“As to the first, you are welcome,” replied the dwarf, standing up and laying the blade on the workbench. The top of his head came little higher than Don’s waist, but his shoulders looked broader, even, than Don’s own. “Though I see that you have goodly mail and sword—Stonegate arms from the look of them. But I must ask your business before I can help you further.”
“I am Donald of Goldstone,” replied Don. “I served Stonegate until a lady was taken from her home by Raiders. I have reason to think this man Samuel may have information as to her whereabouts.”
“Donald, it is? Well, Donald, who sent you here?”
“Abel of the House of Healing.”
“Then you need look no further,” came a deep voice to Don’s rear.
Don turned, and there, leaning against a rack of polished sword blades, stood a man with an empty sleeve. He was dressed in brown. His clothes seemed to be mostly made of tanned leather, as did his small cap.
“Actually, Donald of Goldstone,” he said. “I have one and one half arms and I can assure you that I have stolen no women—not recently, at least.” He chuckled, a deep bass sound that filled the room. He waved the stump of his left arm to show that it was cut off at the elbow. “I am Samuel of Hightower.”
Don bowed in greeting and Samuel followed suit. “I am honored, sir,” said Don. “May we talk?”
“Of course,” answered Samuel, examining Don closely. “I am equally honored. But we would have more privacy if your horse was led out of sight. By the way, this is Matthew, the best sword-smith in Ariel, which means the best anywhere. He even smelts his own steel.”
Donald and Matthew traded bows. A young lad came from the rear of the shop and exited through the front door. He did not say a word, but gave Don and Samuel a cheery grin.
“He’s a good boy,” remarked Samuel. “Did not wait to be asked.” He motioned with his hand. “Follow me.”
Samuel’s eyes were ice blue and he had spots of silver at his temples, but his hair was otherwise deep brown. His face was seamed and weather-beaten to a ruddy tan, and he wore a close-cropped beard. He was compact and stocky, but looked fit. He had no trace of a paunch and his upper torso stretched his leather jerkin at the seams. Don followed him through a curtain, made of round wooden beads on strings, into a smaller room, evidently a kitchen. Several chairs sat in a semicircle before a fireplace that had a mound of glowing embers. Some of the chairs were smaller than the others, obviously dwarf-sized. They sat next to each other, and Samuel gave Don another searching gaze.
“Now, Donald, what can I do for you?”
Don told him a bit about himself and the story of Rachel’s abduction and his search. He also shared what Deborah had learned and mentioned the camp of the Raiders. He concluded by explaining that he would not rest until he rescued Rachel, or confirmed that she was dead. Samuel stared at the coals for the most part and listened. His fists knotted until they turned white across the knuckles, but he gave no other sign of emotion.
“I know little more than you have already been told,” Samuel said at last when Don trailed to a stop. “I sympathize with you. What man would not!”
He continued after a moment’s pause, “I have seen the camp of the foul Raiders and their slaves. Their warriors and horses I have counted. Their patrols and their guards I have watched. I know them and their ways very well. Their camp is a filthy sty that a pig would be shamed to call home. I wonder that disease has not slain them all! But though I do know that they hold several women captive there in a guarded cabin, I do not know if the one you seek is held there. There is another camp a hundred miles down river and others many day’s ride to the north.”
“What do you know of a Raider with a black beard named Balek Brown?”
“I have seen him in Glenwood and on the way to their camp. He is a large lout but deadly with a sword. He uses an Ariel blade; a part of the tribute.”
“Tribute?”
“I am afraid so. Ariel pays tribute of two hundred blades a year to the Prophet. Our neighbor, Bethuel, also pays, and we have both survived. The tribute blades are pretty and well polished, but the ones the smiths keep for themselves have better steel, of that you can be sure!” Samuel stopped, and looked closely at Don. “You look upset!”
“You … You help the Prophet?” asked Don, incredulously. “I thought you were friends of the House of Healing!”
“So we are, but we also have to survive. The Prophet would probably rather see us dead, but as long as we are useful to him, and we would be costly to eliminate, he has tolerated us. We have paid tribute for decades and have been left alone, for some years, at least. Those villages somewhat downriver are under his thumb and pay even more in the name of taxes.”
Both men sat in silence for a time, searching each other’s eyes.
Finally, Don spoke: “Is there a way into the camp? Could I rescue her if she is there?”
“If she is there, she is in a well-guarded stockade within a stockade,” answered Samuel, slowly. “There seems to be little hope of breaking in by force, even though the guards are not diligent or well disciplined. Getting her out alive would be even harder.”
“I must try,” said Don, his shoulders slumping. He leaned and put his elbows on his knees, hands almost touching. His face was turned toward the floor. “Even though I see no way to set her free.”
“Wait awhile here—Let me think. There is little hope, but perhaps I can help.” So saying, the elder man rose and departed. Don sat, tormented by his thoughts and by the fact that every day wasted was another day of pain for Rachel. Still, if Rachel had been taken further west, his chances would be much smaller. Perhaps he had already wasted too much time.
Don jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. He had not heard Samuel return. “Come, Donald of Goldstone.”
Don followed him out a rear door and down a cold flight of stone stairs. Don drew his woolen cloak closer to his body. The stairs led down to what appeared to be a tunnel under the streets. Samuel had a lantern, which cast a yellow glow before their feet but allowed little opportunity to view their surroundings. It seemed to be dug straight as a spear shaft and was all of right angles and flat planes. Twice they came to side passages, also at right angles to their passage. There appeared to be inscriptions at the corners, but Samuel strode on, ignoring them. He clearly knew his way. After perhaps five hundred paces, they reached an alcove and stairs, which they ascended and came to a small apartment, several flights up. A dwarf, perhaps in his sixties, almost completely bald, and with a pure white beard met them with a sober face and a word of welcome. His robe of white wool had a cross embroidered over his heart in gold thread. Except for the color, it was identical to those found on robes in the House of Healing. He held a staff in his hand of light brown wood with a small silver hammer affixed to the top.
“My friend, Samuel,” said the dwarf. “I heard that you wished to talk and not be seen. This is easy to manage, yet I find it puzzling. I assume this young man is part of the puzzle.”
“Yes, Lord,” returned Samuel with a bow and a smile. “May I present Donald of Fisher, from Goldstone, lately of Stonegate. Donald, this is Lord Timothy Stonehewer, one of the elders of Ariel, and the head of the council.”
Lord Timothy offered both men his right hand, and they clasped it. Samuel continued: “Donald is an unusual visitor, being both a lore-man, son of a lore-master, and yet a warrior as well. Donald, please tell of your purpose here.”
They seated themselves around a low, square table. Don repeated his story in detail. Lord Timothy’s eyes, black as sable, fixed on his, unwaveringly. They were stern, yet sympathetic and seemed to pull at him like filings to a lodestone. Don felt relaxed and at peace, and his story came out simply and without emotion.
“Tell me, my son,” asked Timothy, gently, when Don fell silent. “Do you follow her
from love or from pride? Do you seek honor or oblivion?”
Don hung his head. “I do not know, sir. I only know that I must go on. It is not glory that I seek, of that I am sure.”
“Honestly answered,” commented the elder. “But tell me, are you a follower of the Holy One of God, the Christ?”
“No,” answered Don. “In fact, it is passing strange that in the East, Christians are suspect. Some think they are in league with the Prophet. But here, Christians seem to be the Prophet’s foes.”
Samuel broke in. “Sire, as you know, most of Stonegate is pagan. Followers of Christ, though not rare, must meet in secret. They are not hunted down as in days gone by, but old habits die hard.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” returned the elder. “Pagan they are, yet magnificent pagans, ever willing to defend the right. God has used them well. And the times of troubles sat more lightly on Christians there than anywhere. At worst, they were driven into exile. It was sires of the Prophet’s boot-lickers that slew Christians without mercy.” He turned to Don. “Young man, do not be confused. The Prophet sometimes claims he is Christ, but a Christian he is not.” He tapped his chest. “He rejects the cross and the teachings of Christ. He is a counterfeit!”
He paused, deep in thought. Neither Samuel nor Don dared interrupt his silence. “I will consider this further. Will you join me in a mug of spiced cider? Then I fear that you must leave, Donald of Fisher. These roads are none too safe for a man alone, even an armored man, after dark.”
It was late that afternoon when Don returned to the House of Healing. It was a good day. He felt less alone, and the germ of a plan was beginning to take shape. At least, his request had not been met with derision. And he saw that his attitude toward Christians may have been too hasty. Perhaps they were more complex than he had realized, though he did not share their strange beliefs, of course.
†
They met for several days in the Ariel fire-pit, a sunken chamber in the main armory of the fortress. A round room it was, in the center of the building, with vaulted roof and a central fireplace, made for the councils of war. A copper hood and chimney, green with age, hung down from the high ceiling to capture the smoke, which it did very well. The air in the room was clean and sweet. The whitewashed walls and high slit windows made it seem light, not gloomy as one would have expected.
Donald, Samuel and three of the weapon-masters of Ariel worried over the problem of the captive women like a dog worries a fresh bone. A sand table had been set up next to the fire. On the table was a cunningly made scale model of the Raider’s stockade. The roads, walls, buildings, as well as the surrounding hills were clearly shown. Don sat brooding, staring at the model with his chin cradled in his hands.
“If, as you say, these Raiders are your enemy,” asked Don, addressing the weapon masters, “Why does not Ariel attack in force? We could easily free the captives in the confusion.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” responded the oldest of the three, named Enos, his close-cropped beard and hair reflecting the ruddy glow from the hot coals. “But such an attack would be most unwise, and we certainly could not get the council’s permission to break the truce.”
Don felt his face flush, and he could not help knotting his fists. “Why not?” he snapped, in more of a demand than a question. “Does the council fear this ragtag band so much? Stonegate would have no hesitation in attacking them! Is your council a bunch of old women? I don’t understand you!”
“Come, now, young man,” responded Enos, in a composed, but cool tone. “The leader of this ragtag band, as you call it, has high political connections, some say reaching to the chief servants of the Prophet himself. It would be most injudicious to attack them unprovoked. This is quite obvious. The young women are not ours, you see. We have no treaty with Stonegate or with any of the Old Alliance—indeed, the East drove many of our ancestors away in the time of troubles. Remember, waging war is the place of the young, but starting war is reserved to us graybeards. It would never do to reverse our roles!” At the last comment, all but Don chuckled.
There seemed to be sense in these words, but Don felt no relief of tension. “I repeat my question,” he said stubbornly. “There would be an advantage in removing such a threat from so near your walls, and this is not part of the Prophet’s domain.”
Enos sighed and looked with a hint of exasperation at his two fellows who resembled him greatly. They were named John and Elias and were also masters in the fabrication and employment of weapons of war. Enos began again: “Then hear me anew—But I see that we have refreshments.” A page appeared, bearing a tray with five foaming mugs. When all were served, Enos exclaimed: “Stonegate ale! A bit less sweet than our local brews, and a favorite of mine—and yours, I think, Donald. That is if you are a true son of Stonegate.”
He offered a toast, “May the walls of Ariel and Stonegate long stand!”
They all gave a murmur of approval at this toast and Don drank deeply with the others. The pleasant taste of the ale spread through him, warming like the noon of an August day. It did remind him of the pleasant days in Stonegate before his stupidity ruined everything! Those pleasant times in Westerly seemed like a half-remembered dream, yet even those pleasant times were now edged with gloom.
After a moment, Enos wiped foam from his mustache and continued, a bit pompously: “We of Ariel … We of Ariel, like the House of Healing and the town of Bethuel, lie on the edge of the realm of the Prophet. He does not rule us, but in one way or another we all pay him tribute. Should he care to, it is within his power to destroy us.”
“Why has he not done so?”
“We are all walled towns and would be costly to take. Secondly, we are all allied with each other. An attack on one would be an attack on all. If he were to attack Bethuel, for example, he would risk losing the medicines and sword blades. On the other hand, and more to the point, we dare not attack him, either. We do not care to provoke him. Our alliance would not protect us if we were the aggressors, and the Prophet would have all the excuse he would need to destroy us or exact a ruinous tribute. We must be careful. I hope you understand.”
“Very well,” returned Don, with a dismissing wave of his hand. “I understand that you cannot attack openly. What else could be done, then?”
Samuel spoke up. “I think I can be of service. You see, I am not really of Ariel, nor Bethuel, nor of the House of Healing, though I have lived for a time in all three places. My actions would not reflect on any of the three allies. I believe that I can find one or two reliable men in Glenwood who may help for a price—and perhaps to settle a few old injuries. The folk of Glenwood are not really allied with us, but they have no love of the Prophet.”
“Is Glenwood under the protection of the House of Healing?” asked Don.
“In a way,” returned Samuel. “Glenwood folk would be welcome to take shelter behind the walls of the House of Healing in case of attack. It is more due to friendship than a formal alliance, however. If the truth be known, Glenwood is only loosely governed, and the city is split into several factions, even some friendly to the Prophet. Certainly the Raiders are as welcome to trade there as anyone. The Prophet’s soldiers also come there on occasion, but never in large force.”
“It sounds very complicated,” sighed Don. “Anyway, what could so few do? The Raiders’ camp is clearly well guarded.”
Samuel stood and walked over to the model. He pointed at the small stockade with the point of his dagger. He looked and Don, earnestly. “First, you must recognize that I am as familiar with this camp as you are the ‘Sword and Quill.’”
Don looked up with a start. Samuel laughed. “Oh, yes! I have spent some time in Stonegate. I was born in Hightower, two long days’ ride to the south. But look carefully. Observe this guard tower on the southwest wall. Notice that it cannot be seen clearly from any other tower.”
They
all stood and examined the model closely. If it was accurate, the high gables of the commander’s quarters did appear to block the view of the southwest tower from the tower to the east. The northwest tower seemed to be in plain view, however.
Don pointed to the two towers with a questioning look on his face.
Samuel continued: “Oh, yes, the gate towers to the north … Look closely. You see, these towers are fifty yards away. That is a long way to see clearly by torchlight. Also, see that the southwest tower has a windbreak to cut the north wind, here. So this tower is actually quite isolated. Remember, also, that the torches are placed more to see inside the stockade than out. It is really more of a prison than a fort. Who is likely to attack them, after all?”
“If your idea is to attack this tower,” asked Don, “How could we do so without the guard giving the alarm to the camp at large? What difference does it make whether or not the other towers are visible?”
“Perhaps,” broke in Enos, “Perhaps the question should be—how close to the guard can one approach without being seen?”
“The guards are not always watchful and seem to be more blinded than helped by the torches once night has fallen,” answered Samuel. “There are a few shrubs that provide good cover after dark. I, myself, have approached to within arms’ length of the stockade and within twenty feet of the guard, and departed, all without being seen.”
Enos looked at the other weapons masters, and they all smiled. John voiced the thought of all, “Based on what you have told us, Samuel, a solution does seem to suggest itself.” They all gave him their attention as he began to explain.
†
The stockade loomed high on the ridge ahead, a black shadow against the night sky. Don followed the dim figure ahead, thankful for the wet grass that absorbed the sound of their passage. Even he could hear no sound.
The Stonegate Sword Page 22
