Spitemorta gave a maniacal grin and set to work at once cutting at his shirt. Demonica began hacking away above his knee at the buttoned cuff of his breeches.
Suddenly, Demonica whirled about and stared at the cupboard behind her. A voice came from inside it, causing all Fuzz's hair to stand on end in spite of his terror. “We've found the woman and her son, mistress,” it said in a lilting voice.
“Where are they?” she demanded.
“They are just inside the marsh. We discovered them when they stopped to rest. They call the place 'Standing Rock.'“
“Where are they headed?”
“Uncertain.”
“How is that possible?” barked Demonica. “Didn't you look into the woman's mind?”
“No, mistress. We were unable to get past her shielding, but Standing Rock is easy to find.”
“What nonsense are you babbling? The woman has no magical abilities of any sort. She can't shield her mind with a spell.”
“No, Mistress, we feel it was done by the white witch who leads her.”
“A white witch?”
“Yes mistress, that's what we think.”
“Dal! Kenavo emberr, kaoc'h!” she spat, as she wheeled back to brandish her knife at Fuzz's throat. “It seems we'll have to continue our little sport later. For now, I think you'll keep nicely back in that bat passage we first found you in.” She cut the sinews binding his feet. “Now march. And, keep in mind that if you try the slightest anything, I'll make certain that your torture lasts for an eternity.”
Fuzz had no doubts about that. He also had no doubts that she would stretch out any torture as much as possible, regardless of his cooperation.
Demonica forced him to lie face-down on the cold stone floor under the bats. She pulled out a piece of leather whang from her cloak pocket and made a noose, which she slipped over his head. She bound his ankles together mercilessly and jerked up his legs, forcing them to bend backward at the knees. Then she threaded the loose end of the noose through the strip binding his feet.
“Now,” she said, sounding as if she had just tied Fuzz's Sunday tie. “If you lie there quietly like a good captive while we are gone, you might be alive when we return. However if you struggle, well you'll see.” She threw back her head with laughter that was deafening in the small space, as she turned and followed Spitemorta out of sight.
Fuzz shuddered on the cold floor and immediately felt the noose tighten around his throat. The rawhide gave no indication that it would release any tension put on it. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath to slow his ballooning frenzy. He would have to keep raised both his chin and his heels or he would strangle. His back was already starting to cramp. “I'll be long dead when those witches get back from the marsh,” he thought. “That's stupid. They're not coming back.”
Demonica stopped outside Fuzz's door and stared at Spitemorta's staff, still tied behind the cantle of her saddle. “Didn't you tell me that your mother used the Staff as a mount to ride in the air? She kept the Staff concealed as a handle of a broom and she rode it that way, right?”
“I did, but you're not suggesting...”
“I most certainly am!” snapped Demonica. “What better way have we of catching them before they reach the Dragon Caves?”
“How could you know that? The Cias didn't say that.”
“If they've headed into the marsh, where else do you think they could possibly go for help? The Gobblers?”
“Good point,” said Spitemorta. “So you know how you'd go about doing this?”
“I've never attempted anything of the kind. I don't like heights. I thought perhaps you'd tried it, since you took the Staff from Ugleeuh.”
“Frightening my subjects by flying about on a stick is not my idea of wielding power.”
Demonica chuckled through her nose, then pressed her lips tightly together as she looked at the Staff. “Well, none of your subjects is going to see you here. There's nothing for it. Myrtlebell will simply get away if you don't. Here. Take the Staff. I'll get astride right behind you.”
Spitemorta rolled her eyes, but stepped over the Staff the way she had seen Ugleeuh do.
Demonica looked pallid but determined as she picked up her end, her knuckles squeezed quite white where they could be seen beyond the rumples of her robe. “Well?” she said.
“I suppose I can will it aloft as easily as I can will it to do anything...” said Spitemorta.
“Then by all means, please do, dear.”
Spitemorta drew a breath and at once their toes no longer reached the ground.
“Very good, dear,” said Demonica. “You have us up. The marsh is that way. Just have it take us there.”
Spitemorta repositioned her already sweaty grip and cautiously leant toward the marsh. With a jolt that took Demonica quite by surprise, they shot away over the trees.
The ride held both of them altogether speechless for some time, as the countryside sped away beneath them, Spitemorta awed by the exhilaration and sense of power and Demonica coping with wave upon wave of gut knotting nausea.
“This isn't bad at all!” cheered Spitemorta. “It sure beats unicorns, even if it isn't immediate like a traveling spell.”
“Oh, it's quite something all right,” muttered Demonica between the curds of vomit dried to the corners of her mouth.
“We've come an astounding way. This grassland we're flying over, isn't it getting quite a bit wetter?”
Demonica was not answering.
Spitemorta glanced over her shoulder and saw to her satisfaction that her grandmother was not enjoying the ride. “Ha!” she thought. “Something else I seem to be better at than you, Grandmother dear.” Suddenly she sat forward. “Grandmother!” she cried. “Look below. That must be them. Hey, what are those crazy huge birds they're riding?”
“Evned-kurun,” said Demonica as she leant forward with enough interest to forget her nausea. “Get up ahead and land right in front of them.”
“Evned-kurun?”
“Headlandish for thunderbirds. One of Razzorbauch's mistakes. He released them from the rocks when he made the fudge volcano.”
Spitemorta dropped neatly into the path directly in front of Myrtlebell and Mary, bringing them to an immediate halt. “Hello, Myrtlebell,” she called out in a honeyed voice, mocking the way Myrtlebell herself once spoke to those beneath her. “It's been such a long time. I suggest you and your witch friend dismount very slowly and ever so carefully, if you value your little boy's health.”
Myrtlebell dismounted onto rubbery legs she hoped would not fold up, as she looked at Mary, who gave a curt nod and slid to the ground, pulling Edward protectively to her side.
“Very good,” said Spitemorta with a radiant smile. Now, tell me, dear Mother-in-law. Where is the Crystal Heart?”
“The what?” said Myrtlebell, looking dumbfounded.
With a face of loathing and rage, Spitemorta grabbed Myrtlebell by the hair.
Edward lunged to run to her side, but Mary held him back.
“What have you done with it?” screamed Spitemorta, jerking Myrtlebell's hair so hard that she went down to her knees.
“I don't...”
Mary stepped forth to help Myrtlebell, but Demonica raised her hands and smote her with a crackling white discharge of fire, causing her to stumble and sit down hard.
“Next time, White Witch,” she shouted, “You won't be able to get back onto your feet!”
At the sound of a melon-like whack, Demonica fell unconscious onto the ground, bleeding from a head wound. Mary shoved Edward behind a boulder just in time to be knocked senseless by a small warrior painted blue from head to toe and covered with strange tattoos. Spitemorta lunged for the Staff where it had dropped when she grabbed Myrtlebell. Another little blue warrior beat her to it, while yet a third knocked her senseless for her efforts. Myrtlebell found a heavy stick to swing and was being as big a problem for the little men as she could manage, when the largest one amongst them came at her w
ith a spear.
“You can die if you wish, big woman,” he said, thrusting his spear at her face.
“Your companions can't help you and my men simply have you.”
Myrtlebell looked wildly about, then dropped her branch. “All right, you have me,” she said as she looked frantically about for Edward.
“You might have some sense, even if you are big,” he snarled before ordering his men to bind the captives very securely. “These women might all be sorceresses, so make certain their hands are right secure behind their backs.”
By the time they were all well bound and gagged, Mary, Spitemorta and Demonica had come to. The little warriors forced them to march at spear point, but they were not about to let them in on where to or why.
Chapter 62
Yann-Ber squinted painfully into the sunlight from the hatch of the hold of the Fragan as he listened to the cries of gulls. It was wonderful to breathe deeply of air that did not reek of the old sow he had spent the trip with. He peered out across the deck to the dock beyond. Pelicans settled onto pilings. This was indeed the Port of Niarg. Soon he would begin putting his plan into action. The last of the passengers and crewmen were just now departing down the gangplank. He stepped onto the deck and followed behind them at a distance. Finally he was on the dock. He had never been this far north. He had no idea where to find the wizard. He would have to ask someone, but that meant waiting until after dark. His appearance would cause too many problems in broad daylight. He gradually ambled inland from the piers and the bustle and the stacks of cargo.
Suddenly he stumbled into the shocked gaze of an attractive woman. She recoiled with a look of disgust and drew closer to her male companion. He steered her to his far side, and as they passed he hissed: “It would be considerate if you stayed further away from decent people as they passed.” Then he spat with disgust and rushed on.
“When decent people actually do, coward,” growled Yann-Ber, as he trembled with rage and despair. “I once was more than serious competition for the likes of you. And you don't even have enough of a mind to begin to imagine wearing my shoes, dimwit.”
No, this was no surprise. It was routine, played out over and over by people who chanced to get a good look at him. It was daily life for Yann-Ber, and it had long ago ceased to be something he bore well. How he hated Demonica for it.
***
Yann-Ber awoke stiff and cold amongst a forest of rotted barrel staves beside the middenstead of a tavern. He was surprised that he had fallen asleep whiling away the afternoon. Moving around was arduous, so when he had felt that he was where it would be convenient to be after dark, he had sat down to spend his time until nightfall. It was now fully dark and the waning moon gave very little light, but that was to his liking. He struggled painfully to his feet and slowly found his way around to the front of the tavern where he hoped to find leads to the wizard. He stood in the shadows near enough to the street that he could make out the name, “Black Dragon” on the sign bearing a relief carving of a dragon that hung out over the street in front of the door. In a short time that seemed like a small eternity to him, one of the patrons staggered out into the street. There was no doubt that the man was quite drunk.
“Good sir!” called out Yann-Ber, as he limped out of the shadows. “I was wondering if you could tell me where I might be able find this fellow I'm a-looking for?”
The drunk stopped short and swayed as he squinted into the darkness. “Well, doggone it!” he called out, as he jerked at his own posture. “Who the ding-dong blazes is there? Show yourself and maybe I can.” “Sir,” said Yann-Ber, coming closer. “There's a fellow, maybe you could help me find...”
“Well, damn!” declared the drunk in a tone that sounded like recognition. “Damned if you don't sound like someone who just got off the boat from Head. Now
Head! You don't say. So, you're from Head?”
“Actually I am. You're quite observant.” Yann-Ber had started to hide his face with his hood, but now he could see that the fellow was in such a condition that he wouldn't be having problems with appearances. “My name is John. John James. I'm right sorry to trouble...”
“Hey. Now tell me. Are you from Head?”
“Yes, as I said...”
“Really? You're from Head? Well damn.”
“Yes, I just...”
“You got a funny name for a Headlander. John?” The drunk was now steadying himself with a fist full of Yann-Ber's sleeve. “Hunh! John James. Ought to be Padrig or Remont. Hey, how come you ain't Jakez?”
“Very well, you're right, I could be called Yann Jakez in Head, but right now I'm searching for a wizard by the name of Razzmorten...”
“Whoa! Now you don't fool around...Jakez. Now you just go right to the top.”
“Well, I'd certainly like to. I understand Razzmorten lives in Niarg, but I have no idea where. Have you any idea, good sir?”
The drunk grabbed Yann-Berr's other sleeve as well. “Hain't nobody here 'bouts who don't know who Razzmorten be,” he cackled through rotten teeth with breath that would have scared the old sow.
“Then,” said Yann-Berr, when he dared breathe again, “you know where I might find him?”
“Ah! Well sir,” said the drunk, reaching under his filthy shirt to scratch his sallow melon of a belly, “been having a hard time thinking straight without a dram or a pint, you know. Scarcely knew which way home was when I came out here...”
“That's not hard to imagine, Rotten Mouth,” thought Yann-Ber. “So then,” he said, speaking out grandly. “How would a pint inside suit your memory?” He glanced at the door of the Black Dragon and wondered if they could make it in to a dark corner without the clean and proper going crazy at the sight of them. Rotten Mouth was already happily staggering his way back into the tavern.
Rotten Mouth found a table in a far corner at once. Directly an obese tavern maid came by, squinting at them as though she'd prefer dealing with the pair of them at the end of a manure fork, but she took their order adroitly and returned right away with two pints of light dry mead. Rotten Mouth seized his and guzzled it half down before wiping his mouth on his sleeve and speaking: “Razzmorten is the king's father-in-law. He lives in the tallest tower of Castle Niarg.”
Yann-Ber immediately slid his mead across the table to Rotten Mouth and stood up, carefully adjusting his hood before wending his way out.
Outside the doorway, the wind had picked up, rocking the tavern's sign. Dry leaves skittered along the street. He remembered seeing the castle due west in the daylight. He made straight for it in the darkness, determined not to let his tortured legs so much as pause until he got there.
***
“Lukus!” cried Hubba Hubba. You're up. How're ye feelin'? You don't look quite so much like me any more.”
“So just how in Niarg have you managed to think that I have ever looked anything at all like you?” said Lukus with a woozy grin, as he steadied himself against the railing of the poop deck.
“Well...yellow head, green body,” said Hubba Hubba, as Rose and Razzmorten broke out laughing.
“You got me there,” said Lukus.
“Yea, but I wasn't kidding,” said Hubba Hubba, as Rose and Razzmorten threw back their heads for a further round of mirth.
Hubba Hubba found feathers under one wing that needed an immediate sorting through. “So,” he said, letting go of one of his flight feathers with a silky snap, “I hear that you and Soraya are going to have a son.”
Lukus brightened.
“Just don't be disappointed. Remember that it's a wonderful blessing. It really isn't unusual for the first clutch,” said Hubba Hubba, as Pebbles bobbed in wide eyed agreement.
“What the Pit are you talking about?” said Lukus.
“Having just one nestling.”
Rose let out a screeching giggle and caught it as Razzmorten discreetly turned her aside.
“What's wrong with Rose?” said Hubba Hubba. “I didn't say anything funny.”
; Pebbles shook her head.
“Oh, don't pay any attention to her,” said Lukus. “You've forgotten that humans are like penguins and only have one nestling at a time. Oh, once in a while, maybe two...twins, don't you know.”
“Hey, that's great, Lukus. That means you're getting everything you could ever ask for.”
“You got that right, Hubba Hubba.”
Hubba Hubba gave a shrill two note whistle, flapped his wings and then leaped proudly into the air to circle first the poop deck and then the ship, landing grandly on the top yard of the main mast, where he shoved his beak back and forth along the length of the yard as he strutted until Pebbles perched beside him. “Hey Wiz!” he called out. “I see lots of white birds!” He gave forth another two note whistle. “And land, Wiz! I can just see a strip of that! What is it, Pirate Isle?”
“No!” he called out from under the flat of his hand, as he studied the horizon. “It should actually be Dragon's Port!”
“All we see down here is water, water, and more water!” hollered Lukus.
“Yea? Well climb up here with Pebbles and me!”
“Right. No thanks, Hubba Hubba! It's a long way to barf from up there!”
“Sorry, Lukus! I forgot! It's great up here for us!”
“No problem, Hubba Hubba. Hey! I think I see shoreline!”
“See you ashore, Lukus!” called Hubba Hubba, as he and Pebbles dove into the air.
Lukus carefully turned to ease himself to his cabin and met Rose and Razzmorten already bringing luggage onto the deck. “Stay where you are, Lukus,” said Rose.
“Grandfather and I will grab your things for you. We think you've suffered quite enough this trip.”
***
Fuzz tried once more to stretch his bound hands to reach his bound feet, even though he had already failed to do so several times. He failed exactly as he had failed each time up until now. And just as it had insisted upon doing with each previous attempt, the rawhide garrot got tighter around his throat. It was becoming desperately uncomfortable. He could scarcely breathe and the muscles in his back were cramping fiercely, but he knew that the briefest moment of giving into frenzy would kill him. He carefully inhaled a labored breath. “What choices have I?” he said. “Damn few. Surely
Heart of the Staff - Complete Series Page 68
