Heart of the Staff - Complete Series

by Carol Marrs Phipps

  “My brothers and sister have talked it over,” he said, pausing to quickly sort through something under one wing, “and we think we should fly to Goll and let our dad know what has happened here.”

  “What manner of foolishness is this?” said Pebbles, standing up in her basket with a bristly shake of her feathers. “Not one of you has been beyond the first row of trees in the orchard, and now you think you can just fly off and find your father?”

  “I can find him...” said Maxie, sorting through the feathers under his other wing.

  “When he's a crow in a different country?”

  “I think so...”

  “You don't have the stamina. I doubt that you could fly ten times around this hall without landing to get your breath. Besides, you don't know anything at all about directions. What are you thinking? Isn't it enough to lose your two dear brothers?”

  “Well, I was thinking (and I wasn't the only one, either) that Dad would want to know all about you being hurt,” he said as he went after an urgent itch just above his tail. “And he'd want to know about Mic and Bill, too. And you would too, just like he would, if you were there all alone.”

  “Of course I would,” she said. “but none of you are at all ready. Whoever sets out is as good as lost.”

  “But...” said Maxie in a wee little voice.

  “If it's any comfort,” said Razzmorten, “your father will be flying back here from time to time to report to Queen Minuet.”

  “And,” said Pebbles, “Spitemorta and Demonica might even brag to their subjects that they've made a strike on Niarg Castle. Your father ought to hear it sooner or later. So I want your solemn word that not one of you will be so foolish as to fly away to find him.”

  “Yes Mom,” said Maxie. And he dolefully crowded back in with the others.

  ***

  Spitemorta stepped out of her slippers and tiptoed toward Demonica, already sound asleep on the bed. She glanced at the Staff, leaning against the wall across the room. “Maybe I ought to have that within reach,” she thought, “so long as it's well beyond where she can grab it.” Quiet as a cat she had the Staff lying across a chair behind her as she crept to the bedside.

  “Well, she certainly looks asleep.” Her heart began pounding in her ears. “I guess there's nothing for it, I'll have to make certain.” She reached out with a trembling hand and touched her arm. “Grandmother?” she croaked. “Are you awake?”

  Demonica made no response at all. Spitemorta probably would have thought she was dead if it were not for her faint snoring.

  “Ha!” laughed Spitemorta before freezing wide-eyed, straining to see if Demonica were stirring. “You're in for a surprise you stinking old harpy,” she thought, bouncing with glee in a vacuum of silence. “I can't wait for you to discover that I have both the Heart and the Staff. Oh yes! And now you'll just have to live or die according to my good graces.

  “Well now,” she thought, turning to her task, “you have to have it on you somewhere, you stinking ci hithau. You always have it on you. Fates. What do you do when you bathe?” She eased back Demonica's covers. “Ha! In your greedy pocket, I see.”

  She carefully drew back Demonica's arm from her kirtle to drop it with a shriek at the sight of a handless stump and an empty pocket.

  Chapter 130

  Spitemorta took a deep breath to still her racing heart and peered at Demonica's face. “Is she dead or what?” she thought. “Her arm's as cold as yesterday's joint o' lamb, but I'd swear she was snoring just a moment ago.” She licked her finger and held it under

  Demonica's nose. “Fates!” she said aloud. “She would have to be alive.” At once she thought better of it and grew anxiously quiet as she studied her stump. “So how'd she lose her hand back there over Castle Niarg?” she thought. “All I remember were their stupid longbows. Besides, I don't remember her doing anything with the Heart but stopping the pain and bleeding in her shoulder. She's had that hand gone for a while. She's been hiding it. Wait! If Ugleeuh could make peppermint trees out of choke oaks with the Staff, then why hasn't Demonica replaced her hand using the Heart? I'll bet she doesn't know any more about it than I do. And speaking of the Heart, where is it, you pitborn old neidr?” She began carefully feeling of the wrinkles and folds of Demonica's bloody kirtle and petticoats. “You buwch,” she hissed, straightening up to plant her fists on her hips. “You're lying on it, aren't you?”

  “Buoc'h...? Cow, you say?” said Demonica, struggling to open her eyes. “Che Spitemorta! What kind of kiez diskiant are you trying to get away with being, now?” She could see that her head was so unexpectedly heavy that sitting up was going to need two or three good tries.

  “Oh!” said Spitemorta, taking a wide-eyed step back. “Grandmother I didn't mean to disturb you. I was worried. I wanted to see that you were all right.”

  “Why you poor thing. Is this deep concern of yours an attempt to see if I can vomit as well as be reeling dizzy? Cows are rather hard to cover up, just like that...”

  “Yes indeed I was concerned, Grandmother!” cried Spitemorta. “And what do I get? You seem to be accusing me of some kind of deceit. How's this for deceit?” She grabbed up Demonica's handless arm and dropped it.

  Demonica jerked back in shock.

  “Your hand, Grandmother,” she said, not quite able to hide every last particle of her triumph. “How long has it been missing? And just what happened to it, anyway? And why would you ever trouble to hide it from me?”

  “I hardly think it any of your business in the least, if you must. And as for hiding it from a silly merc'h like you, how would you handle losing a hand?”

  “Merch! Silly girl!” cried Spitemorta through her teeth. “You forget I'm a woman with three children and queen of two realms, Grandmother.”

  “No dear,” said Demonica with a sweet cool smile. “I believe it is you who forgot those things when you invaded my privacy by pawing all over me and raving about the 'cow' in your bower. And by the way, your finger stinks.”

  Spitemorta went wide eyed. “So that's what you think, is it?” she said, sputtering to get her bearings. “Here I come to your bedside worried sick about you, and this is what you rub in my face. Well I'm certainly not one bit worried about you now.” She wheeled about and tramped to the door.

  “Here, here!” cried Demonica, as she raised her hand and her stump as if to clap. “That is a most moving demonstration of your maturity. You have me so very convinced, that I trust you completely wrapped up your strategic planning for your next move against

  Niarg, before taking time out for these theatrics...”

  “What?” said Spitemorta, shamelessly steering herself back to Demonica's bedside. “If you're saying that we should make another strike against Castle Niarg before Auntie Minuet returns, I like it. But you can't be in any kind of condition for another strike, so just what are you talking about? I'm not sure that I could do the kind of damage we want with just the Staff, so are you lending me the Heart, or what?” She stopped short, startled to find herself going this far.

  “Just as I thought,” said Demonica. “You have no plan at all, just your short-sighted passions...”

  Spitemorta drew a bug-eyed gasp.

  “Ah, ah aah, Rouanez Bras! If you ever want to rule the world, you'll have to give up all your childish posturing and listen. Put that bolster behind me, dear. I can't manage to stay sitting up...”

  Spitemorta peevishly chucked the bolster behind her and stood back with folded arms.

  Demonica lay back with a sigh and closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. “This kind of thing never seems to stop. I've been wasting time on you. I'm starting to think it was a mistake altogether, coming here and letting you in on what I was up to. And yes, I do indeed know of others who would be quite willing to take your place in my plans...”

  “But I have the Staff, Grandmother. No one else could ever give you that much power...”

  “And I have the Heart, which leaves you with no mor
e to wield than what your lunatic mother had. You can go right ahead that way, too, if you don't have the imagination to see beyond her limits, or you can take me seriously for once and commit yourself to a carefully conceived plan for world conquest.”

  “Very well. I'm listening.”

  Demonica studied her, baleful and motionless as a pallid snapping turtle.

  “Well?” said Spitemorta, pushing away the eerie chill which passed through her. “What do you have in mind, Grandmother?”

  “What thought have you given to rebuilding your depleted army, Spitemorta?”

  “As far as I can see,” she said, tapping her tooth as she paced, “unless our allies lend us their armies, all we can do is train the younger men and use what we have...”

  “And what allies are those, dear?” said Demonica, moving only her eyes to follow her about. “The moment we jumped Niarg, we stood alone. What piddly country do you fancy will stand beside us instead of Niarg?”

  Spitemorta was quiet for a long moment. “Bratinbrute,” she said without warning.

  “What?” said Demonica, jerking open her drooping eyes. “You truly think the house of your dear enemy, Myrtlebell, will come to your rescue? Did King Theron hate his only child?”

  “King Theron! The man is a weakling, a mere worm. And better than that, he's a coward, making him as pliable and corruptible as we need.”

  “Now, there are those moments when you actually show promise, Rouanez Bras, but don't forget how truly piddly Bratinbrute is. Its army is hardly anything next to Niarg's. Of course, if you've several other little countries you could call on...”

  Spitemorta scowled and shook her head. “Oh! Cyclopsia,” she said, brightening for a moment. “We've been paying them rent for Gollsport all along, but they're not exactly friends. It's high time we appropriated their lands, but they don't have any kind of army.”

  “Too bad, but by all means, bring Bratinbrute into the fold. I'm sure we'll find a use for them. Never overlook a resource, no matter how small.”

  “Yea, like children for soldiers. That's what we've been doing. So do you have some suggestion, Grandmother?”

  “Gwael.”

  “Gwael?” she said, stopping short. “Oh no. No more stinking trolls. No more Fnadi-yaphn.”

  “There you go again, jumping in to defend your embarrassing assumptions long before you have the whole tale.”

  “What's there to hear? No trolls, no Fnadi-yaphn. No way...!”

  “What makes you think I'm talking about trolls at all? I'm becoming exhausted here trying to keep you quiet long enough to tell you about the Gwaels, themselves.”

  “The Gwaels? Why would a powerful country on the Eastern Continent want to help someone they don't trade with on this continent? In fact, they compete with us for the sukere trade. We've been hurting their business.”

  “Because, sweetheart, I would ask them to.”

  “Bugh! Now you sound like James, Grandmother.”

  “Why, I didn't know he ever made sense...”

  “No! I can't stand 'sweetheart...'“

  “Well it doesn't really fit you, does it?

  “You have some sort of hold over these people, or are they one of the other parties you could take over the world with?”

  “Don't tempt me, then.”

  “Here I stand, biting my tongue and pulling my hair while I listen.”

  “Good. It builds character, dear...”

  “Gwaels! Do you have influence on them?”

  “You could say that,” said Demonica as she strained to sit up again. “Their exalted king, Vortigern, and Razzorbauch were once as close as brothers. You might say that the three of us go 'way back. I've done him favors from time to time. I'm quite sure that we could come to some sort of gainful agreement.”

  Spitemorta was already dragging a chair, screeching up to the bedside.

  “Must you?” said Demonica with a wince.

  “Here's my undivided attention. Isn't that what you wanted?”

  Demonica huffed a sigh.

  “So, what can you talk them out of, exactly?”

  “A substantial part of their army, I should think, even if you did burn all of Goll's sukere crop, last year...”

  “You told me to!”

  “Ah, so I did. You enjoyed it more than I did, I believe. But that's not the point. The point is we are growing competition for Gwael when we do have a crop. Something to bargain with is all, for either a slice of their regular army or for one or two of their renowned mercenary armies which might serve our purposes just as well.”

  “Mercenaries? Aren't they merely out for their own advantage?”

  Demonica threw her head back to laugh. “Oh! That made my head feel like it was going to split open, or me pass out. My head feels tingly,” she said, lying back against her pillows. “Sometimes I find you difficult to imagine. How could you spend your entire life within arm's reach of the throne, lusting for power, and be so naive? Of course mercenaries are 'out to for their own advantage,' as is everyone else. Our job is merely to see that our tasks fit their needs.”

  “I can't imagine it being as easy as you make it sound.”

  “Nothing tried, nothing gained, aye?”

  “Well I'm ready to visit the Gwaels as soon as you're able. Shall we ask for the regular army or the mercenaries?”

  “We'll ask for both and take what we can get. We can plan from there.”

  “I'm ready,” said Spitemorta agreeably, as she stood with a yawn and headed for the door. “I'll sleep in my other bedroom. Get some rest Grandmother, so we can be off as soon as we can.”

  Demonica lay utterly motionless in the wavering candlelight, watching through pallid slits as Spitemorta slipped into the hall. “Good time to hide the Heart,” she said as she struggled onto an elbow. “Her skinweler's right there on its stand, if I can get to it.”

  She sat up, feeling for the secret pannier beneath the outside robe of her kirtle which held the Heart. “Good! It's here.” She ran her hand through her hair and gave herself a moment to make certain that she was steady enough to try standing. “First I'd better set a ward that will make her pass out on the floor while I'm gone.” She murmured some words as she pointed here and there at the doorway. Suddenly her face went prickly and she blacked out, toppling backwards onto the bed like a sack of potatoes.

  “Fates!” she said, coming to some time later in the pitch dark room. A breeze was wafting in through the window. She pictured where a candle stood and willed it to come alight. “Kurun c'hoarier koukou! If I did another candle, I'd pass out. I'll never get the ward up, let alone go to my room with a traveling spell.” She lay on her back, watching the shadows leap and wave as the candle flame danced in the stirring air. She found the pannier and began idly running her thumb over the Heart inside for some time.

  “Shit fire!” she said. She sat up at once. “I've got every bit of my vigor back and then some.” She was on her feet immediately. Taking out the Heart and keeping it in her hand, she restored the failed ward for Spitemorta and then made off crisply for her tower and up the spirals of steps to her room.

  “I feel great,” she said with a sigh of energetic resolution, as she lit candles all about her room with a vigorous sweep of her arm. “Even so, I'm still going to hide the Heart and get some sleep without worry.” She went to the fireplace and slid out a brick from the mantle, opening a hollow in the wall. She carefully put the Heart inside, slid the brick back into place and passed her hand over the brick to erase the telltale cracks in the mortar.

  Without warning her vision narrowed. “Kurun!” she gasped as she stumbled toward her bed. When her shin hit the bed rail, she toppled forward and blacked out.

  ***

  “Checkmate!” cried Abaddon with a bounce on the bed.

  “That's it,” said Lance. “There's nothing for it. You're the master, Abbey.”

  Abaddon showed off his grin with one great nod. “I've been tellin' you that since we met!” he
said, raking an armful of men into a box. “But I had to beat you boss-eyed before you finally believed me.”

  Lance shrugged and smiled, but looked up suddenly to see Celeste, Alvita and Nacea standing in the grotto.

  “Weo yunker pardon begge, Lance and Abaddon,” said Celeste as she held out three pendants on leather whangs, “but weo han the pendauntes which yit desyrid ymaad.”

  Lance took the pendants and studied their velvety smoothness. “These look like discs of some kind of very coarse open grained hardwood,” he said. “Oak?”

  “From oon of Longbarkes verray braunches ymaked,” she said radiantly.

  “Longbark?” said Lance with a look of wonder. “She gave these to us?”

  “Ey,” said Celeste with a sincere nod. “She chees so. Yit han greetly honoured yben.”

  “Then she is indeed more powerful than I've ever realized. I knew of her great wisdom, but I never guessed that she had magic.” He looked up at Abaddon to find him afraid.

  “A, Abaddon,” said Celeste as she knelt beside him. “Longbark that thou hir yifte tak as a token of frendshipe bitwix thee and hir hopes. She that she wol alwey ther for to shilde thee ybe, wantes thou for to undyrstonde, thogh in ordere for hir so to done, thou mustest hir charme for to were.”

  Abaddon looked up at Lance's nod of reassurance. “I'm right honored to wear her gift, then,” he said, haltingly. “I'll not kick her nor call her names again. And I won't even throw big rocks at her, either.”

  Celeste gave him a sound hug, took a pendant from Lance and tied it around Abaddon's neck. “Ther thou art, younge sir,” she said as she admired it. “With this on, nis no oon konnen to use magyk for to finden thee. Thou wolt compleet invysible to hem beth.”

  “But can I still scry with this on, or must I take it off first?”

  “Thise the oonly pendauntes of thaire kynde aren, Abaddon,” she said as she gave him a pat and stood up. “Thou kanst eny oon for to scrye, but they konnen nat thou yscrye.”

  “Then we need to be going, Lance,” he declared. “The longer James is out, the more danger there is.” He took Lance by the hand and commenced tugging him toward the door.