Vile

by Keith Crawford

  A flickering light caught the corner of her eye. A guard standing above the main gate held a torch over his head. Elianor froze in place. He stared across the courtyard, as if he had heard something. A gust of wind lifted snowflakes and blew through her cloak. Finally, the guard turned away, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his free arm. Blinded by the light of his torch, Elianor felt an irresponsible temptation to wave. Instead, she scanned the rest of the gate, looking for a way to get to the guardhouse without descending to the courtyard. Scaffold across the gate made a bridge between the Manor house and the water tanks. Thin metal pipes jutted out of the great steam device and spread, threads of a spider’s web, to the roof of Anton’s lair.

  Someone looked straight back at her.

  A man crouched on the roof of the smithy. He was dressed in dark clothes and a hood hid his face. Elianor didn’t hesitate. In long loping movements, or at least as long as her short legs could manage, she ran along the edge of the Manor roof. She didn’t check to see if the man had moved, focusing ahead. There was a gap of around two metres between the front of the Manor house and the main gate. She could jump from the Manor roof onto the scaffold platform over the gate, then climb across the boilers onto the blacksmithy roof. The nightdress would provide little protection if she fell.

  The moment her boot touched the gutter, Elianor leapt. She threw her arms forward. Pipes, chains, and other mechanical objects were made threatening by the darkness. For a moment she flew, carried on the air, floating with the snow. Then her open hands grasped metal and her boots collided with wood. The scaffold rattled, loud enough that the guard on the walls might hear it. She was swung around, and almost lost her balance. Then she smacked chest first into the platform. Her breath was knocked from her lungs.

  Move!

  The man had jumped to his feet. He was larger than she, although most people were larger than Elianor. She couldn’t afford to give them time to think. The thinner snow under the shelter of the scaffold gave her a better grip. She was still two metres above the ground. There was a wooden barrier at the end of the scaffold platform, then a small gap between scaffold and boiler then boiler and smithy.

  She ran straight across the platform.

  The unknown man turned and ran.

  The top of the boiler was uneven and raised above the level of the blacksmith rooftop. It had a bulbous top and rounded rim like an oversized milk canister. It might be possible to grab hold of it and shuffle around the outside, but the man was getting away. Why give chase? Shouldn’t she be looking for Begw? The man was running, so he must be guilty of something. Without slowing, Elianor stepped up onto the last barricade, and jumped.

  The wood broke beneath her weight. Her feet trod empty air. She caught the top of the boiler with her left foot. Instead of trying to stop her fall, she drove forward, trying to push off from the boiler and leap over the next gap. But this tilted her balance; the world skewed beneath her. Elianor fell flat against the blacksmith’s roof, narrowly missing the chimneys, face first into the snow. She got her arm up but was already sliding. There was nothing on which to get a grip. The snow furrowed ahead of her. She cascaded across the tiles towards the fall into the courtyard. Her left leg slid over the precipice.

  Her momentum stopped just as her other leg passed over the gap. She grasped the ridged tiles with both hands. The dark figure still ran, along the crest of a building behind the blacksmithy and then across to the guardhouse in a single leap. Elianor clambered back up, brushed off the snow, and glanced back to check the guard on the wall had not seen her. Then she renewed the chase.

  There! The stranger stood on the guardhouse, at the opposite side of the courtyard from the main gate, grey on black. If he had kept on running, she would have lost him, but he paused before disappearing over the other side of the roof. She considered drawing her knife, but she needed both hands for balance and, besides, what if she killed him before she got answers? Her feet slipped on the disturbed snow as she ran up the slope and jumped to the guardhouse. She could hear him running on the other side, boots crunching in the ice.

  The guardhouse roof raised in long, sloped steps. She cut across in a diagonal line, lengthening her stride and pumping her arms. He jumped to a building behind the guardhouse. She put her feet parallel and slid, leaping at the last possible moment to the same rooftop as he. She was closing. He balanced around a right angle on the ridge to a different part of the fortress, another, smaller courtyard Elianor had not seen before. The hooded man was just ahead.

  He pulled back his hood. It was Nathaniel Vile.

  When confronting a man on a snow-covered rooftop, wearing nothing more than a nightdress and a knife, audacity is the only reasonable policy. Elianor barely slowed. She put her hand on the hilt of her knife, still balancing along the narrow peak, and hunched her shoulders as if ready to push him from the roof. Nathaniel tensed. He took a small step back. He raised his hand towards the longsword at his waist. Elianor accelerated. He raised his finger farther, to his lips, then with his other hand pointed to the new courtyard, beneath them, at something just out of sight.

  They crouched as one. Their shoulders almost touched. Her heart was beating hard. Blood swelled her lips and sweat cooled on her skin. She suppressed a shiver and looked where he pointed.

  The courtyard was boxed in between stables and the back wall of the castle, which was the last barrier before the mountain climb up to Demon’s Pass. The stables looked shoved in place, their roofs uneven, as if the fortress hunched over to hide a painful injury. Elianor and Nathaniel crept closer under the shadow of a large chimney to see the source of the torchlight.

  A group of men dressed in brown robes and hoods stood around a wagon draped in grey cloth.

  “Monks? From Demon’s Pass?” Elianor whispered.

  Nathaniel hissed and put his finger back to his lips, showing with his eyes that there was something beneath them, something under the awning they could not see. The horse snorted and whinnied. One monk ran a hand, still wrapped in his cloak, along the horse’s nose, and whispered in its ear.

  From beneath the awning came Lena. She walked in the brisk, busy fashion of a woman who had a dozen things to do and no time to waste. The lead monk did not pull back his hood. Lena stopped four paces in front of him. Between the snow and the wind, it was impossible to make out what she said. When the monk replied, Elianor’s Truthsense immediately told her that the monk was lying. This was unusual. The bigger the lie, the easier to spot. It would have to be a deception of some magnitude to be obvious without hearing the words.

  “Is it the Abbot?” Elianor searched her memory, looking for the answers to questions she had asked before leaving the capital. “Abbot Bayard?”

  Nathaniel lifted his hand to her face, so he could whisper in her ear. Had anyone looked up from the courtyard, they would have seen one huddled shadow.

  “Can you remember being here?”

  “What? Why are you here? I saw you leave with Captain Persephone.”

  He looked at her, but evidently didn’t find what he was looking for, because now he seemed to be looking over her shoulder.

  “Listen carefully. That’s almost all the monks from the monastery.” He glanced back at the courtyard. Lena and the monk were still talking, but it seemed to Elianor as if Nathaniel could not see them. “Whatever they’re doing here, my father knows. Keep watching. Stay quiet. Remember.”

  Elianor nodded, curtly. Nathaniel kept his hand by her face for a few moments longer than necessary to finish speaking. His fingertips brushed her hair.

  The lead monk talked. Lena shook her head. The monk raised his hands, as if to protect his face. Elianor wondered if the lies were obvious to Lena, but then it was easy for Magistrates to underestimate the gullibility of normals. Lena stamped her foot, then walked back under the building and out of sight. After a brief pause, she returned with another person. Sergeant Rees. He carried a woman, bound and with a bag over her head. The lead monk pulled away the bag,
revealing the face of the curly-haired guard Begw.

  He recoiled, looking first at Rees then at Lena. Elianor wondered whether it was possible for them to see the monk’s face beneath the long hood, even from that close. Rees just turned and walked away. As he did, there was a subtle movement, quick, from Lena, her hand reaching so that their fingers touched. They did not look at each other.

  Lena opened her case and withdrew a book, which the lead monk greedily snatched. Lena shook her head as he flipped through the pages. The other monks picked up Begw and put her into the wagon. One returned with a canvas bag that looked like it contained cannon shot or several large bottles. It was placed before Lena like an offering. She heaved it onto her shoulder without checking the contents.

  The transaction was over. The monk who had whispered to the horse led the wagon out. For a giddy moment, Elianor considered leaping down and confronting them, staging a rescue, killing the monks then chasing after Lena and Sergeant Rees. But she was barely armed, not even certain if she could make the jump, and what would she say to Senator Vile? I was out here hopping around the rooftops in my nightdress, and decided to intervene even though I have no idea what is going on?

  As she reasoned herself back to her sense, she found she had taken several steps forward, closer to the edge and farther from the shadows. She stopped. She had discovered valuable information tonight. But it was too soon to act.

  “Why did you show me this?” Elianor asked Nathaniel.

  Nathaniel was gone.

  Chapter 17

  Anton pulled the woollen cap lower over his forehead. The first team had made it to the bottom of the stairs that ran along the edge of the span between Shadowgate Castle and the lower mountain. He could just about see Persephone’s silhouette, flickering like a candle as the snow fell between guards’ torches. They were 12 fighters, including Persephone, Nathaniel, and himself, split into two groups as much by relative enthusiasm for the mission as any sense of strategy. In the open field, in decent conditions, 12 might have been enough. But at night, in the snow, against a creature that could see in the dark? They would have no chance. The best possible outcome from this stupid little adventure would be everyone home safe, the sooner the better. Anton wished he’d kept his apron on as another layer against the cold. He was the only one not carrying a torch.

  “So, what are we doing?” Anton said when he caught up with Persephone.

  “Just what I said. Search along the base of the bridge, from where the Magistrate said she fought the Black Dog. Keep going until we find it, or it finds us.”

  “Why don’t we go back for horses and look down from the top of the bridge?”

  “And when we find nothing we keep on riding and get to Garn’s brothel before sunup?”

  “It’s not a brothel, and a hot breakfast would do everyone good. Besides, we are just as likely to find the Dog on the road to the town as we are wandering around in the dark.”

  “Is that an order, Castellan? What would we report to Lord Vile?”

  “Anything you want. That’s how we did it in the old days.”

  “Which old days were those?” Persephone said. “We’re doing as Lord Vile ordered, just like we always do.”

  Anton sighed. His feet were cold.

  “Duty and honour. It’s probably your fault Nathaniel turned out the way he has.”

  “Thank you,” Persephone said. “Now go make up with him.”

  She signalled the first group of guards, who formed up around her, and walked off along the cliff face that formed the side of the bridge. The rest of the guards gathered around Anton. Ty, with whom he’d spent most of last night playing cards in The Last Chance tavern, came and stood at his shoulder like a bodyguard.

  “We won’t be able to see a damned thing,” she said. “We’ll be sitting ducks.”

  Anton shrugged and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He nodded to Nathaniel, but from his retreating brother all he heard was that weird, cold laugh he had learned watching people die in the capital.

  “There,” Anton muttered. “All made up.”

  ◆◆◆

  “We heard the gunshot from over here,” Persephone said. She pointed up across the cliff face with her sword. “The Lady Elianor fell from somewhere up there.”

  “Do stop waving that thing about,” Anton said, banging his hands against his arms to knock the chill out of them. “It makes me tired just watching you.”

  “Did you actually see her fight the Black Dog?” Nathaniel said.

  “Captain, over here,” called Corporal Edern.

  “We didn’t see the Black Dog at all,” Persephone said as they walked. The guards had spread out around her, some, like Edern, watching the cliff, others, like Anton, looking out at the darkness. Brother and sister approached to find Nathaniel was already at the Corporal’s side.

  “Well spotted, Edern,” Persephone said.

  The Corporal grinned, white teeth beneath his groomed moustache, then nodded at the young guard stood next to him.

  “Not me, Captain. The little one has good eyes.”

  Anton had hoped Edern would say the girl’s name and save him the trouble of trying to remember.

  “Is that the Magistrate’s blood on the rocks?” Nathaniel said. He looked over the short guard’s shoulder, who held her torch high above her head. Now and again a snowflake struck the flame, causing it to flicker and hiss.

  “Could be the Black Dog’s,” Persephone said. “Lady Elianor said she injured it. The blood goes up the wall.”

  “I guess we’d better go up and look,” Anton said. “Begw, watch us with your crossbow…Fuck.” He pushed back his hood so that everyone could see his face, daring them to say something about what had happened with Begw back at the castle. And now their best shot was locked in a cell for the crime of being upset her sister was missing.

  “Did anybody think to bring Begw’s crossbow?”

  Nobody replied.

  “It’s okay,” Persephone said. “I can climb. Can you keep watch?”

  At the base of the span, the cliff wall broke between boulders and crevices, mounds of rock and ledges of stone. There were plenty of handholds, and even in torchlight it wouldn’t be hard to find your way. He flexed his crippled leg. It didn’t matter. There was no way he could keep up with her.

  “Don’t drop that stupid sword,” he said.

  “If I do, make sure to stand so it lands on your head. Wyn, are you ready?”

  Wyn, thought Anton. That was the name of the guard who had found the blood. She stuck her torch into the ground. Anton stepped back from the flame. Persephone took him by the shoulder.

  “Once we get halfway, send Harran and Ty up after us.”

  “Be careful,” he said. His lip caught on a tooth when he tried to smile.

  “You too. Nathaniel, do you want to take the rest and form a perimeter?”

  “Scream if you get eaten by a giant dog.”

  “Funny, Anton,” Nathaniel said. “Very funny. Corporal, you’re with me.”

  “Stay in earshot,” Persephone said.

  “Why do you think I’m taking Edern? I’ll be close.”

  Persephone nodded to Wyn, then turned and raised herself up onto the first part of the rock. Anton admired the way she made it look easy, despite her armour, the sword, the ice and the dark; then with the admiration came that disquiet, that memory he tried to supress. Wyn, who was a full foot shorter than Persephone, had more trouble. Anton was about to give her a boost when one of the other guards spoke.

  “Did you hear that?”

  The guard was young, not much more than 17, with a round nose and curly hair that made him look familiar. Anton didn’t want to have to forget any more names. He didn’t want to say, ‘hear what?’ He didn’t want to make this feel even more like a trap.

  “You’re Harran, right, one of Tannyr’s boys?”

  Harran still looked back over his shoulder into the darkness, not paying proper attention to where he
was waving his torch. Every time the fire got close, Anton’s scars itched. It was stupid. How could you be a blacksmith and be afraid of fire? Nathaniel and the rest of the guards had spread to form a semi-circle looking towards the tundra, their backs to the wall. At the mention of Tannyr’s name, the boy adjusted his helmet lower over his head.

  “The Mayor is my uncle,” he said.

  “Yeah, my old man thought soldiering would be better than farming as well. Don’t worry, I didn’t hear anything unusual. Just the wind.”

  Harran didn’t look convinced. “I heard something.”

  “Nathaniel is watching our backs. I need you to watch the wall. Can you make that climb?”

  “If Wyn can make it, I’ll be able to do it easy.”

  Anton put his hand on Harran’s shoulder and smiled, all the while straining to listen for some sound he had missed. There was the wind, whipping across the cliff and out onto the snow-covered mountainside. There were the guttering torches. Occasionally, Wyn would grunt as she struggled to clamber up onto the ledge with Persephone. Anton couldn’t hear anything else, but then, Harran was younger and didn’t have half his ear burned off. Anton wanted to look around. He didn’t allow himself. Who would keep looking up, if everyone was looking back?

  “There’s more blood here!”

  Persephone called from a ledge three yards up from the base of the cliff; not far enough to need to shout, but she shouted all the same. Harran glanced over his shoulder again. Persephone helped Wyn scramble up onto the ledge then went deeper into what looked like a shallow cave.

  “What’s up there?” Anton called.

  Wyn got to her feet on the ledge and put her hands on her knees.

  “This is where she fought the Dog,” Persephone shouted. “I’ll check farther up the cliff.”