Heart of the Staff - Complete Series

by Carol Marrs Phipps

  “Who-aww...!” boomed a barred owl before lunging into a silent glide to the top of the furthest stone pillar. “Awww! Who cooks? Who cooks for you all?”

  “I see that they've been busy burning wicker men,” said Spitemorta, nodding at the ashes in the middle of the circle. “I'm sorry I missed it.”

  “Ah!” said Demonica. “Then you did enjoy our little sortie after all.”

  “Parts of it,” she said, rubbing her arms.

  “Hush! Someone comes, yonder.”

  “Hoy!” called a figure, tramping out of the woods and up through the grassy swell of the hill. “Empress Spitemorta? Your Omnipotence?”

  Spitemorta gave a wave and turned aside. “What?” she said. “Am I supposed to be bouncing up and down like some giddy schoolgirl?”

  “Well no dear, but you could at least be polite. After all, he does secure this corner of your empire...”

  “Right. As if we don't have to come and help him...”

  “There you are, Your Omnipotence,” he said, pausing to bow as he stepped into the circle. “Terribly sorry I'm late, but I'm afraid that they weren't as ready to let me wander about as I had allowed. Is there someone else up here with you?”

  “You,” said Spitemorta. “Now are you saying that you had to escape?”

  “Not at all, but I did have to walk out another way, and it was all very complicated.”

  “So where is this Cousin Osulf?”

  “Back at Leskycastel, getting ready for his coronation, tomorrow.”

  “Cooks! cooks!” cried the owl from his stone post before turning his back to them and hollering at the echoing trees beyond. “Who cooks...? Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

  Spitemorta was already looking into her skinweler. “So has he picked out a bedroom?” she said.

  “Osulf? I believe they were still moving his things into Vortigern's rooms when I left.”

  “What about Artie's? It looks like I would expect it did when you got him.”

  “His suite is not nearly what Vortigern's is.”

  “Take my hand,” she said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Take my hand.”

  “Of course Your Omnipotence,” he said, doing as she bid at once. Suddenly he collided with the post of Artamus's bed to stumble backwards and sit down hard upon the floor. “Ohh!” he wailed, rolling aside with a frantic lunge for the basin on the night stand.

  “What kind of steward can't manage a simple traveling spell?” she said. “We didn't even go very far.”

  “Awff! Angh! Hwalik...” he coughed.

  “And what awful black stuff did you eat?”

  “Liver, kidneys and onions, blood pudding and rye bread,” he groaned over the basin on the floor, nodding as he steadied his breathing.

  “What kind of steward eats slop like that?” she said, shoving a towel at him.

  “Here. We have work to do.”

  “It was 'way better going the other way...” he said as he labored to his feet and sat on the edge of the bed to mop and whisk at himself.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “And shove that vile basin under the bed so I won't have to look at it.” She took out her skinweler and sat down with it on a chair across the room.

  “Vortigern's chamber, aye?”

  “Yea. It looked like he had half the service from that big manor of his, 'way across the pow, a-moving him in when I left.”

  “There's not a soul in there now.” she said, holding out her hand. “Let's go.”

  “Oh please!” he groaned. “Let me trot down the corridor, but I have no idea what to do if they've locked it.”

  “Very well. Use your feet and I'll see to the door. Now wait,” she said, tapping at a tooth. “Who knows how long we'll have to wait.”

  “Yea. Maybe all night, from what I hear about him...”

  “Go find him. Tell him you saw an incredibly beautiful woman going into his chamber, and insist on bringing him back with you to see.”

  “My. I'd bring guards, if it were me...”

  “Good. Suggest it to him.”

  “Your Omnipotence?”

  “Tell him he'd better bring along guards. He might not come if you don't. I'll be waiting.” And with that, she vanished, leaving him blinking.

  He was on his feet at once, hurrying out to find Osulf.

  Spitemorta looked this way and that where she found herself standing in Vortigern's apartment. It was neat and tidy as can be with dozens of elk skulls with spreading antlers from hunts on Osulf's estate freshly hung on the walls. She ambled into the bedroom and looked at the bed. She cast upon herself a glamourie of a sheer and revealing nightgown, then unfastened the Heart and slid the Staff under the bed. She lay across the quilted silk spread and was practicing the sort of charming looks which she reserved for her looking glass, when she heard voices at the door. Keys and lock rattled.

  “Ah!” said a burly man, stepping inside to stop short at the sight of her. He turned back to Irmen and the four guards he had brought along. “Why this looks good, my dear steward. I'm indeed obliged that you alerted me. Now you all stay out here and wait.”

  And he gently closed the door in their faces.

  “My dear,” he said, ambling up to the bed, “you are indeed gorgeous. Are you a present for my coronation?”

  “You could put it that way,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “From whom, may I ask?” he said, his yellow hair sliding off his shoulders and brushing her arm as he pressed her hand to his toothless mouth.

  “Why the empress herself,” she said from under the naughty brows of her coy smile. And with that, she shot him in the face with a ruby beam from the Heart, freezing him wide eyed where he stood, leaning across the bed. She backed away on her elbows, rolling off the far side of the bed, sniffing the back of her hand as she stood up. “Your spit stinks!” She scurried round, grabbing up the Staff from under the bed and snapping the Heart into place.

  “Guards!” she shouted in Osulf's voice.

  The door flew wide, whacking the inside wall. By the time they were halfway to the bed, they were four piles of soot on the rug. Irmen carefully peeped around the corner, stepped inside and quietly closed the door. As soon as he had seen how stunning she was, Spitemorta dropped her glamourie.

  “Is he dead?” said Irmen.

  “Give me a moment,” said Spitemorta as she yanked Osulf's sword from its scabbard and came down on his neck with everything she had. “Damn! I usually take off heads with one good lick. He's tough.”

  “Or the blade's dull,” said Irmen.

  “Maybe,” she said through her teeth. “But I do have to chop at an awkward angle because of this idiot canopy.” In two more swings, Osulf's head splattered onto the quilt with a bounce.

  “Well that about does it, then...” said Irmen, looking her up and down as if he were impressing his teacher with his attentive remark.

  “With this mess?” she said, picking up the Staff and turning Olsulf's corpse into a glowing cinder that quickly gave way to become another pile of soot.

  “And then?” he said.

  “I want two things,” she said, tapping at a tooth. “So. Can you be seen out and about without stirring suspicion?”

  “I should think. So long as I show enthusiasm for the coronation. But I hate to think about tomorrow...”

  “Why? You're going to be the master of the ceremony.”

  “Right.”

  “Now. Fetch me a nice new one peck basket. And I want Vortigern's crown. Do you know where it is?”

  “I think...”

  “Well, I expect you back here with them immediately.”

  ***

  At twelve o' clock the next day, First Steward Irmen rose from his chair at the head of the enormous banquet board, seated shoulder to shoulder with lords, ladies and dignitaries of every degree, and spread wide his arms, inviting them to partake. There was a faint murmur to be heard here and there in the gaiety of the diners ab
out not seeing Osulf, but no one really cared when the roast boar and the mead and the cider were so heavenly and they could each revel in being important enough to be counted in attendance.

  At two o' clock, Irmen took to the coronary chair in the great throne room and waited for the banqueters to file in and be seated. At two fifteen, he set aside the skinweler from his lap, walked to the front of the dais, introduced the empress of the world and stepped aside with a sweep of his arm and a bow to an empty place on the stage. The guests stirred, trading looks of confusion. Suddenly the hall echoed with a rush of gasps as Spitemorta appeared out of thin air before their very eyes with a pedestal bearing a basket and a pedestal bearing a velvet pillow with a crown on her left, and a pedestal with an ermine pillow on her right.

  “Thank you First Steward Irmen,” she said. “We appreciate your most appropriate gesture for what it is, since these perceptive lords and ladies would recognize us at once as the empress of every nook and hamlet in this entire world. We are here to place the crown of the king of Gwael upon the head of Osulf, Prince of Pow Jyantylesk, would-be king of this realm.” She reached into the basket, withdrew Osulf's head and held it out for all to see, gasping and shrinking back in their seats as she as she walked along the edge of the dais. She nestled the head on the ermine pillow. She picked up the crown and solemnly fit it onto the head, standing back at once and declaring: “We crown thee Osulf, Traitor to Gwael, Traitor to the Empress and the World She Rules!” She turned to the guests. “And all who followed him shall perish. Do not forget who rightfully sits upon this throne.” And with that she vanished and reappeared on her black marble throne in Niarg.

  “Your Omnipotence,” said her skinweler as she was setting it back into its hollow on the arm of her great chair.

  “What Irmen?”

  “I wanted to thank you...”

  “Yea? Well great, but you have a job to do, and if you want to keep your big wooden chair, you'll see it done.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “See that anyone who wanted Osulf on the throne dies. Oh yes. And be sure to appropriate his manor, his cattle and every single acre of his land. It's all mine, don't you know, but if you oversee it, you may use it as you please.”

  ***

  Neron scooted back from his supper of Dogton cheese and cider and folded his arms.

  “I swear,” said Olloo, happily waving a fat slice of the marbled cheese with his knife and thumb. “This is the best damnaithe cheese I ever eat. Good job we decided to stay here at the White Unicorn when we got to Diona.”

  “Diona is the right name,” said Neron, “but every last person in Ellsmore calls it Dog Towne, same as the cheese.”

  “Something the matter?” said Olloo, “You don't seem to be eating it.”

  Neron heaved a sigh. “Well, I seem to be nursing a fairly stout sense of foreboding,” he said, “and I can't really put my finger on it, either. I suppose it's Sweetpea.”

  “Sweetpea?”

  “Yea. In Loxmere. It's a town right before we get to the Jutwoods. It would seem reasonable to stay there, the night after tomorrow, but I want to go around. I want to stay clean out of it, if you don't mind. I was there with my family right after Spitemorta began handing out skinweleriou, and we almost didn't make it out alive. That must be the dread I feel. It's been above twenty year ago, but I don't know what else it could be.”

  ***

  Neron's foreboding grew steadily over the next two days. Five miles before Sweetpea, they found a road that took them around it a good mile to the west. Even so, his dread continued to grow.

  “You're not talking,” said Olloo, as he steered his unicorn around a mud hole.

  “Sweetpea's getting to be a good piece behind us. It still doesn't feel right?”

  Neron shook his head.

  “Well I sure hope nothing happened to Sulacha. Right up yonder's where we're supposed to wait on him, isn't it?”

  “At the Doirteal,” he said, “washbasin, a good sized spring, just inside the edge of the woods... Wait! Hold it. Stop for a minute. Shhh!”

  “What?” said Olloo, patting his unicorn.

  “Spring peepers,” said Neron, “way off. Must be at the spring. I love spring peepers. They're the first frogs ye hear in the spring in this neck of the woods, and these are the first ones I've heard this year.”

  Soon the Jutwoods rose up to meet them as the sun set and they found themselves making a fire by the gurgling Doirteal, listening to the madrigal of shrill frogs as the air turned chilly. A shivering owl called now and again from nearby in the timber. Just as the fire had been fed enough to consider boiling water with it, the frogs suddenly went quiet and Neron looked up the shaft of a crossbow bolt pointed at him to find a man wearing the helm, black tunic and red hourglass of Spitemorta's army.

  “You do realize that anything sudden will probably get you killed, aye?” said the man.

  “Well, I may have let you sneak up on us,” said Neron, as he saw that Olloo and Obbree were being held by two soldiers with crossbows, “but I'm not quite stupid enough to get us shot. And you were with Captain Waso when he showed up at the stable and took us to the port, weren't you?”

  “Yea. I'm Talik. And you're under arrest for being stupid enough to be Elves where Spitemorta could find out about you, speaking of stupid.”

  “Well while we're on the subject,” said Neron, “I can't imagine three soldiers doing anything with three Elves in the dark, even with the crossbows. We're much faster than you all...”

  “Mor?” hollered Talik. “Where the Pitmaster are you?”

  “Right here,” said Mor, stepping into the light of the fire. “I was just getting this sack of shackles off your unicorn.”

  “See?” said Talik. “Four soldiers. On that very subject of stupid, you ones just can't count beyond three. And number four is a-putting you all in chains as we talk.”

  “Fiddlesticks!” said Neron as he held out his wrists to Mor. “Three Elves is twice as many as four soldiers.”

  “Stupid again,” said Talik. “We have a whole mounted detachment scouring the woods 'round about, and they'll be back here directly...” Suddenly he was bellowing out in anguished gasps with an arrow sticking in his leg.

  Neron gave a furious swing of his shackle chain, knocking out Mor and giving Olloo the moment he needed to slay his captor and at the same time allowing Obbree the opportunity to grapple away his soldier's crossbow. “Sulacha!” he cried. “Just in time.

  And you, Talik, down there wallowing in the leaves. If you can't count to four Elves, you're the one in trouble.”

  Suddenly Olloo and Obbree looked up in alarm at the snap of a stick beyond Sulacha, as he threw his leg off the rump of his unicorn and stepped down.

  “Oouyuyf!” cried a deep voice from the brush as two score trolls stepped into the light with clubs and spears. “Nyr nyr-vyr-nirrtrad!”

  ***

  Badharan Bhfarraige was an Elven fisherman who once lived down the coast of the Gulf of Orin from the village of Fen. He was very successful at catching Orin Ocean cod and routinely left the gulf by crossing the Pirate Island archipelago to go trawling the great Orin Ocean. Then on a twenty-fourth of November, when he was far out at sea with his nets, he was overtaken by the most ferocious storm ever recorded. When it finally let up on the second of December, he found himself some unknown eternity of leagues away, drifting about under constellations he had never seen before. And though he was certain that he had been blown south, he had no idea at all that he was afloat in the vast Dread Sea. With no mast and no rudder, he felt lucky indeed to run aground on a coral reef ringing an island large enough to have a woods, game and a cave big enough to live in at the foot of a bluff. When he began moving things into the cave, a wind came in the night and the next morning his boat was gone.

  With only a scant handful of tools, it took him nearly two years to fashion the first craft which he dared to take beyond sight of the island. After twenty-one year
s at sea, he ran his eleventh boat aground, just off the coast of the Black Desert. Convinced that he must have reached the Northern Continent, he set out following the coast east, and in time north. He had forgotten all about keeping track of time, but after what had seemed like months to him, he came running and stumbling through the sand burrs and marram grass to find his house with the roof fallen in, his wife and children long gone. He ran the entire way to Fen, found it as abandoned as his house and kept running in a stumbling despair, stoking the fire in his chest with the air parching his tongue. At Oyster Cove he fell to his knees at the sight of weeds growing in the streets.

  After several more days of wandering, a gang of trolls found poor Badharan on the path to Oilean Gairdin when the sun set and grabbed him. They drug him to the jumble of pink quartz rubble that was once the castle and threw him down at the feet of a sinewy troll with long black hair. The troll rose to tower over him, grabbing him by the arm and pushing him firmly into a chair and planting an old leather-bound book in his lap. The troll opened the book and began looking into Badharan's face as he turned the crinkly parchment pages before him, stopping here and there to point at words and then at his mouth and declare: “Jyoyr-dyrfn.” He frowned with an earnest nod, pecking at the page. “Jyoyr-dyrfn. Jyoyr-dyrfn.”

  So on this particular evening, several months later, when forty excited trollbrutes crowded into the deep shadows of the newly restored throne room, Neron, Sulacha, Olloo and Obbree were stunned speechless to find themselves thrown down at the feet of a proud troll sitting on Neron's very throne. “Welcome to Castle Oilean Gairdin,” said the troll in perfect Jutish Elven, as he rose to stand over them. “I am Veyfnaryr, Thunderman of the Dyrney.”

  Chapter 183

  “Well I might be more inclined to accept your welcome if you weren't sitting in my chair,” said Neron before he had given the slightest prudent consideration to how this might sound as he watched the tall naked troll sit back down.

  “I'm not sure that I understand you,” said Veyfnaryr from beneath the stirring tatters of dusty cobweb on the back of the throne. “Perhaps I've not yet had enough practice with proper Jutish Elven. Perhaps I should try out my new Niarg, but you four certainly look like Elves to me. Now am I mistaken, or are you irritated with me in some way?”