Ironcrown Moon: Part Two of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May

be even more grateful for your return.’

      ‘I see.’

      Others! Sly Lukort knew full well that Conrig Ironcrown was the one who would pay a fortune for her and the child…alive or dead. And if it were not to be the latter, she’d have to think fast.

      ‘Here comes Vorgo back with the coracle, so let’s be off, princess. Your boy’s waitin’ for you aboard Scoter. She’s a fine craft, a legacy from my late brother, may the fishes eat his eyeballs. You’ll ride easy in her.’

      ‘How many in your crew?’ Maudrayne asked casually.

      He chuckled. ‘For this sailin’, just me and Vorgo. Scoter needs five men when we’re haulin’ in fish, but you’re a catch easier to handle, eh?’

      Only the two of them. So the plan that had sprung into her mind might work. ‘You’ll take my maidservant also, of course. She is very dear to me and to my son.’

      Lukort’s face hardened and he shot a rancorous glance over his shoulder at Rusgann. ‘Not bloody likely. The big wench stays.’

      ‘I beseech you not to leave her here with the terrible sea-hag. Look – I’ll give you a fine reward if you but reconsider.’

      She pulled the splendid necklace of opal and gold out from her dress and made as if to unfasten the catch at the back of her neck.

      ‘Swive me!’ the fisherman gasped, undisguised greed widening his eyes. ‘That’s a beaut! Fire-stones the size of quail eggs.’

      ‘The clasp is stuck. Come help me open it. The bauble is yours in payment for Rusgann’s passage.’

      ‘Huh! I reckon it’s mine anyhow!’ And he was on her as fast as a heron striking, laughing in malicious triumph. He took hold of the pendant stones and gave a painful tug. She was aware of his wiry eyebrows and foul breath and the bits of food caught in his beard as she pulled the kitchen knife from the pocket of her apron and drove it into his throat just to the side of his windpipe, severing the great bloodvessels of the neck as she’d done many a time hunting, when putting a downed and wounded game animal out of its misery.

      Lukort uttered a bubbling croak and, staggering, caught her by the hair. She yanked the knife free and an amazing jet of blood shot from the wound, soaking the two of them as they fell in a tangle of flailing limbs. With him struggling beneath her, she stabbed him again, this time taking him between the ribs. She screamed, ‘Rusgann!’

      The maid rushed forward, a granite stone the size of a turnip in one hand. She used the other to pull Maudrayne aside and smashed the rock into Lukort’s crimson-smeared face. Kneeling beside him, she struck again and again and again until there was nothing human left of his features.

      ‘Stop,’ Maudrayne said at last. ‘He’s dead, bled out like a stuck deer. But take care, his boy Vorgo is coming back in the little boat.’

      ‘Dad!’ wailed the big youth, his lumpy countenance full of horror. He sat as though paralyzed in the coracle, which drifted in the shallows a dozen ells away. ‘Dad!’

      Maudrayne rose slowly to her feet, a figure tall and hideous with gore, holding the red-stained knife high. ‘Now for you!’ she howled, wading into the sea. The youth stared at her in disbelief, then threw himself over the gunwale of the skin boat and began to thrash away frantically in the direction of the lugger.

      Maudrayne took a few more steps in pursuit of the swimmer, shouting threats, while Rusgann splashed to retrieve the empty coracle, which she deftly flipped onto the sand.

      ‘Well done,’ Maudrayne said. ‘Oh, well done, my dearest friend!’ She came ashore.

      ‘Are you hurt, my lady?’

      ‘Scratches and bumps. The bastard didn’t get my necklace, but he left a smart welt trying to steal it.’

      Rusgann used her drenched apron as a wash-clout on both of them, removing the worst of the blood, until Maudrayne said, ‘Enough. We can finish cleaning ourselves on board the lugger. Poor Dyfrig must be terrified and we must go to him.’

      They launched the small craft and climbed into it, after helping themselves to Lukort Waterfall’s filleting knife and belt wallet. A great mob of ravens and gulls had suddenly appeared and were wheeling in a cloud above the body, ready to begin feeding. The noise they made almost drowned out the sound of a distressed human voice.

      ‘It’s that poor dolt, Vorgo,’ the maid said, ‘wanting us to pick him up. He knows he’ll never make it swimming to the fishing boat. The ice-cold sea water is sapping his strength.’

      ‘Go back to shore!’ Maudrayne shouted to the youth. ‘Go back! If you strip off the soaked clothes draining your body heat, you may live.’

      After a momentary hesitation, the floundering swimmer changed direction and headed toward land.

      ‘The air’s warm,’ Maudrayne said to Rusgann with a grim smile. ‘He knows the way to the steading, and he has his own pouch of magic trinkets to give him access to the sea-hag’s house. Mayhap Dobnelu will let him stay when she awakes. With us gone, she’ll need a new slavey.’

       THREE

      The prisoner in Zeth Abbey filled the hours of Solstice Eve with his usual quiet activities. In the early morning, before the sun made the enclosed garden too hot, he pulled weeds, and carried endless cans of water from the well in his strong arms so that the roses would not flag, and gathered whatever things Brother Herbalist had requested. Then, after eating alone in his little apartment as became one banished from the routine of the Brethren, he retired to the great library to study. His choice of materials sometimes surprised the librarian, but Father Abbas had decreed that all things were to be at his disposal, as though he were still a Doctor Arcanorum in good standing in the Mystical Order of Saint Zeth.

      After supper, as he often did, he held conversation in the bee-yard with his three friends; the clouds of busy, harmless insects ensured that no unwanted person would overhear their scheming. When the night-bell rang, he took to his bed more eagerly than usual and slept, and dreamed…and opened his mind to the invader.

       Kilian. Vra-Kilian Blackhorse. Do you hear me?

      ‘Finally, Beynor! I’m relieved to hear from you at last. You really should have contacted me earlier. I was becoming concerned. But never mind. My men in Cala Palace are ready. By the end of Midsummer Day, if all goes as I’ve planned, they will have escaped from the city with the Trove of Darasilo! I hope that matters go similarly well with you.’

       There’s a serious problem. I need you to postpone the Cala mission. Just for a short time.

      ‘Impossible. My agents were given their orders months ago. By now all the arrangements are in place. It’s imperative that the attack occurs early tomorrow, while those at the palace are sleeping off the previous day’s festivities.’

       Kilian, I need more time to complete my research here at the Dawntide Citadel. A week at the most. I’ve laid my hands on a document in the Salka archives that could be vitally important. But translating it is no easy matter. When I skimmed the thing, I could understood only about one word in five. But I deciphered enough to know its tremendous significance. It dates from before Bazekoy’s Conquest!

      ‘I couldn’t stop the Cala mission from proceeding, even if I should want to. Vra-Garon has been sent off to Elkhaven on business by Abbas Noachil, and is also carrying out an important assignment of mine. He won’t be back here until tomorrow. There’s no one else at Zeth Abbey whom I can trust to windspeak my agents, and it’s too late to send them a message by conventional means.’

       Kilian, I could windspeak your men and tell them to hold off. It wouldn’t be easy from this great distance, but I could do it. They’d listen and obey if you give me their