by Ed Greenwood
Tindror pushed the decanter toward Rod. "Sit down, drink, and speak to me. Who are you? Why are you with Taeauna? And why come to Galath just now, when all is in uproar?"
Rod decided to take those commands literally. With a polite smile he sat, took up the decanter, and filled his glass, hoping some convincing lies would come into his head before he was done. Or Taeauna would...
Taeauna did. "We Aumrarr owe a blood-debt to this man," she said smoothly, "whose mind has been harmed by a hostile wizard's spell. He cannot remember some things, such as his name, which is Rodrell, and can't say others. He is on a death-quest, to a place the magic afflicting him would prevent his ever reaching, for he can neither say nor remember it."
"Wherefore you're guiding him." Tindror nodded and put out a hand for the decanter; Rod pushed it back to him and raised his glass in salute. The baron gave him a smile that precisely matched Rod's.
"Wherefore I'm guiding him," Taeauna confirmed. "You may speak freely in front of him, and please do, because if Galath's that much changed, I must hear of it, and he should know what he's walking into, too."
The bearded baron regarded Rod thoughtfully, nodded slowly, and refilled his glass. "Well enough, where to begin? The king, Devaer is king now, as you know, and is either mad or, as many Galathans believe, is enspelled by some wizard who compels him to issue decrees that seem mad to us all. House after house is outlawed or set against rivals until the butchery bleeds the land white. Crops stand untended in the fields, monsters—not least the lorn, who serve and spy for wizards—and brigands roam freely, and the road ahead seems bleak."
Taeauna nodded slowly. "Dark Helms?"
"Everywhere, and serving many masters; they often clash with each other in the farm fields, despoiling crops with their deaths."
Taeauna looked less than surprised. "And which noble houses survive? Who's in favor, and who's otherwise?"
"Of the great families, only Hornsar, Mistryn, and Deldragon still hold their castles and rightful place in the realm without being the crawling servants of the king."
"And those servants would be?"
"The houses of Bloodhunt, Brorsavar, Lionhelm, Dunshar, Blackraven, Windtalon, Stormserpent..." Baron Tindror paused for breath and lifted a finger to wag in the air, marking off those still remaining. "...Pethmur, Snowlance, Nyghtshield, Mountblade, Duthcrown, and Teltusk all now serve the king. Which is handy for him, as all the courtiers and royal servants have long since fled, or were devoured by the beasts roaming Galathgard. In some rooms, their gnawed bones litter the floor."
"Charming. And whom do you think compels the king to their own bidding?"
Tindror shrugged. "That's no secret, but we say his name not aloud, of course." He put a finger into his glass, drew it forth dripping, wrote "Arlaghaun" on the tabletop, and wiped it swiftly away into a fire-hued smear.
"Quite a list. You made no mention of where you stand, or any of the other—"
"Rabble? We barons are beneath notice, until one or other of the greater nobles wants our land or just decides to gallop an army through it. There were something more than sixty of us, and more than forty are now dead, their lands seized or laid waste. Many of those left survive only because they are the tools of other wizards, who move them about to stand three or more together against any threat sent by the king. In this manner, once-great Galath lurches from month to month, leaving a bloody trail of the dead. The land is so empty of common folk that it may soon fall to the wolves, leaving the king ruling naught."
There came a soft, respectful rapping at the door. The baron held up a cautioning "say nothing" hand to Taeauna and Rod, and called, "Enter in, and set it before us!"
Servants came in with covered platters of food and decanters of wine, whisking away the old decanter and setting out warmed plates. Rod watched; though he'd never even thought of such a detail in his writing's, it seemed honored guests were personally served helpings of this and that onto their own oval plates. His was now covered with a heap of thin slabs of meat in their own drippings, a bundle of green vegetable spears that looked something like asparagus, and a cluster of small green vegetables that looked like raw figs but prickled his nose with their high spicing. This was accompanied with a little flared bowl of some brown soup that smelled wonderful.
The servant bowed; Rod had just noticed Lord Tindror and Taeauna both inclining their heads in response to similar bows, so he did the same, straightening up again in time to see the baron plough into his food like a starving dog.
He was happy to do the same.
The meat tasted a little like venison, the green spears were like munching solid split pea soup, the fig-like things tasted like someone had married fried green tomatoes (seeds and all) with the hottest tabasco sauce he'd ever put tongue to—big gulp of the new wine there!—and the soup was like drinking gravy. Very rich, lovely gravy.
Damn, but he'd been hungry. He hadn't quite realized just how hungry until he'd had a good smell of what was on his platter, but it was all gone now, scant moments after being laid before him, and if it hadn't been for the fact that both the baron and Tay were holding their plates up in front of their faces and busily licking them, he'd have been worried that his ravenous haste would have been seen as bad manners.
Shoot, bad manners? Here he was worrying about bad manners, like... like... God, he was tired. A yawn... mustn't yawn again, no...
Rod sat back from his plate to avoid plunging face-first into what he hadn't yet licked off of it, and found himself staring at the magnificent vaulted ceiling of... What was this room, again? The... the chamber, the... the...
That was when the map chamber either swam away from Rod into white mists of oblivion, or he stopped worrying about what it was called.
THE SUDDEN FLAPPING at his window startled Baron Murlstag into a cursing, scrambling rise from his chair, yellow eyes blazing, as he tried to claw out the ornamented sword at his hip. By then, the leaded casements were swinging open, letting light and a cold breeze flood into the gloom, and setting the lone lamp to flickering wildly. Murlstag's sword rang free of its scabbard.
"Oh, don't bother," the lorn plunging over the wide stone sill told him contemptuously, its tone making clear what its mouthless skull-face could not. "I'm not here to offer you violence."
"This time," the baron grunted angrily. "Yet your kind are not known for being... trustworthy."
"On the contrary," the lorn replied, its barbed tail lashing air in irritation, "we carry out orders precisely. If you seek untrustworthiness, look to your own kind."
It turned back to the window, wriggling its slate-gray shoulders; bat-like wings smoothly half-unfurled and as smoothly drew together again. "Murlstag, hearken: I bring orders to you. A wingless Aumrarr and a man with her have been seen being rushed into Wrathgard. They are to be seized at once, alive. The castle and all else in it can be destroyed."
Yellow eyes blinked. "Tindror took them in?"
"So it would seem," the lorn replied coldly, its tone making it clear that only someone as stupid as Baron Murlstag might have trouble grasping that obvious circumstance. It ducked its horns and sprang to the windowsill, then launched itself into the high cold air beyond, wings snapping out, without waiting for a reply.
Baron Murlstag stood in that window, the highest in his castle, and watched the flying thing dwindle into the distance.
Damned insolent beasts. He hated them almost as much as he hated Baron Darl Tindror.
THE VAULTED CEILING of light stone, as magnificent as ever, faded slowly into view out of the mists, and swam around above him.
Rod Everlar had always liked vaulted ceilings, and had ended up with a stiff neck staring up at far too many of them as a teen, trudging around various historic European cathedrals in the wake of his parents, and he remembered putting them in various feasting halls and great chambers in his Falconfar books. Hammerbeam ceilings, too, but the fan vaulting had always seemed to him the most beautiful. Holdoncorp's artists had been delight
ed to discover he'd included them...
"Rod! Rodrell!" Taeauna snapped, sounding angry, her voice echoing strangely and coming from a long, long way away...
"It worked, lady, let me assure you! It worked!" an unfamiliar, frightened male voice was gabbling from very close by.
The ceiling went on swimming, circling around above his eyes more slowly now...
He was lying on something hard. Hard, smooth, and flat.
He was... Rod was lying on his back on the table in the map chamber at Wrathgard, staring up at its ceiling, with someone whimpering beside him.
He turned his head and found himself looking at a young man in robes—a priest or monk or wizard, but Falconfar had no monks or priests, so this must be a wizard—who was bone-white and chattering in fear.
"What're you afraid of?" Rod asked curiously.
The man stared at him, and then said in a rush, "That the Dooms felt my spell-work on you! And will hasten here to take or slay me!"
"What spell-work?"
"P-purging that which afflicted you."
"The wine was drugged," Taeauna told Rod furiously from the far side of the room; he turned his head in her direction, and saw that she was standing over the baron, holding her sword to his throat. Tindror, grimly pale, was still in his seat. "How do you feel?"
"I... fine. I think."
"T-there are no spells on this man," the wizard stammered.
Taeauna nodded grimly, never taking her eyes from the baron. "It is as well for you," she told Tindror softly.
"L-lady, I am sorry. Who is he?"
"Better that you not know. He is... important." Her voice was now very soft. "As you now know."
Rod saw tears well up in Tindror's eyes.
"I meant no harm, Taya. Please believe me!" the bearded noble hissed, starting to weep. "I never wanted to do anything to... darken what we share."
"You truly mean that?"
"Yes," he said fervently. Taeauna looked across the table at the wizard, caught his gaze, and pointed meaningfully at Tindror.
Nodding nervously, the wizard cast a spell, a short and careful incantation that ended with his eyes closed and his arms spread wide.
The man stood in silence for what seemed like a long time to Rod, who was holding his breath, and then confirmed, "He means it. His intention was to send this man into slumber so he could... he could..." He blushed, and pointed at Taeauna, then hesitantly waggled his pointing finger back and forth between the baron and the Aumrarr.
She nodded her thanks, and told Tindror crisply, "Then, Lord of Wrathgard, you may just have retained your life." She gestured with her head, a sharp lift, bidding him rise. "The secret passage," she commanded, her sword never wavering from the baronial throat.
"Yes," the baron said huskily; he'd started to nod and promptly felt the cold point of her steel. He backed carefully away, Taeauna moving with him so her sword never left its menacing position, until he'd passed the windows and reached the tapestried wall beyond. He did something to the paneling behind the first tapestry that made it shrink back into darkness, leaving a narrow opening that someone thrusting the tapestry aside could enter, to step around the section of paneling.
"Rodrell, bring the wizard and follow us closely," Taeauna commanded. When they'd crossed the room, Tindror silently led the way up a long, very steep secret stair.
The door at its top stood open, so they could step right into a palatial bedchamber, windowless but hung with many lamps, and aglow with sunlight streaming down a spiral metalwork staircase in one back corner. The room was soft underfoot with overlapping furs, and was dominated by a huge round bed where four beautiful women lounged sleepily, clad in alluring scraps of silk or even less, until they sat up to stare at their lord and the three intruders in shock.
"Turn out your... maids," Taeauna ordered the baron. "They can sleep elsewhere this night, and perhaps really sleep for a change."
Tindror flushed angry red, but obeyed silently, pointing at his maids and then down the stairs, and standing over them as they plucked up various robes, found footwear, and hastily departed.
The Aumrarr turned to Rod, pointing at the door the four maids had just vanished through at the head of the secret staircase. "Lock and bar yon door," she commanded, "and share the bed with the mage. I promise you he'll be no trouble after you put him to bed, bind, and gag him."
Rod tried not to stare at her with quite the shock Tindror's playlasses had done, but wasn't sure he was succeeding. "But... where will you—?"
Taeauna gave Rod a look that silenced him in an instant, and then whirled back to the baron, sword up to point at the spiral staircase.
"Get up there," she ordered, "and then toss every last hidden weapon in your bedchamber down here. Then I'll come to your bed. And do all you ask. Try not to scar me too badly."
ROD EVERLAR WAS awakened by the screaming. Shrill, agonized shrieking from overhead that sent him bolt upright in the near-darkness, and wakened the bound wizard beside him into a squirming frenzy of frantic muffled calls through his gag.
Rod was still blinking and trying to gather his wits when Taeauna and the baron, both unclad, burst into view at the top of the spiral staircase, bloody swords in hand. Tindror half-ran and half-fell around the first curve of the stair, fetching up against the rail and turning to face whatever might be following them, and the Aumrarr vaulted over the rail to crash down feet-first on the edge of the bed, tipping it up wildly in a great groaning of wood. Rod and the struggling wizard were hurled into the air, and the bundle of boots and clothing Taeauna was carrying burst apart in all directions.
Taeauna's landing was hard enough to hurl her across the room into a wardrobe; it rocked, boomed against the wall behind it, and flung its doors open in protest, but didn't topple as she caromed off it into a run.
The wizard squalled through his gag as she sprinted right at him, but she merely freed him with two swift slices of her gore-dripping sword and whirled away in search of her boots, hissing at Rod, "Get dressed! Find your sword! We're under attack!"
Tindror joined the hunt for clothes, panting hard and snarling, "They must have emptied the Falconspires of lorn! There must be hundreds out there!"
"There'll be hundreds in here, once they hew through all the furniture," Taeauna panted back at him. "Sorry about your bed!"
The bearded baron shrugged. "Just so long as we both live to see you help me warm the next one." He found his belt and fumbled at the buckle, which started to glow, lifting the darkness they were all groping in to mere dimness. "Can't find my damn boots in all this gloom! Why can't they attack after morning soup, like decent bandits?"
Rod stared at him.
"'Twas a joke, silent man!" Tindror snarled, while hopping on one foot as he struggled, one-handed, to tug on what must be Galathan underwear. Then the baron saw that Rod's stare was fixed on his sword, which was dripping bright blue ichor. Tindror waved it. "Hoy, silent man, haven't you ever seen lorn blood before?"
"N-no," Rod admitted. "We don't put it in our morning soup."
Baron Tindror blinked at his guest, and then roared with sudden laughter.
"Ho, but that's the spirit! That's the flaming backbone, by Galath!"
He whirled suddenly to wag a finger in the half-dressed wizard's face, and said, "Don't let me catch you trying to hurl spells at our backsides, or use them to slink away, either! That motherless rump-licker Murlstag is out there with all his knights, nigh a score of Helms against every one of ours, ringing Wrathgard all around, and lorn by the score are roosting on all our roofs and turrets and battlements! You know as well as I do which Doom is behind this, and if you don't know by now what Dooms do to lesser wizards when they catch them, trust me thus far: you don't want to find out!"
The wizard whimpered, gabbling his words twice before he could say them clearly. "Isn't this the safest place to stay, right here? With the long staircase Baron Murlstag's swords will have to fight their way up."
"It would be," T
indror snarled, "if the lorn hadn't burst in on us up there! When my father's grandsire built Wrathgard, there were no lorn in Galath, none of us had ever seen such a beast. So my bedchamber has eight windows, each as tall as two men—or had; they just smashed them all, coming in at us all at once!"
He lowered his voice into a fierce muttering, and added, "The only reason they're not down here clawing and biting at us right now is that Tay and I pulled my best suit of armor down into the top of the stair after us, and chanted nonsense over it; the lorn think it's enspelled and waiting to do them harm if they so much as touch it. No, we have to get down and go deep, to the cellars where our well is, and the granary and armory around it, where old spells are laced through the stones and no wizard of today, Doom or otherwise, can make those stones walk to thunder into battle against us, or melt to fall on our heads! Come, while we still can!"
By then, Tindror was speaking to three hastily dressed people. He and Taeauna traded looks, she lifted aside the bar across the door, Rod handed her the key to its lock, and they started down the steep, narrow staircase and into the growing din of battle.
Murlstag's men had won past the gates and were already inside the castle.
"Oh, shit," Taeauna whispered, and turned to Rod. "Lord, this is not the ending I hoped for. I am sorry."
Tindror and the wizard both looked at Rod, startled at that "lord."
He kept his eyes on Taeauna, and told her fiercely, "We're not dead yet. You... you have nothing to apologize to me for. I... I'm starting to like this. Even with all the blood and doom."
Her sudden smile made her eyes flame. "Oh, I can give you more of that."
"I don't doubt it," the wizard said suddenly from ahead of them, slowing as they reached the bottom of the staircase and the clash and clang of swords grew suddenly louder. "But what of right now? What should—?"
"Stand aside," Lord Tindror told him brusquely, "and save your spells until I ask for their hurling. 'Tis time to fight! Good old butchery, carving up foes like carcasses for the kitchens!"
