The War, page 43
Afraid or not, he could not bear the war within himself any longer.
Whether he accepts it or rejects it is neither here nor there, he told himself harshly. You have put this off long enough. It is time to speak.
~
The face of Cern Dersturi was known to very few beyond the Elerien Mountains. With his distinctive Runnicoran livery exchanged for the clothes of a common Ordenian, he did not fear recognition as he mingled on the streets, or in the courtyard of Mitheren. To enter the tower itself was a tricky business, but his reckless errand made him cunning: he took a yoke of buckets, filling them with water, and slipped into the kitchens by a small side-door for servants’ use. Then he wandered the passageways, his feet taking him ever upwards, toward the sleeping quarters. To kill the king and the general now, in the great throne hall—no, that was too risky for his intent, too open to miscarriage. Better simply to find their bed-chambers, and then, when they retired for the night, his knife would find its mark.
But not them only; he needed others to glorify his triumph, before he was taken down and slain. The queen, the captains, and after that, any other being who came within the reach of his arm. Yes, they would mock Cern Dersturi for many days, but afterwards they would sing of him in Runnicor—a scornful snarl curled up his lip. He must find someone who would tell him the specific whereabouts of all these chambers, so that he could strike swiftly later; and he must find one now, for it was already evening.
He sent a half-closed door swinging lightly open, his eyes raking the room for sign of life. And then he forgot the king, and the general, the queen and the captains, and all his plans . . .
~
Mordred lay against the pillow, watching as the sunset flame fell steadily through the west window, his face quiet and alight. He was simply, inexpressibly at peace.
For the first time in half a year there was no pain ripping him apart inside. There was no hatred burning him in a silent poison. No multitude of obligations and fears gnawed at him, pulling him in one conflicting direction after another till he felt torn to shreds.
He could not repay Inspector Dickson. He could not do the impossible. And since that was so, rather than grieve uselessly over what he could not do, as Laufeia had bidden him, there only remained to do what he could. When Inspector Dickson came back, he would speak—
With a small, contented sigh he watched the burnished light dying slowly in a curious glowing haze, while the indigo shadows reached out to swallow it up. The shadow of a bird came winging across the last blaze of gold cast on the wall, and a little smile came to Mordred’s face as he watched it flit away.
The door creaked open and Mordred pushed himself up eagerly, straining to see across the bar of mote-laden light. Surely Fenris and Laufeia were not back already—was it Inspector Dickson?
“I did not expect to find you here, Damachrus,” said a cold, implacable, and horribly triumphant voice, and the leader came into the light.
Mordred did not cry out or even start. He was paralyzed with horror.
“Fine quarters you keep,” said the leader. “I should have thought to look for you here, a doubtlessly beloved and pampered spy—you wretched brat.” As he spoke he crossed to the window and slammed the shutters shut in one swift movement.
The ice holding Mordred snapped and he leapt out of the bed, diving headlong for the open door. But his broken leg betrayed him, he staggered, and an arm caught him across the throat, throwing him to the floor. The leader kicked the door shut and slapped the bolt in place.
In those few seconds of respite Mordred was able to think very clearly, and very fast. A memory broke on him—Fenris in the hospice courtyard with a sword—and he lunged for the far wall where something was glittering dimly on the floor. He snatched up the weapon and was on his feet again in an instant, propping himself on the wall, his lips clamped together as needles of sickening pain shot up his leg. Sweat broke out on his brow, rolling down to sting his eyes. It had to hold his weight—it had to—
The leader was watching with his faint, wolf-like smile playing derisively over his lips. “Do you really think to fight me, boy? You weakling, you cannot even stand.”
He strode forward. His kick landed in Mordred’s shins and Mordred, lost in a white wave of agony, crashed to the ground. When he came fully back to himself, his hand still clutched the sword, his jaw was still clenched shut and blood was running from his lip into his mouth. The leader’s foot was on his sword-arm, his face bending near, so near, and the blind terror rose up in him again.
“It will be slow, Damachrus,” said the leader softly as he raised his sword.
~
Inspector Dickson dragged himself up to the door and leaned against it, breathing fast. He had walked much too far and his body was repaying him in bitter coin. In a minute he would get up, and go in there, and get it over with . . .
A happy excuse floated through his head. It would be far too awkward to make an apology while Laufeia and Fenris were in the room. If he found Mordred alone, all well and good, but if not, perhaps he should wait.
He cut off the irrational thought, disgusted with himself. Better to endure the ordeal at once than deal longer with the pain of not undergoing it! Did he want to wait under guilty silence?
He lingered a second longer, nerving himself to pull up his tired, pain-wracked body and open the door. And he heard it.
It was just a murmuring voice to his ears, muffled, unintelligible through the thick door. He could not have said what it was that made the sharp, taut sense of danger run eerily through his senses, quivering like lightning-touched metal in his fingers. But he knew that sensation, like a burned hand knows the fire. He did not open the door.
All discomfort in his side forgotten, he rose up lightly and pressed his ear to the latch-hole. The voice grew a degree louder, just distinct enough to be heard.
“—no one this time, boy. Even if they come and loose that bolt, I will kill them. There will be time later to visit the king and princes of Mitheren—in this hour, I have his spy.”
What madman was talking in there—and to whom? Fenris was not a spy—Mordred—was Mordred a spy?
Inspector Dickson’s head spun. Who was in there?
Something smacked, like a palm against flesh, only harder. Right on the heels of it, a stifled, almost soundless cry.
“It hurts, does it? I shall give you worse, Damachrus. Cern Dersturi does not take lightly those who meddle with his trust.”
Rage boiled up in Inspector Dickson. His hands shook with it. That was Mordred—he did not doubt it—and whoever was striking him deserved to be hung by the neck.
Then the name snagged on his attention.
All the anger leached out of him, succeeded by shock. He had not lived in Mitheren a month to forget the name of the Runnicoran leader when he heard it. What was he doing here? And were Fenris and Laufeia in there as well? Had he killed them?
Inspector Dickson whirled and ran down the hall. He would be killed, too, if he went in there alone.
He wondered if he had left Mordred to his death.
~
“The general just returned from a ride out to the city—he’s stabling his horse.” The guard looked at Inspector Dickson in alarm.
“Thank you,” Inspector Dickson managed as he sped away, not daring to halt longer; already he was limping badly.
He lost his footing and tripped into someone’s path, dashing his head against the flagstones.
“Inspector Dickson?” gasped Laufeia Kenhelm’s voice, and he opened his eyes, wincing, on Fenris’ thin, worried face.
“What are you doing out here?” demanded Laufeia, sounding as much vexed as concerned.
Inspector Dickson shook his head. The words would not come, as hard as he tried to make them. “The Runnicoran leader,” he forced out. “In Mitheren. I need—to see the—the general.”
He had never seen Laufeia’s face so like to Mordred’s. It looked like the moment when Mordred had panicked in the gaol—except that Laufeia did not panic, not like that at least. “The leader?” she repeated in the merest stricken breath.
“Cern Dersturi,” said Inspector Dickson.
“You can't mean that.” She was white as death, begging him to be lying.
“I do mean it, my lady, believe me—”
“You are mistaken,” she said desperately.
“He was in our chambers, calling Mordred a spy and meddler. Where is the general?” He grabbed Fenris’ hand and stood swaying on his feet, looking around in the dusk.
“What do you need the general for?” It was Captain Murray’s curt voice speaking out of the gloom. A dim shape moved towards them.
“You’ll do,” said Inspector Dickson urgently. “Cern Dersturi is in Mitheren, and who knows what harm he means. We need to get armed men up there and stop him.”
“You jest,” said Captain Murray flatly.
“He does not jest,” said Laufeia quietly. “The leader is killing Mordred up there.”
Fenris broke away from the group and ran straight towards the tower.
“Fenris!” Laufeia screamed.
Captain Murray’s face changed, and he jerked about to face her. His whole demeanor grew cold and grim. “Sergeant!” he shouted as his long strides took him back to the door of Mitheren. He motioned to the guards there to follow him.
“Help me,” muttered Inspector Dickson to Laufeia. His legs barely supported him any longer.
They hurried at the rear of the soldiers, never catching up until the party halted in front of the door. There was Fenris, to Inspector Dickson’s relief and Laufeia’s plainly greater relief. He had not tried to go in on his own.
“It’s bolted,” said Inspector Dickson weakly, though unheard by anyone else.
Captain Murray raised his hand to the latch.
~
If Mordred could have shrunk from the blade above him, he would have. It gleamed evilly in the faint glow from the wall-candle the leader had lit. It was the only thing left that seemed quite real, and he, on his back with the leader’s foot pinning him down, was helplessly exposed to its edge.
Everything else was fading.
He tried so hard to hold on, to think, but the pain would not stop. Everywhere seemed to hurt, and the fear was choking him, and he could not think . . .
Something rattled dimly on his ear. Again, louder this time, waking him a little from the nightmare, and the leader started and glanced over his shoulder, shifting his weight—
And in that one moment of distraction Mordred wrenched convulsively away from the boot grinding down on his sword-arm.
And it was free.
The leader was turning back, features twisted in anger, swinging his sword back in a high, vicious arc, and Mordred could not make his arm lift. Could not block him. Higher—higher—not high enough—the sword was like a deadweight—
Then leader stumbled over his other arm, tripped, and suddenly Mordred was smothering, crushed under a burden like a rock. The world swirled in light and dark, and he tried to hold on, but he could not hold on anymore.
~
Inspector Dickson pushed forward as the bolt gave way and the door crashed open. He saw the dimly flickering light on the wall and an armed man standing in the middle of the room, who bent, lost his balance, and fell forward.
A sword's point jutted from his back.
“Out of the way,” said Captain Murray brusquely, shoving Inspector Dickson aside. He marched into the room and hauled the slain man up—the sword came loose with a sickening sound and clattered down—flinging him to the floor. And standing there, he simply stared with drawn brow from one still figure to the other.
“What are you waiting for?” Inspector Dickson barked finally. He shoved past him and knelt beside Mordred. He could not be dead.
He looked it, but his pulse beat steadily. Inspector Dickson reminded himself that some of the blood glistening on his shirt must be the leader’s.
Captain Murray bent down beside him with a fresh torch and shone it on Mordred’s face. Inspector Dickson had not been prepared for the clearer sight. Blood streaked down from the young man’s lip, and a darkening bruise splayed across his cheek, dwarfing the older ones that he had sustained the night the city burned. His white face looked strange in the yellow light.
“He’s alive, isn’t he?” asked Laufeia’s hard, clear voice behind them.
“He’s alive,” said Inspector Dickson.
“And if what’s on his face is the worst of what he has, he’ll live,” said Captain Murray.
Inspector Dickson shook his head, his eye traveling down. “He’s bleeding from the arm at least, and the hand, too.” He lifted Mordred’s right hand carefully and swiped at the blood with his own sleeve.
“Are the soldiers still here?” he asked.
“I returned them to the gate,” said Captain Murray. “They’re not needed now.”
Inspector Dickson shook his head in wonder, the truth settling over him. Mordred had killed the leader. Killed him with a broken leg and under torture, no less. What a thing to boast of!
“I will go find some water and cloths,” said Laufeia, and her light footsteps pattered away.
“I should report all this,” said Captain Murray, stepping back and rubbing his brow. “The general will want to know of it.” He settled the torch in a bracket. “The girl is fetching cloths; you will do well enough now. I will be glad to hear when he wakes up.”
Inspector Dickson sat back heavily on his heels as silence descended on the room. Fenris came forward and sat on Mordred’s other side, and put a hand wordlessly on his brother’s damp, ashen forehead.
Mordred stirred, as though at the touch. He sucked in a deep, gasping breath and was quiet again.
A part of Inspector Dickson longed to take Mordred’s hand, but he did not dare to. The memory pushed back to him of how he had struck Mordred in the face. His was not a hand Mordred trusted, and he could not touch him so with that knowledge weighing on his heart.
“Mordred,” Fenris murmured.
Mordred stirred again, in a more conscious way, and his lashes flickered. “Fenris,” he said muzzily.
“Mordred, I’m here.”
“I’m . . . so tired, Fenris.” Mordred’s hand groped out, and Fenris took it and closed his fingers tightly about it.
“Don’t die, Mordred.”
Mordred smiled, as though that were an absurd idea. “I won’t die.”
Then he frowned. “Why am I—not dead . . . ”
“What do you mean?” asked Fenris.
Mordred’s head moved from side to side, puzzled. “The leader was killing me. He knocked me down, and I got the sword, and he knocked me down again. I remember—I remember that I got my sword free after that, and then he tripped and fell on me. I remember because I couldn’t breathe. I think I thought he was crushing me to death. But where is he?”
“He’s dead,” said Inspector Dickson. “He fell onto your sword.”
Mordred’s eyes flicked to him, startled. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, and shut his eyes with a concentrated frown as though he were trying to remember something.
“It’s all so confusing,” he said presently with a sigh.
“We’ll get it sorted out later,” said Inspector Dickson. “Don’t worry now. Where—where did he hurt you?”
“He didn’t get so very far,” said Mordred indistinctly. His eyes were drooping. “I’m all right.”
He had drowsed off by the time Laufeia returned with bandages and warm water, and he slept soundly as they worked an hour or more into the night, dressing the wounds. There were not so very many, as Mordred had implied, and they were not grave ones—painful, certainly, but superficial. The worst was, perhaps, the slice across all four fingers of his right hand. Inspector Dickson did not like to think about the way it must have happened, but he could reconstruct the picture so clearly: the sword cutting down, the hand flying up in a desperate movement to ward off the coming blow—But it was not a crippling blow, and the hand would heal.
Mordred woke again when they were nearly done, Laufeia wringing out the last of the bandages into the rusty, cooling water. He was more awake this time, and more lucid.
“Inspector Dickson,” he said, “how did you know he fell onto my sword?”
Inspector Dickson balked.
“He’s the one who came to fetch us,” said Laufeia briskly, winding the cloth around Mordred’s arm. “He overheard the leader in here and gathered what was going on.”
“Then that makes twice you have saved my life,” said Mordred with a funny smile, “does it not?”
He was delirious, thought Inspector Dickson. But Mordred was not acting delirious at all. “Yes,” he said blankly.
Mordred looked up toward the ceiling, his face strangely serene and that funny smile quirking the edges of his mouth.
“Inspector Dickson,” he remarked.
Inspector Dickson grunted acknowledgment, refusing to meet Mordred’s eyes.
“I killed someone.”
Inspector Dickson jerked his gaze down. What was Mordred getting at?
The grey eyes were dancing behind a deceptively sober front. “You finally have a reason to arrest me.”
A strange sound escaped from Laufeia, half-laugh and half something that might have been a sob. She stood up and turned away from them, and Fenris came up behind her and put his arms around her.
Inspector Dickson stared down at Mordred, too bewildered to speak.
Mordred’s smile widened into a grin. “Don’t they know how to tease in Delgrass?” he asked.
“Of course we do!” sputtered Inspector Dickson before he could stop. He caught himself, realized he had blundered, too late—Mordred was laughing.
Laughing at Inspector Dickson, of course, for defending himself over a jest, but it was more than that: there was a release in it, a discardment of sorrow, a joy of life. It was a wonderful, strangely contagious sound.
In the end, Inspector Dickson did the only thing he could do, and the honorable thing, since after all, he had made the bungle. He laughed himself.
“Mordred,” he said when it had died away, soberly. “I am sorry.”
