The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades

by Dave Duncan

  Swan just nodded.

  Emerald tried again. “Doctor, what exactly is a chimera?”

  Without turning his head, he replied in a loud lament, as if he were addressing a large funeral. “Quagmarsh used to be a fishing village. I cannot call it a ‘humble’ fishing village, because in fact it was extremely arrogant, denying allegiance to any lord and claiming an ancient history. There was a token stockade around it, but the foolish inhabitants relied for their safety on the assumption that only they had the specialized geographic knowledge and boats of sufficiently shallow draft to navigate these marshes. Possibly they also assumed that they owned nothing worth stealing. Aw! They learned the magnitude of their folly about ten years ago, when a party of Baelish raiders came in on a spring tide. Baels are slavers and their longships draw very little water. They stripped Quagmarsh of everyone except old people. You can still see where they tried to burn it down, but there must have been rain that day. The survivors fled inland and Quagmarsh stood empty until my colleagues and I moved in a few months ago.”

  He paused to stare suspiciously at an unexplained ripple until the punt was safely past it. “If the Baels would just try to repeat their success now, the results would be very interesting, a foretaste of what will happen when I launch my attack on Baelmark itself. The most important thing you must learn in Quagmarsh, Emerald—other than total loyalty to myself and instant obedience to my wishes—is to stay inside the stockade at all times. This is true even in daylight, but at night it is essential. Several people have ignored that rule and paid dearly for their imprudence, including two of your predecessors. We rarely find more than fragments of bloodstained fabric or some well-gnawed bones.”

  After a moment he added, “The same fate befalls any outsider who wanders close to the village. This may seem unkind, but it is the fault of King Ambrose. While he persecutes us, we are forced to defend ourselves as best we can with our limited resources. Chimeras are always hungry. This must have something to do with their extraordinary growth, which I cannot as yet explain.”

  This time the silence remained unbroken. The punt moved on. Apparently the lecture was over, but he had not said exactly what a chimera was or looked like. Swan would know, but she was clearly too cowed to speak at all.

  19

  Quagmarsh

  THE FIRST SIGN OF THE VILLAGE WAS A LOW DOCK of rotting wooden pilings lining the left-hand shore. Behind that stood a wooden palisade, so mossy and ramshackle that it seemed like part of the forest. When Herrick and Thatcher brought the punt in against the wharf and held it there with their poles, Skuldigger removed the golden whistle from his neck and dropped the chain over the head of the taller of the two, whichever one he was. “Go back and wait for the Marshal. Obey his orders. If he does not come, do not wait long enough to miss the tide.”

  “Master.” The man’s reply was little more than a grunt.

  With the tide in, it was possible to step from the side of the punt straight onto the dock, and thus Emerald followed Swan and the Doctor ashore. The bank was treacherous, a mixture of mud and decayed timber, and in some places the pilings had collapsed to let the soil slide away, leaving gaps like giant bite marks. Nevertheless Swan took off at a run for the gate, going in search of her daughter. Skuldigger strode along behind her, making no effort to call her back.

  Emerald followed more cautiously. She was unimpressed by the palisade leaning over her, which had obviously been built many years ago out of the spindly trunks of local trees. It was a mossy, half-rotten fence, not much more than head height, sagging like the flesh on a dowager’s neck. She could not imagine how such a wreck could keep out monsters capable of killing and eating full-grown seals. Anyone could knock a hole through that if she had to.

  Just before the Doctor reached the gate, two middle-aged men and a young woman came hurrying out. They greeted him warmly—very warmly in the woman’s case. Flames! It had never occurred to Emerald that there could be a Mistress Skuldigger. Would she be as crazy as her husband? This question should soon be answered, because the men vanished inside, chatting busily, while the lady waited for Emerald.

  First impressions were not favorable. Her rose-and-gold gown was crafted of the finest silk and decorated with innumerable sequins and seed pearls—far better suited for court than a backwater in the swamps. As a concession to reality, the toes of black leather boots showed under the hem of its widely spread skirt, but nothing of the lady herself was visible, being hidden by long sleeves, white gloves, and a red straw hat inside a veil of muslin that completely enveloped her head like a bag. Granted that the overall effect was bizarre, the outfit was practical enough to protect her from both insects and the mire underfoot. She did catch the eye in a little place like this.

  “I am Sister Carmine!” she announced in the imperious tones of a herald proclaiming the entry of the Gevilian ambassador. Her face remained a blur behind the muslin.

  “Sister Emerald, Sister.” Emerald had realized at some point in this interminable day that if her expulsion from Oakendown had been a fraud, as Wart admitted, then she was entitled to ignore it and claim the rank she had earned.

  “Welcome to Quagmarsh, Sister.”

  “My visit here is not by choice.”

  “Come, I will show you around.” Sister Carmine turned and led the way to the gate, being careful not to let her skirt brush against any of the debris. “Choice or not, here you will be privileged to assist in a magnificent extension of the frontiers of human knowledge, combined with a struggle for personal freedom against tyrannical oppression.” That answered the question. She was at least as crazy as her husband—birds of a feather flip together.

  Inside the gateway, hidden from outside view, lay another punt and two small boats. There was no street as such, merely narrow passages between squalid huts of wattle and thatch. The air stank of sewage.

  Waving away the swarming insects, Emerald said, “Pray explain to me the magic in the amulets Marshal Thrusk and his men wear. I am much relieved to be free of it at last.”

  “Amulets?” Mistress Skuldigger laughed gaily. “They wear no amulets, child! They have themselves been bespelled with loyalty to Doctor Skuldigger. It is one of his greatest magics, based on the enthrallment sorcery that the Baels use to tame their slaves. The Baels are satisfied to turn their victims into human sheep, incapable of doing anything except obey orders. Doctor Skuldigger has succeeded in imposing absolute obedience without damaging the subjects’ intelligence—not to any great extent that is. Yet the tyrant Ambrose seeks to crush all such progress! His oppression is intolerable. It has taken Doctor Skuldigger many years and hundreds of attempts to perfect this sorcery, and the value of it to society could be inestimable.”

  Well now, there was a debatable statement! The value of such a spell to the sorcerers who owned it would certainly be beyond measure, but Emerald shuddered at the thought of the evil being made available to anyone who could afford it. Landowners would enslave their workers, householders their servants; generals would make troops fearless…. This was exactly the sort of magical barbarity the King was trying to stamp out.

  “I cannot imagine why a man like Marshal Thrusk would submit to such treatment.”

  Inside her veils, Mistress Skuldigger laughed. “He did not know he was submitting. A year or so ago he came to the Priory to have a wound healed, a nasty puncture made by a pitchfork tine. Of course Doctor Skuldigger recognized his value right away and enlisted him.”

  “Thrusk did not mind being tricked like that?”

  “He cannot complain. He recruited all his men as well—the Baron’s men, really. And the Baron, too, is now a supporter.”

  Her name, her choice of colors, her burning enthusiasm—they all proved beyond doubt that fire was Carmine’s dominant manifest element. Wart had said that there must be at least one Sister cooperating willingly with the traitors. A little thought showed the logic of that, because the captors would need to know when the captives were lying to them. Carmine w
as that traitor, the Sister who had married the corrupt sorcerer. Emerald wondered if her dominant virtual element was love, which could make its children do anything. No, in that case she should not be so indifferent to the suffering her husband’s work created. Chance, more likely. Fire-chance people were so unpredictable and uncontrollable that the Companionship rarely admitted them.

  Carmine followed a complex winding path through the shacks. Some of them were collapsed ruins; others had recently been repaired, and sounds of hammering and sawing not far off suggested that the work continued. The few people in sight were obviously servants and laborers, the telltale discordant whistle of enchantment indicating that they had all been bespelled. But there had to be other inhabitants in this den of horrors. The men who had greeted Skuldigger at the gate must have been colleagues, for eight people were needed to conjure the eight elements. The slaves’ loyalty spells would disrupt the balance of elements too much for them ever to work magic. Masters and slaves alike seemed to be prisoners of the monsters roaming the swamps.

  “What does a chimera look like?”

  “Depends on the ingredients Doctor Skuldigger used to make it. He has warned you about them, I hope?”

  “In a general sense. They attack on sight?”

  “Oh yes. Most of them are flesh eaters and they all seem to be permanently ravenous. To venture far from the stockade by day is very dangerous. By night it is suicide. You will be eaten alive, and not just by mosquitoes!” Sister Carmine found her own humor irresistibly funny. Love was certainly not a major element in her makeup.

  “Why do creatures so powerful not break into the village?”

  “Because they were ordered not to do so when they were assembled, of course. Doctor Skuldigger has also made a device that drives them away. Without that we should all be trapped in here forever.”

  “Only one ‘device’? Isn’t that rather risky?” If a prisoner could steal that magical whistle….

  “We have several copies. You will note,” Sister Carmine said, changing the subject abruptly, “that I am not taking you by the shortest route. If you are as sensitive as I am, you will have detected the conjuration presently underway in the elementary. I wish to avoid it.”

  Emerald had certainly noted it—magic like a stench of rotting fish—and now she could hear chanting. A few moments later her guide led her into a small open area, an irregular patch of weeds and mud that seemed to serve as a village square. A woman was turning a windlass on a well, making horrible squeaking noises, and a gang of four men was repairing thatch on one of the huts.

  “Do come and see this!” Carmine said excitedly. “One of our trappers brought in an otter this morning! Very rare! Usually they just catch water rats or squirrels. In fact, the trap lines are often quite empty now. The chimeras have scared everything away.”

  Or eaten everything, Emerald thought. What would happen when there was nothing left for them to eat in the woods?

  Carmine stopped at a small open-fronted shed containing a collection of metal cages. She peered into them until she found the one she wanted and then banged on it. The lump of fur in one corner did not move. “There it is. Poor thing! They say its paw is injured and of course they never eat in captivity. I expect Doctor Skuldigger will want to use it tonight, before it starves itself to death.”

  Emerald did not ask Use how? She did not want to know. She was more interested in two solid posts outside and the rusty chains dangling from them.

  “And this?”

  Although Sister Carmine’s face was concealed by her veil, her smile could be heard in her voice. “Well, those serve several purposes. New recruits usually have to be restrained until Doctor Skuldigger and his assistants have time to attend to them. On occasion they also serve as a whipping post. You have met Marshal Thrusk?”

  Emerald did not answer.

  “This way.” Sister Carmine set off through the weeds in her fine gown. “You will find that the cost of defiance rises swiftly. Doctor Skuldigger will question you later, and I expect he will introduce you to your duties. They are very simple and quite harmless if performed correctly.”

  Past two or three more huts, they came to a woman sitting on a bench outside a doorway, cuddling a child of about two. It was Sister Swan, and both she and her daughter were so intent on each other that they did not notice the arrivals until Carmine spoke.

  “There you are!” she said cheerfully.

  Swan jumped. The child screamed. And screamed. She tried to burrow into her mother’s neck, screaming all the time. Swan picked her up and ran into the hut, just as another woman came out to see what was happening. It was quite understandable that a two-year-old girl might be frightened by a woman with a bag over her head, but somehow Emerald thought that Belle knew exactly who was under the veil, and that was why she had screamed. And was still screaming inside the hut, despite all her mother could do to calm her.

  But the other woman—large, plump, grand-motherly…

  “Cloud!”

  “Emerald!”

  They fell into each other’s arms.

  “Oh, how nice!” Carmine declaimed. “I am so glad you know each other. This will help you to settle down in your new home, Emerald.”

  20

  Stalwart Unbound

  THE WAGON BROKE ITS REAR AXLE ON A ROCK and tipped. The barrels slid, broke open the tail-gate, and fell out, one after the other, exploding in a fog of powdered garlic. Fortunately Stalwart was on the uphill side, or he would certainly have been flattened. As he began to move, he expected the noose around his neck to choke him, but the rope had been tied around one of the barrels, so it went with him. Trussed so he could do nothing to save himself, he slid within a torrent of bags and clothes and one archlute to land in the heap of staves and garlic.

  “Now you’ve done it!” Murther screamed. “Thrusk’ll have the skin off your back for this. And look at the poor boy! Dead he is!” She came closer, fussing and coughing.

  Stalwart was coughing also, and his eyes were full of burning garlic.

  “You come here and help, Cordwainer, right now!” she yelled.

  The man’s voice, farther away, bellowed that he was busy with the horse. Saxon agreed loudly. The woman, to her credit, waded into the debris and dragged Stalwart out. He lay on his side, which was a wonderful experience after so long facedown, and he coughed around the gag. At least his torment in the wagon was over. Almost anything would be better than that. But oh, his eyes!

  “Poor boy!” she muttered. She struggled, trying to unfasten the gag, having trouble with Thrusk’s knots. “Not our fault. Have to do what we’re told, see. ‘Don’t stop,’ he said. ‘Take him all the way to the landing if you can.’ Well, that’s Thrusk for you—mean as they come.”

  The wagon creaked and settled as Saxon was freed from the shafts.

  “Never said we could untie him,” the man growled, coming to see.

  “Well, and how are we to get him to the landing if we don’t? You going to carry him, Cord-wainer?”

  “Could put him over the horse.”

  “I’ll ride the horse, thank you. Don’t you just stand there like a dumb mule. Bring the canteen, if there’s anything left in it. Look at his face! And then cut his hands free so—Look at his hands, won’t you! And his feet’ll be no better, I’m sure. Oh, his poor face!”

  The woman, querulous sourpuss though she was, treated Stalwart with consideration, wiping his tongue and cracked lips with a wet rag. Had she just put the bottle to his mouth, he would probably have choked himself. He wanted her to wash out his eyes, but he couldn’t speak, so he waited.

  “Thrusk never say we’re to cut him loose, Murther.” The man continued his growl, but he was sawing at Stalwart’s bonds as he did so.

  Stalwart managed a swallow. He must be alive. No one dead could hurt so much.

  His troubles were far from over. When his mouth had been cared for and he had drunk his fill, when his eyes had been washed out and he could see again—althou
gh still not very well—then it was time for the blood to start returning to his hands and feet. His fingers looked like pig guts, except they were blue. Hurt? His jaw hurt, but the pain of the blood returning to his hands was going to be worse than that. Murther and Cordwainer fretted and muttered and wanted to continue their journey.

  “Any more water?” he croaked. The woman handed him the canteen and he emptied it. “Is my lute all right?” What good was a lute to him with his hands like this?

  “Looks fine,” the man said. He twanged the strings. “That’s a wondrous strange-looking lute.” Then he stiffened and looked around.

  Hooves! Horsemen were coming from the west, from the way the wagon had come—could it be Snake? Stalwart struggled upright and managed to stand up with some help from Murther. No, it was not rescue coming. It was Thrusk and his band, who had stayed behind to look out for pursuit. How they must have laughed if they had watched Snake and the Old Blades galloping past along the highway, chasing nothing! Stalwart squared his shoulders and tried to look more defiant than he felt. Should be easy—a dead jellyfish would look more defiant than he felt. His hands were useless balls of sheer agony and his feet not much better. He still wore a rope around his neck, which did not help his dignity much.

  Thrusk reined in, enormous on horseback, a mountain against the sky. “Have a nice nap, did you?” he inquired.

  “You are a bucket of dog vomit and your mother ate rats.”

  The big man studied him for a moment and then smiled. He swung a leg over and slid down from his horse. He walked closer, very close. Even on level ground he could fill the sky.

  “What did you say, runt?”

  “You are a stinking barrel of dog vomit and your mother ate rats raw.”

  Someone sniggered. Thrusk looked around quickly and the laughter stopped at once.

  He turned back to Stalwart. “I’m not allowed to pull that rope over a branch, which is what I’d like to do, slipgibbet. But I got no orders not to teach you manners.”