The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [212]
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t even much of a fight, was it?” He wondered why he’d spoken aloud. Rhwn couldn’t hear him. He stood up, sword still in his hand, and saw the man who’d rolled against the captain and made him stagger.
Warryc lay sprawled on the ground, killed by a stab in the back. Gerran knelt down beside his body and closed its eyes. One of his men, killed from behind.
“Gerro!” Neb ran over to him. “I’ll help you carry him inside. That battle’s over. The chirurgeons have taken over the great hall.”
“That’s of no use,” Gerran said. “He’s dead.”
Neb let out his breath in a sharp puff. “May he find rest in the Otherlands,” he said. “My heart aches over the losing of him. I’d hoped it was only a wound.”
“So did I. Who gave it to him? Did anyone see?”
“One of Ridvar’s men told me that it was Honelg himself.”
“Where’s Honelg’s body? I want to spit on his corpse.”
“I don’t know.”
Neither did anyone else, apparently, when Gerran set about searching the dun. None of the men he came across had seen Honelg, alive or dead, since the very start of the battle. The end result of havoc lay strewn over the ward. Gerran strode past wounded men, heard men weeping, stepped over dead men, kicked a litter of dropped or broken weapons out of his way as he walked. Eventually he met up with Prince Voran, who was searching for the lord as well with a squad of his own men.
“I want to give him a proper burial,” Voran remarked, “but for his wife’s sake, not his. No one’s found his son either.”
“His son’s but seven summers old, Your Highness,” Gerran said.
Voran winced. “Well, then, let’s hope he’s still alive. I begin to think his father must be.”
“Indeed, Your Highness, since no one’s found him. I want a word with his lordship, you see. He stabbed one of my men in the back.”
“Perhaps we won’t bother with the proper burial, then. I wonder where he’s gone to earth?”
Gerran remembered the mysterious light he’d seen and Dallandra’s talk of a shrine to Honelg’s goddess. “I’ve got an idea about that, Your Highness,” he said. “There’s some sort of hidden chamber inside the dun walls. The gerthddyn will know where it is.”
“Your Highness?” One of Voran’s men spoke up. “I saw the gerthddyn helping carry the wounded. He’s doubtless in the great hall.”
Voran took the lead as they strode around the broch. They found Salamander just coming out. Some other man’s blood soaked the front of his shirt.
“Gerro!” Salamander trotted over to him, then saw Prince Voran and started to kneel.
“Stay on your feet, man,” Voran said. “This is no time to worry about courtesies.”
“My humble thanks, Your Highness,” Salamander said. “Gerro, Daumyr told me about Warryc. You must be hunting for Honelg.”
“I am. How did you know?”
“The look on your face. Pure death and twice as cold.”
“Oh. Do you know where the shrine is? I’d wager that he’s in there.”
“A good guess, but if you’re right, getting him out again’s not going to be an easy task. There’s one narrow door, and it’ll be shadowy inside.”
“Just show me where it is. I’ll get him out of it. The prince’s men can handle the rest of the traitors, if there be any with him.”
Salamander led them around the walls to a door made of rough wood planks. Gerran would have thought it the entrance to a storage shed if Salamander hadn’t pointed to it and mouthed the words “in there.”
Gerran strode up to the door and kicked it as hard as he could. With a groan it splintered down the middle. The pieces swung inside to a gloom lit by splinters of sunlight. At the far end, on what appeared to be a stone altar, a man lay sprawled on his back. Honelg? Gerran wondered. Someone else, however, knelt before it. When he stood and turned to face the door, Gerran recognized the lord. A pot helm dangled from his left hand.
“Honelg!” Gerran shouted. “I’m challenging