He rode down the hill, the woman perched on the saddle behind him, to meet what he could now see were several dozen armed men and one woman, tall and black-haired. The sight of the white stallion seemed to startle most of them, who staggered back, but one wiry man with a scarred lip watched him approach, hands on his hips.
“If you’re a lord of voima, I’m not impressed.”
“I am not a Wanderer,” said Valmar gravely, “but a mortal like yourself. How did you come to these realms?”
“Is that you inside the helmet, Roric No-man’s son?” the man asked suspiciously. He made a strange motion with one hand, a sort of beckoning behind his back.
Valmar removed his helmet. “I am Valmar Hadros’s son,” he said. “And you know Roric?”
“Never heard of you,” said the man dismissively, then hesitated. “Hadros’s son? A King Hadros who fought in the north years ago, when he had first come into his kingdom?”
“Yes, that’s right!” said Valmar eagerly. “You know him? And you know Roric?”
“Hadros thought he was a better war leader than he really was.” The man made the same motion with his hand again. The woman behind Valmar drew in her breath through her teeth, and he looked up to realize that the warriors had them completely surrounded.
Valmar whipped out his sword, which immediately began to sing. The stallion danced under him, turning as he looked to see if there was an easy way out of the circle of enemies-there was none. “Why this attack?” he shouted as the men moved in slowly, their own blades ready. “You have not even challenged me!”
“Outlaws don’t bother to challenge anybody,” said the man, grinning-or maybe it was just the scar. “Why worry about blood-guilt when anyone can kill us unchallenged?”
“I came to you in friendship!” Valmar yelled back. “What can I possibly have that you would want?”
“Your armor and your horse,” said the man assessingly, “and that boy riding behind you-I’ve figured out it’s not really a boy.”
She laughed and spoke for the first time. “And I have noticed that you are a mortal and will die if I kill you!”
The tall woman with the warriors suddenly stepped forward. “Eirik!” she shouted, seizing him by the arm and spinning him around. “I have had enough! You keep capturing other women and expecting me still to be for you alone! Well, I do not need another man in order to leave. I can leave on my own!”
“Wigla!” Eirik said sharply, then, “Wigla?” almost pleadingly, as she stalked away from him, through the circle of warriors, and off across the valley. For nearly a minute he watched as she went, straight-backed, taking long strides. But his men never turned their attention from Valmar.
Then Eirik gave his shoulders a quick shake. “Don’t know why I put up with her so long,” he said to his warriors, grinning again. “But you, my sweet lass in armor…”
“This lass in armor,” said Valmar, “is an immortal.”
“And you, Valmar Hadros’s son, are not!” He gave a sudden shout and all the warriors charged.
The white stallion reared, kicking out with iron hooves. Warriors kept an alert eye on the hooves and tried to dart in past them.
But Valmar had been training for this fight for a very long time. He leaned low over the horse’s neck, laying about him with the singing sword. These warriors were ragged, with poor armor, but they fought with grim courage. Again and again he deflected a blow, then darted his blade in past the other’s guard. The woman behind him gave most of her effort to staying on the horse’s back, but twice when someone tried to slip up behind Valmar she stabbed him briskly.
This was a battle out of legend, thought Valmar, as steel rang on steel, men screamed in pain, and he realized dispassionately that any slowing of his reflexes might cost him his life. This was a real battle, such as he had waited for all his life and never experienced, with enemies on every hand and bright blood spurting.
And this time, he realized, he was killing real people.
He froze, tasting bile. He had destroyed the hollow men, wounded but not killed a Hearthkeeper, and had just now killed half a dozen humans.
In his second of hesitation they were on him, knocking the sword from his hand and wrestling him from the stallion’s back. He kicked wildly but they held him down. His sword and armor were taken from him. While Eirik laughed triumphantly they trussed Valmar and the woman with long cords, though the warriors were still having trouble with the stallion.
“There! We defeated you, friend of the immortals!” cried Eirik, his face in Valmar’s. He appreciatively hefted Valmar’s sword, the one the Wanderers had given him.
“Am I worth six of your men?” Valmar replied hotly over waves of nausea. His father had boasted of how many men he had killed by the time he was Valmar’s age; Valmar would never boast of this to anyone.
“This one might be!” said Eirik, licking his scarred lips and leering at the Hearthkeeper.
She, however, seemed very little concerned in spite of being tied hand and foot. “After you taught me fear of death, Valmar,” she commented, “I have no further fear of anything. And it may be interesting to see for a while what mortal women have to put up with from mortal men.”
“No, don’t, it’s horrible,” he said sickly, his eyes half closed. He had thought he was going to meet other mortals because they represented a link with a happier past, and all that had happened was that he had killed them here in immortal realms, where no one had ever killed anyone until he arrived, and had allowed the woman who obsessed him to lie bound beside him, subject to the crude lusts of outlaws.
Eirik glanced behind him at his warriors, starting to gather up their slain comrades and tending to the wounded. “Maybe you and your friend Roric have been more trouble to me than you’re worth,” he said thoughtfully. “At this rate I won’t have any warriors left at all. I don’t know what you’re doing wandering around here by yourself, but would you like to join us?”
“What?” gasped Valmar.
“It’s one way to make sure I don’t have to worry about you as an enemy again,” Eirik replied. “The alternative of course,” with an evil grin, “would be to sacrifice you to the lords of death. The sunset seems to take forever around here, but the sun is getting lower. As soon as it’s gone we’ll sing the songs for our slain comrades and call on death to take them. So start thinking about your choice!”
3
No more chasms opened in the earth as Karin and Roric hurried toward the ridge the Wanderer had indicated. “I know this place,” said Roric suddenly. “There was a cave here that led into the back of your faeys’ burrows.”
Karin looked around wildly at the white limestone thrusting up through the grass, almost expecting to see the faeys here. But- She could not leave without Valmar. She had gone beyond terror to a state where she could scarcely think coherently, but she clung to the knowledge that she had come here to rescue him, and rescue him she would.
“Let’s make sure the way is still open while we wait,” said Roric. He led her a short distance from where a spring bubbled from the earth to where its water fell over a lip of stone into a sinkhole. It looked disturbingly dark to her, but he started climbing down. “I followed the stream back, and there I was, among the faeys near Hadros’s castle.”
She leaned over the edge of the little cliff, watching his progress. “The stream flows back here into a pool,” he called. His voice echoed hollowly. “And I think if I go back just a little further-”
There was silence. “Roric?” Karin called, then “Roric!” She swung over the cliff edge and was scrambling after him when she heard his voice again below her.
“There’s nothing there. There’s no way past the pool.” His voice was dull, almost expressionless. “I had thought I could get you home this way, but I’ll have to try something else.”