they led their horses down the hill, the warmth of the barrow followed them, slowly fading away with the morning fog.

Hal waited until they were well away before he spoke. “That king wanted me to take his sword,” he said in a low voice.

“The golden sword!” Alan almost shouted. “But Hal, it is a marvelous weapon! Why did you not take it?"

“I have need of my own sword,” Hal muttered.

Alan groaned in disbelief. “Hal, you are incredibly difficult. The jewel-studded brand of a former monarch—was it not enough for you?"

“More than enough,” Hal retorted wryly. “He said that it was filled with the power of the Beginnings, that with it I would be invincible."

Alan stared. “The magical sword of the High Kings!” he breathed.

“Ay, it throbbed through my arms as I lifted it, and it throbs in me yet; I can scarcely walk for the ache of it. Alan, may I tell you a tale?"

They sat on the ground and let the horses graze. Hal did not seem to look at anything, not even at Alan, as he spoke.

“The king's name was Claryon, High King at Laueroc, and the mighty sword Hau Ferddas hung above his throne to enforce his will, and the writings of Cuin the Ancestor lay open in the council-chamber, and the weeping stone stood in the courtyard as a reminder that the Kings of Laueroc were honored vassals of the Very King who had gone beyond the sea. The water trickled down from the cracked stone and dripped from its golden pedestal to form a pool on the cobbles. The princes were Culean, Culadon and Cuert. When they were little, they would make boats from sticks and sail them in the tears of the Sorrowing Stone.

“Cuert grew to be a scholar, and Culadon to be a statesman, but the eldest, Culean, had no talent for bookish learning so he trained to be a warrior. He was not much honored as a warrior; there had been peace for half an Age, and it was thought that Hau Ferddas could keep peace forever.

“When the princes were grown, or nearly grown, Veran sailed into the Bay of the Blessed out of the west. Cuert, the youngest prince, knew him to be Very King as soon as he heard report of him, for Veran had brought with him a rayed silver crown. Culadon knew only that Veran had taken power in Welas, where the Kings of Isle held no sway. But Culean saw only a rival. And Claryon, the old king, found any change a threat.

“The real threat came from the east. Within the year Herne landed his warships, and old King Claryon took horse to meet him, proud in the invincibility of his legendary sword. A few hundred men followed him on the long forced marches across Isle. They met Herne in the midlands near the Black River. Hau Ferddas slew mightily, but Claryon's aging arms lost strength to hold the weapon. He staggered back before his foes, and only the coming of darkness saved him and the sword from capture. His remaining men carried him back toward Laueroc, and in a few days he died, though he had suffered no wound. His people met the invaders in confusion and despair, and yielded before them like grass.

“Herne's close companion was a sorcerer named Marrok, that is to say, the Werewolf. He had seen the battle, and had seen the sword Hau Ferddas, and coveted the blade for his master's sake, or his own, perhaps. With his secret arts he contrived a spell which would rob it of its mystic strength, for a time. The price was high; men lost their lives to the making of that spell. But Herne was well content.

“Veran had marched with five hundred men to Laueroc, for the danger which threatened Isle threatened Welas also. He bowed his elf-crowned head at old Claryon's funeral pyre. But Culean, the new High King, scorned his help, and set off hotly to rally his own people against the invaders. Culadon threw in his lot with Veran, and Cuert, barely fifteen years of age, stayed behind to steward Laueroc.

“Many brave men found their place at Culean's side, and for a time Herne was halted in his advance. Veran pressed him from the south and west, and Culean battered him from the north, and if only those two could have taken cause together, Herne might have been forced to yield. But they each fought separately from the other, not to best advantage. Then Marrok's spell took effect, and Culean fought with only manly might. And, as evil chance would have it, Culadon was slain by Veran's side. Then many followers fell away from the defenders of Isle, and Herne's armies moved again.

“Veran made his stand between the mountains of Welas and the Gleaming River, where the border runs to this day. All of Welas rallied to him, and he was able to bring Herne to terms for his own land's sake.” Hal turned to Alan, seeming conscious of his listener for the first time. “Cuert went with him and through him you are of that line, Alan; Deona wife of Alf was his granddaughter."

“I?” Alan murmured.

“You are of that royal blood. The king, High King Culean, was hounded through the north of Isle as the power of his sword waxed and waned with the power of Marrok's spell, until he could plainly see that Herne held all of Isle and wished only to hold Hau Ferddas as well. Then Culean and his few loyal liegemen devised a plan to keep the sword from Herne's hand, and I dare say to preserve their own pride—for they could have thrown the weapon into the sea. Instead they stood on a rise of the stony Waste, and they cursed fate with their deepest curses, and they died by their own hands. Their companions who had chosen not to follow them built the barrow over them, then departed. And there the sword has stayed to this day, for their sleepless shades protect it, as they knew they would."

The two sat silently for a while as the grim tale echoed down the passages of their minds. “Did—Culean—tell you this?” Alan asked finally.

“Nay."

“Who, then, Hal? The Gypsies?"

“No one, Alan.” Hal spoke with a kind of desperation. “It is the—vision—I have seen, of how the sword is a shadowed thing."

So he is a seer, as well as a warlock
, Alan thought. He accepted the fact almost casually; the recent events and Hal's revelations had shaken him beyond astonishment.

“If I could,” Hal said softly, “I would take that bright blade and hurl it into the sea. But once it was in my hand, I think I would not have the strength to give it up. It is a seducer, Alan. But it is yours by right of lineage, more than it is mine."

“It was not offered to me,” Alan shrugged. “Come, let us find your own sword, that Trigg gave you."

“He was like a father to me, for a little while....” Hal looked away, remembering the love in the eyes of the good-hearted fellow as he presented the gift. “Ay, let us be going."

They rose, and Hal took a few weary, painful steps. Suddenly he dropped to the earth again, striking the stones with his fist. “Confound it, Alan! Why was this offered to me? Was it a trap which I rightly spurned? Or was it a key which I have thrown away? If a test, then why? If not, then I have made the wrong choice!"

Alan smiled wryly. “Trust yourself, Hal, even as I must. Do not things always seem to come to rights for you?"

“You think I should have taken it,” Hal muttered.

“I would have taken it, ay, and probably got myself killed because of it. But you are not I, praise be. Perhaps you do not need such a sword."

“Do not mock me, Alan,” said Hal tiredly.

“After all I have seen?” Alan faced him squarely. “Do I mock you, brother?"

Hal met his eyes with growing wonder. “I wish I thought as well of myself,” he said at last.

Chapter Six

They went afoot for several days because of Arundel's wound. Hal was moody, and fatigued from something more than walking. When he regained his energy, he grew irritable because of their slow pace. They were making then way north and east, toward the sea. The Forest curved eastward with them, but indeed it was hardly to be called Forest any longer, mostly bramble thickets and stunted conifers. For days the two had only birds and rabbits and pine kernels to eat; Alan grew as touchy as Hal. They saw almost no one in this desolate land. There was no news of Corin.