Marion Zimmer Bradley - Darkover - The Heirs of Hammerfell
2024-12-08
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Storm raged over the Hellers; lightning split the sky asunder, followed by thunder rolling in long
echoing; crashes through the valleys. The driven clouds revealed ragged patches of lurid sky still lighted
with the last rays of the swollen crimson sun, and, hanging near the tooth of the highest peak, the
crescent rim of the pale turquoise moon. Near the zenith, a second moon hung violet and day-pale,
hiding behind the racing clouds. Snow lingered on the peaks, and occasional patches of ice endangered
the precarious footing of the small horned riding beast that fled along the narrow path. Neither of the
other moons was visible at the moment, but the solitary rider who traveled by their light did not care.
On the chervine's back, the old man clung to his seat in the saddle, all but unaware of the blood that still
flowed sluggishly, mixing with the rain to stain the front of his shirt and cloak. Moaning cries escaped
his lips as he rode, but he was no longer aware of the lament that flowed as unheeded as the blood from
the wound he had all but forgotten; and in any case there was none to hear.
So young; and the last, the last of my lord's sons, and dear as a son to me, too; and so young, so
young . . . so young to die . . . not much farther now; if I can only make it back before those folk of
Storn realize that I managed to get away. ...
The chervine stumbled on a rock loosened by the up-thrusting ice and nearly went down. He recovered;
but the old man was jarred from his seat; he fell hard and lay still, without strength to rise, still
whispering the half-voiced lament.
So young, so young . . . and how shall I bring the news to his father? Oh, my lord, my young lord , . . my
Alaric!
His eyes lifted painfully to the rough-hewn and battle scarred castle high on the crags above. It might as
well have been on the green moon for all he could do to reach it now. His eyes closed reluctantly. The
beast, aware of the loss of his burden but still held by the weight of the saddle binding him to his rider's
will, nosed gently at the old man who lay on the icy, wet trail. When he scented the others of his kind
moving down the steep pathway the old man had been climbing with such toil, he raised his head and
whickered softly to attract the notice which he knew would mean food, rest, and freedom from the
saddle's weight.
Rascard, Duke of Hammerfell, heard the sound and held up his hand, bringing the little procession
following him to a halt.
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"Hark, what's that?" he asked the paxman who rode behind him. In the dim storm-light he could just see
the riderless beast and the slumped form lying in the road.
"By the Dark Gods! It's Markos!" he cried out, flinging himself heedlessly from his saddle, and down
the steep, slick path, falling to his knees beside the wounded man. "Regis! Lexxas! Bring wine,
blankets!" he bellowed, bending toward the wounded man and gently drawing away the cloak. "He's still
alive," he added more quietly, hardly able to believe it was true.
"Markos, old friend, speak to me! Ah, Gods, how did you come by such a wound? Those bastards of
Storn?"
The man in the roadway opened dark eyes, blurred now more with confusion than pain, as a dark form
bent over him with a flask and held it to his mouth. He swallowed, coughed painfully, and swallowed
again; but the duke had seen the bloody foam at his lips.
"No, Markos, don't try to speak." He cradled the apparently dying man in his arms; but Markos heard,
with the bond between them that had endured for forty years, the question the Duke of Hammerfell
forbore to speak aloud.
What of my son? What of my Alaric Ah, Gods, I trusted him to you as to my own self. . . never in a
lifetime have you betrayed that trust. . . .
And the link bore to him the semiconscious man's thoughts;
Nor now. I do not think he is dead; but the men of Storn came upon us unseen . . . a single arrow for
each . . . curse them all. . . .
Duke Rascard cried out in pain.
"Zandru's demons seize them all! Oh, my son, my son!" He held the fallen man in his arms, feeling the
old man's grief as sharply as the arrow wound that burned as if it were in his own body.
No, my old friend, my more than brother, no reproach to you . . . well do I know you guarded him with
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your own life
The serving-men were crying out with dismay for their master's grief, but he silenced them with a stern
command.
"Take him up-gently, now! His wound need not be mortal; you will answer for it if he dies! That blanket
over him-yes, like that. And a little more firi . . . careful, don't choke him! Markos, where lies my son? I
know you would not abandon him--"
"Lord Storn-that elder son of his, Fionn-carried him off-" The harsh rasping whisper failed again, but
Duke Rascard heard the words he was too weak to speak aloud, I thought it was indeed over my dead
body . . . then I recovered consciousness and came to bear you word, even with my last breath. . . .
"But you will not die, my friend," the duke said gently as with giant strength the horse-master Lexxas
lifted the wounded man. "Set him on my own beast- gently, as you wish to go on breathing the air of this
world. Back now to Hammerfell ... as swiftly as we may, for the light is failing, and we should be within
doors before nightfall."
The duke, supporting the fainting body of his oldest retainer in his arms as they slowly moved back up
the pathway to the heights, saw in his mind the picture in Markos's as he lapsed into unconsciousness;
his son Alaric, lying across Fionn's saddle, with a Storn arrow in his breast, latest victim of the blood
feud which had raged between Storn and Hammerfell for five generations, a feud so ancient that no
living man now remembered its original cause.
But Markos, though grievously wounded, still lived; was it not possible that Alaric, too, might survive,
even be held for ransom?
If he dies, I swear I shall not leave a single stone of Storn Heights heaped upon another, or a living man
of Storn blood anywhere in the Hundred Kingdoms, he vowed as they crossed the ancient drawbridge
and reentered the gateway so recently closed behind them. He called aloud for serving men as they bore
Markos into the Great Hall, and laid him down gently on a rough settee. Duke Rascard stared around
wildly and commanded, "Send for damisela Erminie."
But the household leronis, crying out in dismay; had already hurried into the Hall and kneeling on the
cold stone of the entryway, she bent over the wounded man. Duke Rascard swiftly explained what was
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needed, but the young sorceress, too, had dwelt lifelong with this blood feud; this slight girl was a cousin
of the duke's long-dead wife, and had served him at Hammerfell since childhood.
She leaned over Markos, drawing out the blue starstone from the folds of her dress; focusing on the
stone, she ran her hands down his body without touching him, holding them about an inch from the
wound, her eyes remote and unfocused. Rascard watched in frozen silence.
At length she straightened, her eyes full of tears.
"The bleeding is stanched; he breathes still," she said. "I can do no more now."
"Will he live, Erminie?" asked the duke.
"I cannot tell; but against all probability, he has lived this long. I can say only it is in the hands of the
Gods; if they continue to be merciful he will survive." ""I pray so; we were children together, and I have
lost so many . . ." said Rascard. Then he broke out in a great shriek of long-held-back fury, "I swear
before all the Gods! If he dies, such vengeance shall be taken ..."
"Hush!" said the girl sternly. "If you must bellow, Uncle, go and do it where you will not disturb this
wounded man."
Duke Rascard flushed and subsided, walking toward the hearth and dropping into a deep chair,
marveling at the composure and quiet competence of this chit of a girl.
Erminie was not more than seventeen, slim and delicate with the bright new-minted copper hair of a
telepath, and deep-set gray eyes. Except for these she had not a single regular feature; with them, she
was almost beautiful. She followed the duke toward the fire and looked levelly into his eyes.
"If he is to live, he must be kept quiet. . . and you, too, must leave him in quiet, sir."
"I know, my dear. You were right to scold me."
Duke Rascard, twenty-third Duke of Hammerfell, was past forty, in the fullest strength of middle age.
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His hair, once dark, was gray as iron, his eyes the blue of copper filings in the flame. He was strong and
muscular, his weathered features and the twisted ropy muscles displaying the contours of the dwarfish
forge-folk from whom he derived his heritage. He looked like a once active man who had softened a
little with age and inactivity, and his stern face was softer than usual as he looked on the young girl; she
was not unlike the wife he had lost five years ago, when Alaric, their only son, was barely into his teens.
The two had been brought up almost as brother and sister; and the duke almost broke down, thinking of
the two red heads-cropped curls, long braids-bent together over a lesson-book.
"Have you heard, child?"
The young woman lowered her eyes. No one for a thousand leagues who possessed a single scrap of
telepathic awareness, far less a leronis, intensively otrained in the use of the psychic powers of her caste,
could have been unaware of that agonized interchange in which the duke had learned the fate of son and
old servant; but she did not say so.
"I think I would know if Alaric were truly dead," she said, and the duke's harsh face softened.
"I pray you are right, chiya. Will you come to me in the conservatory, when you can leave Markos?"
He added unnecessarily, "And bring your starstone."
"I will come," she said, understanding what he wanted, and returned to bend over the injured man once
more, without looking again at Duke Rascard as he left the Hall
The conservatory, a standard feature of a mountain household, was high up in the castle, with double-
thick windows, heated with several fireplaces, and even during this inhospitable season thronged with
green leaves and flowers.
Duke Rascard had seated himself in a very old and battered armchair where he could look out over the
entire valley below him. He stared at the road winding up to the castle, remembering more than one
pitched battle which he had fought there in his father's lifetime. So intent was he on memory that he did
not hear the soft step behind him until Erminie came around the chair and sat on the little hassock at his
feet.
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"Markos?" he asked.
"I will not deceive you, Uncle; his wound is very serious. The arrow pierced his lung, and it was hurt
worse when he pulled the arrow forth. But he still breathes, and the bleeding has not begun again. He is
sleeping; with rest and good fortune, he will live. I left Amalie with him. She will call me if he wakes;
for now, I am at your service, sir." Her voice was soft and husky, but quite steady. Living with hardship
had matured her beyond her years. "Tell me, Uncle, why was Markos on the road and why did Alaric go
forth with him?"
"You might not have known; but the men of Storn came last moon and burned a dozen ricks in the
village; there will be hunger before seeding-time, so our men chose to go forth and raid Storn itself for
food and seed for the burned-out houses. Alaric need not have gone with them; it was Markos's place to
lead the men; but one of the burned houses belonged to Alaric's foster-mother and so he insisted that
none but he himself should lead the raid. I could not refuse him this; he said it was a matter of honor."
Rascard paused for an unsteady breath. "Alaric was not a child; I could not deny him what he felt he
must do. I asked him to take one or more of the laranzu'in with him, but he would not; he said he could
deal with Storn with armed men alone. When they had not returned at twilight, I grew anxious-and
found Markos alone escaped to bring word; they were ambushed."
Erminie covered her face with her hands.
The old duke said, "You know what it is that I need from you. How is it with your cousin, my girl? Can
you see him?"
She said softly, "I will try," and brought out the pale blue stone from its hiding place at her throat. The
duke caught a brief glimpse of the twisting lights in the stone and turned his eyes away; although he was
an adequate telepath for one of his caste, he had never been trained to use a starstone for the higher
levels of power, and like all half-trained telepaths, the shifting lights within the starstones made him feel
vaguely ill.
He looked at the soft parting of Erminie's hair as she bent her head over the stone, her eyes serious and
remote. Her features were so fresh, so young, untouched by any deep and lasting grief. Duke Rascard
felt old and wearied and worn with the weight of the many years of feud, and the very thought of the
clan of Storn who had taken from him grandfather and father, two elder brothers, and now his only
surviving son.
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But, please the Gods, Alaric is not dead and not lost to me forever. Not yet, and not ever. ... He said
hoarsely, "I pray you look and give me word, child . . ." and his voice trembled.
After an unusually long time Erminie said, in a soft, wandering, unfocused voice, "Alaric . . . cousin ..."
and almost at once, Duke Rascard, dropping into rapport, saw what she saw, the face of his son; a
younger version of his own, save that his son's hair was brilliant copper and curled all over his head. The
boyish features were drawn with pain, and the front of his shirt was covered with bright blood. Erminie's
face, too, was pale.
"He lives. But his wound is more serious than Markos's," she said. "Markos will live if he is kept quiet;
but Alaric . .. the bleeding still goes on within the lung. His breathing is very faint ... he has not yet
recovered consciousness."
"Can you reach him? Is it possible to heal his wound at such a distance?" the duke demanded, recalling
what she had done for Markos, but she sighed, tears flooding her eyes.
"Alas, no, Uncle; I would willingly try, but not even the Keeper of Tramontana could heal at such a
distance."
"Then can you reach him and tell him that we know where he is, that we will come to rescue him or die
in the attempt?"
"I am afraid to disturb him, Uncle. If he wakes and should move unwisely, he could tear his lung past
healing."
"Yet if he wakes alone and knows himself in the hands of our enemies, could not that also prompt him to
despair and death?"
"You are right. I will try to reach his mind without disturbing him," Erminie said, while the duke
dropped his face in his hands, trying to see through the young girl's mind what she saw; the face of his
son, pale and worn with pain. Although untrained in the healing arts, it seemed to him that he could see
the mark of mortality on the young features. At the edge of his perceptions he could sense Erminie's
face, tense and searching, and heard, not with his ears, the message she was trying to insinuate into a
deep level of Alaric's mind.
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Have no fear; we are with you. Rest and heal yourself ... again and again the soothing touch of warmth,
trying to carry reassurance and love.
The intimate feel of Erminie's mind touched Rascard. I did not know how much she loved him; I thought
they were simply as brother and sister, children together; now I know it is more than that.
He became slowly aware of the young girl's blushes; he knew that she had overheard his thoughts.
I loved him even when we were children together, Uncle. I do not know if I am more to him than a kind
foster-sister; but I love him much more than that. It does not. . . it does not make you angry?
If he had learned this any other way, Duke Rascard might indeed have been angered; for many years he
had given much thought to a great marriage, perhaps even to some lowland princess from the Hastur
lands to the South; but now fear for his son was all he knew.
"When once he is safe again with us, my child, then if that is what you both wish, it shall be done," said
the stern-faced duke, so gently that Erminie hardly recognized the gruff voice she knew so well. For a
moment they sat silent, and then, to his great joy, Rascard felt another touch within the rapport, a touch
he recognized; weak and faltering, but unmistakable; the mental touch of his son Alaric.
Father . . . Erminie . . . can it be you? Where am I? What happened? What of poor Markos. . . ? Where
am I?
As gently as she could, Erminie tried to inform him what had happened; that he was wounded, and
within the keep of Storn Heights.
And Markos will not die; rest and heal yourself, my son, and we shall ransom or rescue you or die in the
attempt. Do not be troubled. Be at peace . . . peace . . . peace. ...
Abruptly into the soothing pattern of the rapport tore a great explosion of fury and the blue flare of a
starstone. It was like a blow struck into his heart, a physical pain.
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You here, Rascard, you prying thief. . . what do you in my very stronghold1? As if before his eyes,
Rascard of Hammerfell could see the scarred face, the fierce eyes, of his ancient enemy; Ardrin of Storn,
lean and panther-fierce, ablaze with rage.
Can you ask? Give me back my son, wretch! Name your own ransom, and it shall be paid to the last
sekal, but harm one hair of his head and you will pay a hundredfold!
So you have threatened every moon for the past forty years, Rascard, but you now hold nothing I wish
save for your wretched self; keep your wealth, and I will hang you beside your son from the highest
tower of Storn Heights.
Rascard's first impulse was to strike full strength with laran; but Alaric was in his enemy's hands. He
countered, trying to be calm, Will you not allow me to ransom my son? Name your own price and I
swear it shall be yours without haggling.
He felt the glee of Ardrin of Storn; clearly his enemy had been waiting for just such a chance.
I will exchange him for you, was Ardrin's answer through the telepathic link. Come here and surrender
yourself into my hands before tomorrow at sunset and Alaric-if he still lives, or his body if he does not-
shall be handed over to your people.
Rascard knew he should have expected this. But Alaric was young; he himself had lived out a long life.
Alaric could marry, rebuild the clan and kingdom. He answered after only a moment.
Agreed. But only if he lives; if he dies in your hands, I will burn Storn around your ears with clingfire.
Father, no! Not at that price! It was Alaric's voice crying out, I cannot live so long-nor will I have you die
for me. Rascard felt the voice strike through his son's weak defenses, felt the bursting blood as if in his
own veins, then Alaric was gone, dropped from the rapport-dead or unconscious-he could not tell.
There was no sound in the conservatory but Erminie's quiet sobbing, and another outburst of rage from
the Lord of Storn.
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Ah, you have cheated me of my revenge, Rascard, old enemy! It was not I who dealt him death. If you
wish to change your life for his body, I shall honor the bargain-
Honor? How dare you speak that word, Storn?
Because I am not a Hammerfell! Now get out! Do not presume to come into Storn again-even in spirit!
Ardrin flung at him. Go! Get out!
Erminie threw herself to the rug and wept like the child she was still. Rascard of Hammerfell bowed his
head. He was numb, empty, shattered. Had the feud ended, then, at this price?
2
The forty days of mourning wound slowly to an end. On the forty-first day, a caravan of strangers
wound its way slowly up the winding rocky track toward Hammerfell Castle and when welcomed
proved to be a relative of the duke's late wife along with his retinue. Duke Rascard, more uncomfortable
than he cared to admit in the presence of this sophisticated, finely dressed city-dweller, received him in
his Great Hall, calling for wine and refreshments.
"My apologies for the insufficiency of this entertainment," he remarked, ushering him to a seat near the
carved mantle which bore the crest of Hammerfell, "but until yesterday this was a house of mourning,
and we have not returned to our normal state."
"I did not come for cakes and wine, kinsman," said Renato Leynier, a lowland cousin from the Hastur
countries to the south. "Your mourning is all our family's mourning as well; Alaric was my kinsman,
too. But there is a purpose to our visit-I have come to reclaim my kinsman's daughter, the leronis
Erminie."
Renato looked at the duke. If he had expected-as was the case--to see an old, broken man, ready to
collapse at the death of his son and see Hammerfell fall into the hands of strangers, he was cheated. If
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