Honus retreated from the sunlight because it hurt his throbbing head and he didn’t want to be seen from above. If men were coming for him, he wanted to be ready. The first thing he needed to do was determine where they’d come from. He glanced about the chamber walls, which were still wrapped in shadow, and looked for an entrance. He couldn’t see any, so he made a slow circuit to feel the walls for openings. He found no doorways, only two crevices through which the stream entered and exited the chamber. The openings were fairly broad, but low. A man might slither through there, but it’d be a tight squeeze. Honus assumed any attackers would choose to lower themselves through the hole in the ceiling.
Taxed by the effort of his explorations, Honus leaned against the wall to rest. He quickly dozed off. When someone threw a dead dog from above, he woke with a start but soon fell asleep again. The next time Honus woke, it was pitch-black. He groped his way to the stream and drank before crawling back to the wall. His stomach had settled and was racked by hunger. When morning came, it would be at least two days since he had eaten, perhaps more. It occurred to him that his assailants might have left him alive on purpose. His fate would be gruesome enough to satisfy the most vindictive. He wondered if they believed he’d become like the dog, reduced to eating corpses.
Thinking of the dog led Honus to reflect that it would be edible. That, in turn, made him wonder where it was. Has it been hiding all this time? Honus thought that was unlikely. Perhaps it has a way out of here! Before his hopes rose, Honus realized that if such a passageway existed, it might be large enough only for a dog. What ever the case, it was too dark to look for it, so Honus slept again.
Teeth roused Honus. They gripped his leg. Dawn’s light filtered from above, and with it, the dog had returned. This time, Honus was ready with a supply of rocks. The first one he threw hit its mark, sending the dog scampering. It dashed up the stream and disappeared into the shadows. Honus walked over to the crevice. Kneeling in the dark, he felt about the muck with his hands. His fingertips detected paw prints and the slight depression of a well-used pathway. Honus bent his head to peer into the crevice. It was absolutely black. The crevice might lead to the world above or to a horrible death, and there was no way of discovering which without venturing into the darkness.
Honus knew that if he wished to live he must escape the pit. It seemed that his sole chance to accomplish that required entering the low opening, although he dreaded doing it. Honus had always felt uneasy in cramped spaces, and the pitch-black crevice was the realization of his deepest fears. This is the only way to Yim, he told himself. Think of it as Karm’s path. In preparation, Honus removed his newfound sword from his belt to prevent it from getting hung up on some obstruction. Handling the sword made Honus recall the guidance of the runes: “When you find your proper tul, seek the leader who cannot wield it.” Daven had said that “tul” might mean “weapon.” If that was so, then finding the sword was part of finding Yim.
That thought spurred Honus to enter the cramped, dark space. He had to do so on his belly, for there was insufficient space to crawl. If his raised himself only slightly above the mud, his head or his back touched the crevice’s ceiling. He was thankful that the mud made it easier to slide along and that the stream didn’t flow across the entire width of the passageway. His progress was impossible to gauge in the absolute darkness. The way slanted upward, but since the hole was probably on a slope, Honus might be no closer to the surface. As he slowly advanced, the crevice walls grew closer. Honus could tell because he used his sheathed sword like a cane to feel the way ahead.
Time became meaningless. There was only the present; and it was dark, wet, and fearful. Eventually, the crevice became so narrow that water flowed across its entire breadth. Then Honus slid over bare rock as the current pushed against him. The farther he went, the narrower the passage became. His body partly blocked the stream, causing its water level to rise until he was forced to lift his head each time he took a breath. Every time he did, he bumped the ceiling.
Feeling the way before him with his scabbard, Honus could tell that the crevice shrank to the width of his shoulders. The ceiling became equally cramped. It is what he had dreaded—a place where he could become wedged. While his scabbard told him the way ahead grew narrower, it couldn’t tell him if the crevice ever widened again. There was only one way to find out.
Honus stretched his arms forward and pushed against the cramped walls with his feet to advance. As his body blocked the crevice, the water flowed over his head and down his back. The current fought his progress as it sought to drown him. Scraping both sides of his torso against stone walls, Honus struggled to find air. His lungs felt about to gasp in liquid when his hands no longer touched stone walls. Honus gave one last push with his feet; then he was able to move his arms and elbows outward. Reaching back, he pushed against the sides of an opening and his head broke the water’s surface. He gasped for breath, thankful to be alive.
Despite squeezing through the crevice, Honus remained trapped in perfect darkness. He felt about with his sword and free hand. He seemed to be in a cavity containing a shallow pool. It was so wide that he had to move before he touched a wall. Honus rested awhile, then followed the sound of running water into a new crevice. It was almost as narrow as the one he had just exited, but it was high enough for him to crawl. After what he had been through, crawling in the dark seemed easy. Honus groped his way for a long while before he saw dim light ahead. Encouraged by the sight, he moved quicker. The light grew brighter. Then sunlight poured in from a crack above. It was blinding for a moment.
When Honus’s eyes adjusted, he saw how he could climb up the crevice and escape. His empty stomach urged him to do so immediately, but he thought that it would be wiser to make his reappearance at night. Thus he crawled a short distance back the way he had come and waited for dusk.
When Honus finally climbed out of the crevice, he found himself standing on the slope above Cuprick. He couldn’t see the hole into which he had been dumped, just a squalid jumble of hovels, and below them, the town proper. As Honus descended the hillside, he gave wide berth to the hovels and made sure that few saw him until he returned to the inn. There, everyone hushed when he stepped into the common room, and men cleared out of Honus’s way as he strode up to the innkeeper. The unfortunate man stood paralyzed, his face pale with terror.
“You gave me a message a while ago,” said Honus in a hard voice. “An invitation to a trap.”
The innkeeper merely nodded.
“I suppose you acted out of cowardice,” said Honus, “thinking my attackers posed a greater threat than I.” Honus grinned in a way that caused the innkeeper to start trembling. “That was a mistake.”
“Please, sire, spare my life!”
“I’ll consider it,” replied Honus. “While I do, perhaps food and lodging would sway my judgment.”
A relieved look crept over the innkeeper’s face. “Oh thank ye, sire. I wronged ye, and I’ll gladly make amends. Stay for as long as ye wish and sup freely with no mind toward payment. Yer forbearance is coin enough for me.” Then, bowing frequently, the innkeeper led Honus to a vacant table before rushing off to bring food and drink.
As Honus sat waiting for his meal, the common room returned to a semblance of normality. Nevertheless, Honus felt conspicuous, for while the inn’s patrons kept their distance, they glanced at him surreptitiously. The exception was the bard, who stared at Honus with unabashed fascination. After some hesitation, he picked up his ale mug, rose from his place, strolled over to Honus’s table, and bowed. “I’m Frodoric of Bremven, Karmamatus. As a devotee and chronicler of valiant deeds, may I join you? It would be an honor to drink with one worthy of a ballad.”
“I’m not seeking renown, only a woman.”
The bard pulled out a chair and settled into it. “Of course! Of course! The ideal hero never cares for reputation. That’s a bard’s task. But take my word for it, you’re prime material. Granted, your dealings with the innkeep cou
ld have gone better. They started with such promise. That line about an invitation to a trap; well, that was nearly perfect. But the ending—pah! Meals and a bed? A decapitation would have served drama better:
His flashing sword spelt the coward’s doom
In ruby droplets that sprayed the room.
Now, that’s a proper ending!”
“Mine was more practical,” said Honus. “And I think our host prefers it.”
“Pah! Ruby droplets possess more flair. Trust me, I sing for my living. But in your case, they’re just an ending flourish. I’m more interested in the woman.”
“I believe she’s traveling alone and—”
“No, not that one! The one who stopped the fight, at least by most accounts. Some say she was flesh and blood—a witness who squelched your foes’ courage. Others swear she is a spirit. There’s even talk that she was Karm herself, though few in Cuprick still worship her. So tell me … which version’s true?”
“I saw no woman,” said Honus, “only clubs and then nothing more until I woke up in a pit.”
Frodoric looked disappointed. “Ah, yes. I already know about the pit. I thought it was the end of you. Nevertheless, it was a sign of respect that you didn’t go in naked. That’s a high degree of charity for Cuprick. But if it makes you feel better, folks thought you were dead.”
“They didn’t try very hard to make sure!” said Honus.
Frodoric shrugged. “They seldom do. May I ask how you got out?”
“I followed a dog.”
“A dog!” Frodoric sighed dramatically. “Couldn’t you have followed the woman?”
“The woman I didn’t see? By the time you’re done, I’m certain your license will place her there.”
“You mistake my craft. My lays are historical, not fanciful. So tell me your name that I may get it right.”
“Honus.”
Frodoric shook his head. “Which only rhymes with ‘bonus.’ Oh dear!” He sighed again, this time with even greater drama. “Art’s always a struggle.”
“I heard part of one of your songs. It was about the Urkzimdi clan. Was that one historic or artistic?”
“You mean ‘The Ballad of Cara One Arm’? Every bit is fact. The fairies took her arm in payment for saving her clan during the Summer of Feuds.”
“I know Cara, and the last time I saw her she possessed two arms.”
“Then you haven’t seen her for a very long while. Yet I’m surprised you haven’t heard the ballad. It’s quite well known. An Averen bard composed the lay, but I’ve improved it. In all modesty, my final stanza is masterful:
A chieftain’s might springs from her brain.
Though I can’t wield a sword again,
My foes will learn to fear my wit
As long as on this throne I sit.
Though I’ve never met the lady, by all accounts, my ending suits her perfectly.”
“So Cara’s the leader who cannot wield a sword!”
Frodoric looked surprised by Honus’s excitement. “Perhaps if she were left-handed she could, but I’m told she’s not.”
By then, Honus was grinning broadly. “Frodoric of Bremven, you’re more than a bard; you’re Karm’s own tongue!”
Frodoric smiled. “A well-turned phrase, but a mite flamboyant.”
Honus didn’t reply, for his mind was far elsewhere. He had learned his destination at last. It was Cara’s hall, and all his thoughts were focused on getting there as quickly as possible.
THIRTY-EIGHT
HONUS REMAINED absorbed in planning his next move until the innkeeper brought out his meal. It consisted of a partial loaf of bread, a hunk of cheese, and a meaty mutton bone, all served on a wooden platter. He also brought out a ceramic mug with a broken handle and a jug of ale to fill it. The sight of food awoke Honus’s hunger and briefly banished thoughts of the journey ahead.
Frodoric smiled as he watched Honus dig in. “Our host washed your plate! You must have terrorized him indeed.” While the Sarf chewed, the bard replenished his mug from the ale jug. “No doubt our host will refill this jug as many times as you wish.”
Honus swallowed his food. “I’d think art suffers when drinking and singing mix.”
“I shan’t sing tonight,” replied Frodoric. “It’s a problem of repertory. Cuprick’s denizens favor novelty over artistry and dislike hearing the same ballad twice.”
“So why not sing in another inn?”
“This is the town’s most elegant establishment, such as it is. I have my standards. Elsewhere, ‘The Randy Plowman’ or ‘The Maiden’s Mistake’ are the favored lays. I wouldn’t sing such drivel even if I knew the verses. But ‘The Ballad of Honus,’ now there’s a—”
“Forget it,” said Honus. “I’m leaving as soon as I can.”
“And walk away from a never-empty ale jug? I don’t understand you.”
“All the more reason not to sing about me.”
Honus resumed eating. Frodoric sighed, then drained his mug and refilled it. When he saw the innkeeper enter the room, he signaled him to come over. Upon the man’s arrival, Frodoric handed him the empty ale jug. “I believe the Sarf would like some more,” he said. As the innkeeper hurried off to fill the jug, Honus flashed the bard a disapproving look. Frodoric bowed his head, partly to hide his smile. “I know you wanted more but were too shy to ask.”
“I’ve barely touched my first mug,” replied Honus.
“Oh, you needn’t set an example. I’m beyond saving.”
“Evidently so.”
“So which version do you believe?”
“Version of what?”
“The fight’s ending. I know the reputation of those men. You should be dead.”
“I suppose the goddess saved me,” said Honus.
“Why say ‘suppose’? Karm loves you.”
Honus glazed at Frodoric in surprise.
“After all,” said the bard, “ ‘Karmamatus’ means ‘Karm’s beloved.’ ”
“My life is none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my business. I’m a bard!”
“And a tiresome one at that.” Honus spotted the innkeeper and called him over. The man rushed to the table, bowing several times along the way. This time, Honus greeted him more amiably. “I’ve enjoyed your fare. Now I’d like to rest.”
“Certainly, sire. The sleeping chamber’s upstairs, and there’s a covered bucket for yer convenience.”
“It’s a large room with no beds,” whispered Frodoric. “Everyone sleeps on the floor. Several dozen every night.”
“And do you reside on the premises?” asked Honus.
“Aye, sire.”
“Good,” replied Honus. “Then I’ll stay in your quarters.”
The innkeeper’s face fell. “Very well, sire. May I ask how long ye plan to stay?”
“Of course, you may,” replied Honus. Then he raised his voice so all might hear. “I wish to leave tomorrow morn. But to do that, I’ll need my pack, its contents, plus a horse, bridle, and saddle. Until I receive them, I’ll stay here and employ my idle time in hunting all who wronged me. Let it be known that I’ll drag each man to the pit alive and toss him down in tiny bits. I’ve the skill to make the cutting last a half day at least.”
Frodoric clapped his hands with enthusiasm “Now that would make a ballad!”
Lulled by the comfort of a feather mattress, Honus slept late. It was past sunrise when he heard timid knocking on the door. Honus rose and opened it to find the innkeeper with his displaced family bunched behind him. The innkeeper was holding Honus’s pack and attempting to smile. After handing the pack to Honus, he bowed. “Sire, a saddled horse awaits ye outside.”
Honus was relieved that his threats had worked, for he had no stomach for revenge. He hoped that his attackers—and not his host—had provided the horse; but as he went out to examine it, Honus didn’t inquire about the animal’s source. The steed was tied outside the inn’s back entrance and appeared to be a serviceable
mount. After a thorough inspection, Honus turned to his host and flashed him a sincere smile. “Though your hospitality was coerced, it has honored Karm. In addition to her grace, you have my gratitude.”
The innkeeper smiled with relief. “Come eat, sire, before your departure.”
Honus followed the man back into the inn. The common room was less full than on the previous night, but the bard was there. He rose when Honus entered, and when the Sarf was seated, he joined him without leave. Honus raised an amused eyebrow. “I regret to disappoint you, but my stay won’t have a bloody ending.”
“I know,” replied Frodoric. “I saw the horse. I counsel riding off quickly. The four that brought it here most likely stole it.”
“You should probably leave also,” said Honus. “When foes can’t harm a man, they oft hurt his friends.”
Frodoric smiled. “Are you naming me a friend?”
“Only in the poetic sense, but I think my foes will be more literal.”
“But what reason would they have to harm me?”
“It’s my experience that malice is unconcerned with reason.”
“Well, Cuprick has become wearing,” said the bard. “Such an unrefined audience. A change might suit me. Indeed, I’m certain of it. So, where are we going?”
“I’m going to Averen, and I intend to go alone.”
“Averen! Where everyone speaks like sheep? Na this and na that. Why go there?”
“To visit the subject of your ballad.”
“You mean Cara One Arm? Do you really know her?”
“Since she was a child. I left her behind during what you called the Summer of Feuds to fight alongside her brother. I was with him when he died, but I never saw her again.”
“What happened?”
Honus glanced at Frodoric and saw that the bard was regarding him with keen interest. The look made Honus aware that his voice had betrayed the depth of his feelings. “That tale, Frodoric of Bremven, would indeed be worthy of a ballad. Yet I’ve neither the time nor the heart to relate it. Moreover, it’s not yet finished.”
The Iron Palace Page 25
