A Cold Cry

"You are but one man," answered King Eofin fearlessly, and he came forward, his own sword drawn.

Culathan laughed. "Do you really think that?" said he, and a shadow seemed to darken him as he spoke. "A legaeësse is not a man. Yea, come near, small king. Do you fear me now? That is well, for a shaking hand will mar a sword-stroke."

"Man or legaeësse, I do not fear you," said Eofin; yet his face betrayed him.

And the others behind him came then, strong and trained warriors of the clans of Enedhwin, and unbidden they swept forward to defend their king. And Culathan met them with ease, knocking them aside as though they had been leaves.

Thin and far off a cold cry wailed, drawing very slowly nearer. The mountain that had been bent to the will of the Cold Man for so long responded to the silent will of its master, and a great mist gathered around its feet and pooled into the cave. As Eofin saw his men falling wounded or slain, he rushed forth with a cry; but the mist entered, and he was confounded, and looked around to see naught but shapes of trickery.

"Come out!" he shouted. "Where are you? Will you fight like a coward behind your conjuring?"

A low laugh echoed around him. "The laws of men are not mine. I threw off all laws long ago. The victor is he who triumphs, regardless of the means."

"My king! Here!"

It was a known voice – the voice of Finyref.

"Here, my king!" he called again. "Come!"

A hand reached through the mist, strong and beckoning. "He is here, my lord king – come–"

The voice broke off short, and the sound of sword on sword tingled through the mist. But still one hand remained outstretched in the cloud of white.

A second mist seemed to swirl before Eofin's eyes, and he knew not why, and he could not move to take the hand. And he stood, struggling as it were to move through a thick dark sea, while the hand glimmered faintly beyond his reach and Finyref withstood a legaeësse for the sake of his king.

"My lord king Eofin," called another voice, Carras' it seemed to him, but strangely clear, no longer broken with torment and desperation, tumbling on slow wings through the darkened paths of his mind. "Cast off the webs of darkness, and do not heed their songs of sleep. By your hand must he fall."

The blindness was fading, dissolving into light, and King Eofin saw the hand anew. Reaching out, he took it. Finyref's fingers closed around his with the strength of iron, and pulled him forward.

And then they weakened, even as he saw Culathan's form materialize through the whiteness, and released. And he saw Finyref, falling amid the red of his blood, and Culathan with cold face withdrawing his stained sword.

The king halted; his sword hand sank to his side, and for a long moment in time, his command deserted him and he thought only of surrender and death.

"By your hand must he fall."

Culathan was stepping back, his dark eyes turning, lighting on him. King Eofin raised his arm, and his weapon dove under the cut of the sword, swift, sure, and plunged upwards into the legaeësse's heart.

A cold cry tore through the mountain, rising to a shriek, quivering the foundations with its intensity and thrumming like a discordant harp. Then it died away, and a triumphant stillness fell.