The Heirs of Hammerfell Read Free

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.
    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.
    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