The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades

by Dave Duncan

  Ironhall was under attack! No time to waste.

  She paused at the door to take stock: warm cloak, lantern, and Sir Lothaire’s magic key—which she preferred to carry, when she must carry it, dangling in the toe of a sock. She slipped out the door as quietly as squeaky hinges would allow.

  Her feet made little hushing noises on the boards as she hurried along the corridor, then downstairs, lantern light dancing ahead of her, shadows leaping away in panic. Under her breath she kept repeating the password, The stars are watching. The hallway was dark, with no signs of Blades. Of course most of the Guard would be staying close to the King, in First House. There would be only a few patrolling the whole complex of West and King Everard houses.

  Right or left?

  “At last!” A man stepped out of the shadows to her left. She whipped the beam of her lantern around. A scream died as her throat seemed to close up altogether.

  It was Servian.

  Why? What in the world was he doing here in the middle of the night? Had he been lying in wait, hoping to catch the elusive Brat? Sleeping in corners? How many nights?

  “Stay away from me!” she squeaked, backing. “You heard what Grand Master said!”

  He smiled, strolling after her, blowing on his hands. In the tricky light he looked enormous, a giant. “But you didn’t? We have waited too long to begin your education, Brat. We have many lessons to get through tonight. Take his lantern.”

  Before she realized that there was someone behind her, arms reached around and snatched the lantern away. She squawked and jumped free. There were two of them—Castelaine and Wilde, of course, Servian’s favorite cronies. She was trapped. Where was the Guard?

  Servian chuckled and advanced purposefully. “You knocked me down in the mud, Brat. We’ll start by explaining the folly of that.”

  She did not see the blow coming, did not even realize he intended to hit her. Blue and red fire and terrible pain exploded in her left eye. She reeled back in shock, almost fell. She had never guessed how hard a man could punch.

  “Fists up, Brat!” Wilde said. “You’re in a fight. The first of several. Defend yourself.”

  “What’s he got in his hand?” asked Castelaine, who had the lantern.

  Through the thundering pain came the thought that, whatever happened, she must not let these hooligans get their hands on Lothaire’s magic key. She cowered away, arms up to defend her head. Servian’s second punch slammed into her back, sending her sprawling headlong against a door.

  Which was not properly latched. She stumbled through it, and in a flash of inspiration slammed it shut and hit the lock with the magic key. For a moment nothing happened—some of these doors had not been locked in generations. The ancient tumblers clicked.

  Servian jiggled the latch and shouted angrily. Fists hammered on the wood.

  “What’s happening?” Intrepid squealed, sitting up. Other trebles echoed him.

  “It’s the Brat!” Lestrange shouted.

  Ironhall was under attack, and Emerald had locked herself in Rabbit with sixteen sopranos.

  23

  Stalwart Comes in from the Cold

  FITZROY AND HIS MEN SLAMMED THE DOOR AND slid the bolt and did not come out to look for the escaped prisoner. Stalwart felt trapped in a nightmare, like a fly in hot soup. Why had Nicely and Grand Master denied him? He had the rest of the night to wonder that, and he was not going to come up with an answer.

  So here he was, shut out on a freezing night with no cloak—and no lantern. He found the ancient hitching rail snapped in two and Lumpkin gone. Spooked, pulled loose, and fled? Spooked by what? What had Fitzroy meant about not throwing Stalwart out on the moor tonight especially? What haunted the dark besides owls? The lantern was a battered ruin, kicked by the gelding in his struggles. He hoped it had managed to make a getaway and was not lying dead at the bottom of the Quarry by now. Or being eaten somewhere by something.

  Tucking his hands under his arms, he retraced his path around to the balcony and the lights of the royal suite. Fitzroy would certainly send a report to Leader about him, but he was not inclined to wait for the results of that. He wanted to be inside as soon as possible. Either Bandit or Dreadnought would be on duty in the royal suite. He scrabbled up some rocks and stepped back to aim. Not at the windows themselves, but at the door.

  The door was open.

  Silence up there. Candles burning bright and ghostly smoke trailing from the chimneys above. Yet the door stood open on a freezing night like this? It had not been open when he went by the last time. All the little hairs on the back of Stalwart’s neck started to dance.

  There was only one tree on Starkmoor, it was said. Ages ago someone had planted a seed or dropped an apple core under the royal balcony. In that sheltered, sunny nook, it had prospered enough to send up a very spindly sapling. It was still so puny that the Guard had not gotten around to chopping it down, although three years ago it had been strong enough to support Stalwart the Human Squirrel. He had grown faster than it had, but at the moment he had no choice.

  With Sleight tucked through his belt, he started up. The sapling bent. It creaked pathetically. In the darkness he fumbled, scratched his face, lost his temper, but eventually was able to grab hold of the balcony rail and haul himself over. He felt better then, although he knew that monsters could climb, too.

  “Starkmoor!” he said loudly, the rallying cry of the Order. As he stepped in, he went to rap on the door, but his knuckles never reached it. Whether he first noticed the stench or the ugly sucking noises didn’t matter. Something was alive in there.

  Only just alive. There was blood everywhere. Furniture had been scattered askew and if the candles had been set in candlesticks instead of chandeliers, half Ironhall would be in flames by now. And the smell…He had heard many stories of the Night of Dogs, of how the monsters had climbed the walls, ripped out iron bars with their teeth, and of how they had to be hacked into pieces to kill them. They stank as they died.

  The one on the floor was as big as a horse, and it was not quite dead. It had trashed the room in its death throes. It was still writhing, kicking, making horrible gurgling sounds as it tried to breathe. Something had ripped out its throat.

  Something or someone? Silvercloak? Nothing human, certainly. Had the killer somehow set one monster against another?

  Stalwart just stared as he struggled to make sense of this. All Ironhall had been dragged into his nightmare. The hellhound could not stand. Its head was bent backward so that the huge hole in its neck seemed like a gaping mouth, yet it sensed it had company and began beating its legs faster, trying to reach him, making little progress but hurling a chair aside. Where was the Guard? Why had no one heard this struggle and come to investigate?

  If Silvercloak had sent the monster against the King, then it should have been chopped up by the Blades. If the Blades had set it out as a trap for Silvercloak, then how had he managed to dispose of it so easily? That did seem more likely, though. That would explain why there were inquisitors in Ironhall and no Blades in this room. When Master Nicely had mentioned dogs, Lord Roland had squelched him as fast as he had squelched Stalwart.

  Where there was one deadly booby trap, there might be more. The moor now seemed much less dangerous than the royal suite.

  Stalwart gagged. “Nice doggy!” he mumbled, and rushed out to the fresh air.

  He descended the tree at a cost of two fingernails, a painfully scraped shin, and three branches. Now what? He peered around at the night apprehensively. A rapier would be as useless as wet string against one of those monsters.

  The need to inform Bandit that Silvercloak might be on his way had passed. The present need was to save Stalwart from whatever was haunting the moor. If the royal suite had been booby-trapped, anywhere might be booby-trapped, including the gate. He knew a way into Ironhall that no one else did, though. As a soprano, in his Human Squirrel days, he had climbed to the fake battlements and hung a suitable memento up there for everyone to see. Gr
and Master had given him two weeks’ stable duties for that.

  At the far side of the Quarry, where the curtain wall met the bath house, there was a narrow gap between the wall and the curve of the corner tower. He had worked his way up that crevice, feet against one side, back against the other. He was older and larger now. He was cold and weary. It was dark, and frost might make the stonework slippery.

  But he was very highly motivated.

  He stumbled off through the night, waving his rapier before him like a blind man’s cane. Every footfall sounded like a drumbeat. He fought a temptation to walk backward, watching for glowing eyes following him. The monsters might just as easily be waiting up ahead anyway.

  He must go more carefully now, for there was no path. Ahead lay the Quarry, which was close to impassable even in daylight. He should be safe if he kept very close to the wall, although he would have to fight through thorn bushes and climb over rocks. There were places where the ledge was very narrow.

  He spun around, heart pounding. “Who’s there?”

  Silence.

  Imagination? He had thought he had heard something.

  He went on again, moving as fast as he could over the rough ground. He ought to be due for some good luck soon, surely?

  24

  The Action Heats Up

  FIRE WAS AN EVER-PRESENT DANGER. NO candidates, even seniors, were allowed to have light in their rooms after lights-out, and this rule was strictly applied.

  Slavish observance of rules was not what landed one in Ironhall. Out came flint and steel and tinder. Sparks flew, and in moments a dozen candle flames brightened the dorm. Behind the door, Servian had fallen silent. Either a Blade patrol had chanced along, or he was hoping the Brat would jump back into the frying pan again.

  Emerald struggled to adjust to both the absurdity of the situation and the sickening throb in her face. The pack converged on her. Some, like Intrepid, were mere boys. Others were taller than she—notably Tremayne, the stumblebum swordsman who shaved. Some of them seemed amazingly unaware of how cold the room was.

  “Who did your eye?” Chad inquired.

  “Servian. Now listen, all of you. Listen deep! I am not the Brat you think. Get dressed, all of you. I need your help. There’s—”

  “There’s no help here!” Jacques shouted, raising a laugh.

  “Quiet!” she barked. “You get dressed. And you, Conradin. You’re indecent. You want to know why Grand Master has been shielding me?”

  “He’s not here now!”

  “Catch-up time!”

  “I’m not a boy. I’m a woman.” She gave the stunned silence no chance to erupt in hilarity and disbelief. “Not only that, I am a White Sister. My name is Emerald, and I was sent here by Durendal himself, Lord Roland, because there is sorcery….”

  There was sorcery! Again she detected the reek of earth and death. The rat had followed her, or there were more of them around. It was behind her, in the corridor. It hurried by and was gone, but the brief contact made her hesitate and broke her tenuous control over the mob. Voices erupted in raucous and predictable demands that she prove her claim. She had no intention of doing so in the way they suggested.

  She shouted them down. She could shout louder than they could because they did not want Blades or anyone else coming to investigate a riot. “Listen and I’ll prove it. Constant! Why were you put here, in Ironhall? What did you do?”

  He scowled. “Stole a horse.”

  “That’s true. Conradin! Why were you put here?”

  “My mom died. No one wanted me.”

  “You’re lying. I’m a White Sister and I can tell when people lie to me. Tremayne?”

  “Stepfather,” Tremayne growled in a voice very far from soprano. “He hit my mom and I larruped him with a spade.”

  “Good for you! That’s true. Chad?”

  True, false, false, true…The trivial party trick caught their attention and won their belief. Even before she had asked all of them, the sorcery was back. “There!” she shouted. “Under that bed! There’s a rat!”

  Chaos. She was certain that beds would burst into flames as boys with candles went after the rat. The tumult ended with one dead rat and two boys sucking rat bites. They were all convinced now.

  “Get dressed! There’s sorcery around. Sorcerers are attacking the King, and I have to report to Commander Bandit.”

  “But Grand Master said—” Jacques began.

  “I’ll handle Grand Master. And don’t worry about the Blades—I know the password. But that idiot Servian is out there, and I need your protection. I need an escort. Hurry! I must report to Sir Bandit. The King will thank you, I promise you.”

  Her eye was so swollen that she could barely see out of it, but she could ignore the pain now. By the time she had turned her back to hide her magic key and then managed to unlock the door—for a few horrible moments she thought it was not going to work—her army was ready. She led it out into the corridor.

  Servian and his henchmen had disappeared, but another dozen sopranos and beansprouts had emerged to find out what all the noise was about. With much yelling of explanations, the tide rolled along the hallway, gathering strength. Someone began beating the fire gong. Beardless and fuzzies came running down the stair in varying shades of undress.

  At the outer door—now that they were not needed—were Blades: Sir Raven, Sir Dorret, and another man she did not know. They stared in disbelief at the approaching riot. Dorret wore the sash.

  “The stars are watching!” she told him.

  He peered at her face. “What happened to your—what did you say?”

  “The password, you idiot. You want the rejoinder, too? ‘But they keep their secrets.’ I am Sister Emerald and I must see Commander Bandit immediately.”

  “You can’t go out there, lad, er, miss, I mean Sister. Fire and death! What is going on?”

  “Sorcery. Ironhall is under attack. And I must go out there. Have the inquisitor’s dogs climbed over the gate? If they have, you must deal with them for me. Open that door, guardsman!”

  “This Brat shows promise,” said an anonymous voice from the mob.

  If Master Nicely’s dogs had escaped whatever control he was using on them, a messenger trying to cross the courtyard might never arrive. The Blades could not just open the door and let Emerald go alone. With the King’s safety invoked, their bindings overruled any lesser duty to guard dormitories, so they all went with her. So did her army, some of them barefoot and half naked. They raced over the frozen paving under the icy stars, and no monsters came ravening out of the dark.

  Fists hammered on the doors of First House. A spy hole was opened, password demanded, and given. Deputy Commander Dreadnought himself admitted the visitors and was almost bowled over by the shivering tide that poured in after them.

  Fortunately Fury was there in the confusion. He shied like a horse when Emerald came into the light.

  “Who did that to your eye?”

  “Tell you later. Bandit, quickly!”

  “This way.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her free of the mob. Satisfied that a dead rat was being waved under Dreadnought’s nose while at least a dozen voices shouted explanations at him, Emerald ran upstairs with Fury.

  There had to be more cloak-and-dagger word passing before they were admitted to the queen’s quarters. Then Fury went straight across to the inner door and tapped softly.

  The exquisite little salon seemed a very odd place to find half a dozen swordsmen. The reek of their binding spell would have made Emerald’s head spin had it not been spinning so hard already. There was other, more sinister sorcery present as well.

  The Blades’ attitude annoyed her. They clustered around her, glowering suspiciously and fingering sword hilts. She knew only one of them by name, and obviously none of them recognized her. She was not your average White Sister, floating like a swan through the court, simpering at gentlemen’s flattery.

  “Why, Sir Fairtrue!” she trilled, offering fingers
to be kissed. “How delightful to meet you here! Won’t you present your friends?”

  Her fun was spoiled right away by Bandit, who came striding out from the dressing room with Fury at his heels.

  “Rats,” she said. “Enchanted rats. They’re in West House and they’re here, too. Not pure conjurations, because the sopranos killed one, so real rats bespelled somehow. I think they may be spies. They’re hunting for the King.”

  Bandit pulled a face. “I was hoping we’d got our man. Someone triggered our trap in the royal suite. I’m told it sounded like quite a fight. We haven’t investigated yet.”

  “Proceed on the assumption that Silvercloak won.” Suddenly she felt very tired. The assassin seemed to be bypassing Ambrose’s defenses with terrifying ease.

  “Certainly. So he’s using rats to find His Majesty?”

  “They’ve found him. They’re here, very close—several of them, I think. And they may do more than just spy. Rats can climb walls or carry small objects. I’m afraid they could be used to ferry magic around.”

  Eight Blades exchanged grim glances. Swords were not the best weapon against rats. Slingshots or terriers were what they needed now.

  “You think Silvercloak could send a…a poisoned rat against the King without even coming into Ironhall himself?”

  “I don’t know. Assume the worst.”

  The Commander squared his shoulders. “I’m going to wake Fat Man. Sir Fairtrue, inform Sir Dreadnought. I want Master Nicely and Master of Rituals here immediately. Sister, I’ll need you to sniff out…inspect the turret room. Come with me, please.”

  He headed back to the dressing room.

  “Just a moment.” Bandit hurried up the cramped little stair. Sounds of royal snoring overhead suddenly ended.