One Quest, Hold the Dragons

by Greg Costikyan

  "Shall a valet or a scullery maid master you?" shouted Broderick to his men. "Screw your courage to the sticking place!"

  "Sticking place! That's it, by Fithold," came Bertram's voice faintly from below.

  "Look here, Blentz," Barthold said. "How d'you think the townsfolk will react when you slaughter their baron atop the castle wall, before their very eyes?"

  Blentz was ashen, eyes casting about desperately for some means of escape.

  By now some score of men had come up to surround Barthold. "Overlapping shields," he ordered. "Slow advance; we'll cut them to ribbons."

  "And then what?" demanded Blentz. "We'll be stuck here for—"

  "Shut up, you puling wretch!" shouted Barthold. "One more whine from you and—"

  "And what?" shouted Blentz back. "Who commands these—"

  "Captain Blentz," said Baron Barthold, "surrender, and I give you my. word that you and your men may depart this place, unharmed and unhindered."

  Blentz looked to Barthold, face a blotchy red, mouth in an angry line. The color of Blentz's face heightened until he looked as if he were about to burst, like a kettle under pressure. "Done," he said at last, practically spitting the word.

  Broderick turned on Blentz, thunderstruck. The guardsman looked hesitantly first toward the nobleman, then to their own captain, who sheathed his blade with finality and nodded toward them to do likewise. Gradually, they stepped away from Broderick, lowering their shields and putting their weapons away.

  The tableau hung for a long moment, Broderick staringin shock at Blentz, holding a fighting stance still, his sword wavering in the air.

  "Put that silly pig-sticker down, Broderick," said Baron Barthold at last. "It's over."

  Broderick pivoted toward his brother, his sword still aloft. His expression turned from shock to grim decision. He tossed his weapon into the air, tumbling it end over end, grabbed it by the blade—cutting a gash in his hand—and rested the pommel on the stone flags of the wall. He held the point to his stomach, and made to throw himself onto his own sword—

  Sidney darted forward and tumbled into Broderick shoulder first, knocking him away. Two beefy footmen dived for the man, holding him down and binding his hands.

  "What'd you do that for?" demanded Barthold querulously.

  "What?" said Sidney, a little surprised. "He was going to kill himself—"

  "Yes, yes," said Barthold testily. "Would have been the neatest thing. I shan't slay him, of course; he's family, after all. Have to keep him in a cell for the rest of his life, beastly nuisance. Take him down to the dungeon, thank you, lads."

  "I say," said a confused voice from below. "Is that you, Pater? What's going on up there?"

  Barthold peered over the wall. "There you are, you miserable sod," he said severely. "How these loins ever produced such a sorry skink as you is beyond my powers of comprehension. I can't imagine—"

  "Hold thy tongue," said Beatrice, looking up severely at her lord. "Your son has been the very font of courage and ambition; when at last he realized his duty, he did it with all his main."

  "I did?" said Bertram wonderingly.

  "You did," said Beatrice, taking his hand.

  "Well, well," said Barthold, sounding rather pleased. "Open the gate, someone, won't you?"

  IX

  The hall boy cranked away, raising the portcullis. Bates spoke to the master of the hounds, who turned to fly down the tower stair to unbar the gate. As the castle's massive door creaked open, a cheer resounded from the town, echoing from the very battlements; virtually as one, the populace of the barony-Biddlebourgeois, Bainbridger, and forester alike-shouted triumph. Beatrice turned and gaily waved them forward; soon folk poured into the castle courtyard. Barthold stood bemusedly in the window of the tower, staring down at the tumult and waving to acknowledge the cheers. He turned to Bates and said, "Ale all around, Mr. Bates; I trust we have casks enough in the cellar?"

  "I sharr attend tee it, my lord," said Bates with satisfaction, and made his way sedately down the stairs.

  When the ale arrived, the assemblage quickly turned into an impromptu celebration; the folk raised stoups of ale, and steins, and mugs. Bates was hard-pressed to findcontainers enough, for soon a fair portion of the barony's population stood in the courtyard, the crowd overflowing through the gates to the field before the walls.

  Barthold gave a short speech, thanking everyone for their loyalty, and telling them of his poisoning; there were hisses, and the folk called out for Broderick's death, but Barthold did not acknowledge the cry. Beatrice, too, spoke, announcing that this was a time for reconciliation and asking that her men forget and forgive whatever offense others of the barony might have given them in the course of the struggle. And lastly, Bertram spoke. His speech was short and rather lackadaisical, but it was cheered to the echo. "Hurrah for Sir Bertram!" the folk cheered. "Hurrah for the tax holiday."

  "The what?" asked Baron Barthold sharply.

  "Tax holiday," said Timaeus, nose in a stein of ale.

  "Tax what?" said Barthold.

  "Better ask Bertram," said Timaeus, slightly amused. Barthold cast about for his son, but caught no glimpse of him. Bertram was off at one side of the courtyard, back against the wall, staring yearningly at Beatrice, who stood amid a knot of Bandsmen, laughing and talking gaily.

  Jasper had laid out the scenario so neatly; what was it he'd said? "Having gained the ramparts, you will free your father from durance vile, wed the noble Beatrice, and unite the people of your realm in glorious harmony." Wasn't quite how it had worked out, was it? He hadn't won the castle in heroic battle; the castle had more or less liberated itself, albeit Blentz probably wouldn't have surrendered if there hadn't been an army outside the walls. True, Beatrice was being slightly kinder to him than before, but only slightly; if Jasper had counted on Bertram's heroism and selfless devotion to win her over, he'd had scant opportunity to display those qualities.

  It had been a pipe dream from the start, he realized miserably. He had always known he was not among the brightest men; his ambitions had been limited to membership in a decent club, a good box at the races, an adequate cellar, and an income large enough to live in reasonable comfort. He had not asked to be made heir to this backwoods demesne, nor to lead men in battle, nor to act the hero.

  He considered searching out Jasper and asking the wizard's advice, but decided against it. He had a fair idea what that advice would be; something along the lines of taking her in his strong arms and passionately declaring his love. Jasper was an incurable romantic, and Bertram had no desire to expose himself to inevitable rejection. Especially not in public. And besides which, thought Bertram, pinching his biceps, he had the arms of an upper-class wastrel, not a hero of yore.

  About him, folk laughed and sang and drank themselves insensible; it had the feeling of a day that would live in their memory always, the day the barony was liberated from the Tyrant Broderick. Their joy only increased his misery. The whole barony, it seemed, was happy this day, every man and woman, save only he.

  Well, maybe not the whole barony, Bertram thought. I imagine Broderick isn't too chuffed right about now, either.

  "Good morning, Sir Bertram," said Bertram's valet, yanking the draperies firmly back.

  Bertram groaned, shading his eyes against the bright sunlight. "You are a tyrant, Smythe; you know that, don't you?" he moaned.

  "Terribly sorry, sir," said Smythe, lifting the teapot from the tray he had placed by Bertram's bedside table and pouring a cup for his master. "It is nine of the clock, and the household has already assembled in the Great Hall; your father was asking for you particularly."

  "Ye gods," complained Bertram, "after carousing allnight, they're up at this hour? My head feels as if a dozen blacksmiths have been using it as an anvil all night long."

  "I had anticipated this, sir," said Smythe, proffering a mug containing a viscous yellow liquid. "Your usual pickme-up."

  Bertram shuddered, but accepted it. "Ah," he s
aid, "the first terror of the day." He quaffed it in a single gulp, lunging for his teacup to wash it down. He gasped, gave a single hoarse cough, and said, "Effective, if brutal."

  "I've laid out a set of clothes for you, if you don't mind, sir—"

  "Yes, all right, Smythe," said Bertram, maneuvering his limbs over the side of the bed, "but I shall need some assistance with this leg of mine."

  "I had anticipated as much," said the valet.

  Bertram was dressed in surprisingly short order; almost as soon as he was, someone tapped at the door. While Bertram leaned on his crutch and fiddled with his cravat, Smythe opened the door.

  It was Beatrice. Bertram's heart took a leap to see her; she wore a black velvet dress, flounced fashionably below the waist but tight above it, a dress Epee belted at her middle. Freckles were dusted across her face, her arms, her upper torso; with difficulty, Bertram stopped himself from imagining where else they ran. "Good morning, Bertie," she said cheerily. "Coming down?"

  "I suppose," said Bertram, levering himself toward the door.

  "Here, let me," said Beatrice, and took his free arm in her own, providing some support. Bertram's mouth went dry at the touch; he wasn't quite certain whether he was in misery or ecstasy. They made their way out the door and down the hall.

  "The baron's mood is sunny," Beatrice said. "He rose at six, and has been cheery since. He was perturbed by your promise of a tax holiday, I fear."

  Bertram groaned. "I'd forgotten about that," he said. "Oh gods, he'll kill me."

  She patted his arm. "I spoke with him about it," she said.

  "And?" said Bertram as they neared the grand stairs.

  "He accepts that it was a necessary gesture. At any pass, there's always the revenues of the toll road."

  "I suppose," said Bertram gloomily, nonetheless dreading his arrival in the Great Hall. He swung his crutch out and placed it on the first stair below, stepping down with part of his weight on Beatrice's shoulder. They stopped talking for a moment, progress down the stairs requiring a degree of concentration. It was difficult work for Bertram, made the more difficult because his heart beat like a rabbit's at Beatrice's touch. He was in agony, for he knew that whatever there had once been between them was lost; he had been inconstant, had failed to correspond while at school, had foolishly believed the lies of his uncle. Had she not made clear how she felt? True, she had mellowed toward him since that disastrous conversation in the woods, but love, once lost, cannot be renewed. He longed for the hour she would leave to return to Bainbridge, for her presence was painful; simultaneously, he dreaded that moment, for the parting would no doubt be a final one.

  He would join the fight against the orcs, that's what he would do; perhaps he could get himself killed in some futile, bloody charge. Yes, that was the ticket; a meaningless, anonymous death in the meat-grinder that was war, the perfect anodyne for spurned love—

  "So," said Beatrice softly, "when shall we wed, my love?"

  Bertram was in the process of levering his crutch down the next slick marble step. He gave a sudden lurch. The crutch went flying. Beatrice made a grab for him, but too late; his legs crumpled, he fell down the stairs head first, pulling his limbs into a fetal position, cartwheeling downthe high marble steps. At last, he thumped into the carpet at the bottom of the stairs, rolled across the floor, and hurtled into a priceless Dzorzique tabouret, smashing it, the smoked-glass lamp atop it, and several guineas worth of bric-a-brac to Hinders.

  Hands at her mouth, Beatrice peered down the stairs. "Bertram?" she said. "Are you all right?"

  "What, me?" said a happy voice from a pile of rubble. "Never better, my love. Absolutely peachy. Blissful, in fact. Do summon a cleric, though, if you will; I fear I've broken the other leg."

  Beaming for all he was worth, Baron Barthold held high his fluted glass of vin chartreuse. "To the girl next door," he said. "To hearts entwined. I want you to know, my dear, you've made more than one man very happy today; I only hope you can make something of this sorry excuse of a son."

  "Hear, hear," said the assembled, sipping wine. They all sat down at table, while servants circulated with an enormous platter holding hotcakes and pastries. It was unusual to quaff wine at breakfast, but the baron was in a celebratory mood.

  A footman entered and marched smartly up toward Barthold, leaning down to whisper in the baron's ear.

  "All's well that ends well, what?" said Jasper with satisfaction, green wine disappearing into a spot of green.

  "Bosh, Jasper," said Timaeus, "you do have a gift for cliché—"

  "Have either of you seen Vic?" interrupted Sidney. "I haven't seen him since he teleported away after the archery competition."

  "No," said Timaeus, turning toward her in concern. "I truly haven't—"

  "I'm sorry," said Barthold, rising somberly. "I'm afraid I have bad news." All eyes were on him at once.

  "What now?" said Timaeus..

  "It appears that my brother has escaped. Apparently, he picked the lock with a length of spring metal—"

  Sidney smacked her forehead. "Damn!" she said. "I should have told the servants to get rid of that couch."

  "That's not all, I'm afraid," said Barthold. "Messieurs,

  mademoiselle; it appears that your wagon and its cargo are gone."

  Nick shot to his feet. "What?"

  Barthold looked quite apologetic. "Our best horses, and your wagon, are missing from the stable."

  "Out of the frying pan into the fire," said Jasper.

  "You are really becoming quite tiresome, do you know that?" said Timaeus.

  "Ve vill track him down and kill him," said Kraki

  Sidney pushed back her chair with a sigh. "Well," she said, "no rest for the weary."

  "Not you too," complained Timaeus.

  Part II

  Another Week, Another Wilderness

  I

  Black and silver was the night, the black velvet of the sky, the silver of stars and moon; black conifers looming upward, the stones of the road silver in reflected starlight. In the stillness of the night came black fury; the beat of hooves on stone, the rumble of wheels, the crack of a whip. Broderick half-stood atop the cart, knees absorbing jolts, lashing the horses onward.

  He spared no thought for mishap; despite what he had claimed, the road was in excellent repair, the curves gentle and the grade slight between Biddleburg and Bainbridge. He thought rather of pursuit: He had hours at most before his absence was discovered. And when it was, there would be pursuit, no doubt of that; perhaps his kin would be content to see him gone, but Bertram's friends would surely pursue their property.

  In the cart was Stantius, ensconced below the floorboards. The cart had no other load; Broderick had tossed the rugs to lighten it, had not cared to risk discovery by spending time to locate and load supplies. He'd get hungry, he knew, but speed was of the essence. That statue alone was his fortune, wealth enough to buy an army, a kingdom. Pah, let his brother have this petty little land in these impoverished mountains, surviving off its meager tolls; if he could make good his escape, untold riches awaited him. And riches were power.

  The cart had no load save for Stantius-and an old man, wrapped in a blanket, toothlessly cursing Broderick's unrelenting and uncomfortable haste. Somehow, Broderick had failed to see the old man; perhaps some slight glamor of magic was to blame.

  Hooves beat on stone, wheels rumbled. The wagon creaked as they tore around a curve.

  Ahead on the road were dim shapes, silver moonlight glinting off silver mail. A chill ran down Broderick's spine; should he charge on regardless, hoping they would go down under the horses' hooves? But no, he saw pikes, spearheads glowing with magic in the darkness: enchanted weapons. The horses would simply run themselves onto the pikes, and that would be that. "Hyaw!" he shouted, hauling back on the reins. The horses slowed, slowed, came to a halt bare cubits from the waiting-children?

  No, not children, Broderick saw; their stature was slight, but they were not humans of a
ny age. Large black eyes stared out from beneath silver helms, ears pointing upward: elves.

  Half a dozen blocked the road, kneeling, pikes set to intercept his horses had he charged on; another half dozen stood in the trees, holding elven longbows with arrows nocked.

  From the woods stepped another elf, hands empty, sword at belt, tasseled cap above merry expression. "Hiya," he said cheerily.

  Bright morning sun poured in through watchtower windows. Jasper flitted impatiently about. "Speed is of the essence, my lord," he told Barthold. "My companions ready their horses even now. We must——"

  "Hold on, hold on," said the baron irritably, still out of breath from the climb. "He's only had a few hours, we may still be able to see something—"