Greyhawk - [Quag Keep 02] - Return to Quag Keep

by Andre Norton, Jean Rabe (v1. 0) (epub)

  “The Two Towers, Return of the King. ... I don’t hear . . . wait.”

  Then he did hear something. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, but it was out of place. The sound of fabric rustling, perhaps. The shushing sound that pantlegs make when they are rubbing together. Then a new sound intruded, a gentle “thwup,” followed by another and another, followed by a scream.

  “Arrows!” the cheesemaker’s guard hollered. “Everyone awake! Awake! We’re being attacked!”

  Shouts instantly filled the air, including Milo’s. He yelled for

  Zechial to stay in the wagon, called out the names of the guards he knew. He dropped to a crouch and drew his sword, cast his head back and forth looking for the bowmen and seeing vague shapes in the mist, east of the pond, then seeing one of the Glothorio priests on the ground with two arrows protruding from his chest.

  “Seven of them,” Milo called. "Seven that 1 can make out in that mist. Can’t clearly see anything with all this fog.”

  But obviously the enemy bowmen could see. More arrows rained down on the caravan, and another Glothorio priest fell. The arrows were concentrated on the priests’ wagon, and Milo cautiously started in that direction. He wanted to help the priests, but not become a pincushion in the process.

  "Have we any bows?” Milo risked in a hushed voice. "We can return their volley.” He didn’t want the enemy to know that information, but he wanted to know. He'd not taken stock of the caravan’s weapons, and he cursed himself for being so complacent and foolish, of thinking too much about Wisconsin at the time. No one used arrows against the undead —but that would have been folly. He only knew that all the guardsmen carried swords or flails. He could shoot a bow, but he’d only seen Ingrge with one.

  "No,” came a quick reply. "The elf was our bowman. Our only bowman.”

  Milo grimaced. He knew he should have objected when Ingrge announced he was leaving with Yevele and the thief, should have said the caravan needed to keep its scout, keep the party together.

  “I’ve a crossbow.” This came from the shoemaker’s guard. He was a wagon away from Milo and was aiming it into the fog. “Arlo does, too. He’s on the other side.” A moment more and he was firing, but there was no sound of impact. He busied himself with reloading another bolt.

  Arrows “thwupped” from behind Milo, some striking caravan wagons, others—by the soft sound of impact — finding their marks in bodies. He wondered who was hit, but didn’t waste the time trying to find out.

  Two wagons to Milo’s left, the three remaining Glothorio priests were crouched over the bodies of their brethren. The tallest, the one with the three new tattoos, mouthed a fleeting prayer then turned his attention to the figures in the log. The priest’s voice rose, and Milo could make out some of the words interspersed in a string of archaic syllables. Bright. Clear. Light.

  Suddenly the two tattoos rose from the priest’s head and floated, shimmering, into the fog. At the same time another volley of arrows came from all around the caravan. The bowmen had the merchant wagons surrounded, some of the brigands obviously having slipped into Hart and firing from the street.

  How could they see through the mist? To fire so accurately? "Have to do something,” Milo said. “Can’t just stand here.” Then he edged forward. "Good thing Naile’s in his feather bed. He might live out the day.” He slipped right and left, avoiding running in a straight line and making an easy target, crouching every few steps. Within moments the mist swirled around him, feeling cold and damp, the tendrils wrapping around his legs and trying to hold him in place.

  “Magic.” Milo uttered the word as a curse. “The mist is a wizard thing.”

  A shadow loomed to his right, and he instinctively swung at it, connecting. Blood arced through the mist and hit Milo in the face. His target howled and drew his own blade, and Milo wiped at his eyes with his free hand.

  “So you can bleed, and so you re men. You’re not part of the fog or some spell. And since you bleed, you can die.”

  He kept swinging and moving, tugging against the cool tendrils that were wrapping tighter and tighter, some snaking up to grab at his arms, and one was twisting around the blade and trying to tug it down. They were slowing him, but not stopping him. And he managed to swing on the closest archer again, dropping the man this time and cutting through foggy tendrils in the process.

  “They’re just men!” Milo hollered to the caravan.

  Then suddenly the fog was thinning, and Milo could see his foes easier. The Glothorio priest — he was thankfully responsible for this clearing air, Milo realized. His tattoos and spells, they were chasing away this foul foggy magic. For the second time, the priests might save the caravan.

  Milo spotted one of the archers taking aim and drawing back on the bowstring. He couldn’t see who the archer was aiming at but it didn’t matter. Milo surged against the weakened misty tendrils, breaking free and racing across ground that was slick with the mist. He nearly lost his balance, but he stayed on his feet, bringing his sword up and then down on the archer’s arm, cutting through the bone and lopping the man’s hand off. The bow fell to the ground and Mlo continued his attack, driving his blade into the man’s chest, tugging it free and continuing on to the next archer.

  More arrows were fired; Milo could hear the “thwup" of bow strings and a strangled cry from someone in the caravan. It was a high-pitched voice, so Milo guessed one of the merchants had been hit. There were shouts from the guards, who were better organizing themselves and rushing into the fading mist, where up close they might not fall prey to the arrows. There were louder “thwups” coming from the caravan, and Milo guessed these were from the crossbows. One bolt had obviously found its mark, as an archer a few yards away grabbed his stomach and crumpled.

  Yevele and Ingrge should be here, he thought. The battlemaid would be in her element, and the elf could have taken some of these men down with his arrows. Milo charged another man, who had dropped his bow and drawn a heavy, curved-bladed sword. The weapons clanged against each other.

  Milo could see this man better, the mist ephemeral now and continuing to fade. He was dressed in a tight-fitting charcoal tunic and pale gray leggings, no baggy fabric to hinder him, and likely designed to blend in with the fog. He was young, Milo guessed him to be no more than twenty, with a scar running down the left side of a heart-shaped face.

  They locked eyes and began circling, the man feinting with his sword and Milo parrying. The dance was not unlike his sparring with Naile, but no one pulled punches now.

  “Why are you after us?” Milo asked.

  His foe’s eyes flashed, and he sneered, showing a line of uneven yellow teeth.

  ‘Why?’’ Milo shouted.

  “Orders.’’ Then he stepped back and drove his blade forward.

  Milo leapt to the side just in time. The heavy blade skidded off his chainmail shirt, slicing a few links and piercing his cloak. The curved sword tangled there for an instant, Milo stepped in close and shoved his sword through the man’s chest.

  "Damn your orders,” Milo hissed, as he pulled his sword free, stepped over the man, and moved onto another.

  They appeared to be all dressed in dark, tight-fitting clothes. Some had coal-dust smeared on their faces, and their hair was either short or pulled back tight. And though most of them were young, a few little more than boys, there were a couple of older men in the mix. Milo noticed that these were cagier and obviously more experienced, keeping behind the younger men and relying on their bows. Three dozen all total, he guessed, on this side of the caravan. He wondered if there were a similar number on the other side. Perhaps these were the bandits Ludlow Jade had worried about. But the merchant had said the bandits always struck on the road, between villages. These men were not so hard to kill as the undead army, but they were more formidable because of their weapons, and therefore far more of a threat.

  Another volley was loosened.

  And then another.

  More cries from the direction of t
he caravan . . . Someone shouted that Zechial was hit . . . Milo cut down a fourth man and was moving toward one of the older archers. Perhaps the man had some rank among them, and slaying him could disrupt the morale of those around him, Milo thought. Was Zechial badly hurt?

  “Surrender!” the cry was booming and husky and cut through the air.

  “Never,” Milo said, as he set his sights on one of the older archers.

  The mist was gone now, and Milo took a quick glance at the field. Only eight enemy archers were down, and most of those due to him.

  Half of the foes remaining still relied on their bows, the rest had swords and daggers, one a barbed whip that cracked angrily. Perched on a rock on the far side of the pond was a familiar figure. Dressed all in black, hood pulled back showing his tattooed head, Fisk Lockwood smiled cruelly.

  “Surrender! ” Fisk hollered again. "Surrender now or die!”

  Milo snarled and shot toward his intended target, raised his sword and felt as if he’d been punched hard in the stomach when he heard: “We surrender! Stop your attack! We yield! ”

  “You heard him," the older enemy archer said to Milo. “Lower your sword, or they’ll cut down the rest of your caravan. The blood will be on your hands.”

  Milo took a step back, kept his sword raised, and looked toward the caravan. The scene sickened him. Only three guards were on their feet on this side of the wagons. He counted seven guards down to arrows, and three of the Glothorio priests. He saw Zechial slumped against the wheel of the largest wagon, an arrow protruding from his throat. Ludlow Jade stood over his son.

  “We surrender!” Ludlow Jade repeated. “Damn you, we yield!” Milo looked between the merchant and the older archer, tightened his grip on his sword, then shook his head and lowered it.

  "Drop the blade,” the archer said. “Now.”

  Milo resisted for a moment, listening to thuds the guards and merchants’ weapons made hitting the ground. Then he closed his eyes and released his grip on the sword. The archer slung the bow over his back and came to Milo, undoing the swordbelt, taking the dagger. "Move. Over to those wagons you’ve been guarding. Move! ”

  The brigands herded the merchants and surviving guards like sheep, directing them to the north bank of the pond and stripping them of all their armor and weapons. One of the brigands ripped off Milo’s shirt, to make sure he had no concealed daggers. A row of archers kept their bows trained toward the town to keep at bay the nosy citizens poking their heads around buildings. One fired an arrow at a miner’s feet as a warning.

  A half-dozen brigands watched the merchants and guards, swords and bows ready if one of them should move. Fisk paced back and forth in front of the captured assembly, twirling a dagger as he went, stopping in front of a sobbing Ludlow Jade. He flipped the dagger around and poked the merchant in the stomach with the pommel. “Jade.”

  The merchant met Fisk’s gaze, reddened eyes narrowing.

  “Those guards I arranged for your wagons, fat man. I’ll take them off your pudgy hands. ”

  To the west of the pond, a handful of Fisk’s men started looting the wagons. The merchants whispered protests, which brought a crooked smile to Fisk’s face. The shoemaker’s wagon was faring the worst at the moment, as tools and sheets of leather were tossed out the back. Shoes and boots for women and children joined the mess, but men’s boots were gathered, put in canvas sacks the brigands had brought, and deposited on the ground. The sound of baked clay shattering came from the potter’s wagon.

  “Easy in there!” one of the brigands called. “The small pots, pad them and take them. Mugs, too."

  “Fisk, I don’t understand,” Ludlow Jade said. “You’re with the bandits? And my son. You killed my son.”

  “An unfortunate incident,” Fisk said smoothly. “My condolences.” He made a show of shaking his head, but there was no genuine sadness in the gesture.

  “Why? You’re a priest? Three of your own were killed. We follow the Coin Gatherer. How? Why?”

  “Why? Because you have something I want, fat man. Your guards. I want two of them. But I see only one.” Fisk gestured to Milo, who was to Ludlow Jade’s right.

  “Hearth glow wine!” Came a shout from Ludlow Jade’s largest wagon. A brigand poked his head out the back and waved to get the attention of one of the older archers. “He’s got a false floor in this one. There’s bottles and bottles of hearth glow wine. A fortune.”

  Whoops went up from the brigands, and Fisk’s eyes took on a shine.

  Milo hadn’t a clue why this find seemed important to the brigands, or what hearth glow wine was. But he heard a few of the merchants whisper:

  “He deals in forbidden goods!”

  “He brings this down upon us.”

  "No wonder he cares not how his rugs sell. Hearth glow wine is the Dead God’s folly.”

  "Dwarven wine. Illegal goods, he deals in.”

  "This is why the bandits came!”

  The brigands concentrated on Ludlow Jade’s wagons now, finding nothing else interesting, save his considerable coin box.

  "We’ll take these wagons,” one of the older brigands instructed. He pointed to the wagon where they’d discovered the hearth glow wine, and the one belonging to the Glothorio priests.

  Must have found a lot of coins in the priests’ wagon, Milo thought. Fisk seemed uninterested in the loot. He poked Ludlow Jade again. “I see only one of your guards. Where is the other?”

  The merchant gestured with his head to the two men standing on his left, his longtime employees, Sam and Willum.

  “Not those guards,” he hissed. “The war-woman and the elf, I know they left your caravan. But the big man. I want him and that one,” he gestured to Milo. “The guards I arranged for you to hire.” Ludlow Jade was pale and trembling, and Milo guessed he was suffering from shock.

  "Leave Jade alone,” Milo tried. "Take the wine and leave us all alone.”

  Fisk spun the dagger around and touched its point to Ludlow Jade’s stomach. “Where, fat man? That other guard. And tell me . . . where did the woman and the elf go, and the little thief?”

  “Not here.” The merchant glanced toward his wagons, his gaze resting on his son’s body. "The woman and the elf left days ago. They slipped away in the night. I don’t know where they went. That’s the truth, priedt. ”

  Fisk spit in the merchant’s face. "And the big man?”

  "He left with them,” Milo cut in.

  Ludlow Jade did not contest the statement.

  Fisk turned his attention to Milo now, taking a step back to stay just out of reach of the long, muscular arms. “So you must know where they went, your friends. Yevele, with fire in her eyes. She’s always a woman to me. Tell me where I can find your friends.”

  “Companions,” Milo corrected. He shook his head. “I've no idea — ”

  Fisk gestured, and one of the brigands who’d been watching the captives stepped forward and rammed his sword straight into the shoemaker’s heart.

  “No!” Milo made a move forward, but Fisk was fast, bringing his leg up and kicking Milo in the stomach, forcing him back into the potter. Fisk was slight, but there was considerable power in his kick.

  “Try something once more, and I’ll have the fat man killed next. I’ll kill them all, one by one, if I have to.”

  When Fisk moved on to the Glothorio priests, the potter whispered to Milo: “You realize they’re going to kill us all no matter what. No witnesses. Probably kill the townsfolk watching. That hearth glow wine has sealed our fate.”

  “Not the wine,” Milo whispered. “Me. My companions and me.” Ludlow nudged Milo. “Why does he want you? What have you brought upon us?”

  “I don’t know,” was all Milo could manage. “I truly do not know.” Fisk ordered the two surviving Glothorio priests bound and gagged, “so they cannot use their vile magic.”

  “I believe Teege is right,” Ludlow Jade said of the potter. “I believe they will kill us all.”

  “You hired
me as a guard, let’s see if I can do something to protect you.” Milo stepped forward. “Fisk!”

  The bald man whirled, black cloak whipping around. He gestured to the cheesemaker, ordering his death next.

  “No! Leave him be. I’m not trying anything. I want to talk.”

  Fisk glared at Milo from a few yards away. “So talk. I can hear you. ” Another gesture, and an archer aimed an arrow at Milo.

  “What do you want me for? I’ve done nothing to you.”

  Fisk stood motionless and turned his head slightly. It was as if he was listening to someone, but no one near him was talking.

  There was the sound of more pottery breaking, and things were being carried out of wagons and placed in the two wagons the brigands were taking. The thieves had an eye for what was valuable, taking first the most expensive of the merchants’ goods, then adding more things if there was room. The best horses were being hitched to those wagons. The rest of the horses were slapped on the rumps and were sent running.

  “They will kill us,” the potter repeated. He started mumbling a prayer.

  “What do you want with me?” Milo repeated.

  “Not just you,” Fisk finally returned. “I told you, I want the big man, the elf, and the war-woman, too. The thief. I arranged for you to be with this caravan, so I could find and slay the lot of you . . . together.”

  “Why?”

  Fisk stiffly walked toward Milo and, oddly, started singing:

  Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side,

  The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide.

  “What? Why!” Milo shouted. “Why do you want me?”

  Fisk scowled to have his song interrupted. “Not your concern.”

  “Not my — ”

  Over the breaking pottery and the sounds of men unloading and reloading wagons, there was a thundering, followed by a gurgled cry.

  SIXTEEN

  Naile's Stand

  Naile woke later than he’d intended. He’d drawn the shades, and so no light spilled into his warm and comfortable room. Reluctantly throwing back the quilt, he extracted himself from the bed. His back ached a little, from sleeping so long in the same position. But it was a welcome pain. He suspected he hadn’t moved an inch since laying down last night. Stretching and working a kink out of his neck, he frowned at the thought of hardtack and beans for breakfast. He hadn’t money for breakfast at the inn.