The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades

by Dave Duncan

  “You deserve it, brother.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.” But had he earned it? Or was he being given a diamond-studded bauble so that he wouldn’t provoke too many smirks when he strutted around the palace dressed up as a Blade?

  “The bad news,” Snake added, “is that Fat Man says he may just create a junior order of chivalry especially for you and Sister Emerald—the Order of the King’s Daggers.”

  “Oh, funny! Very, very funny!”

  “It’s funny when he says it, brother! Kings’ jokes are always hilarious. If he says it again tonight, you laugh your head off!”

  “I don’t, he’ll chop it off?”

  “Could be,” Snake agreed with a smirk. “Now this afternoon…at these highfalutin formal affairs, it is customary to have four Blades in attendance on the dais. Leader has assigned today’s duty to Sir Orvil, Sir Panther, Sir Dragon, and Sir Rufus.”

  “Flames!” Stalwart was saying that a lot this morning. Those four, who thought he had been chucked out or had run off with his tail between his legs, were going to watch him being inducted into the Star? Bandit would be there, and the great Durendal. Flames, flames, flames! Life was never going to get sweeter than this.

  Snake wandered over to the window and peered out. “That’s if you want it that way,” he said offhandedly.

  Warning gongs clanged. “What other way might I want it?” Stalwart asked warily.

  Snake shrugged. Even in formal court finery he was skinny. “We haven’t nabbed Skuldigger yet or his wife. We think Baron Grimshank is worth a hard look. And there are many, many others out there almost as bad.”

  “Oh, no! No! You are not going to talk me into any more of your crazy suicide missions!”

  “Of course not,” Snake said blandly to the window pane. “You’ll enjoy hanging around here with a hundred other men, all guarding the King. Standing on the sidelines at balls, masques, banquets…You’ll love it, I’m sure. Ten years of crushing boredom to look forward to. I admit it isn’t as boring as it used to be, but it’s we Old Blades who are really doing the work—the cutting edge you might say. Out there in the real world battling evil, defeating the King’s enemies—”

  “I am not an Old Blade! I am the youngest Blade of them all, perhaps the youngest ever bound…. When am I going to be bound?”

  “When Ambrose gets around to it. Next time he goes to Ironhall. Of course you can’t wear a sword in his presence until you are bound. Neither can I these days, but I don’t care, because I’m not in the Royal Guard. That will be embarrassing, an unarmed Blade! Goodness! Still, I’m sure you can find lots of other boys in the palace to play with.”

  “Burn you!” Stalwart muttered.

  “Meanwhile I need a man who can handle a really tricky mission. He has to be the sort who won’t attract suspicion, who can think on his feet, a superlative—”

  “No! No, no, no! You are trying to sucker me into volunteering again! You and the King! You are going to cheat me out of my reward!”

  Snake turned, looking indignant. “Not at all! Just a brief postponement. We’d keep you under wraps for a week or two longer, that’s all. The Star is yours, only you would receive it at that private supper tonight instead of in public. We’d put the livery away in a drawer for now. That’s all.” He picked up the tailor’s shears and tested their edge with his thumb.

  There was a long silence.

  “Of course, you did swear an oath…but if you’re not interested you’re not interested.” He turned back to the window.

  Still silence.

  Snake sighed. “It is so hard to find really firstrate men! Superlative fencers, I mean—great swordsmen who are also men of courage. Above all, courage. Tremendous courage. You’re the only man I know who could possibly have achieved what I had in mind.”

  Oh, flames!

  “What do you want me to do this time?” Stalwart asked glumly.

  Book Two

  THE CROOKED HOUSE

  There was a crooked man,

  Who walked a crooked mile.

  He found a crooked sixpence

  Against a crooked stile.

  He bought a crooked cat

  Which caught a crooked mouse;

  And they all lived together

  In a little crooked house.

  —TRADITIONAL

  1

  Murder in the Court

  It began with a murder. Stalwart saw it happen. He was watching a formal court reception, a grand state function held only three or four times a year. That was the last place anyone would expect to see such a gruesome crime.

  The day’s pomp had been staged in honor of the new ambassador from Isilond. King Ambrose had set out to impress him with spectacle and splendor, sparing no expense—drum rolls and trumpeters and heralds wearing gaudy tabards. Every ambassador in the diplomatic corps was there, as were scores of great lords and ladies, bejeweled and decked out in finery. They had all been escorted in from the gates of Nocare Palace by glittering honor guards of the Household Yeomen in silver-bright breastplates and plumed helmets. At the doors of the reception hall they had observed White Sisters in their snowy robes and high pointed hats—no one would sneak any evil magic into the King’s presence while the Sisters were on duty. The inside of the hall was patrolled by Blades of the Royal Guard, the world’s finest swordsmen.

  And yet a murder!

  After welcoming the new ambassador, the King began handing out honors and appointments. The first man the heralds called forward was Sir Snake. In recognition of his triumph over the traitors at Quagmarsh, he was being promoted from member to officer in the Order of the White Star, the greatest order of chivalry in the realm. It was an honor very few Blades had ever achieved. As he knelt to receive the diamond-studded brooch from the King, the assembled courtiers clapped and cheered.

  Hidden away by himself on a screened balcony, Stalwart kept his hands in his armpits. He should have been down there as well, and he had let Snake talk him out of it. It was he who had made Snake’s triumph at Quagmarsh possible! The King had been so impressed by that exploit that he had appointed Stalwart to the White Star, although he was at least ten years younger than anyone else who had ever been so honored. And stupid Stalwart had let Snake talk him out of public recognition for the time being. His undercover work for the Old Blades was too important to give up so soon, Snake had insisted, so why not just accept the star this evening during a private supper with the King? He could watch from this private box, seeing without being seen, hidden away like a shameful secret.

  He had seen the King often enough at Ironhall, although never wearing his crown and swathed in a robe so massive that it needed four pages to carry its train. Ambrose was a huge man, towering over everyone else as he stood in front of his throne. At his back, with swords drawn, stood the newest Blades, who only two weeks ago had been Stalwart’s classmates at Ironhall: Sir Rufus, Sir Orvil, Sir Panther, and Sir Dragon. They looked very smart in their blue and silver livery. He kept imagining the expressions on their faces if they heard his name proclaimed and saw him strutting forward before the entire court, honored as no man of his age had ever been honored.

  Sigh!

  And tomorrow he would ride off to a paltry little town called Horselea to investigate rumors of black magic there. In spite of all Snake’s efforts to make it seem dangerous and exciting, this sounded like a very dull mission, not the sort of thing to challenge an eager young swordsman. He could not help wondering if Snake just did not know what to do with his young helper now and was sending him off to horrible Horselea to age a few years.

  Sigh again!

  The reception that should have been the greatest moment of his life proceeded without him, dribbling down in boredom through awards, titles, and appointments to mere acknowledgments. Peers presented stripling sons and new wives to the King. Very subtly, people were fidgeting. Even Ambrose seemed to be hurrying things along, as if hungry for the roast boar, stuffed peacock, and other delights
of the state banquet that was to follow.

  The herald was close to the end of the list now. In a voice like a trumpet he proclaimed, “Lord Digby of Chase, Warden of the King’s Forests, knight in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, most humbly craves Your Majesty’s gracious leave to return to court.”

  Digby had visited Ironhall a year or two back, and thus was one of the very few people in the hall, other than Blades, whom Stalwart recognized. He began his advance to the steps of the throne. His petition was a mere formality, because he was one of the King’s personal friends. Having just returned from a brief absence, he was required by protocol to pay his respects to His Majesty at a public function. In fact he had supped with the King the previous evening and reported on his travels at that time. So it should have all been over in a few seconds. He made the first of the three low bows required. He took two more steps.

  He dropped dead.

  All the White Sisters standing around the hall screamed in unison. Heralds rushed forward to help the stricken man. One of them leaped up in horror with blood on his hands. Lord Digby had been stabbed through the heart. There had been no one near him; there was no weapon in sight.

  It was only a wild guess, but Stalwart was instantly certain that he would not be riding to Horselea after all. He was going to be needed.

  2

  His Majesty’s Displeasure

  King Ambrose of Chivial was not merely very large, he was often very loud as well. Royally enraged by the murder of his friend, he canceled the banquet, sent the distinguished guests away, and summoned the Privy Council. Its members needed time to assemble, and he was not accustomed to waiting for anyone. He strode up and down his council chamber, roaring like a thunderstorm, while those councillors who had been foolish enough to be prompt stood back against the walls, staying out of his way.

  Kings have few real friends, so Ambrose’s grief was genuine. He raved that he had been grossly insulted in his own throne room and Chivial would be the laughingstock of all Eurania. Although he would never admit it, he had received a severe shock, because obviously the evil sorcery had really been directed at him. Digby had died by mistake.

  “Disgraced! Shamed! Sorcery most foul!” Like a gigantic bluebottle circling a kitchen, the King came to a sudden and unheralded halt. He was in front of Commander Bandit, who stood at his post in front of the door. “Why did the Guard not prevent this outrage?”

  Swordsmen must be nimble, so no Blade was ever very large; Sir Bandit had to bend his head back to meet the royal glare. He said calmly, “If Your Majesty believes that the Guard is at fault, then I humbly beg leave to surrender my commission to Your Majesty.”

  The King seemed to swell even more. His already inflamed face turned a deeper shade of purple. “You are responsible for our safety!”

  Bandit was popular with his guardsmen because he never lost his temper. Nor would he allow them to be unfairly blamed. “With all respect, sire, your Blades cannot defend you against sorcery unless it is identified for them. That responsibility rests with the Sisters.”

  Ambrose flashed a look around the room to confirm what he already knew. “And where is Mother Superior?”

  “Her Excellency was absent from court, Your Grace, and had only just returned to the palace when she was informed of the incident and Your Majesty’s summons. I believe she wished to ascertain—”

  A tap on the door made even the imperturbable Bandit look relieved. “With Your Grace’s permission…”

  The King moved just enough to let him peer out and then admit the lady in question. Mother Superior was a national monument, who had been around court longer than anyone could remember—tall, imperious, unsmiling, and relentlessly efficient. Her white robes were invariably spotless and uncreased, and the high hennin that all White Sisters wore seemed to brush the lintel of the tall doorway. Finding herself trapped between the paneled wall and the King’s angry glare, she dropped without hesitation into a curtsey that almost poked that white conical hat right in his piggy little eyes. Ambrose perforce backed up.

  “Well, Mother?” he bellowed. “Who brought such sorcery into the hall? Why did your women not give warning? They were guarding the doors. What do I pay you for, if not protection, eh? Explain your failure!”

  Rising, she inspected his rage with matronly disapproval, as if it were a child’s tantrum. “The Sisters failed to give warning because the sorcery was not brought into the hall, sire.”

  “A courtier is struck down on the steps of the throne by an invisible assassin and you claim there was no sorcery present?”

  She raised her chin. “With respect, sire, there was no invisible assassin. I have spoken with the Prioress and most of the Sisters who were present. They are adamant that there was no sorcery present until the instant Lord Digby died.”

  “How can that be? What sort of magic works like that?”

  She met the royal glare with one of her own. “I do not know what sort of magic, sire! None of the Sisters has ever met anything quite like it. They detected no death elementals. Air and fire, they think. And love! A large measure of love.”

  “Love?” roared the King. “A spell drops a man dead and you say it is made of love?”

  Even the formidable Mother Superior flinched before that enormous bellow. “So they claim.”

  “And it kills when it is not there? Instantaneously? From a distance? What sort of magic does that?”

  “The Sisters can only determine the presence of elemental spirits, Your Majesty, not analyze the compulsions laid on them. That is the job of the College.”

  With a snarl of fury, King Ambrose swung around to survey the assembled councillors. The Lord High Admiral was there, the Lord Chamberlain, several dukes, the Earl Marshal…but not the head of the Royal College of Conjury. Inevitably, the royal eye sought out the crimson robes and gold chain of Lord Chancellor Roland. “Where is Grand Wizard, Chancellor? He was at the investiture.”

  As Sir Durendal, Lord Roland had been the most famous Blade of them all, commander of the Guard before Bandit. He bowed calmly. “Sire, the learned adept is deeply concerned about Your Grace’s safety in the face of this unprecedented threat. He wished to consult urgently with the entire faculty, so I gave him leave—” He was cut off by a royal bellow. Everyone knew that Grand Wizard was a mild-tempered scholar who became flustered when the King shouted at him, whereas Lord Roland accepted that his duties sometimes included acting as royal punching bag. Like now, for instance.

  “Bah! He dared not face us, you mean! Does he have the faintest idea how that evil was worked?”

  “I suspect not, Your Grace. But the sooner he can set the College to work the better.”

  “Snake!” The royal anger turned on Lord Roland’s companion. As thin as his namesake, Snake was dandily dressed in a green velvet jerkin, cloth-of-gold britches, silk hose, furtrimmed robe, and osprey-plumed hat. He made a leg with a fencer’s fluid grace. “Sire?”

  “That!” The King poked a meaty finger at him.

  Snake looked down. “Oh, that.”

  “Yes! That!” Ambrose had dropped his voice to a low growl. He was much more dangerous when he was quiet than when he was shouting. The that in question was the glittering six-pointed star he had hung around Snake’s neck not two hours ago. “I gave you that because you told me you had wiped out the traitor sorcerers who keep trying to kill me. It would seem that you lied.”

  Snake would never have made such a claim, but he did not deny the accusation. He just quirked his eyebrows as if puzzled. His features were narrow and bony, like the rest of him; he had an extraordinarily arrogant nose and a thin, disdainful mustache. “It would seem we missed a few, sire.”

  “And what are you doing about them now?”

  “I consulted with Grand Wizard as he was leaving, and he agreed that action at a distance like that is a highly original, if not unique, application of magic. He is also of the opinion, Your Grace, that the range of such an enchantment must be li
mited, and therefore the spell must have been cast from somewhere very close to the palace—probably within Grandon itself or its suburbs.”

  Everyone knew that Ambrose detested being lectured, but Snake blithely continued and was not struck down by any royal thunderclaps. The King listened, scowling intently.

  “Of course Your Majesty is aware that powerful spells tend to leave traces on the octogram where they were cast, at least for a short while. I therefore suggested to Mother Superior that the Sisters who were present in the hall at the time of the crime, and who should therefore be able to recognize the, er, smell of the murderous enchantment, be sent to inspect every known octogram within an hour’s coach ride of the palace. Fortunately, we had already compiled such a list, so this program is now under way. I sent Old Blades along to defend the good ladies. A dozen carriages are even now making the rounds, and they will visit every elementary in or near the capital.”

  That was incredibly fast work, and could not be faulted.

  “Bah! Anyone can make an octogram with a piece of chalk and a reasonably clean floor.”

  Snake bowed again. “Your Majesty’s expertise is legendary.”

  The King’s glare turned even darker. “So why would the traitors not have created a new octogram, one you don’t know about?”

  “Of course they may have done so, sire. However, Grand Wizard did point out that great time and effort are required to season a new octogram before it will work predictably. He suggested we begin by inspecting the known sites.”

  “Harumph! But you have no idea who was behind this foul attempt on our life?”

  Snake pursed his lips, as if he had somehow tugged the ends of that arrogant mustache. “Has Your Majesty considered the possibility that the attack was directed at the man it slew?”