THE BLACK BLADE


II. The Duel


There was no art to a Skelligan duel, Harry knew.

It was brutal and ferocious, but it was also ugly and graceless. Wild and relentless swings were the norm, lack of discipline a badge of honour, and it was always a matter of brawn over brain when an Islander took up arms. In Harry's youth, the elder witchers had made it eminently clear that if any of the students wielded a sword like a Skelliger, they'd promptly be disarmed and hided with the very same blade.

So, naturally, it took the Witcher by surprise when Eidur of Clan Drummond began a blade-dance that would have made Sirius proud.

Instead of rushing forward with wild swings as Harry expected, the rebel's charge halted about eight feet from the konung. There he grasped the ricasso of the blade and brought it low, held slightly to the side so the hilt ran astride his waist and the undulating, flame-like blade speared out to its point, aimed directly Harald's heart.

"Rather arrogant of him, isn't it?" Cedric commented lightly, watching the fight with only half-interest.

It was arrogant, Harry agreed, much too arrogant for a man in his position. To the eye of a laymen, the Konung had given Eidur somewhat of an advantage by giving him a blade with such long reach, and, having held one once before in his youth, Harry knew the flamberge was far lighter and nimbler than it looked. It would follow, then, that Harald would not make the first move, and hope instead to bring the boy in close to end him. Eidur, it seemed, had no intention of doing so, instead encouraging the Konung to have first attack in hopes of ending the duel quickly with one thrust between the joints of Harald's armour. Of course there was a catch, but the Drummond boy didn't know that.

The Cripple, of course, seemed nothing but amused by the display. "Ha!" he boomed. "Confident, are yeh? They told me you were a wild one. Come on boy, do it. Fell me in one stroke."

The Winter's Blade still rested at Harald's side, flared out threateningly, but not in anything that would resemble a proper defensive posture. Slowly, iceberg blue eyes watching his prey with interest, he drew the blade back in so that it pointed downward at the ground, giving off the impression of nonchalance. Harry couldn't help but smile at that; it appeared the Konung, too, had an eye for theatrics.

The Drummond boy and many of the swordsmen among the onlookers would have noticed the guard, even if the common folk didn't. Suspicious, Eidur began circling around his quarry, trying to tease out The Cripple's mad logic, but the collected Skelligers would not give him the time to do so. At their best, the island folk were an ornery lot, and when promised with blood and spectacle, they expected such rather than timid half-circles and flourishes. A low din rose up in the crowd, first from the back, and it swept through like a wave to the front. The murmurs became jeers and the jeers became laughter at the expense of the cowardly Drummond boy, apparently nothing without his witch.

Pride got the best of Eidur as it had done when Harald goaded him, and he made the first move, thrusting the blade forward. Harald responded, with a quick step backward and a thunderous upward parry the swatted the great mass of the flamberge aside.

A great roar of approval came from the crowd as the rebel struggled to right himself, and some of the men on the parapets stiffened, unsure if their leader had just been executed. Harald did not press his advantage, but merely allowed the boy to right himself.

"Never faced a proper runesword, has he?" asked Harry lowly. Heft and reach were important in the basics of sword combat, but often they were impotent against magic.

Cedric nodded. "He'll be a damn sight less cocky now."

And he was. That frenzied, starved wolf look found home in Eidur's eyes once more. Privately, Harry felt sorry for the boy; going up against a sword like The Winter's Blade was hardly a fair fight. Had Harald done the same to him, Harry would have immediately resorted to casting signs, for the sanctity of the duel had already been broken. Judging by the adulatory reaction from the gathered townsfolk, the Skelligers saw nothing wrong with Harald's use of the runeblade.

Eidur rushed in again, with a wild swing Harald would no doubt parry away once more. Yet it was not so: when The Cripple brought The Winter's Blade up to parry away the strike to his head, the rebel feinted downward and withdrew his blade sharply, finding a relatively lightly armoured spot near the elbow and shredding the gambeson that the Konung wore under his armour.

There was blood dripping down the flamberge's edge as Eidur scrambled away from Harald's quick, answering slash. Harald winced, Harry and Cedric exchanged glances, and the crowd's exuberance died down, and then returned, weaker. Half of those assembled looked at the Drummond boy with newfound respect, while another contingent began murmuring angrily amongst themselves.

Still, drawing first blood did not win a duel, at least it did not do so in Skellige. The Cripple had only suffered a flesh wound, and this fight was to the death.

"What do you think happens if the boy actually kills an Craite?" Cedric asked, only briefly entertaining the possibility, as one would an absurd flight of fancy.

Harry shrugged, regarding the situation as he wagered Granger would have, which was to say, thoughtfully and cynically. "I reckon it won't come to that, many things will die tonight if it does."

"Oh?"

"The Konung, obviously. Eidur and his mates will still die. Your wine deal as well."

"Really?" Cedric asked as The Konung recovered from his wound and began circling his prey once more, eyes narrowed with that cruel sort of cunning only an old marauder could have.

"You can't negotiate with the king when there is no king," Harry said lightly, purposefully missing the point, "and the Skelligan method of succession is slow as shite."

Cedric clucked his tongue. "Bloody hell Harry, I know that much at least. I was asking about the Drummond lads; you think they'll still be killed?"

"It's likely," said Harry, nodding his head with professional approval at Eidur now deflecting Harald's measured upward slash, and returning with a thrust that was artfully avoided by the old man. "Many Skelligans respect the duel, but this is a large crowd, anything can go wrong if a Drummond slays Harald an Craite on the bridge leading to the citadel. Both of them know it."

The other Bear nodded, seeing the logic. "So, Eidur's only chance to save his men is to win by making The Konung yield..."

"Which Harald will never do," continued Harry, stepping aside to make room for a shorter, hooded onlooker who moved to the witcher's side and stood on tiptoes to get a better look at the duel.

"Or to lose and hope The Cripple is feeling uncharacteristically generous."

"Which Harald may be if the lad's good enough to impress him, but not good enough to kill him."

"So he has to give it his all and still die if he wants any of his tribesmen to survive," Cedric shook his head, handsome features contorting with sympathy. "What shite luck."

"Indeed, shite luck, as your friend says," said a third voice next to them, nondescript in every way, yet Harry's skin crawled at the sound of it. The witcher looked over to his left to see the hooded, shorter man he had let through regarding him with a guileless smile. He pulled his hood back, "but not so bad as yours."

When Harry saw those dull brown eyes, it felt as though all sound had been sucked from the world. One look around told him that indeed all sound had been sucked from the world, for time stood still as it had that one day many months ago on the banks of the Yaruga. Cedric stood frozen and staring forward, two women in front of him had paused while one whispered into the ear of the other, even Harald was as a statue as his sword beared down on the defending Eidur. It had been odd when this happened in Rohg, but seeing the phenomenon happen to so many in one place, now it was downright unnerving.

Evil had once darkened Harry's doorstep, and it seemed it had come to visit once more.

"I was rather enjoying that, Master Mirror," Harry said, stamping down the instincts that screamed at him to run as far as possible. Beasts smelled fear, they thrived off of it; the religious believed demons did the same. He would give this creature no such luxury, whether it be beast or demon.

"No you weren't," said the mirror merchant with that same innocent smile, "you figured out the trick. I don't think I have to tell you that the old man wins."

"What a shame. I reckon I was in the mood for a riot tonight," said Harry with feigned disappointment.

"Oh, are you? I can make it so if you desire it," was the response, not without humour.

Harry gave the mirror merchant a pointed look, suggesting no deals of any kind would be made tonight. Master Mirror threw up his arms in the universal sign of acquiescence, though the witcher suspected he only did so for his own amusement. Harry struggled to turn and face the merchant, maneuvering around the immovable crowd with difficulty:

"What brings you to Skellige?" he asked against his better judgment.

"What do you think I'm here for?" answered Master Mirror with a question, which rather unpleasantly reminded Harry of the way certain sorceresses spoke.

"I would've guessed to kill someone, but apparently it's to irritate me."

Master Mirror chuckled. "Apologies. Sincerely," he said without the faintest bit of sincerity. "But I should inform you that I don't kill, I collect debts."

Harry looked deeply skeptical at those words. "All the more reason to never be in your debt. Which I'm not in, so you've come to the wrong person for collection."

"Yes, you owe me nothing, however, I come to pay one of my own. You did me a good turn back in Rohg, helping me collect that debt I was owed. It appears, rather regrettably, that I now owe you a debt."

"My, er... help was hardly intentional," said the witcher, not especially eager to be on either end of a debt where Master Mirror was concerned.

"The dryad wasn't quite as careless as I made her out to be. If not for your intervention, however unintentional, she would likely still be holed up in that forest kidnapping young women. For that, I owe you a debt."

"How should I collect then? Unsurprisingly, I know of no way to melt flesh from bone as you do."

"Please, boy, even if that were my offer, you're much too softhearted for that. I sense you need advice, and so I appear on the eve of your hour of need."

"My need?"

"Your need. Some free advice: this evening will not end well. Not for witchers above, not for witches below, and not for kings ahead. You must be prepared." There was no whimsy this time, only a sober warning that set Harry on edge:

"Well that's not cryptic at all," scoffed the witcher. "What should I be prepared for?"

Master Mirror stopped short, and seemed to struggle with his words for a moment, which was deeply uncharacteristic of the man in the few times Harry had spoken with him.

"It is not for me to say," the merchant said at length. "That is a matter of destiny. I can only bend the rules for you, not break them entirely."

"Is there actually a point to this, or have you just come to speak in riddles?"

"I'm telling you as much as I can, Harry. Destiny is now in motion, and it is unstoppable. Reject it and you shall surely die," said Master Mirror, a touch ruefully, perhaps disappointed that there was something in the world even he could not conquer. Anticipating Harry's next question, the man held up a hand for silence. "Difficult times lay ahead. The old blood stirs and a death may soon be reversed. This will soon be a land of wolves and bears."

The old blood, thought Harry, wondering why that phrase itched at the back of his brain. And suddenly, he remembered. It wasn't much, just an off-hand phrase Hermione had mentioned before they parted. Seek the counsel of Aen Saevherne, ask her about the Old Blood...

Master Mirror, seeing the spark of recognition in the black-haired witcher's eyes, continued, "If you wish to survive your coming trials, you must find and master the black blade. I'd start by finding that wayward sorceress of yours and listening to her song. Or don't. You'll find her anyway. She is your destiny, after all."

"Wherever the Bear goes," Susan had said in Pont Vanis, "the Sorceress follows, armed with a miracle of starlight and a song of the black blade."

It seemed wherever he went, Harry could not escape Hermione Granger nor this 'black blade' everyone spoke of. When he looked up to ask another question of Master Mirror, he found himself staring into empty space. And then there was a loud roar, and Harry was jostled and shoved by the surging, baying crowd. Harry struggled to look over the undulating mass and saw Harald standing over his opponent, The Winter's Blade lodged deep within Eidur's chest, and a look of deep consternation etched into the Konung's face.

"Bloody hell," shouted Cedric, his voice faint and tinny in the face of Skelligan joy, "the old man still has it! I couldn't even see his last move, it was that fast!"

Disgust welled up in Harry's stomach, knowing what had happened immediately. Cedric had the same eyes as he; no one could be so quick as to fool their sight. At least, no man of natural means could. No, Evil had stolen Harald's duel and Eidur's chance at redemption, Harry was sure. But then he thought of Master Mirror's words, words of destiny's immutability and rules that could not be broken. Perhaps it was always Eidur, of Clan Drummond's fate to die unmourned on this lonely bridge, the ancestral sword of his greatest enemy buried in his stuttering, slowing heart.

Perhaps it was always his fate to be a failure.

Harald, for his part, recovered quickly, shouting something or another at his people, who surged forward toward the castle gates. Cedric said a few things as well, but Harry only half-listened, his thoughts supplanted entirely with talk of swords and destiny, demons and death, as well as the faint lingering scent of vanilla and parchment paper.


They waited for The Konung to call on them.

He stood at the far end of the bridge, near the tunnel that ran through the mountain back down toward the city proper, and discussed something with a pair of berserkers who blocked the path to the old castle. The Konung made a few gestures, towards the witchers or the fortress, Harry did not know. One of the berserkers shrugged, and pointed at the sorry scene below.

Fourteen men hanged from the bridge over Kaer Trolde, a morbid contrast to the sound of merrymaking that had just begun to echo from within the fortress. Harry and Cedric stood by, shadows faintly lit by dim torchlight, somberly watching the corpses toss in the salt-flecked Skelligan wind as though they were dancing listlessly to the faint tunes Harald's skalds. Harry tore his eyes away from them and looked skyward to the moon, shining scythe-shaped and frigid through murky clouds, a shard of ice amid an endless smear of tarry pitch across the horizon.

"Poor bastard," said Cedric soberly, still watching the bodies, "couldn't even save his friends."

Harry nodded, turning his gaze back to the macabre waltz below. "At least he gets to go to Valhalla."

"If it exists."

Two of the corpses clattered gracelessly into each other amid the gale, and then were blown apart from one another by it. A winter storm was picking up, both witchers could smell it. It was sure to be a ferocious one.

"If it exists," agreed Harry. He too had his doubts.

There was nothing to do but shrug. This was the way of Skellige. Even the most noble men of these Isles had likely killed a child or raped a young coastal woman, and Harry suspected the Shieldmaidens were no strangers to similar atrocities. Skellige, like most other cultures of The Continent, was a violent one; the only difference was that Skelligers were not so keen to hide their savagery as others were.

All of the men tethered neck-to-rope below had done all those things; they did not deserve pity. And yet, looking at the sacks on their heads and imagining how they died, gasping for air in the dark, he felt something sickeningly close to empathy.

"What a waste," he murmured, and Cedric seemed to catch his meaning. The older bear placed a paw on the younger's shoulder, and gave him an understanding look. No other words needed to be exchanged.

Eventually, the King of the Isles turned, and regarded the two mutants. He didn't smile as he usually did whenever one of the witchers would stop by his hold. It was strange, thought Harry, he didn't look unfriendly, but rather distracted.

"Well, if it isn't the Black brothers," he said appraisingly, and Harry stifled a reflexive smile. On the continent, he has Witcher Harry, or to a select few, Harry Potter, son of James, the great, late voivode. On the isles, however, he was Sirius's boy: the son of Black. "I'd expected Cedric, but I didn't hear you'd made landfall."

The familiarity of it filled the witcher with a sense of wrenching nostalgia, and a strong desire to see Kaer Almhult's high walls once more. "Just on my way home, my Lord. Was dragged into one of Ced's schemes."

Now Harald laughed.

"Fucking hell. My Lord," he mocked, "there's hardly need for us to stand on ceremony. You know what my name is, use it."

"Lead on then, Old Cunt," the black-haired witcher greeted with his father's favoured endearment for Harald, which drew a choked laugh from Cedric.

For his part, the Konung looked equally amused, clapping Harry's shoulder with a meaty paw. "You've taken too many hits to that head of yours, Cnut was my brother. Though I'll give you he was a right cunt!"

Cedric give an appraising nod of the head, approving of the wordplay. "He died right, then."

"A cunt on the outside to match the cunt on the inside. At my hand, too. You two'd do well to remember that," The Cripple said with a vulpine smile, making a slitting motion down his chest and abdomen. It was not a threat, but not entirely a joke either. "Well, what's keeping you? Get inside 'afore we end with our arses frozen! There's mead to be drunk and fights to be had!"

"And deals to be struck," informed Cedric quickly as they turned and headed through the gates into an unfriendly stone courtyard through which the merry horde could be heard.

"Aye and deals to be struck for your inbred bosses. No offence meant to your noble lineage, 'course," said the Konung, first to Cedric and then to Harry.

"None taken," said Harry with good humour.

"Good lad. Now go on in and enjoy yerselves; I've me some right kingly business to attend to," said Harald waving them through the archway into the mead hall, "I'll fetch you later to see the witch."

The Konung nodded once, then he turned and head in the direction of the forge, leaving the two witchers unattended.

"The Witch?" asked Harry, as the sound of music and feasting grew larger, reverberating off the old, time-worn stone.

Cedric shrugged. "Part of the deal."

"The one that everyone keeps saying was helping the Drummond rebellion?"

"No, not that one, but I'll bet she's kept prisoner here as well. The person I'm after is something of a fortune teller, a druidess from the Sacred Grove."

The mention of a fortune-telling druid from the Sacred Grove tickled Harry's brain. He had heard rumours of such a woman in years' past, and had on one or two occasions considered going to see her for the novelty of it, but never passed by Hindarsfjall on his journeys. He was surprised, however, to hear that she was in prison.

"I thought she was a holy woman," said Harry, echoing the sentiments of all the people from Hindarsfjall that he had ever met. "Why's she in the dungeons?"

There was an explosion of colour and sound as the two witchers trundled down the steps into a large, rectangular hall decked with many long, wooden tables that clustered around gargantuan, shield-and-sword decorated stone columns. Rich red tapestry unfurled along the walls between high windows that would during the day let in rich sunlight, but now only showed the unfriendly mire that was the night sky. At the other end of the room a proud hearth stood, rip-roaring with welcome fire. Much of the crowd that had enjoyed the twilight duel outside now stood around that fireplace and warmed their bones before slowly filtering back to the feasting tables, waiting for the servants to arrive and furnish them with the necessitated feast.

Harry winced as he stepped in, ears assaulted by no less than six different tunes being played by six different skalds in different corners and alcoves of the hall. Mixed in with them were the shouts of an arm wrestling bout and the clatter of stone platters as the servants now came in with all manner of Skelligan dishes from the most delectable suckling pig to the most foul-smelling pickled herring. Cedric, too, seemed a little taken aback at the noise, and wrinkled his nose against the stench as the herring wench, a young woman dwarfed by the size of her serving tray, tottered by them:

"Why's she in the dungeons? She told a fortune," he said, stopping short to allow the servant past, "only it wasn't a very good one. She predicted old Harald's death in front of a crowd of visitors, said he won't see the end of the year let alone another spring."

"Fucking hell," Harry breathed as they made their way to the hearth; such talk would be considered treason by Skelligers, no wonder the druidess languished in prison. "You'd think she'd know to keep that close to her chest."

"You'd think so, but apparently she's a proper seer: she can't control when her visions happen anymore than you or I can control the weather."

Master Mirror's words floated back into the witcher's thoughts; the evening would not end well, not for witchers, witches, or kings. Quite suddenly, the witchers, the witch, and the king were connected, and Harry now had little doubt that the mirror merchant was speaking the truth.

"Ced," said Harry quietly.

"Mhm?" the other witcher asked lightly, making eyes at a lovely, ginger-haired serving girl.

"How important is this wine deal to you?"

"Er... like, personally?" Cedric asked. "Not particularly, but, you know: king's orders and all. Why do you ask?"

"I just-" Just as Harry spoke, another voice shouted their names, both witchers turned to the source of the noise, and found a group of Harald's Berserkers waving the pair over to a particularly raucous table near the southern edge of the mead hall. Cedric immediately began making his way over to them.

"You were saying?" The older witcher asked as Harry fell in step with him.

Harry shook his head. "No, nevermind for now. Just a hunch."

Now Cedric looked at him dubiously.

"I'll tell you later tonight. For now, we play the diplomats."

"You needn't tell me twice," smiled Cedric, before quickening his pace.

With a wry shake of his head, and weather eye out for danger, Harry followed.