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

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

  Out of the corner of his eye, Berthold saw her, fighting magnificently against the black mass. She shamed him and inspired him, and he held the little breath he sucked in, scraping at the rats on him, copying her and slamming himself against the cavern wall again and again until the rats dropped off and he could barely stand.

  “Won’t die here,” he admonished himself. He started throwing his daggers, aiming at the largest rats that he could see. Most of the rats were the size he'd expect to find in a high school biology class, but there were some that he was certain could eat his neighbor's prized Chihuahua. He managed to hit two of the big ones with his first two throws, then he clamped his teeth together when their death shrieks cut through the wall of chittering sound.

  “Not natural," he said, though he suspected Yevele couldn’t hear him over the rats. “Something . . . someone . . . set them on us.” Not any of the trolls upstairs. The two trolls Yevele had killed didn't seem smart enough to direct anything. He wanted to puzzle it out, but he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted, not now that he was gaining a measure of an upper hand. His hands and face stung from where he ’d been bit, and his eyes were watering fiercely from the strong smells. He blinked to clear them and stomped faster, threw more daggers, then crouched and started stabbing at the smaller ones on the floor.

  ‘‘Winning,’’ he announced, finding his strength returning through sheer force of will. “At least I think we re winning. ”

  ‘No more coming down the tunnel,” Yevele announced. “But there’s so many left.” Then she let out a piercing war cry and leapt away from the wall, driving her heels into the rats scurrying across the floor, burning them with her torch, waving the blade above her head until it whistled.

  Berthold continued to smash the ones nearest him, and to hurl daggers at large ones deep in the pack. At the same time, he watched her. She was vicious and powerful, raging and self-assured, driven and unstoppable, graceful and beautiful. Yevele was the sum of all of those things and more, and she belonged in this world, Berthold knew. She was alive here, she’d said it herself. More alive than she could possibly be in the halls of a military museum. This warrior the curator had become suited her. They’d make it through this chamber, and the next and the next, he was certain. Because of her. They’d find the wizard — if he was here to be found — because this persona that had been thrust upon her when she touched that miniature didn’t know how to quit.

  And if they found a way to get home, Berthold thought he might have to convince her not to take it.

  "Winning!” he yelled again, this time with much more voice and enthusiasm. Indeed, they clearly were. Rats still streamed toward them from the darkest part of the chamber, but they were coming in fewer numbers now. There were still some overly large ones, of the size one might find in a New York City alley, but they were staying back. And then suddenly they were changing.

  "Omigod,” Berthold breathed.

  A dozen of the largest rats reared back on their haunches, their eyes glowing dully yellow and their fangs bared. Snapping and popping sounds were heard amid the chittering, these coming as the rats grew larger, their limbs elongating and turning into human arms and legs. Berthold stared slack-jawed at the closest one. Three feet tall and growing still, its snout was receding into an all-too-human looking face, and its ears were shrinking against its head, all of its fur melting away to be replaced by the pale flesh and raggedy clothes of a beggar.

  Half of the large rats had completely transformed into men, and somehow their claws had turned into curvy-bladed daggers. They were an ugly lot, with warts and scars, matted hair and teeth that remained rodent-like. Their lips constantly worked, like their rat-brothers’, and their shoulders were hunched and their backs curved. The others had not completely shifted their forms, adopting bodies that were half-man, half-rat. Some kept their rat paws and sported long wicked-looking claws. Others had arms and daggers, but their rear legs remained muscular and hairy, and their snouts long and sprouting whiskers. Their hair and fur were a mix of colors now, mostly black. But some were dark brown, and the older ones among them displayed a smattering of gray.

  “Were-rats!” Again Berthold realized he again had announced something unnecessary.

  "Yes, they are," Yevele returned. She’d managed to rout a swarm of normal rats and was charging toward the closest aberration. “Let’s pray they’re like the trolls! ”

  What? Berthold mouthed.

  “Easier to kill than the ones in the game.”

  He continued to stamp the rats nearest him. At the same time, he hurled a dagger at one of the half-rat, half-man things. Berthold gasped when the creature caught the dagger by the pommel and hurled it back. The thief ducked just in time, and the dagger hit the stone behind him.

  “They bleed!” Yevele hollered.

  Berthold understood. In the game you had to have special weapons to battle were-kind, blades that had been dipped in silver under the light of a lull moon, or ones crafted by wizards and en-spelled to slay abominations. So you didn’t have to burn trolls here, and you didn’t need anything special to slay a were-beast. Yevele dropped the one in front of her and went to the next, sword singing through the air and slicing the rat-head off one of the creatures.

  Berthold scared away the small rats around his feet by practically dancing over the top of them. Closing the distance to a man who was as small as himself, Berthold threw a dagger, then pulled the last one from a sheath on his leg, crouched and waited. The man snarled and chittered, and his lips curled up showing brown and yellow jagged teeth. Spittle flew from his mouth as he lunged.

  Feinting to his right, Berthold slashed with the dagger as the were-rat hurtled past. He cut the creature deep on the side, a rib bone gleaming dully in the torchlight. The were-rat didn’t cry out, but Berthold could tell the thing was hurting. It held its arm against its side as it came around again, this time it was swiping at him with a dagger. It was like a dance, the thief reckoned, one darting in, the other spinning away. But the thief was the better dance partner, more nimble and not bleeding from a deep wound. He would have liked to fatigue the creature, continuing the dance until he easily had the upper hand. But there were too many were-rats lor that luxury.

  Yevele slew another one as Berthold lashed out with a roundhouse kick that nailed the were-rat in the stomach. The impact sent the creature back a few feet, Berthold following and kicking again, this time tripping the were-rat and dropping him. Without pause, the thief jabbed his dagger in the were-rat’s stomach, then jabbed him in the neck. It threw back its head and shrieked, its arms flailing uselessly and dropping its own dagger, which Berthold was quick to claim.

  He glanced back at the battlemaid and saw her shear the arm off the next one she faced. But it didn’t deter the wounded were-rat. Seemingly oblivious to the pain and the blood that pumped from its shoulder, it lunged at her, dagger leading in its remaining hand. She stepped aside and then came up behind it. With one swing aimed hard at its waist, she cut the creature in two, then paused to assess the chamber.

  She’d killed four of them and was spattered with their blood. Eight remained, two of them squaring off against Berthold now, four of them advancing on her, one of those running. A pair held back and watched. She tightened the grip on her sword and decided to let them come to her; no use charging toward them and putting more distance between her and the thief.

  “Stick together,” she said. “Berthold, work toward me!"

  The two watching were preoccupied now, one directing what was left of the carpet of rats to stop their flight and again swarm toward her. The other’s mouth was moving, but with the squeaking of the rats and the pounding of her heart, she couldn’t hear what he was saying. He turned his head, looking behind him and talking to someone behind him. Then she swore she could hear music, like someone was singing slightly off-key.

  "Stick together? Stick together, woman? Die together!” It was the first time one of the were-rats spoke. He was the tallest of t
he lot, at roughly five and a half feet, with a shaved head and tiny eyes and teeth. "Die woman!”

  "Not by you. And not today.” Yevele lurched forward, the tip of her sword aimed at his heart. But he anticipated her move and ducked. Had Yevele followed through, she would have missed him. But she slipped in a pool of blood and fell, her sword slicing down as she went and cutting him from throat to waist. He crumpled on top of her, and she pushed him off, getting to her knees just as his three fellows reached her.

  One was young, in his teens, she guessed, his human face so smooth, with no hint of wrinkles around his hard eyes. She brought her blade up to parry his dagger, then she jammed the torch against his knee. The instant he recoiled, she slashed the abdomen of the were-rat to her left and used the torch like a club on the leg of the one to her right. She swung it so hard against him that the bone and the torch both broke. Its fire continued to burn though, igniting the fur of the rats swarming around her.

  "Yevele?”

  “I’m all right,” she returned, risking a glance around the were-rat with the broken leg. “You?”

  "Great. Just great.” Berthold was working toward her, tiny step by tiny step. Small and agile, he devoted most of his energy to crouching, turning, and jumping to avoid his opponents’ daggers and claws. He looked a little comical, but his moves were effective. “But I think I’d rather fight one of those trolls. Bigger, but they don’t smell near so bad.”

  “I agree, Berthold. The trolls — ” She rammed her sword up to the hilt in the chest of the young were-rat, almost sorry to kill someone of so few years. “Singing. I do hear singing.”

  She stomped on the small rats squirming around her feet, and with her free hand plucked one that had managed to climb up to her waist.

  Down in the garden where the red roses grow Oh my I long to go

  Pluck me like a flower, cuddle me an hour Lovie let me learn that Red Rose Rag.

  “Berthold, do you hear that?” Yevele was trying to listen, while at the same time fight the two were-rats that were stabbing at her. So far her chainmail shirt had protected her, but they’d sliced up her leggings and cut her in several places. Now they were trying to come at her from opposite sides. “None of that,” she hissed, raising her sword and spinning behind her, slicing the head off one. "Only one left.” Plus the two that had hung back in the shadows. It looked like the one had given up directing the rats, which she and Berthold were continuing to stomp on. The fellow in front of her was losing his confidence and was working to keep away from her swinging sword. He started chittering and shrinking.

  “A rat! Run like the rat you are!” she hollered. Indeed he was doing just that, turning into a plump, big city alley-sized rat and racing toward the shadows. “Run, you slimy. ...”

  “Yevele! Listen, there is music. You’re right. Someone is singing. And it’s nothing medieval. Almost familiar.”

  Red leaves are falling in a rosy romance Bees hum, come, now’s your chance;

  Don’t go huntin’ possums, mingle with the blossoms In that flowery, bowery dance.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Fisk's Dance

  "Where’s the music coming from?” Yevele peered into the shadows, where the two cagey were-rats still stood. It seemed as if someone else was standing behind them, but the shadows were thick, and so she couldn’t be certain. The one who’d run from her, was the third shape his? Had he turned back into a man? No, she decided a heartbeat later. The form was wrong. A little too tall, shoulders straight, and a little too thin. Maybe it was nothing, just her imagination.

  She decided not to worry about it, and to instead tackle the two Bertrum hadn’t yet managed to slay. But she hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps toward the thief when that third figure came forward, just so the edge of the torchlight could touch him.

  “Fisk?" For an instant she was almost happy to see him, though she was puzzled why he would be here. Then she saw that smile. It was evil, matching the dark glimmer in his eyes. A shiver raced down her spine as he continued to sing.

  Pick a pinky petal for your papa’s pride.

  Beg a burning blossom for your budding bride.

  Woo me with that wonderful wiggle wag

  Certainly not a medieval song, she thought, but she couldn’t place it. And certainly he was not the man she thought he was, not the helpful fellow who’d told her where to find Naile and Milo in the city jail and who helped them find work with Ludlow Jade and the caravan. An evil man.

  “What are you doing here, Fisk?” A look to Berthold told her the thief was holding his own and had managed to wound one of his foes.

  Fisk’s pale face and hands looked disembodied, standing out so starkly against the shadows and his black clothes. There weren’t any tattoos on his head, and so she suspected he was not a Glothorio priest at all. What was he? A good man wouldn’t masquerade as a priest. How many people had he duped?

  "What have you done to us, Fisk?’’

  He reached into the folds of his robe and drew a wavy-bladed dagger in his left hand and a short sword in his right. Both dripped a gray-green ooze that Yevele instinctively knew was poison.

  “What are you doing here?” she repeated.

  “Ah, sweet Yevele, you are always a woman to me.”

  She frowned, not understanding what he meant now.

  “I suspect you could do worse than throw shadows at me, but perhaps you could wound me even with your eyes. The great poet William Joel penned words similar to that. They apply to you, don’t you think?”

  “Fisk! What’s going on?”

  “I’m here to kill you, sweet Yevele. You and Berthold, the elf when I find him. Is he with you, the elf? Or did you lose him somewhere in the woods?” He searched her eyes, looking for a hint. “So you won’t let your expression betray you, sweet Yevele. A fine companion you are, not giving up your friends." He crouched, ready for her approach, but she stopped a few yards short of him, obviously wanting to lure him away from the two were-rats.

  "I killed your friend Wymarc, sweet Yevele.” His voice was flat and showed no emotion. “Pity to silence such a singularly beautiful voice. But he taught me a few songs before I let him bleed out in the alley. Would you like to hear my rendition of the boy and the pipes? And 1 will kill Milo and . . . oh, I’ve forgotten the name of the hulking mountain. They still have their bracelets, and they are somewhere below.”

  “Why?” she demanded hoarsely. “We’ve done nothing to you, Fisk. I thought you were helping us!”

  “I am being helpful.” He smiled, as one offering encouragement. "I helped you out of the city, so it would be easier to fulfil my contract.” “The undead! They were your doing?”

  He bowed theatrically. “And the bandits. But you and Berthold and the elf had already left the caravan, so you knew nothing of my carefully planned bandit raid. It was suitably bloody, but unfulfilling. You left Milo and the hulking man at my mercy. And you managed to break your bracelets.” He made a tsk-tsking sound and waved the short sword scoldingly. “And without the bracelets, it was much more difficult to find you.’’

  “So how did you find us?” Berthold shouted to Fisk. The thief finally dropped the wounded were-rat, and now faced only one.

  Fisk glanced to the thief. “By accident, curious Berthold. I came here to speak with my Master, who waits below. And by chance I heard you and Yevele traipsing through this maze, discussing some far-off realm. Canberra? I think that’s what you called the place. Is that on the other side of the Windhold Mountains? Or is it just beyond the Northern Wastes?”

  Yevele spit at him as he moved closer and closer. Fisk was no longer paying any attention to the thief. “I don’t know what your game is, Fisk. But I’ll not play!”

  Something dark flashed in Fisk’s eyes and the flesh of his face rippled. Yevele stared as hair as fair and fine as a baby’s started sprouting on his cheeks and chin, flowing like water up to cover his bald head and down his neck. She rushed forward, drew her sword back over her should
er, and brought it down hard at an angle, expecting to cleave through Fisk’s neck. Instead, the blade whistled through the dank air. He'd spun around and came at her from her left side, wavy-bladed dagger slicing through several links of her chainmail shirt. He made a tsk-tsking sound again, as if he was scolding himself lor not drawing blood, then he leapt back just in time. Yevele had turned, bringing her sword around and slicing through the air where Fisk had stood.

  “Quite the warrior you are, sweet Yevele. You almost scare me.” He continued to change, his nose elongating into a rat snout, wiry whiskers appearing. His eyes became shiny like oil, no white showing. The baby-fine hair was turning just as black, thickening until no trace of skin could be seen. His nose quivered.

  Yevele cursed herself for being caught up in his transformation. “Vile little man!’’ She dug the nails of her free hand into her palm, the pain helping her concentrate. She stepped in and slashed at Fisk, cutting through his robes and tangling the blade in the fabric lor a moment before yanking it free.

  Then the robes fell from him, as his body seemed to shrink. He was a foot shorter than Fisk, the man, had been, and yet he retained a vaguely man-like form, human arms and legs that were covered with fur, human hands with long curving nails. A hairless pmk tail undulated behind him.

  She’d witnessed Naile transform into a boar, and wondered if he was capable of adopting a form half-man, half-beast like Fisk. Naile’s metamorphosis had always been a little disconcerting, but it didn’t bother her as much as Fisk’s. Naile had only become an animal when things were dire and he let a blood-rage course through him. There was nothing evil in that, and he always managed to best some foe they were facing in the process. She considered everything about Fisk vile.

  “Why do you want to kill us?”

  Fisk sneered, needle-like rat-teeth gleaming white in the torchlight. “For my Master. To fulfil my promise to him.” His voice sounded small and hollow now, like the winter wind finding its way through a rotted log. “Pobe wishes you dead by my hand. I do not care to disappoint him.”