by Dave Duncan
She expected fifteen minutes of argument, but the old man cackled approvingly.
“Aye, milady! That I will. You can count on Mervyn.”
This instant agreement was a little disconcerting. Suddenly she had no more reason to delay. “Then please leave the other two horses here. Thank you.”
“Spirits keep you—Master Luke!”
“And good chance to you, Mervyn Forester,” she said, striding off down the hill with the cat’s-eye sword swaying at her side.
17
Baron Smealey
“I asked you, Wart,” said the mocking voice, “if you want to die now or later?”
“Later would be better.” He was probably not audible over the din of the falls. That his captors knew his name was the worst news of all. Lord Florian or almost anyone in Waterby Castle might have betrayed him, but only Badger and Emerald knew him as Wart. Enlisting Badger had been entirely his own idea, not one approved by Snake. This disaster was all his own fault.
“Come up,” the man yelled, removing his sword from the end of Stalwart’s nose. “I was told not to maltreat you as long as you behave yourself. If you give any trouble, I am to thrash you within an inch of your life. Clear enough?”
“Very transparent.” Stalwart hauled himself wearily up, boots scrabbling on the rocks. He made such hard work of it that powerful hands grabbed his arms and lifted him bodily, then steadied him as he staggered. He was looking at the laces of a leather jerkin.
“This un’s not big enough, Sarge!” roared a new voice. “Ought to throw it back.”
All four of them stood head and shoulders above Stalwart, and twice as wide. All were stoutly clad in padded leather, armed with swords and daggers.
“Hands behind you,” the leader shouted in his ear. “I’m told you’re a lot more dangerous than you look.”
“Wouldn’t be hard,” yelled one of the others, and they all hooted.
Who was Stalwart to disagree, stumbling, bumbling idiot that he was? He submitted in silence as his wrists were bound, and then a few turns taken around his elbows as well. Were they seriously worried that he might snatch a man’s sword from his scabbard? That they felt the need to take such precautions was a compliment to the Blades’ reputation—no credit to him.
“Move!” the Sergeant shouted, and off they all went along the rocky ledge, skirting driftwood and ankle-breaking gaps in the footing. Stalwart had trouble balancing, but his captors stayed close and steadied him.
It was only a week since the last time he’d been led around like a performing bear with a noose around his neck. He really should try and break the habit. His captor then had been the odious Marshal Thrusk, whom he had joyfully obliterated soon after. Thrusk had gone so far as to tow Stalwart behind his horse and had never tied a knot that did not hurt; but these men were being surprisingly considerate, as if they really had been ordered not to damage him.
When they had climbed up out of the canyon into the wider valley, they came to more men waiting with horses. Stalwart was lifted into a saddle like a child. He ought to feel flattered that whoever was in charge of this had felt the need to send so many men for him. He should have been more modest when he described his Quagmarsh exploits to Badger.
He would not be bragging much about this mission.
The Hall seemed to be a cluster of buildings arrayed around a central yard. From the way the rooflines blotted out the stars, some were two stories high; a few poorly shuttered windows showed chinks of candlelight. Bats squeaked and flittered overhead, which was common enough around country dwellings, but no dogs barked or came to greet the visitors. That was curious.
More leather-clad swordsmen appeared with lanterns. The prisoner was lifted from his horse’s back, then led by his tether down some steps, with a lantern behind making shadows dance ahead. He noted a door of timbers as thick as his fist, a flagstone floor, glimpses of solid masonry walls, but it was the chill and the cloying scent of recently harvested apples that told him he was in a root cellar. Onions and carrots hung in nets overhead. Stacked casks and barrels took up at least half the space, but in the area left empty stood a single wooden chair. On an upturned bucket beside it were a pitcher, a loaf, and some cheese. His mouth started to water, traitor that it was.
The Sergeant hung a lantern on a chain dangling from the ceiling. “You’ll be needing a blanket. Or two. We wouldn’t,” he added wryly, “want you to die of cold.”
Stalwart was wet to the skin and shuddering, lacking cloak and jerkin. “Be nice,” he admitted humbly. He would not be too proud to eat that food, either. When the bonds fell from his hands, he shot a quick glance behind him. Two other men were blocking the doorway, fore-stalling any attempt to dodge past the Sergeant and make a break.
The man was even larger than he had seemed in the dark. His features had been so horribly mangled that they seemed barely human. His remaining eye looked the prisoner up and down curiously. Mostly down, naturally.
“You really a Blade, sonny?”
“Naw! Give me a sword and I’ll show you how bad I am with it.”
“What’s your second wish?”
“Yes, I am a Blade. And I’m on His Majesty’s business. What you’re doing here is treason.”
“Yes, lad. I know.” He chuckled. “I enjoy it. I also need the money, because I’ll have to be very, very rich to find me a wife at my age. Don’t bother trying to escape. This place was built to keep mice out. It can keep one dagger-sized Blade in. I’ll send a man with the blankets. No, I’ll send three men with the blankets, just so you won’t be tempted.”
He left, his subordinates backing away before him. The door shut with a squeal and a boom, followed by muffled sounds of bolts and bars rattling and thumping. By that time Stalwart was eating.
He had barely taken the edge of his hunger when the same racket recurred in reverse order, ending when the door squeaked open. A man entered and the whole performance was repeated. Someone was fanatically determined that the prisoner not escape.
That someone was almost certainly the man who was now locked in with him, for his sorcerer’s cowled gown of midnight black was bound by the golden cord of a prior. He stood under the lantern so that his face was shadowed. Stalwart could make out only a square, clean-shaven chin and two dark, deep-set eyes.
“The King sends children against me!”
Stalwart leaned back, crossed his ankles, and continued to chew. “Traitors deserve nothing better.”
“I am no traitor, for he was never my king! Look! I will demonstrate a little magic for you.” From his sleeve the conjurer produced a horseshoe, seemingly a perfectly ordinary iron horseshoe, large enough to fit a cart horse or a knight’s destrier. “Watch!”
He had very large hands, and his gown was stretched over an enormous chest and shoulders. Grunting with effort, he slowly wrenched the arms of the shoe apart. He did not quite straighten it, but he opened it to a crescent. This was a legendary test of strength that Master Armorer at Ironhall always declined to try, although he could sometimes be persuaded to lift anvils. To complete his act, the Prior threw the shoe on the flagstones, making it ring convincingly.
“Ta-rah!” Stalwart clapped his hands slowly. As a former gleeman, he could appreciate a good routine. But why bother performing for him?
A fine set of teeth flashed angrily in the shadow of the hood. “I wished to show you the wisdom of obeying my commands. Give me trouble, and I will break your arms with my bare hands. I can make you suffer unbelievable torments. Indeed, I intend to, but I prefer not to start just yet. It might lower your resistance.”
Stalwart was locked in with a raving maniac, and the stench of madness made his scalp prickle. He shrugged. “You enjoy making others suffer?”
“No. It is because I have seen so much suffering that I intend to punish the criminal responsible. I understand that you claim to be a Blade, and yet you have never been bound.”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
&nbs
p; Stalwart rose uneasily and unlaced his doublet, then opened his shirt to show that he bore no binding scar over his heart. “Satisfied?”
“Yes. A major conjuration like that would interfere with the enchantment I have planned for you.”
As he dressed again, Stalwart recalled the late and unlamented Marshal Thrusk. He, too, had checked his prisoner for a binding scar, and would have slain him instantly had he found one. Now the situation was apparently reversed: it was the absence of one that had landed him in trouble this time.
“So when does the show begin?” The cellar was icy. He was trying as hard as he could not to shiver, lest this demented sorcerer think he was afraid. In fact, of course, he was absolutely terrified. Fortunately threats always raised his dander and made him smart-alecky.
“As soon as the novices have been sent off to bed. Where are the woman and the old forester?”
“When I found the body, I sent them for help.” Oh, flames! He should not have mentioned the body. There went the evidence! To hide his dismay, he sat down and tore another hunk off the loaf with his teeth.
The Prior chuckled. “I guessed that was what you were doing in the rapids with a rope. I shall see that the corpse is properly disposed of as soon as there is light. Your remains may even make it down the Hole before his do, but I hope you will last longer than that.”
What sort of man gloated over a helpless captive like this? It was a serious defect of character and there ought to be some way to exploit it. His identity was an easy guess.
“I assume your spite against me is because I am a Blade? You will take revenge on me because Sir Durendal slew two of your brothers?”
“I had not thought of that. Now you mention it, it will add to my pleasure.”
“You are Badger’s last remaining brother, of course?”
“His name is Bevan!” The sorcerer threw back his hood. The family resemblance would have been noticeable even without the white lock above the forehead. In his case it showed more as a streak than a tuft, because his hair was not curly. “I am Owen, fourth Baron Smealey.”
“No you’re not.” Stalwart spoke with his mouth full, waving a chunk of cheese in one hand and an onion in the other. “When—which one was it? I lost count. When another of your awful brothers strangled your old man, Ceri was still alive. He would have inherited the title. Then he was convicted of treason, so all his lands and goods were forfeit and the title revoked. There is no Baron Smealey.”
The Prior lunged forward, grabbed him by the front of his doublet and lifted him one-handed. Stalwart forced himself to keep still and just hang there, feet dangling, although he was choking as the mighty fist pressed up under his chin.
“But I am still rightful Prince of Nythia, aren’t I? Say it: Yes, Your Highness!”
With all the breath he had left, Stalwart let him have the whole mouthful—cheese, onion, and a great spray of spit.
The Prior roared in revulsion and threw him away. Stalwart struck the chair, rolled off sideways, and bounced to his feet, grabbing the water pitcher to use as a weapon. He had acted without weighing the cost, and he realized now that it might be very high indeed.
But the madman did not leap at him. He wiped his face on his sleeve and laughed. “You will pay for that, runt—pay and pay! You swore to die for your tyrant king. Well, tonight you will die for him, I promise. Over and over, hour after hour!”
Wheeling around, the madman beat on the door with his fist, and the guards outside began clattering locks and bolts again to open it.
Had the rest of the awful brood been as bad as this one? Or had some been more like Badger, who was decent enough under his surly manner? Owen was obviously madder than a bated bear. Why had Badger come home to aid his hopeless cause?
18
Sir Emerald
Before she was halfway down the precipice, Emerald realized that her madcap rescue effort was unwise, but carrying on already seemed easier than turning back. The sword had taken on a fiendish, spiteful life of its own. It stuck out in front and behind, tangled in the undergrowth, and not infrequently managed to find its way between her knees. Now she understood why Wart had discarded it before going after the body in the river, and why the seniors at Ironhall were allowed a year’s practice in wearing the accursed things.
By the time she was three-quarters of the way down, the light had failed completely and she was calling herself every kind of raving lunatic. She slithered and slipped and stumbled, no longer sure she was even on the trail and very much aware of the roaring waterfall below her. What could she really hope to accomplish by setting herself up as a knight errant? The chances that she might manage to return Wart’s sword to him in a situation where he could use it were closer to invisible than the feathers on an egg. And reading out his commission to impress a gang of murderers did not seem a very promising program either.
She could not believe that Wart had been so clumsy as to fall in the river, but there was no sign of him on the path. Bruised, exhausted, and filthy, she came at last to the wide valley beyond the canyon, and the river of stars overhead spread out as a sea. There she could at least walk upright instead of scrambling along on all fours. Soaked by spray and too cold to stop, she had no other purpose than to continue her trek in search of Smealey Hall. She soon lost the trail, but if she stayed close to the riverbank—and not close enough to fall in—she must inevitably come to the little hill she had seen earlier. She set off through the rocks and weeds, waving the rapier in front of her like a blind person’s cane.
An isolated dwelling on the edge of Brakwood would certainly have dogs, but the wind was toward her, so her scent ought to escape their notice for a while yet. She struggled through thistles and brambles, with every new step a chance to sprain an ankle. Eventually a toothy black shape rose ahead of her, cutting off the stars to become the roofline of the buildings she sought. Soon she could even see pale gleams of candlelight in windows and a puzzling flicker of firelight at ground level.
Bats squeaked and wheeled overhead. She heard a horse whinny. She stopped. Horses reminded her of dogs. One bark and she would be lost—or found, rather—with nowhere to run, men coming to see what the trouble was…. She could not imagine herself fighting off a pack of mastiffs with a rapier, although she would probably try if the need arose.
The fire was certainly a bonfire. Why would anyone waste valuable fuel outdoors at night? The smoke was drifting toward her, so the dogs should not scent her yet. Unable to think of anything better to do, she decided to risk going halfway up the slope in the hope that she might find out something—anything—useful.
Five or six steps later, she scented magic. Very faint. Very subtle, too. A peppery smell, was it? Or a gentle humming? Hard to say. She had been shown something like it in Oakendown, as an example of…of…of what?
She stepped a little closer. To her right? Closer yet? Ah! It was a warding. Not identical to the classroom example but very similar. There was a hint of death in it, too weak for it to be a physical threat. Most of it was air and fire, the elements of motion. If she went too close, it would set off an alarm somewhere. Any moving body would trigger it, including a dog’s, so there would be no dogs here. It would be a very local spell, probably imprinted on a rock or a post, but there would be others, forming an enchanted fence all around the complex. Only a White Sister would even know the barrier was there.
Only a White Sister could hope to find a way past it!
To her right was the river. She set off to her left around the hill, staying at the very limit of her ability to sense the conjuration. As she expected, her path curved in toward the buildings until she sensed another source ahead of her. She proceeded in a series of arcs, skirting each ward in turn. That there would be a gap somewhere she did not doubt. The conjurations would weaken with time and have to be replaced often. In a sorcery school like this, that would certainly be a task for the novices. They would enchant the posts, or stones, or whatever it was they used, inside their octogra
m, then bring them out to repair the barrier. But the only way they could test their work would be to set off the alarms deliberately. Almost certainly they would have missed a spot or two.
They had. A stone wall could not stop magic altogether, but it would weaken an air spell, and she found a stub of an old stone wall. It had perhaps been an ancient fortification, because there was a ditch alongside it. In that, down at ground level, the warding was negligible. Slithering on her belly, Sister Emerald made a secret but extremely undignified entry into the compound of Smealey Hole.
A dozen or more buildings were grouped about a central yard. She had come a long way from the bonfire she had been tracking, so she skulked back around the dark perimeter toward it. The high building with lighted windows must be the main house, probably where the adepts lived. Her ears soon tracked voices to a couple of long sheds with many illuminated windows—she decided those were bunkhouses for servants or novices. Her nose identified the stable, brewhouse, chicken coop, bakery. But she also detected a nasty stench of magic as she went by a large, high building, which must therefore be the elementary.
She paused at the corner of a hay shed to inspect the bonfire that had guided her in. The three men sitting around it were serving no purpose she could think of unless they were guards, and the thing they were guarding was a low slate roof. The building itself must be mostly underground, either an ice house or a root cellar. The realization that Wart was still alive gave her a great rush of relief that made all the pain and fear and effort of the last few hours seem worthwhile.
Now, how could she get him out?
Behind the shed was a high tangle of weeds. Dropping to hands and knees again, she began to crawl. Unfortunately, the brush included a fair share of thorns, thistles, and sharp stones. Fortunately, the stinging nettles were past their stinging stage. Every few minutes she raised her head to look around, but the men were engrossed in a dice game, unaware of the curious local wind disturbing the vegetation. She had almost reached the building when she heard new voices, two men approaching from the main house. They were heading for the fire, though, and did not seem to have noticed her at all. If the prisoner was about to be moved elsewhere, she had arrived too late, but perhaps she could manage to throw him his sword while he was out in the open. She had seen Wart in action and knew how deadly he was.
