made those bird cries? No, said a voice from above, startling the two companions, it was me. The raven sat on a branch above the dog-mans head. Well, said the raven, you dont think a man could mimic a bird that well, do you? I did it perfectly. If it hadnt been perfect, youd have been stomped to pulp by those dragons out there. They dont like cheats, you know. Your rib cage would be ploughing up a gnomes beet field by next week, if it wasnt for me. I grant you that, said Soldier, but why the eleonora? Just to make you sweat a bit. You know we have this ambivalent relationship. Sometimes I like you, sometimes I hate you. Its one of those things. Shall I leap up and crush that bird in my jaws? asked Wo, his eyes narrowing. I could do it just like that, before it flies. No, no, answered Soldier, wearily. The creature is right weve both helped each other in the past, and equally, weve both wronged one another at certain times. Leave him be. I must now return my sword to its scabbard . . . He took Sintra from Wos hands and, with a feeling of completion, slid Kutrama into her. Immediately, the scabbard began a song. This was like no other song she had sung before. It was the first time Soldier had understood all her words. Very quickly all present realised what the lyrics were saying. This was no wizards melody, but the history of a knight. Soldier was being told, at last, who and what he was, and where he came from. The information was startling and unwelcome to Soldiers ears. He had dreamed much of it before, without the names. He was aware of slaughters and massacres. He was aware of great wrongs, but had not known who had perpetrated them and for what reason. The people in the song all seemed to be villains, there being little honour in the protagonists. To his great sorrow he learned that he had a history of which he should be ashamed. Soldier had felt this history before now, of course, had known he carried a great hate in his soul, a great enmity, which had come out at times with terrible unstoppable ferocity, such as when he killed Wos kinsman, the dog-head Vau. You are the knight Valechor, sang Sintra, and for ever and aye you have fought a feud against your mortal enemies, the Drummonds. Border clans, both, your family and theirs have killed and killed, until one fateful day the Drummonds slew your bride, the lovely Rosalind, and left her bleeding in her bridal gown upon the mountain snows. You, Sir Valechor, went out with your men and hunted the Drummonds down until you had them trapped in a valley, where you slaughtered them without mercy, hate and rage ruling your head. It was a terrible massacre, one at which you were cursed a thousand times. Blood soaked the white heather and the dog-rose withered on the vine. Animals now forsake that glen and birds no longer nest in its trees. Yet there was but one who escaped, a Drummond who swore to right the wrongs his clan had suffered under the Valechor blades. This Drummond rose to the right hand of the king, who stood apart from your quarrel and let it fester. Squabbles between knights, the king said, were not the concern of the throne, but to be settled by the combatants themselves. The king would not interfere, no much how much blood was spent. There were battles between the knight Drummond and you, the Valechor, and in one such battle the bride of Drummond was slain. An eye for an eye, a bride for a bride. It was an accident, for she wore the armour of a man, and was for all appearance yet another knight. But Drummond was of no mind to accept you, when you asked for forgiveness. Death was all that rested in his mind. Your death. The death of the last Valechor. Or the death of the last Drummond, who shortly after the killing of his wife murdered the king and took his throne. This is how things are now. One seeks the death of the other, even following him into another world. The Drummond is here, snarled Soldier. The Drummond came after me when I was flung from the battle
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