The beast regarded him for a moment before its claws swung out on long arms in an effort to cast him aside. The Vassal leapt back and the Sword lashed out, screaming, gashing deeply the hand of the beast.
Nausea seized Aron’s stomach, and he fell to the ground, trying to fight it off. The beast sensed his weakness and pressed towards where he lay with surprising speed. The Vassal rushed to cut it off. The Sword cried out and leapt in a broad arc and buried itself deep in its chest cavity. It howled, one of its claws tearing at the Vassal, gashing his side badly.
Aron came to his feet and took a step back. With a cracking of ribs, the Sword of Aren-Nath disentangled itself and swung again, then again, this time low. The legs of the beast buckled beneath it and gushed thick blood into the street. It turned to the Vassal, moaning. The Sword came down on its neck.
Nearly falling, the beast looked to Aron, its black eyes pleading, before turning to charge the Vassal and tear at the flesh of his face. It scampered over him and he crumpled beneath its claws like a rag doll. It hopped and shuffled on broken legs and the men flew from its path.
The Vassal lay motionless, the Sword still keening in his hand. Aron ran toward him, but as he approached the beast stopped its flight and grunted, panting.
“Yordenko!” Aron cried out.
The creature hopped towards the fallen body. Then the Vassal moved. He turned to his side and Aron saw that his face was covered with blood. The creature wheezed and bayed like a wounded pup. The men closed in a circle about it, and the Vassal rose with supreme effort to confront it.
With desperate strength it broke the circle, gashing two men, and stumbled up the Grade, away from the fury of the screaming blade. The Sword guided the Vassal after it, pulling his steps faster and faster in pursuit. Aron chased after them but could not keep up as they raced upwards towards the Temple in a hideous contest that neither could concede.
The beast broke into the Templeyard, the Vassal just behind it. There, it stopped to use its last strength in combat. When Aron could see over the wall, he saw them come together, two bloodied bodies colliding, both weak but compelled to combat by the power of the gods.
A claw came down and swiped the Vassal’s right breast from his body. The Sword fell to the mud. He bent and raised it in his left hand. The creature shrunk down, moaning. The blade descended, splitting its side and spilling its innards to the ground. It fell, gurgling and clawing, to the ground beside the Master’s Stump. The Vassal buried the Sword deep into its shuddering carcass, then came to his knees at its side. He laid his own body carefully down along it.
The men of the town rushed up with their axes and cautiously approached the bodies. Death was like a blanket over them both.
Mother ran a hand through his hair and hugged him for a long time. Then he told her that he wanted to go back to the Templeyard. With great and silent strength, she let him go.
He followed the road upward.
Aron looked uphill to see three men emerging from the Templeyard carrying a heavy sackcloth roll toward the ice-shed by the tavern. Here it would be kept until a pyre could be built, and hearts healed enough to do the dead man proper homage. The front man slipped once in the mud and the roll tumbled on top of him; he swore as they lifted the burden again.
As Aron drew closer he saw that the creature, wrapped in more sackcloth, had already been hoisted to a flatwagon. The vapors from its body were stinging men’s eyes and making some vomit, even though cloths were wrapped round their mouths and noses. Renky the Idiot sat on the driver’s plank, holding the reins and sobbing quietly.
“It’s on there,” a muffled voice called. Flies were beginning to swarm the flatwagon. Torstein stood up front, his face wrapped, his hand on Renky’s shoulder.
“Take it to the Wells of Fire. You remember the Wells of Fire, Renky? You just go on the road, that way, out of town….” Renky sobbed, nodding. “And push the whole thing in, then bring the load-beast back. There’s lot of good stuff to eat in the bag….”
Women had gathered around the edges of the scene and cried and held the children back.
Aron stood on the Master’s Stump. The ground was still dark with blood here, and he imagined he could still see the two bodies lying peacefully beside each other, like tired lovers at a picnic.
Takani came up behind him.
“So…” he called out. Aron turned, and both were silent. They were silent for a long while, letting the wind whisper down to them from the forest.
“Nero was gone when I got there, child,” Takani said at last, mounting the Stump. “And he had taken his books with him. There is nothing we could have done to help the poor Vassal.”
Aron imagined Nero’s house, boxy and empty like a broken milk crate in the forest daylight, its terror distant as a far-away song.
“You are… all right, my child?”
Aron nodded, swallowing.
“Takani!” a voice called and they turned to see Grumo hailing from across the street. He ran into the yard.
“The Baron has come,” he panted. “He says we have to give him the Sword. But we were gonna leave it with the Vassal’s things. Baron looks pretty angry. He’s tearing up the Quarters looking for it. What do we do?”
“Let him have it,” Takani said shortly. He stepped from the Stump and strode into the Temple without once looking at Aron.
Aron’s gaze rose high to the Temple Icon.
He did not want to scale that height again.
Glad Yule
Pati Nagle
A young man sat brooding in the window of his chamber, gazing through snow-blurred glass at the windswept courtyard below. He was slender and dark, his curling black hair framing a face of striking beauty despite his slight frown. His clothing was simple, unadorned, though well made of rich cloth. The yard he watched was bathed in moonlight, deserted except for an occasional servant hurrying to finish some task and get out of the biting wind. For some reason this scene held his attention, keeping him by the window and away from the cheering fire on the hearth.
A quiet knock fell on the door, followed by the voice of a servant, saying “My Lord Paethor?”
The young man looked up. “Come in,” he answered.
The servant entered, bowing deferentially. He wore the royal livery of blue and violet, and spoke with respect. “Your pardon, my Lord. His Majesty requests your attendance.”
The young man slid from the window seat with a sigh and followed the servant out into the corridor, where three ladies, richly gowned and decked in jewels, paused in their chatter to gaze at him like startled deer. If he had met their eyes he would have seen frank appreciation of his comeliness, but he barely glanced their way, nodding politely, and continued in the servant’s wake. Behind him the ladies resumed their conversation in whispered tones.
It was late, and the night’s feasting and dancing were finished. King Nigel of Argonia had retired to his private chambers with a few of his most trusted lords, there to relax and enjoy a last cup of wine. The king, a strong, pleasant man with silver beginning to lighten his golden hair and beard, lounged in a chair, listening to his courtiers’ raucous banter. When the servant announced Lord Paethor they fell silent, gazing at the newcomer in varying shades of curiosity.
“Lord Paethor, come in,” said the king. “Have some wine. We missed you at dinner.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” said Paethor, accepting a cup from a page. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company lately.”
“The ladies have been asking after you, lad,” said a lord, chuckling. “They’re complaining that the best dancer in court has deserted them.” Lord Paethor, who was sipping his wine, seemed not to have heard.