Darkwell - Douglas Niles [13]
Tristan and Daryth stood poised for combat, watching the northmen. They saw tall, proud seafarers. The one called Grunnarch stepped forward. His red hair and beard flowed freely across his chest and shoulders, and his pale blue eyes stared warily back at the pair. His chest was broad, and strapping muscles rippled beneath the skin of his arms. The northman wore only a short wool tunic, of plain gray, and high-laced leather sandals. He looked every inch the sailor, taking no note of the rolling deck beneath his feet as he advanced, studying his rescuers.
Grunnarch the Red saw two men facing him, one fair and one swarthy. The fair one stood easily before him, holding that dazzling sword. He held himself proudly, like a ruler of men. His brown beard and hair were shorter than the northman's, but still long and full, as a man's should be. Though leaner of muscle, the swordsman had a wiry, solid frame that appeared to conceal hidden reserves of strength.
The other man, the swarthier of the pair, was cleanshaven. His skin was a rich brown, his hair as black as night. He carried a silver scimitar and stood balanced, catlike, upon the balls of his feet. Grunnarch noticed that, while the swordsman stared him full in the face, the man with the scimitar looked everywhere else, as if watching for a threat to his liege.
Then Grunnarch's eyes went to the ship, where a black-haired woman stood at the rail. She met his gaze boldly, with none of the shyness that would have characterized a woman of the North. For several moments, he stared, distracted by her beauty, until he remembered his surroundings.
The northman lowered his axe. He spoke in heavily accented Commonspeech.
"Greetings. I am Grunnarch the Red, King of Norland. I thank you for my life."
"I am Tristan Kendrick, High King of the Ffolk."
The longship lurched slightly as Dansforth's crew brought the two ships together, lashing the hulls side by side. Robyn sprang into the longship to stand beside the two men. Grunnarch turned and spoke a command in his own tongue, and the surviving members of his crew began to tend to their wounded and hurl sahuagin bodies overboard.
Grunnarch's eyes turned unconsciously to the woman again. He saw the supple curves of her body, poorly concealed by her loose cloak. She stood easily in the rocking hull, moving like a fighter, with balance and grace. He saw that the muscles of her arms and neck were tight, but her strength could not conceal the womanliness of her appearance.
And then he recognized her. He recalled a figure, high atop a tower of Caer Corwell, black hair streaming in the wind. He saw her with her staff held over her head, and he remembered the lightning that had crashed and crackled into the ranks of his men. With the memory came the stench of burned, blackened flesh, and even the feeling of hopeless panic that had arisen within him. It was at that moment, Grunnarch remembered, that he had realized that the northmen's campaign was doomed.
He shook his head suddenly, turning back to the young king who stood looking at him curiously, and he wondered at the oddity that brought the two of them, sworn enemies a year ago, standing face to face over the dead sahuagin.
"Why did you do this?" asked the Red King.
Tristan thought before answering. Why, indeed? At last he spoke. "I'm not quite certain. Our first instinct was to sail away, once we had secured our own ship.
"Your people and mine have fought for centuries, and, in truth, it seemed we should fight for centuries to come. But must it be this way?"
"You are Kendrick of Corwell? And of Freeman's Down?"
"The same."
"We have fought, ourselves, scarce more than a year since. You have great skill – and fortune.
"And you, lady?" asked the Red King, turning to Robyn. "You, too, fought well, your sorcery helped break the spell of evil that bound us."
"Mine is the magic of faith, not sorcery. There is a great difference." She smiled at him faintly, her eyes inscrutable.
He nodded,