The Storm - eARC

by David Drake

  The fellow’s equipment looked of decent quality, but more money had been spent on flash—inlays and engraving—than had gone into procuring the arms themselves. I’d have to examine them closely to be sure, but for the moment I wasn’t impressed.

  The man with him struck me the same way. He was very big, and least six foot six. He was dressed all in black—including an artifact that turned his head into a black mirror which completely hid his features. His weapon and shield were plated with black chrome.

  Dozens of people—men—followed those two, and much of the group who’d been on the left side of landingplace when I arrived was filtering back from the surrounding brush and houses. The man in velvet bent slightly forward and breathed hard: the run from wherever he’d been dining had left him blown.

  He straightened and said, “I’m Count Thomas and my family’s run Histance for ten generations! I guess Arcone told you that Alfred and his diggers made off with Herbert, and I bloody well won’t have it!”

  “Herbert’s a worthless puppy!” Captain Dessin shouted. “He probably fell into a bloody stock pond drunk—or got knifed by some girl’s husband. It’s nothing to do with Lord Alfred!”

  “Lord Herbert suggested that he was visiting a woman on Lord Alfred’s domain the night he disappeared,” Arcone said. He kept his voice calm, but he was speaking loud enough to be heard. “And I believe—yes, here comes Lord Alfred.”

  A group was arriving from the right side. The leader was a man of fifty, stocky and in decent shape. He wore clothes of heavy canvas and his gear was solid looking, a shield and weapon with no embellishment. He didn’t have a bodyguard like Thomas, but the dozen apparent miners who accompanied him were hard, scarred men. They didn’t all have Ancient weapons, and I only saw a couple shields.

  Sam whined at my side. He wasn’t frightened, but he was picking up the atmosphere of landingplace. It could boil into violence at any instant, and an accident—somebody triggering his weapon without meaning to or just dropping a piece of equipment on a stone—could set things off.

  “There!” Thomas said, pointing to his rival. “You’ve come to solve the trouble on Histance? It’s right there, him and his bloody diggers!”

  “Look you prick!” Alfred said, standing arms akimbo with his with his hands close to his equipment, “I can live with you putting on airs because you and your people have smelled like cows the past hundred years, but I won’t have you claiming I murdered your son! Either you—”

  “Either I what?” Thomas said. “If you’ve got threats to make, make them to the Black Death here!”

  The big man in black stepped forward and stood in front of Alfred, holding his shield and weapon out for use. I figured this was about time to put a stop to things, so I switched on my weapon at full intensity, aiming the blade straight up. That got me everybody’s attention just like I’d meant it to.

  “You! Blackie!” I shouted as I switched off. “Do you really fight or do you just stand around looking pretty? If you’re a man, I’m challenging you right now, where we stand!”

  I honestly wasn’t sure how the fellow—the Black Death—would react. He obviously banked heavily on show, but his equipment looked decent. On the heavy side, but he was a big man so he might be able to react quickly; at least in a short bout. I was sure that I could take him in the long run, but for this to quiet things down fast, I had to be fast myself.

  Blackie switched on his shield and weapon; I did the same and we were up a plane, the spectators fuzzy blurs, moving away faster than they had when I first stepped out and threatened them. I couldn’t make out individuals when I was behind my shield, but even Arcone must have shifted away. That was only common sense: anybody standing in the way when warriors were fighting was likely to be chopped in half by accident.

  I stepped toward Blackie. He’d seemed hesitant, maybe because I represented the Commonwealth rather than that he was afraid of me personally. I’m not built impressive, and I don’t put a lot of side on the way some do—Blackie among them.

  He cut overarm, aiming at the center of my shield. Using Sam’s eyes, I saw the stroke coming almost before Blackie’s arm started to move. My own weapon guided his to the ground on his right. I took a step to my left—circling sunwise.

  He took a step back, turning to match my movement. As I expected, his shield moved with a jerk. It had a great deal of inertia.

  About a dozen people were watching the bout with their shields on. They were sharply visible. All kept well out of the way—including Osbourn. I hadn’t had time to brief him on what I was doing because I hadn’t had a plan until the local confrontation started to boil over. All he had to do was keep clear—unless Thomas and his crew tried to mob me, I suppose.

  Even then I’d probably be all right, but I didn’t think that was going to happen. Thomas was armed, but he wouldn’t have hired a bully like the Black Death if he’d planned to do his fighting himself.

  Blackie took another swipe at me. Again I guided the stroke into the ground and stepped left again. Those were powerful blows, but I saw heavier every day on the field at Dun Add.

  Blackie’s weapon wasn’t as good as I’d judged it was before we started to fight. It wasn’t nearly as good as the one I’d just given to Lord Osbourn, certainly.

  He struck a third time—straight at the center of my shield again. This time instead of parrying the blow, I let my shield take it. When Blackie’s arm and weapon recoiled in surprise at the solid contact, I lunged and thrust him through the elbow.

  Blackie’s arm and weapon flew off to his right with a sizzle. He hadn’t had a prayer of blocking my stroke with his shield—he couldn’t shift it that quickly. In truth, I don’t think the big fellow even knew that I was counterstriking until I’d severed his arm.

  I stepped back and switched off. I was panting as much from adrenaline as from exertion. Blackie threw his shield down—he didn’t shut it off—to free his left hand so that he could grab the stump of his right. The wound wasn’t bleeding badly: at full intensity, my weapon cauterized any wound it made in flesh.

  The wound probably wasn’t hurting much either—not yet, that is. I guessed Blackie’s screams were mostly from frustration. He knelt beside his severed arm, sobbing and cursing alternately.

  “You—Count Thomas!” I said. “Get your man to a surgeon now!”

  I’ve killed people and I’ll kill more if I need to, but I don’t think I’ll ever come to like it. I’ve met guys who did. I don’t want to be like them.

  A couple guys from the gang around Thomas took Blackie in tow and led him off. I figured he’d be all right. His arm was gone—that was final—but Tall Hanson back in Beune had lost an arm moving a slab of rock that’d shifted a lot faster than he’d expected. He could even reap as well as a whole man, using a harness to grip to top of the scythe.

  “Now listen, all of you!” I said. I wished I had a louder voice, but I can make myself heard when I put my mind to it. “The fighting’s over, now. Got me? Over! If either you—” I looked at Thomas— “or you, Lord Alfred, start something, then you can figure on having me on the other side. Do you understand?”

  “I don’t want to fight,” Count Thomas muttered. “I just want my son back.”

  His eyes were on Blackie’s arm. The muscles continued to twitch as they died. The bully’s fingers still gripped his weapon.

  “I never wanted a fight,” said Lord Alfred. “And I don’t have his son.”

  Arcone, the secretary, stood close by Count Thomas. His eyes were on Alfred, showing no expression of his own.

  I was watching Thomas too, just in case he took Alfred’s denial that he’d scragged the missing youth the wrong way, as he had before. He didn’t speak and kept glancing back to the arm on the ground.

  “Count Thomas,” I said, still louder than my normal speaking voice. “You will provide accommodations for my squire, Lord Osbourn, and myself while I look into matters here.”

  “Your lordship?” Alfred said.
He didn’t step closer but I think he caught himself before doing that. “I’d be honored to accommodate you in my dwelling. You’re welcome to have my suite if you’d like that.”

  “Not at present, your lordship,” I said. “I’m working on the assumption that Lord Herbert did not vanish from your domains. I may have to rethink that, but for now I plan to look on Count Thomas’s side of the boundary.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Lord Pal,” Thomas said, sounding pretty much as though he meant it. “Say—you know, the best suite in the palace is King Fidele’s. My secretary’s in it now but he can move. Arcone? Empty a room in the servants’ wing—or find something in town if you’d rather do that.”

  “Your lordship, I don’t think that’s a good idea!” Arcone said. “Remember how uncomfortable you were with all the artifacts? We don’t want our honored guests—” he turned his head and bowed to me “—to be disturbed that way.”

  “Well, if it wasn’t for you bringing that up, Arcone…” Thomas said. His look reminded me of his anger a few minutes earlier. “There was no need for them to know about that, right?”

  “Excuse me!” I said, sharply enough to get everybody’s attention. “Master Arcone, what do you mean by ‘artifacts’?”

  Arcone gave me a full bow and said, “Only the Almighty knows, your lordship. Ancient artifacts. They might do anything at any moment.”

  Scarcely that, I thought. Aloud I said, “Are you a Maker, Master Arcone?”

  “No, no,” he said, giving me a smile I didn’t like. “But I’ve come to accept the risks with the help of my faith in the Almighty.”

  Arcone hadn’t struck me as particularly pious until he said that. When I thought about it, he still didn’t. I said, “Well, as it happens, I am a Maker. I’ll happily undergo the risks for the sake of seeing a new collection of artifacts. Who was King Fidele?”

  “Look, can we get out of here?” Thomas said. “I keep seeing that—” he indicated Blackie’s arm with his foot “—at the corner of my eye. We can talk this over in the palace.”

  “Fine with me,” I said. “Baga will sort out our gear to send up for us. Can you give us a couple porters to take care of that, sir?”

  “Sure,” Thomas said, leading the way along a well-beaten path up the hill. Dried cow dung indicated that Thomas used it as a drove path. “King Fidele? Well, my great, great uncle, I guess. He never married and from the stories didn’t have much use for women. And he wasn’t really a king—nobody in my line tried to use that title after him—but he was a bloody good scholar.”

  “And a Maker?” I said. Bushes grew to ten or twelve feet tall, spreading like water spurting upward from a single pipe.

  “They never talked about that,” Thomas said. “Well, the family wouldn’t, you know. Makers aren’t really respectable for a noble house, you know?”

  I didn’t say anything, but he must’ve heard what he’d said and thought about who he’d said it to. He stopped and pressed his hands together as he gave me a worried frown. “I didn’t mean you, your lordship. And that’s not how I think anyway, but well, you know; my twice-great granddad did. Old folks, you know?”

  “Quite all right,” I said. “I’m not insulted. And for that matter, I’m not very respectable either.”

  “If I may ask, your lordship?” Arcone asked from a pace back beside Lord Osbourn. “You’re a Champion and I thought a warrior. Well, you are a warrior. I saw the fight. Were you serious when you said you’re a Maker?”

  “Quite serious,” I said, “though I’m not a very impressive Maker. Still, I can find my way around Ancient artifacts in a trance. There’s no reason somebody can’t be both, you know; though Makers aren’t common, and not everybody can use a weapon and shield either.”

  “Lord Pal is one of the most respected members of the Company of Champions,” Osbourn said. “His defeat of Lord Baran is the stuff of legends. Your little bodyguard should have known to lay down his arms immediately instead of facing Lord Pal.”

  Laying it on a little thick, I thought, but Count Thomas said, “I’m sure the Black Death agrees with you.” He turned his worried face toward me again. “I truly apologize, your lordship.”

  I shrugged and said, “No harm done.”

  Except to Blackie, of course. Well, he must have known the job was dangerous.

  Beyond the brush was saw Histance House, Count Thomas’s residence. It was similar to the Keep and the Manor on Severin, but here the new quarters had been built onto the original fortress rather than standing as separate buildings. The fortress had a two-story stone wall with no openings except firing slits—and those on the upper level.

  The later additions were to the left of the fortress. They were built of brick—the first yellowish, the later one of bricks with a decidedly pink color. The wings were slightly taller than the stone original.

  “You’ll be in the old section,” Thomas said. “That is, if it’s all right? I think the furniture’s pretty good, isn’t it, Arcone? I’ll send over bedding.”

  “The furniture is old but it serves,” said the secretary. “However I would hate for the artifacts in that room to cause a problem, your lordship.”

  He was speaking to his master, not to me, but I answered anyway: “They won’t, Master Arcone.”

  I wondered if there was a particularly valuable artifact in the collection. That would only matter if Arcone was a Maker himself, and he didn’t give any sign of that. His disinterest in my weapon and shield was too complete to have been put on. Any Maker would want a closer look at hardware so exceptionally good.

  There was a massive, iron-bound door into the fortress, but Thomas led me instead to the door in the yellow-brick addition. It swung open as we approached, pushed and held by servant whose red sleeve was probably a form of livery. Several of the armed men accompanying us had red sleeves. I’d noticed that Alfred’s men often wore white sleeves.

  The servant bowed to Count Thomas, “Milord, shall we bring wine to the small drawing room?”

  “No,” said Thomas. “For now we’re going into the old section. We’ll need a cot and—”

  He put his hand on the latch.

  “That’s locked, milord,” the servant said.

  “Locked?” said Thomas, his anger obviously rising with every syllable. “Why the bloody hell is a door in my castle locked from me?”

  “Your lordship,” said Arcone in a desperate voice. “The key is right here, but if you’d give me a moment to clear away personal—”

  Count Thomas had drawn his weapon from its holster. He switched it on and made a surprisingly deft dab at the length of heavy chain strung between the door handle and a staple set into the jamb. The chain and the padlock closing it clanged to the stone floor.

  “Arcone…” Thomas said. “You’ve been getting a bit above yourself, haven’t you? I think the less you say till I cool down a little, the better off you’ll be.”

  The secretary bowed slightly and backed away. His face had gone pale.

  Thomas stepped into the single room. Most of the ceiling was a glazed skylight, so the room was better lighted than I’d expected. The second story must’ve been just a walkway for defenders. The walls were thick, though, so the square interior of the room was less than twenty feet across.

  The bed in the center was huge. All four walls were covered with shelves from the floor to the ten-foot ceiling. The shelves held a mixture of books and artifacts. A glance didn’t show me any order. I walked to one of the shelves and took down a book which turned out to be filled with handwritten astronomical observations.

  “Did King Fidele leave general notes about his work as a Maker?” I said, moving to the next book—the first of what turned out to be a series of volumes filled with plant drawings, notes, and occasionally leaves and flowers pressed in wrappings of tissue.

  “No, there was nothing like that,” Master Arcone said. He moved into the room for the first time but stood near the door, behind Count Thomas. Lord Osbourn
had come over near me.

  “Sure there is!” the Count said. “The red leather book from the library in the old wing. I mentioned it to you and I thought you—sure, you did! There it is!”

  He went over to a free-standing bookcase with a lectern on top. Bending, he removed a volume from the upper of the two shelves and offered it to me.

  I took it and looked at Master Arcone. He swallowed and said, “Yes, that’s right, you did. I’d forgotten all about that, your lordship. I hadn’t really opened it.”

  Osbourn took what appeared to be a solid helmet from a shelf at chest height. Before I could warn him, he put it on. The helmet was certainly an artifact, but I had no idea of what it did.

  “Oh!” Osbourn said, his voice muffled by the helmet. There wasn’t a hinged face-piece or eye-slit.

  He lifted the helmet off and said, “Sir, some of the things in this room glow! I couldn’t see through the mask, but the Count’s weapon stood out and lots of the things on this shelving.”

  “May I look at this, Count Thomas?” I said, taking the helmet from Osbourn. I don’t know what I’d have done if he’d refused my polite request—something impolite, I’m afraid. Thomas merely nodded with a grunt.

  The black helmet was made of something hard that wasn’t metal. Ceramic, maybe? The thing that puzzled me is that I didn’t think it’d been made by the Ancients and I didn’t think it was meant for a human. It slipped over Osbourn’s head easy enough, and I thought I could get my head into it too, but my nose would rub and there’d be a hand’s-breadth of space between the top of my head and the helmet above it.

  Before trying the helmet on, I dropped into a light trance to view it. The structure was like nothing I’d seen before. Silica—sand—was the major part of it, but there were many other elements in the crystal as well as gaps which must mean that portions of it were constructed in Not-Here.

  Very carefully I lowered the helmet over my own head. It hadn’t hurt Osbourn, but maybe he’d been lucky or—I grinned, which must have puzzled the folks watching me—the helmet would just decide that I tasted better.