Heart of the Staff - Complete Series

by Carol Marrs Phipps

  Arianrhod held the door to the stairwell for the Beaks.

  “I'd sure like to find out what they meant by those 'special darts,'“ thought Theran as he hurriedly shook hands with each of them and gave Tramae a parting hug.

  At once Arianrhod held open the door to the throne room. Theran had just seated himself in his great chair when he looked up to find Spitemorta and Demonica standing right in front of him.

  ***

  “There it is, boys, Niarg Castle!” cried Herio as he paused to peer between the crowns of the rows of locust trees on either side of the road. A flash of brilliant orange dashed out of the foliage, as an oriole caught his eye before vanishing into the leaves further down the road. Nearby, a Guernsey, heavy with calf, pulled her head up from her grazing and sauntered to the next spot to drop her muzzle and pull at the grass with eager nods.

  Herio swept off his hat and drug his sleeve across his brow. He had ridden Gwynt hard, scarcely sleeping or eating, cutting an entire two days from their journey.

  “Mind if we fly on ahead and announce your arrival, Herio?” chirped Tweet.

  “Have do,” said Herio with a nod, and the two sparrows winged off at once.

  By the time he reached the inner ward, outside the castle proper, Minuet, Razzmorten and all the birds were there to greet him. The moment he was down off

  Gwynt, Minuet had her arms around him. She held him out at arms length to study him with the fiercely concerned eye of a parent.

  “You're worn out. And so thin!” she said as Herio hid his smile. “Go straightaway to your apartment. I'll have Jerome fix your bath at once. We'll talk after you've bathed. Scoot, then! We'll be waiting for you in the great hall.”

  Herio hung his head and grinned, even if he was a knight, back from a dangerous mission and a man now by anyone's reckoning. It had been a long time since he'd had a mother to fuss over him and just now he could care less about anything other than the warm feeling of belonging which Minuet had given him. He'd be a man soon enough.

  The hot bath and the fresh clothes felt wonderful. He hurried to the great hall anxious to report his news about Spitemorta and Demonica, and anxious to find out why the castle had not suffered any damage at all from their attack.

  He slid onto the chair next to Minuet. Then after seeing that Captain Bernard was joining everyone he took a deep breath and began: “I am sure that Hubba Hubba has told you everything of importance from the time of our arrival until his departure, so I'll continue from there if you don't mind.”

  “Those were indeed our worst fears, Herio,” said Minuet when he was through. “So we've already begun some of the measures which we need to take. Now, I want you to enjoy the fine meal Jerome is bringing you and then get some rest. Everything else can wait for the morning. There will be more to discuss. We are very impressed with what you have done.”

  Herio simply nodded and set about to make short work of his meal. He hadn't seen its like since he set off for Castle Goll.

  ***

  “No one was in here, King Theran,” said Spitemorta, “so how dare you keep my grandmother and me waiting for an audience like a pair of commoners?”

  Theran's jaw dropped. “My deepest apologies, Queen Spitemorta,” he said, fighting down his smile of astonishment. “I was rather indisposed, you see. I'm sorry to say that I'm not as much in control of certain things about my person as I once was. I'm sure you understand.”

  Spitemorta gave a snort of contempt. “Perhaps your advanced age makes you forget the courtesies of your station. Grandmother and I should have been shown into your throne room to wait your return, not kept outside like knaves.”

  “I beg your pardon. I...”

  “I don't know, Grandmother,” she said, turning to Demonica, “after such an affront, do we still honor him with one of Goll's treasures?”

  Theran did not know what to think.

  “Oh I would think so dear,” said Demonica as she sweetly patted Theran's hand where it gripped the arm of his chair, “or else why bother coming all this way? Surely he's beyond anything divisive by his affront.”

  “What are you doing, Grandmother?” thought Spitemorta, wide eyed at her reply. “In spite of your age, Your Majesty,” she said, recovering, “I'm quite sure you remember your vow of alliance to Loxmere-Goll after I absolved you of any responsibility or guilt which you or your country might have had in connection with King Edmond's murder.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then we can proceed,” she said as she grandly withdrew a skinweler from her traveling cloak. “Do you know what this is?”

  Theran stared at the orb. “I could guess,” he said. “We've been hearing that Goll had some sort of miraculous scrying ball that even the ungifted could use. Is this crystal indeed one of those?”

  “Yes. It is a skinweler. And we traveled all the way from Goll to present it to you, only to be kept waiting in the antechamber.”

  “I certainly meant nothing by it,” he said. “My word!” he thought, “What do they want? Could they know that the Beaks were just here?”

  “Yes,” she said acidly. “It's plain to see that you couldn't possibly have meant anything.” She beckoned to Arianrhod. “Come take this gift for your king.” She turned to stare Theran.

  “You will consult the skinweler each morning at ten to see if I am giving an address. Niarg continues to build its army, and we're certain that they plan another attack upon Loxmere-Goll very soon, while we're unable to retaliate. We expect you to come to our aid in such an event. We also expect you to report any information of a subversive sort that may come to you in regards to Niarg and their intent to move against us. King James already has. He has betrayed the crown and if seen, he is to be held in custody until he can be returned to Goll to stand trial for treason.”

  Theran rose and bowed to Spitemorta and Demonica. “I am honored by your gift,” he said, bearing the face of a gambler. “You may count on Bratin Brute should the need arise.”

  “It would be best to see that you do, King Theran,” she said as she and Demonica turned and left the throne room.

  Theran sat speechless for a moment after they had vanished and the echoes of their steps had ceased. “My word Arianrhod,” he said as he looked aside. “You hold that skinweler as if it were some sort of snake wanting to strike.”

  “My very bones tell me that's exactly what it is, sire.”

  ***

  “It's not even noon yet, Grandmother,” said Spitemorta, glancing at the sky as she took her seat in the coach. “What shall we do until dark in this dreary little kingdom?”

  “Dinner, or at least a nice lunch would be splendid,” said Demonica cheerfully.

  “Lunch? Honestly! I don't know how you don't have jowls when you eat like a sow, Grandmother.”

  “Apparently by using your very methods since we eat the same, dear,” she said, pausing at the treadle to gather her skirts. “Say! I do believe I see a nice tavern just down the street. The Buck and Doe. Let's eat there.”

  Spitemorta made a face. “You're serious, aren't you?”

  “By all means, Rouanez Bras. Commonness isn't contagious.”

  “Cute, Demonica.”

  Demonica took her seat with a smile.

  ***

  “I say the demon-possessed thing belongs in the midden-heap,” said Arianrhod. “No good will ever come of it. You'll see.”

  “Oh, I'm sure you're quite right,” said Theran as he put his crown in his lap and scratched his head, “but on the other hand, a skinweler might be just the thing to see what those two witches are up to. We now can call on the Beaks if we're in need, remember.”

  “Yes sire. But the Kingdom of Marr is rather farther from Bratin Brute than Loxmere-Goll, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh yes. And what real help could barbarians be against the likes of her anyway? Still, I really wonder about those darts they were talking about. I wonder what they are. We'll simply have to be very careful. Which I think also mea
ns that it would be most unwise to do away with their spying ball. They may have some way of knowing if we do.”

  “You could well be right about that, sire, but...”

  “But?”

  “I know how this might sound,” said Arianrhod in a sudden hush, as he paused to look about before setting the skinweler on the floor and flopping the corner of a rug over it, “but what if that crystal is watching us? I've heard it goes both ways, but everything's under her control. It might even hear everything we say...”

  Theran gave a chuckle at the sight of him.

  “It's possible I'm being foolish, sire, yet Demonica is a known sorceress, after all, and they say Spitemorta is, too...”

  “My arse!” thundered Theran with more fire than Arianrhod had seen out of him in years. “Spitemorta and Demonica are witches, pure and simple. Fates! Were you listening when Tramae told us how they murdered Myrtlebell? And I believe that stick Spitemorta had with her just now was the very staff she used to do it, too. That pair of harpies is pure evil.” At once he sprang from his throne, planting a vicious kick on the skinweler, shooting it out of the rug to skitter the length of the stone floor to the far wall.

  “Yes, yes, sire!” said Arianrhod with a look of relieved jubilation. “Quite so. And with that in mind, perhaps we should put a cover over that eye of evil which they've thrust upon us...”

  “Yea! And make it heavy enough that a mouse couldn't hear through it. And lock it away somewhere while you're about it. Do it immediately. We shall decide later if we'll use it at all or get rid of it.”

  ***

  Demonica pushed away her plate and studied the sour look on Spitemorta's face. “Did your meal not agree with you, dear?” she said sweetly.

  “The meal was inferior, of course, but bearable, Grandmother. You seemed to enjoy yours, so why do you even bother me about my opinion?”

  “Oh, I don't know, dear. For some reason I keep thinking that time might pass more quickly if we didn't just sit here and glare at one another. Perhaps I'm mistaken.”

  “It's still a long time 'til dark, Grandmother. I can't imagine that you and I could possibly have that much to say to each other.”

  “You're undoubtedly right, but as you have already pointed out, this little place has nothing worth visiting, so we seem to be stuck with merely passing the time until it's dark enough to leave on the Staff for Gwael. Unless, of course, you're ready to endure a traveling spell, this one time.”

  “Spare me...”

  “Hey!” said a reeling man as he bumped the table, slopping mead out of Spitemorta and Demonica's goblets. “Wings of the Heavens One and Wings of the

  Heavens Two. Now, we don't get lovelies like you ones, come down to this house, just any old day.”

  “See?” said Demonica, leaning aside with dancing eyes. “It shows. I told you I was natural for the part when you demanded that I be Fnadi-yaphn.”

  Spitemorta flung her a very dark glower before sharing it with their company. “Back off, you stinking sot!”

  “Now that's ire-knee,” he said, bumping the table again, “Wings of the Heavens One, is it? Or are you Wings of the Heavens Two? Why is it, Wings of the Heavens whatever the number you are, why is it that all the pretty skirts from the heavens are such mistresses...?” He paused for a lewd hoot and snort. “How come all you pretty skirts are such stinking mistresses of ire-knee? Did I say 'stinking?' Or did you say 'stinking'...?”

  “Beat it!” growled Spitemorta.

  “Now Wings of the Heavens whatever you are,” he said as he thrust his bristly face into hers, “that's a right smart amount of ire-knee for someone wants to be your mistress...”

  “Yea! Chat her up, Crafiad!” cried someone amongst the grinning group who were filing over from the bar.

  Spitemorta furiously shoved back from Crafiad's face and grabbed the Staff.

  Demonica grabbed her wrist. “Let's leave now, dear,” she said as calmly as if they were going strolling. “Your uncle, King Theran, will be worried if we're not back soon, and no doubt I shall be chastised for having brought you into this common house.”

  Spitemorta hesitated, suddenly seeing how it all was and played along. She nodded and stood. “Yes, you're quite correct, Demonica,” she said haughtily. “Uncle will be most put out with both of us.” She took Demonica's arm and started for the door.

  “Pretty skirts of ire-knee!” cried Crafiad, stumbling after them to grab Spitemorta by the arm. “If you Wings of Mistrosity are royal skirts, where's your guard...?”

  “Here,” said Spitemorta, as she jabbed the Staff into his face, blowing his head apart like a bomb, breaking glasses across the room.

  The entire tavern froze in shocked silence as she and Demonica resumed their unhurried departure.

  “Well that taught him, I should say,” said Demonica as they settled once more into the coach. “You do realize that rumors are already spreading here in this sleepy place?”

  “So? A little fear will do them good, and give King Theran something to wake up about, crazy old fool.”

  “I don't think he is the doddering old idiot you take him for, Spitemorta.”

  “Really? You think it was an act, then? But you seemed completely taken in by his control of his person nonsense he was spreading all over, thick as butter.”

  “Sure. I wanted to see how far he'd go with it. But, I get the idea that he has all his faculties, mind and body. No, he's playing at something else, though it could merely be that he fears our power.”

  “Or he is more like his daughter than I thought. Well, if that's so, Grandmother, I shall simply deal with him as I did with her, when the time comes.”

  “I'm sure you will, dear. Now, what shall we do until dark?”

  Suddenly a patron came stumbling and flailing his arms out of the Buck and Doe to sprawl into the street in front their coach.

  “He was egging on Crafiad, back inside,” said Spitemorta as she looked down with a frown to whisk away a fleck of scalp and hair sticking to her bodice. “Let's sharpen our skills of persuasion, shall we Grandmother?”

  Demonica's eyes lit with an immediate fire. “Coachman!” she hollered. “Stop and help aboard that poor fellow in the road, please!”

  “Up with me?”

  “No, no. Inside with us.”

  Chapter 138

  “That was fun, Grandmother,” said Spitemorta, pausing to count the severed fingers and toes which she was picking up from the floor of the rocking coach, all about the mutilated body lying between their feet. “It was particularly entertaining, freezing his throat and jaws. He never peeped, but do you suppose Merfyn noticed his kicking?”

  She flung a toe out the window and bounced with glee when she saw it land in a woman's bread basket. “I can just see her now: 'My word! I have a toe in my bread basket!'“ She rocked back and forth with laughter, slapping her knee.

  “I didn't know you had a sense of humor, dear...”

  “Here!” shouted Spitemorta as she leant out the window, launching her double handful of digits at a woman who caught them in her apron, only to collapse in a faint.

  “I see we are at least managing to pass the time,” said Demonica. “Well, I had to throw out the fingers,” she said, sitting back into the seat with a bounce. “And what shall we do with the body, Grandmother, leave it on King Theran's doorstep on our way out of town?”

  “Hmm...crude and pointless, I think,” she said as she began studying the blood soaking her clothes. “No, let's just pitch it out alongside the road once we're out of town. Theran wouldn't know who left it, unless you went to the trouble to make it plain to him somehow. But I can't imagine wanting Theran so upset by our visit that he forms an alliance with Niarg for protection, can you?”

  “He wouldn't dare! Oh, all right. I see how he might.”

  “Say. Be a good girl and clean up, would you?”

  “What?”

  “You've got the Staff. Everything's positively soaked. We wouldn't want Merfy
n to open the door for us and run away.”

  “Oh,” said Spitemorta as she took hold of the Staff. “Say no more Grandmother.” At once the blood was gone from their clothes and from the inside of the coach.

  Demonica leant out the window. “Stop just outside town, if you would!” she called before pulling back inside. “You really do need to remember, dear, that you have so few allies that it really wouldn't do to send any of them over to the other side.”

  “Oh go on!” said Spitemorta, making a face. “If we're getting an army from Gwael, what does it matter?”

  “Even the Gwaels, as formidable as they are, may not want to deal with us if they think we've made a mess of things.”

  “Fine Grandmother. Have it your way, but I don't see how that having fiddly little Bratin Brute as an ally is going to impress much of anyone.”

  “Well of course it wouldn't, dear. But these things add up. Sometimes several little allies add up to more than one big ally. Didn't you tell me that you could squeeze the Centaurs and the Cyclopses into siding with us, since Fairy Valley and the Enchanted Lands are territories of Goll? And you might even think about using the Smallies and the Dorchadas in some way, too.”

  “Smallies and Dorchadas, Grandmother? Are you kidding? They aren't even real. They're enchantments of Razzorbauch's. And as for the Centaurs and Cyclopses, I expect resistance from them, since they have sympathies with Niarg.”

  “Well, that can be dealt with easily enough, Spitemorta. I'm sure the Centaurs and the Cyclopses can be coaxed into to joining us, if you merely take care of the most well-known rebels...”

  “Yea, with public executions. Draw and quarter them where everyone can see.”

  “You never know how the public will react to executions. I was thinking you might do better with your skinweleriou. Make the rebels look like villains, buffoons and fools, or even traitors. Just use your imagination and carefully distribute the balls. You'll have everyone convinced. You shouldn't have much of a problem after that. And while you're at it...”