‘The Question Tree …? How do you know I was there?” But then the creature’s animal rage boiled over. “Do you know who you’re dealing with?”
“Do you?” Covington countered, dropping the body at the jackalwere’s hairy, clawed feet. The corpse landed with a heavy and horrible thud, face up, his eyelids seeming to stare at Cunningham. “Do you recognize him?” Pryce held his breath; nearly everything depended on what the jackalwere replied.
The red and black fur-covered face went from the dead man to Pryce. “I don’t need to know him,” he growled, “to devour him!” He took a threatening step forward.
Covington matched him, stepping forward himself, his thumb under the cloak clasp that had been previously covered with the dead man’s arms. “Then do you recognize this?”
The reaction was extraordinary. The jackalwere stood straight up, and every visible hair on his body stood up with him. Immediately all the jackals around Pryce froze in place and arched their backs, their own fur standing on end like quills. They spit like frightened felines.
“Darlington Blade!” Cunningham almost screeched. “Of all the—” he began, but then his words changed into a night-rending howl. The others raised their heads and joined him, filling the dark with an eerie, howling chorus.
“Shut up!” Pryce bellowed. “Shut up, all of you!”
The cries stopped as suddenly as they had begun. Pryce surveyed them carefully. The small jackals were shivering and frightfully thin. Their fur was slick with their own blood, since they had suffered many cuts from hiding in the briar patches. He spun to look into the shocked face of their father.
“Do you want to eat?” he demanded. “Do you want to survive in this land of the hostile, the powerful, and the prepared?”
“Curse you, adventurer …”
“There’ll be time for curses later,” Covington said evenly. “Now it’s time for answers, and then you will eat. There will be plenty of freshly killed meat for you and your pups.”
He saw Cunningham’s conflict in the dance of the jackalwere’s facial muscles. The monster would like nothing better than to tear at the despised flesh that stood before him, for the skin of wizards was said to be the most succulent of all. But the monster knew that the legendary Darlington Blade would make quick work of any attack … and then his offspring would continue to suffer and slowly starve.
“You would give us this meat?” he growled, nodding at the fallen bodies as drool coursed from between his teeth.
“I don’t want to,” Pryce replied honestly, a catch in his voice, then realized Gheevy was still prone on the ground. “Not the living one!” He hung his head in shame. “But the recently killed … meat … yes.” He felt deep, abiding regret, but he had to save himself from these beasts as well as the Council of Elders’ vengeance. A painful trade-off was called for. “If you answer my questions!” he suddenly demanded.
“I do not need to answer your questions!” the jackalwere snarled.
“Answer and you can eat,” Pryce said intently, leaning daringly toward Cunningham. “Don’t answer and you can continue starving to death.”
The jackalwere stood still for a moment, then spun to the ground. Pryce jerked in surprise, but managed to keep from crying out or stepping back. Blade or no Blade, any sign of weakness meant certain death.
When the jackalwere stood again, he was once more the kindly, civilized traveler known as Cunningham. Pryce realized that this humiliation—bartering with a human!—would be easier to accept this way. “Goodness, sir,” he chirped. “What a predicament!”
Pryce ignored Cunningham’s opening gambit … and the sweat that coursed freely down his forehead in the cool night air. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “What could a jackalwere hope to gain by coming to a place where magic reigns, where the great majority of residents could easily defeat a savage such as yourself?”
“A … creature invited me,” he said with shamed tones.
“What creature?” Pryce asked, still careful not to get too close.
“A misshapen creature, the likes of which I had never seen before. It made me promises that were too good to be true … a steady supply of meat … spectacular hunting … the flesh of unearthly wisdom. I should have known better,” he said bitterly.
“This misshapen one offered you the flesh of spellcasters?” Pryce asked incredulously.
“Not in so many words …”
Covington couldn’t afford to dwell on this. The longer he spoke to this creature, the greater the chance that its unreasoning children would attack, and then the beasts would be in for a pleasant surprise. They would discover that the person they thought was the great Darlington Blade was actually a mere messenger from Merrickarta with no magical powers whatsoever. “When were you at the Mark of the Question?”
Cunningham seemed pleased at the change of subject, since he no longer had to talk about his gullibility and humiliation. His sad eyes wavered in recollection. “Early this morning … I believe.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I had been told to meet someone … that he would have food.”
“Who told you?”
“The dust … dust on the wind!” Cunningham raised his head and started a pathetic, accented, off-key howl.
“Stop that!” Pryce demanded, annoyed at the creature’s behavior and the possibility that Gamor helped lure it to the Lallor area. “Did you meet this person?”
“No,” Cunningham said sadly. “He never arrived.” His eyes began to become bloodshot. “Nor did the food …” Covington heard the young jackals behind him start to snarl deep in their throats. He was rapidly running out of time … and questions.
“Did you see anyone … anyone at all?” he asked sharply, hoping to uncover at least some other lead or clue for his trouble.
“Oh, yes,” said Cunningham abjectly. “Oh, yes, there were others by the tree of mystery, but they weren’t for me and my kin.… The wind told me that their meat was not for the likes of ussssss!”
Pryce was losing him. He could see it in Cunningham’s changing face, smell it in the sickly stench of starvation that surrounded him, and feel it in his very bones. “Who was it?” he said quickly. “Who did you see?”
“The little big lady,” Cunningham said in a dangerous singsong voice, his head beginning to tip this way and that. “The great defender of Mystra, with her arrogant airs and tightly coiled muscles. Not much meat on that one, but I’m sure what there is is ssssssucculent.…”
Lymwich, Pryce thought. He’s got to be talking about Berridge Lymwich. But what was she doing there? “Anyone else?” he pressed urgently. “Who else?”
“The great captain of industry!” Cunningham bayed at the sky. “The sailor on the pirate sea! His little chin spike a-quivering and a-quaking, his long lip curls a-shaking and a-shimmying with his pomposssssity. Oh, the meat on him … all the lussssscious meat on him!” The jackals all around Pryce started to bark and yip excitedly.
Fullmer the wine trader, Pryce marveled. The plot was rapidly thickening. “Anyone else?” Covington asked, moving carefully back and off to the side.
“That is all, O mighty Blade!” Cunningham called. “Our emisssssary, and our meal, did not arrive, nor did any unwary sssssoul. My children and my craving called, ssssso I had to go. I had to run, ssssscreaming in my frussssstration and failure!” He threw his head back and cried into the night. “O demons below and gods above, I do hunger! Does not even a creature as wretched as I deserve some measure of pity?”
“Pity, no!” Pryce yelled at him. “Sustenance, yes! At least for now.” He grabbed the still-unconscious halfling’s arms and, with one mighty pull, jerked Gheevy Wotfirr onto his back. “Remember my mercy, jackalwere!”
Then Pryce Covington ran madly into the night, leaving the corpses behind. The sound of slavering beasts diminished behind him as he ran, but it would never again leave his memory.
CHAPTER FIVE
Blade Runner
“What did you do? What did you do?” Gheevy Wotfirr lamented for the third and fourth time as they trudged back to the Lallor Gate.
“Dash it all, Gheevy,” Pryce exclaimed, catching himself using Cunningham’s phrase, “it had to be done! As terrible as it is, they were dead, and we’re still alive. I wish I could do something about the former, but I intend to maintain the latter. It was the only way.”
“But—but—”
“You tell me. What else could I have done?”
They walked, empty-handed, through the dark night. The barrels of ale and mead they had carried out were left at the Mark of the Question in lieu of bodies.
“We could have buried them,” Wotfirr said wearily.
“Where?” countered Pryce, “And for how long?” He was talking fervently as they tramped down the gem-studded road to the Lallor Gate. “You know as well as I do that a freshly dug grave would be child’s play for any wizard or inquisitrix to find. I couldn’t take the chance. It would mean my life.” Pryce could see Wotfirr was still despairing, so he tried another tack. “It was too late to help them, Gheevy. I hate to admit that, but there it is. In order to avenge their deaths, I have to stay alive long enough to do it This was the only way!”
The halfling looked at Covington with begrudging acceptance. “You know, you are probably correct, but, my stars, you can be pretty egotistical.”
Pryce looked at him with a purposely blank expression. “What’s your point?”
Wotfirr laughed in spite of himself, although the sound ended in a wheeze. “You are amazing.”
“Looks as if I have to be,” Pryce said with resignation.
They trudged on for a few moments more, shuffling their feet along the road. Finally Gheevy grunted, “Well, you did save my life, I suppose.…”
“Don’t forget,” Covington replied miserably, “I also put it in danger in the first place.”
“But I was the one who said I knew where the jackal lair might be.”
“And I was the one who dragged you out here in the first place.”
Wotfirr suddenly pulled up short. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you trying to get me to blame you?”
Covington stopped a few feet farther on and turned to face the halfling. “I’ll admit it, Gheevy. I feel guilty. Terribly guilty. I’ve already involved you enough. The going might get even more dangerous from here on, so it’s not fair to take your company and your valuable assistance for granted.” He studied the winemaster’s face but saw no reaction. “Tell you what,” he suggested. “You made me a promise, so I’ll make you one. If I’m caught and found out, for any reason, I will never divulge your part in it.”
Pryce sighed, letting his head and shoulders droop, feeling helpless, persecuted, and alone. “Now let’s get back inside the wall. As soon as we’re inside the city, I’ll go one way, and you can go another. I wouldn’t blame you if you never wished to see me again.”
They walked silently to the gate, where the big eye blinked and peered at them intently. Covington fought the urge to do a dance routine for Berridge Lymwich’s benefit. Instead, he silently marched past the eye, then purposefully turned to the right and kept going.
Gheevy Wotfirr stood in the opening. His body leaned a little toward the left. But then his right leg moved, and he followed Pryce into the east side of the city.
Covington looked back at his new friend and found himself smiling with relief.
The halfling shrugged. “I couldn’t very well go west,” he said. “I live on this side of the city.” But then he smiled and said, “Frankly, I wouldn’t miss seeing what happens next for all the precious metal in Durpar.”
Pryce shook his head in amazement and grinned at the halfling. “What happens next, my dear Gheevy, is that we both get a good night’s sleep so we can follow up on the jackalwere’s clues in the morning.”
“Shall I meet you at your new place?” Wotfirr asked eagerly.
Pryce shook his head. “You have your job to consider. I’ll come to Schreders At Your Service and let you know what the plan is. All right?”
The halfling nodded, and the two parted company. Within ten paces, Covington already missed the little fellow’s company. It was amazing, he reflected, how important it was to have another person around to bounce ideas off, show another point of view, and just generally provide a balance. Without Gheevy he had no one in the city he could be completely honest with. He had always considered himself independent and self-sufficient, and he was surprised to realize what a burden that was getting to be.
He was also surprised to find out how tired he was. By the time he reached the cul-de-sac, his legs felt as if they were filled with sand. He turned into the tree trunk entrance, his eyes half-closing with weariness.
Once more the cloak clasp began to glow, and when he raised his eyelids, the inside door was swinging open. Pryce stepped inside the consummately comfortable dwelling, basking in the gentle radiance of a soft indoor night-light. He sighed at the beauty and easy livability of this place. Somehow, even if the inquisitrix came for him at sunrise with proof of his duplicity, it all seemed worthwhile for one night in the kind of dwelling he had always dreamed about.
Though his mind was inspired by the dwelling’s comfort, his body was still exhausted. His legs dragged him across the large, circular area formed by the tree trunk toward a huge branch opening some forty feet away. He could just barely make out the edge of a wide, rectangular bed around the corner of a wall, and his feet moved in that direction.
The sleeping quarters were, in their own way, as impressive as the library and living room. Everything helped create a feeling of drowsy invitation. The grain of the wooden walls was polished to a high luster, highlighting a myriad of whorled patterns he found very attractive. The brown of the wall rose to the black of the cone-shaped ceiling, where tiny flecks of white, silver, and gold twinkled like the night sky. Pryce thought he felt a cooling breeze, but that might have been his imagination playing tricks on him.
The bed itself looked warm and inviting, despite the mussed bed linens, and it blended with the environment perfectly The rumpled bedcovers were deep purple and rounded, as if cloudlike pillows awaited beneath them. A sleepy smile spread across Covington’s face, and his eyelids lowered to half-mast as he headed for the bed and some much-needed rest.
He lay down beside a large, surprisingly firm cushion. Covington rolled up against it, wrapping his arms around it and pulling it toward him. Not surprisingly, it was soft to his touch. To his surprise, however, it also smelled wonderful—musky, fleshy, and sweet, like the most beautiful woman he had ever known. If Geerling Ambersong slept in this enchanting bed every night, it was remarkable he ever got up.
In fact, Pryce thought, snuggling his head against the soft shape of the pillow, the incredible feeling reminded him of something. What was it again? He felt his consciousness begin to slip. He was already sinking into sleep when his subconscious shook his brain.
Pryce’s eyes snapped open. His grip on the pillow spasmed. Then the bed exploded.
Well, the bed didn’t actually explode, but it might as well have. The bedclothes erupted off the mattress, and something made a horrible sound. It started as a squeal, then mutated into an angry shriek, then ended in a piercing scream.
Pryce wasn’t so much thrown off as he threw himself off, trying desperately to escape from whatever was in the bed. He soared straight up some three and a half feet, his legs kicking wildly. Then he dived four feet to the side, sliding along the floor.
He hit the wall, standing, where he watched, wide-eyed, as something took shape over the bed. At first it looked like a fuzzy ball of mutating movement. Then limbs started to flail out, and hair spun in the air like striking snakes. Just as it seemed the misshapen creature would crash back down to the bed, strong arms and shapely legs appeared. Pryce saw that they were attached to a pleasantly rounded torso. No less amazing was the face that emerged from the wildly whipping hair … a face he rec
ognized from somewhere.…
They screamed each other’s names at the same time, then dived in different directions.
Pryce Covington tried to leap out of the bedroom altogether while Dearlyn Ambersong grabbed a seven-foot-long staff, with red horsehair cascading off the top. She jerked it up from where it leaned against the wall beside the bed, planting the base directly across Pryce’s solar plexus.
Covington woofed in response, his arms and legs going straight out. He flew backward, then struck the far right corner of the bed with his shoulders. He rolled backward and landed on his knees, allowing the momentum to keep him sliding away. Dearlyn, however, was already running across the mattress, spinning the pole so that the horsehair flew wide, revealing all manner of gardening implements knotted to the top by thin leather thongs.
“Garden tools?” Pryce marveled, but there was no time to consider the incongruity of their placement as she expertly thrust the staff forward. A garden trowel barely missed his nose. He stopped sliding and jerked his head back. His skull struck the sloping wall with a nasty thunk, but she continued to spin the staff wildly. Some small shears nearly pruned his neck.
Pryce forced the bottom of his legs, from the knees down, to straighten. He sat on the floor, letting his rear slide while his head kept going back. Suddenly he was lying on the floor by the bed, watching her spin the red horsehair, a small cultivator attempting to puncture both his corneas at the same time.
Pryce grabbed the bedclothes with his right hand and pulled with all his might. Not only did the maneuver propel him toward the bed, but it also pulled the comforter out from under Dearlyn’s feet The cultivator and horsehair flew up, and she started to plummet down with a loud squeal.
Pryce somersaulted backward onto his feet just in time to see Dearlyn fall on the bed in a satisfying tangle of arms, legs, and garden tools. Covington found himself shaking, but also chuckling from a combination of tension and relief. Dearlyn Ambersong was extremely proficient with her staff. The unusual implement may have made her a great gardener, but it wasn’t bad as a weapon either. She could clearly use it to parry any weed she targeted, whether vegetable or human.
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