When Death Birds Fly cma-3 Page 15

  Garin thrust with the consecrated spear. It glittered hotly as the sun-symbol on his breast, given him by Cormac.

  The black owl flapped madly away from him, whirling upward. Its pinions sent gusts of wind through the stone circle, and the fire danced wildly. Despite the warmth of the night and the fire’s parching heat, that wind was numbingly cold.

  Garin reeled. Cormac set his teeth and stood fast, waiting. He expected the black owl to descend on him again.

  It did not. Wulfhere Skull-splitter had shouldered his way forward, colossal in the leaping firelight. He lacked both armour and weapons-he’d been occupied with a pretty Armorican wench he’d caught to himself for the Long Dance and its aftermath-yet little seemed he to care. He came striding on and him no Celt, his bearded mouth stretched wide and venting a Danish battle-cry.

  The black owl swooped upon him, eerie horror itself.

  Full on his mighty breast it struck, sinking hellish talons into chest muscles like slabs of weathered topaz; glared at him from a range of inches. The cruel beak snapped, eager to strip his face from the front of his head.

  Wulfhere caught the awful thing by the neck. Snarling, he sank his fingers deep. Clearly he meant to wring its head off. Maddened by pain, he might have done it, had he grappled a thing of flesh and blood. But there was no solid resistance to his grip. His iron hands encountered what seemed layer on layer of shadow-dark feathers, numbingly cold. The strength went out of his arms.

  For one of the few times in his life, Wulfhere Skull-splitter knew fear.

  Cormac reached him. Swinging the mace with all the power of his deadly war-arm, he struck the black owl a blow that might have shattered the skull of a bullock. An ordinary weapon had achieved naught; the leaden mace, like Garin’s spear, had been sacred in Midsummer’s rites time out of mind. It had gathered to itself power of a sort the new Church rejected with horror. So much the worse for the Church! To this place the power of cross and book did not extend.

  The battered, stone-dull lead sank deeply through the black owl’s body. It shrieked once, hideously, an unbearable screech that tore men’s ears. There ensued a moment of preternatural cold, a sickening fetor, and the being was gone… was gone, as a bursting bubble is gone, without a sign.

  Wulfhere staggered against one of the stones. He steadied himself with a spadelike hand. With the other, he clutched at his breast in the way of a man with a dagger in his heart. The black owl’s talons had sunk tearing into his flesh. Cormac had seen it himself. Yet Wulfhere’s tunic did not hang in shreds as it rightly should. Nor was there aught of blood.

  The big Dane realized it himself, through his bewilderment of pain.

  “Surt and all the giants!” he snarled. One-handed, he tore his tunic in half from neck to waist. It hung agape, exposing a curling mat of copper-red hair, over chest and belly muscles like one of the moulded cuirasses worn, long ago, by high-ranking Roman officers. Still cursing vehemently, Wulfhere ran his fingers through the shaggy mat, testing the hide beneath.

  There was no blood. Incredibly, the skin remained unpierced. Yet… not unmarked.

  Morfydd had drawn nigh, holding a fiery brand above her head. In a voice unlike her own, she said, “I beg you, stand still… so. Now let me see, Captain…”

  She reached up, her diminutive stature making it a stretch for her. Cool fingers parted the Danish giant’s chest-hair. For once, Morfydd the wise-woman turned pale.

  Black as pitch, two groups of stigmata showed on Wulfhere’s fair northern skin, centered upon the nipples. They were the marks of predatory talons. In each group, one pair of claw-marks stood above the nipple and another pair below, as they would be made by two claws facing forward and two back, in the fashion of owls.

  “Hell!” Wulfhere said harshly. “I’ve never had pain like this from such tiny pinpricks erenow! ‘Tis cold, too, like the stab of daggers frozen in ice for ten thousand years! Think ye that shadowthing had venom on its claws?”

  “Not of any material kind, perhaps,” Morfydd answered. “Tis outside my experience-and against most of it! Cormac? Have you seen such a thing as this?”

  Cormac was watching the sky, alert lest the black-winged monster return. He did not trust its obliging disappearance. Yet he saw no sign of it, either then or again that night.

  To Morfydd’s question, he was forced to answer nay.

  14

  Broken Owl

  In the richly arrased chamber wherein he transacted his most important business, Sigebert One-ear stood fingering his facial scars with a slender hand. He did so without being aware of it, just as he stood tensely when he might have sat. His gaze was fixed upon Lucanor the mage.

  The Antiochite lay on a couch draped in aquamarine. He had eaten well and regained some flesh since entering the Frank’s house. Just now, however, he looked desperately unwell. He lay in trancelike sleep and moved in faint spasms. His fleshy, blade-nosed face was the colour of ash. From his appearance, Lucanor might well have been dying.

  Sigebert hoped not. He wanted the mage to live-so long as he remained useful. Greater yet was Sigebert’s desire to know what befell in Armorica. He gloated at a vision of Cormac and Wulfhere dying in agony under the beak and talons of the black owl. Could I have but seen so fine a sight! Yet that was impossible. He could not. He must see it through Lucanor’s eyes-in Lucanor’s words. How much longer would the eastern lapdog lie senseless?

  Lucanor commenced to shudder violently. His leg slipped from the couch so that his heel banged the floor. His lips moved, though no sound emerged, and sweat gleamed on him. Then his eyes opened. They were full of such fear as even Sigebert had never seen. He gazed on starkest terror, and knew it. The mage croaked wordlessly.

  Has the incompetent pig gone mad?

  Thus wondering, Sigebert poured a cup of unwatered wine. He handed it impatiently to the other man. Lucanor tried to steady it between his two hands. Both shook. Such was his state that he had to make several attempts ere he could drink, and even then Sigebert heard the chatter of teeth against the cup’s rim. Lucanor gulped, gulped.

  When he lowered the cup his colour had become less ghastly. Still, only fool or liar could have said he looked fit to stand. His teeth chattered still; his hands, shook; his dark eyes stared wildly. He seemed about to collapse.

  Tender solicitude was not to be had from Sigebert. “Did you succeed?” His voice was flat and demanding.

  “No-no,” Lucanor gulped forth, only just loud enough to be heard. He said it again; “No.”

  “Death and the Devil!” Sigebert strode, ranting. “What use are you? Know you that when first you came to me, mouthing talk of vengeance against these reiver scum, I felt that vengeance could wait-I having taller crops to harvest?”

  Lucanor nodded. He had not his wits sufficiently about him to speak.

  “I underestimated them,” Sigebert said, looking dark. “Never did I dream they would dare seek vengeance on me-and here in mine own city!”

  The Count of Nantes would not have been pleased to hear this Frank talk so blandly of the city as his own. To know why Sigebert did so would have filled Bicrus with horror and rage, and ensured his customs assessor’s swift arrest.

  “They did so dare, as you know,” Sigebert ranted, pacing, wheeling. “I punished you not for failing me, because it was I had commanded you not to be concerned with them-then. Yet when they entered Nantes and almost had my life, and, made escape without harm, I saw they must be dealt with!” He glared at the shaken sorcerer. “How confident you were that you could destroy them! ‘They are as good as extinct,’ you said! I bade you choose your own time-so long as it was nigh. You chose Midsummer’s Eve, for all magics be more potent on this night. And so, trusting in your vaunted abilities and assurance, I left time and method altogether to you! Only results concern me.”

  “Sir-”

  Sigebert’s malicious glare and pointed finger silenced the mage. “What did you? Sent your fylgja forth from that quaking body to rend and slay�
�� and now you sit blubbering before me and confess that you failed. Failed! How? How I say! Answer me, you clott!”

  “It is true,” Lucanor said. “All magics are more powerful on this night. I did not bargain to find Cormac mac Art”-he enunciated the name with loathing-”partaking in rituals of magic himself! All my experience of him has shown that he mistrusts such matters. Yet he was there, he and another. They had ancient, sorcerously potent weapons in their hands, one of them a spear consecrated to the Sun. They used them against me!”

  “Ah-and what would you expect them to do? No more of your bleating self-pity. What happened?” Sigebert added grimly, satirically, “This wonderful spear sacred to the sun does not appear to have harmed you greatly.”

  Lucanor shuddered. “It never touched me. Was not in the reiver’s hands. Nay, the other man held it; a golden-haired warrior. And upon his breast hung an emblem of the sun’s accursed power more fearful even than the spear! I fled from him! I had to. I fell upon the Dane. Ah, I sank my talons deep in his breast! To that extent I succeeded, for those wounds will not mend! The pain will persist, and ne’er grow less. He is a mighty man… it will take long. But he must succumb at last, as to slow poison. As, in a way, it is.”

  Sigebert thrust forth his head, and his eyes glittered. “Die?”

  “Indeed, sir.” Lucanor nodded. “Wulfhere will die.”

  Sigebert looked skeptical. The mage might well be exaggerating to please him, or lying outright. “It will take long, ye say. How long?”

  The mage considered. “Were this any ordinary man, I would say… two or three moons. In the Dane’s case, five at most. At very most! As the third moon completes its cycle he will be helpless as a feverish child. After that… downward, in pain and weakness… unto death.”

  Sigebert snorted. “A pleasant prospect! I’ll believe it when it happens… How long can the red-bearded swine remain fit and active? That concerns me more.”

  “Twoscore days… mayhap half a hundred. No more. No more,” he repeated, almost smiling. He was guessing, and thought it a fair guess. That mighty northron’s powers of resistance were surely great-and so was the power of the sorcerous venom Lucanor had infected him with.

  “Twoscore or fifty days,” Sigebert said thoughtfully. “Hmm. One can do much in that time. He may find a cure. Or his crafty henchman that Gael may find it for him. Did you set your death-mark on that one, too? The Gael?”

  “That, no.” Lucanor shuddered. “Ah, black gods of R’lyeh! He smote me sore with a leaden mace of winter darkness. I was all but destroyed. Belike he thinks I was so-nay, nay he cannot… he cannot know that what he saw was his enemy Lucanor! I survived, barely. Yet my spirit form was dissolved so that I had neither shape nor senses. It was as groping my way blind and deaf through a strange city, with only the little tie between me and my body for guide!” Again a shudder. “I sensed things groping on my track; things of the sort that prey upon maimed souls and powerless ghosts, the minds of the mad, and… flocking to intercept me, too! This night is full of such! Almost I was overcome by them.”

  “In short, you failed. Tell me not of the dangers you met-or fled. Yours is the knowledge of sorcery. Was for you to foresee what might happen and guard against it. Instead, you bungled. The sorcerer encorcelled!” Sigebert gave his head a jerk. “Ahh,” he said, in exasperation. “Have you done aught but bungle in all your life’s days, Luke?”

  “Wait until Wulfhere Skull-splitter lies dying,” Lucanor said, with a kind of evil dignity. “Wait until he lies wasted and dead; then ask me again.”

  “Five cycles of the moon, eh?” Sigebert shrugged. “Not so very long a time-though hardly immediate! The while, you can be doing that for which I engaged you. Quit your mortal body and watch over the battle betwixt my people and the Romans. I cannot believe the Franks will not triumph. We must! ’Tis certain I worked hard to ensure it, while I was in favour at Syagrius’s court! The fool should ha’ had me slain at the merest breath of suspicion of me, not sent me here to take this meagre but useful post! No matter. He will pay for his folly.”

  So did Sigebert sneer at the man who had spared his life from a sense of justice; there had been no direct proof of treason against him, but only vague indications and whispers that might possibly have been malicious. Such uncertainties would not have restrained Sigebert, had he been in the Roman king’s place. And so the unprincipled Frank despised the honourbound Roman for it.

  “Never!” Lucanor said with a shudder. “You know not, you cannot know! The nearness of those foul creatures of the black world… the threat of them-I all unformed and helpless-nay! Never will I venture the more from my fleshly body. I could not, even did I dare. My strength is gone.”

  “Gone?” Sigebert’s voice fair dripped scathing contempt. “How much had you ever? Best ye summon strength enow for my purposes, I warn you! I make no demand that you kill. By Death!-were that in my mind I’d send forth a baseborn assassin and think him better fitted to the work than you! You are merely to observe who gains the victory, and inform me what befalls King Syagrius. Even you should not fail at so little an errand.” The limpid hazel eyes hardened into glittering garnets. For a moment, Sigebert’s face was demoniacal. “An ye do fail, my mage, ye were far better to risk the ugly spirits of the outer dark!”

  Lucanor strove for control and self possession, and succeeded only partially. With belated presence of mind, he dared recall to Sigebert his previous words and ability to scry events in his mirror of black; “True Black” he called it. Sigebert gave listen without patience. He remembered.

  “Very well. Your methods be your own concern, mage. All that concerns me is to know the outcome of this one imminent battle, the very day it is fought. But mark me!” The finger stabbed again, before eyes gone all round and white surrounded. “The consequence of failing me in this remains what I promised.”

  Lucanor bowed deeply, less in submission than to hide the bitter hatred he feared his face was showing.

  15

  Cathula

  Prince Howel kept a manse in the town of Vannes. Romish and all of two centuries old, the house had been well built. It would not tumble in Howel’s lifetime. True, it showed its years, as must any oldster. Tapestries concealed the cracked yellow stucco of the exedra’s walls-without reaching so high as to hide the half-obliterated peacock frieze near the ceiling. Here and there a broken floor tile lay waiting to trip a man and make him curse. Morfydd had furnished the place in the manner of her own people, with heavy chairs and couches strewn with shaggy carpets in several hues.

  “Behl protect!” the lady of Bro Erech was saying, seated on a pelt of golden tan. “As he truly did! Were it not for the sigil ye carried from Hispania, Cormac, that had been an ill night for us all. The monster showed itself vulnerable to your mace, as well-yet did not seem to fear it half so much as the power of our lord the Blessed Sun. Were I your menaced self, I’d be keeping the winged serpent upon my body at all times hereafter.”

  “I shall,” the Gael replied grimly. “Another gave me the selfsame advice, in the Suevic Kingdom. It’s hardly wise I was to forget it.”

  Wulfhere slouched against the wall, saying naught. Wulfhere was hurting and all knew it. The battered planes of his face were harsh with unassuagable endurance of pain. Morfydd had promised to do for him what she could, once they returned to the island where her sorcerous effects were kept. She had admitted to holding little hope. With hope or no, it never became a warrior to whimper. Wulfhere endured in silence.

  Cormac likewise said naught. His heart was twisted within him by concern for his battle-brother, yet his way had never been to talk when he could not do. One tiny clue; the faintest trace of the means to effect a cure, and he’d follow it over the sea-rim and into the lairs of demons, if needful. They had no such clue.

  “A strange thing, this,” Prince Howel said. “Once, not so long agone, concern was on us to know the meaning of those omens ye saw asea, Cormac. Trifling it seems now, when I can give y
e the answer.”

  “Seems? Maybe.” Curt and moody the Gael felt, and something of that was manifest in his voice. “And yet-ye’ve knowledge, Howel?”

  “Aye, even though the rites were disturbed.” Howel’s eyes seemed to look into haunted distance beyond the world. His voice reverberated with a timbre not quite canny. “The god came upon me. I rode through vast spaces on a great, death-grey horse and saw the world spread below me like a tapestry that unfurls. Fields no bigger then squares of quilting. Houses mere chips of wood. Spectres moved in the sky above, and Phantom armies, and there was a confusion of many noises. My face turned eastward, and there I saw war abuilding. ’Tis Frankdom that marches! Frankdom that lifts its axes against the swords of the Roman Kingdom! The cousin-kings Clovis and Ragnachar lead their hosts within the month. I know it. Syagrius will meet them in strength. Corpses of men slain redly will cover the ground, and rivers in the Frankish marches will run crimson, even to the sea. Such is the meaning of the omens I saw. I know it,” he repeated, and all understood that he was not sure how he knew.

  “Blood of the gods,” Cormac said softly, into a shaken quiet. “Said ye this thing seems ‘trifling’?”

  Howel made no answer. Morfydd spoke in a brittle voice, as if afraid.

  “It is not. But it scarcely need trouble yourself, Cormac, save insofar as there be plunder to be had out of it. Me thinks my lord means that Wulfhere’s plight is of great moment to him and to you.”

  “Truth,” Cormac acknowledged.

  Prince Howel had recovered his normal voice and demeanor. “We may have to look to ourselves here, should the Franks win. They may not rest content with ravaging the Roman Kingdom only.”