Suddenly, he and his guide arrived at a crossroads.
“The passage to the left opens behind an arras in the corridor you’re wanting,” the goblin wheezed.
“Well,” Igraine said, “You can show me. I’m not leavin’ you here with those bastard kin o’ yours.”
Turley shook his head, sadly. “But they are my kin, as I am theirs. Outside these tunnels…”
Igraine yanked him forward. “Not interested. You’re coming with me.”
If Vykers was expecting a door of cunning design, he was sorely disappointed. The actual door was just a door, painted on the far side to look more or less like the rest of the hallway.
“What’s to keep castle folk from wandering into your tunnels?”
“You’d have to ask them,” said Turley, sulking.
“Uh-huh. Which way?”
“I believe your warden can be found to the right.”
Turley was quite dramatic about his distaste for the enhanced lighting of the hallway, flinching and mewling as if he was in pain. Vykers ignored him.
“What will you do if we encounter any of the castle folk?”
Igraine shrugged. “Prob’ly kill ‘em. I ain’t got time for chit chat,” she explained.
They only encountered three people, and all were avoided with minimal effort. When they reached the appropriate corridor, Turley had a final surprise for Vykers.
“Now which one o’ these doors is it?” the Reaper demanded.
“I’ve no idea,” Turley answered, keeping his voice low.
“I thought you knew where to find the Warden’s chambers.”
Turley shrank into the wall at his back. “Generally, yes.”
Igraine let out a growl of frustration and turned to the first door. Without knocking, she tried the handle and found it locked. “Nothing’s ever gotta be easy, does it?” She was about to try to kick it open when Turley stopped her.
“In this case, there might be an easier way,” he said. He slipped his fingers into a pouch at his belt and produced three or four oddly-shaped wires.
“Why didn’t you say you could pick the lock?” Vykers asked, accusingly.
“That has yet to be determined.”
Igraine stepped back and let the little creature work. Just when Vykers was about to give up and resume his attempt to break the door down, he heard a faint click, and Turley gently turned the handle. Without thanking the goblin, Igraine pushed past him and into the room beyond. To Vykers’ surprise, Turley followed.
“What are you doin’?” Igraine whispered.
“Do you think I’d be safer in the hallway than inside with you?”
Lippy little bastard. “Fine: follow, but don’t make any more noise.”
The room was unoccupied.
“It’s not all bad. We’ll use this as our base,” Igraine explained. “We run into trouble or need to hide, we’ll come back here.”
“Or I could just wait here for you until…”
“No, no. I might need you to pick some more locks.”
Turley sighed and shook his head. “Yes, mistress.”
The next room turned out to be vacant also, but only newly so. Someone had just eaten a hot meal and departed before the remains had gone cold. Vykers and Turley were delighted to finish the leftovers.
“What do you call this?” Turley asked, holding a chicken wing by its pointed end.
“You never had chicken?”
“I didn’t say I’ve never had it. I just don’t know your word for it.”
Vykers was not a clown like Her Majesty’s fool. He opted for the truth. “That’s a chicken wing.”
“Chicken wing,” Turley repeated. “They’re very tasty like this.”
“Like how?”
“On this bread, heated. We usually pull things like this out of the garbage chutes. Cold, congealed. Not nearly as flavorful.”
Igraine dropped the thigh she’d been chewing on. “I’ll bet.”
“Aren’t you worried that our mystery diner will return?”
“No,” Igraine scowled. “He’s no threat.”
The little goblin’s mouth gaped. “How do you know he’s male?”
Igraine chuckled. “Spying on us all this time, and you still don’t know us. Well, for starters, those are men’s boots by the wall over there. But the leather’s soft and they’re small. Our man’s not a big one. And he walks with a cane. That explains those scuff marks on the floor.” Igraine pointed them out. “Reason he didn’t finish this bird is his teeth are bad. See how ‘e ate up those boiled carrots and custard? He’s hungry, all right. He just can’t chew.”
“But where did he go?”
“To the jakes, I imagine. These older fellas are always runnin’ off to the jakes. I could probably tell you more about ‘im, but I want to move on. He ain’t the Warden.”
Turley cast a wistful eye behind him as he followed Igraine out the door.
The two rooms across the hall were locked but unoccupied. When Igraine and Turley turned back to the third door on the wall they’d started on, they both reacted in surprise.
“Shoulda just walked the hallway before startin’, I guess.”
Turley nodded.
This new door had the most complex lock they’d seen so far.
“Shall I open it?” the goblin inquired.
“No. Duck outta sight. I’m knockin’ on this one.” The goblin must have appeared concerned, because Igraine barked, “I said hide!” Without waiting to see if the order had been followed, she pounded on the door.
An eyehole that Vykers had not noticed opened on a spot just over Igraine’s head – another unforeseen consequence of living inside the young woman. In his normal body, he’d have seen the eyehole at chin-height. Evidently, Igraine’s appearance appealed to the room’s occupant, because Vykers suddenly heard a variety of latches being thrown, locks being turned and the like. The door swung wide to reveal a man of middle age with an absurdly styled beard, ridiculously parted hair that hung just below his ears, and an outlandishly decorative robe that lay open at his chest, exposing a forest of curly chest hair. He leered when he set eyes on Igraine, but stopped when she punched him in the throat. In fact, he toppled over, curled up into a ball, and struggled to breathe.
Igraine bent over, grabbed the man’s ankles, and dragged him through the door. Turley slipped in behind her, just before Igraine shoved it closed again. “Watch him,” she told the goblin. “I need to make sure he’s alone.”
*****
Aoife, the North
The Here-There was now much easier than it had ever been. In the past, Aoife could only move between groves she herself had birthed. Now, though, from anything green to anything green, from thicket to copse, from scrub brush to mighty forest, she could make vast leaps with a thought, even to places she’d never visited before. Thus, she was able to reach the outskirts of her brother’s new horde in little time – before, in fact, she realized that she had no idea what to do once she arrived.
About her feet was a small, sad little clump of stunted evergreen bushes, wind-blasted and cold-bitten, forcing its way through a frozen crust of snow. The newly ordained Umaena worked to fortify them, for their own sake, but also her use. In minutes, she’d turned the pitiful plants into a towering hedge, bristling with thorns. Aware that her creation’s sudden appearance might attract undue attention, Aoife reshaped its bulk, sculpted the whole of it into something shorter but deeper, something that could be gazed over, but never hurdled -- anything attempting to do so would land in the thick of this verdant barrier and be torn to shreds by its countless thorns.
The sun peeked through the clouds, but affected the temperature not one bit. What it did do was allow Aoife a better view of her distant enemy, which hunkered down into smaller camps, gathered, presumably, around a central army – and in the middle of all that, her brother. Or so Aoife believed. The Svarren were too far away to be seen clearly, but she knew the reverse was true as well: she was beyond t
heir surveillance, and so safe, for the time being.
Aoife continued to shape her hedge until it formed a large circle around her. She then set about summoning a few of the fey who might serve as her sentinels and protectors. Even Umaeni need sleep, after all. She decided against the taller folk, like trolls, because they’d be too visible from a distance, and even mistaken for trees, they would have appeared to have come from nowhere. And so she called gnomes, a sprite or two, a talking hedgehog, and a will-o’-wisp. Toomt’-La, she did not summon, for she feared he would not approve of her plans. Invited or not, though, she suspected he would appear if things went awry.
She spent the rest of the day acquainting herself with her new guardians and her fortress, making sure that everything was as it should be. In the evening, when her fey companions brought her honey, fruit and vegetables, Aoife spied the light of fires in the Svarren encampments. She knew that Long Teeth were more active at night, and her experience watching the End’s previous host told her that patrols would soon be sweeping the area around his camp in wider and wider circles, looking for threats, plunder or food.
They would find Aoife’s hedge, if not her redoubt, and then the trouble would begin. But Aoife held an advantage she’d not enjoyed in her previous clash with her brother. If she managed things correctly, she could nip at the End’s heels forever and he’d never catch her. Last time, Toomt’-La’s influence had held her in abeyance. This time, Aoife would act when and how she wanted.
The light fled from the sky, as if unwilling to witness what was to come, and the sounds of the Svarren rousing themselves reverberated across the distance between their camp and Aoife’s fortress. Soon, soon they would stumble upon her, and the war between the Umaena and her former sibling would be rejoined.
*****
The Giants, In the Forest
Eoman and Karrakan sat by the roaring campfire they’d built, vigorously scrubbing the Svarren blood from their skin and personal effects with rags fashioned from Svarren clothing.
“How do those fell things prosper with such ichor in their veins?” Karrakan wondered aloud.
“How do rats, dampworms and ticks prosper? Is it the will o’ the gods, or of something infernal from the endless hells?”
“Speaking of the infernal,” said Karrakan, “Are you set on Beesmarch?”
“Him and any others we can find and rally to the cause.”
Karrakan looked unconvinced. “But the cause,” he said, “seems to have split in two…”
Eoman stood, stretched, threw his bloody rag into the fire. “I made a vow, and I mean to keep it. Those who killed Mardine will die equally violent deaths. As for the coming war,” Eoman sighed, “it won’t be fought or won in a fortnight or even a season, in this weather. We’ll join once we’ve finished our other business and at a time of our choosing. Like to have as many of our kin assembled as possible if we do jump in.”
The king of the giants bent low, chose another rag, filled it with snow, and set it upon a rock near the flames.
“Have you any idea why they’d want to butcher this Mardine as they did?”
“I’ve been askin’ myself that for weeks now. But, you know, humans have a strange sense o’ what’s right an’ what’s wrong, what’s good an’ what’s evil.”
“Aye,” Karrakan agreed, staring into the fire, “that they do.”
“Like snakes, they are, bending back and forth, every which-a-way, and whatever serves their turn.”
“But there are some more good than bad.”
“Some,” Eoman admitted grudgingly. “Is some enough, though?”
Karrakan had no answer and so did not reply.
It was hard work, cleaning the Svarren filth from their bodies, but Eoman had few complaints. There was no better way to get dirty than killing such creatures, and the exercise was always welcome. When he and his companion had finished their work, Eoman laid out his bedroll and stretched out by the fire. Karrakan and his will-o’-wisps would take the first watch, whilst the King slept, and then they’d switch positions.
That was the plan, anyway.
Karrakan nudged his king awake with the end of his staff, but said nothing. Eoman immediately sensed multiple beings in the dark, surrounding them.
“We came by to thank you for the fresh meat.”
Oursine. Their voices had a peculiar, gravelly quality that made them easily recognizable in any circumstance. They must have been referring to the Svarren dead, which the giants had left miles behind them.
“Not even maggots will eat Svarren. Are you so desperate?” Eoman asked, attempting to locate and count as many of the beasts as he could.
“We eat what winter offers, giant. If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.”
Grasping his axe, Eoman stood. “Never been known for my brains.”
“There’s no need for weapons, here,” the unseen animal insisted. “We came in thanks and offer a gift of gratitude.”
A gift? From oursine? Eoman was about to rush towards the voice when a small body came tumbling into the firelight.
“What’s this?”
“As I said: a gift. Too skinny for us lot to eat and unnecessary, after all the meat you provided.”
Karrakan strode towards the unconscious figure and knelt to examine it. Eoman watched him for a moment, and when he looked back into the trees, he knew the oursine had gone.
“I wonder what all that was about.”
“Hard to say,” said Karrakan, distracted.
“Never trust those bastard beasties. What ‘ave we got there?”
Karrakan was now fully seated by the body, gently running a massive hand over its head. “Human woman.”
“Dead, eh?”
“No,” Karrakan replied. “Not yet.”
“Perhaps we should leave her to it.”
Karrakan regarded his friend with a scolding look. “That is not in my nature.”
“Huh. What then? Can you save her?”
“She’s frostbitten, starved and injured from a blow to the head. We’ll see.”
Eoman didn’t care for this turn of events, not one bit. He had one goal and one only. Rescuing some half-dead human lass didn’t come into it. Frustrated at his companion’s choice, he tossed another log on the fire and sat on his bedroll.
“You save her, she’s your responsibility,” Eoman groused. “I’ll ‘ave nothin’ to do with ‘er.”
“Mardine?” the figure moaned.
The King of the giants tripped over himself, scrambling to reach to the woman’s side.
*****
Vykers & Turley, Inside the Castle
The Warden slumped in the chair, barely conscious, with a large goose egg on his forehead, just above his right eyebrow.
“Find something to tie him up with, or tear his sheets into strips,” Igraine commanded.
“Your will, mistress.”
Was the goblin mocking Igraine? Vykers wasn’t sure and didn’t care. If he didn’t like how things were going, he was more than welcome to return to his bloodthirsty kin. Not that there was anything wrong with being bloodthirsty.
Turley returned sooner than Vykers had expected. “Will these work?” he asked, holding a pair of manacles above his head.
So, the Warden liked it rough. Vykers was more than happy to oblige. “Let’s just make sure there’s no secret catch that opens ‘em,” Igraine answered. She grabbed the manacles away from the goblin and tugged on them, good and hard. Then she scrutinized every inch of their surface and connecting chain. “Looks good.” She slapped them onto the Warden’s wrists just as he was coming ‘round and followed up with a vicious head butt on the same goose egg. The Warden didn’t even have time to yell out in pain.
“Do you plan to beat him to death?” Turley inquired.
“And what if I do?” Igraine retorted. “You friends with this fella?”
“No,” said Turley, perplexed by the question.
“Good, ‘cause I will have to kill him. Eventual
ly.”
“But why?”
Igraine shot Turley a look that would have frozen fire. “Can’t have him tellin’ anyone what happened here, what we were after.”
“Do I…have to watch?”
Igraine appeared to think about it for a moment and then responded, “Yes.” After a brief silence, she continued. “Way I see it, you’ve got two choices: stick with me, or get killed by your brothers.”
“That’s not much of a choice,” Turley grumbled.
Igraine laughed. “That it ain’t. ‘Specially since folks who run with me usually end up dead anyway.” The pained expression on the goblin’s face made Igraine laugh all the harder, once again rousing the Warden from his stupor.
“Who are you?” he challenged. “Why have you done this?”
He was a pitiful sight, with his robe hanging open, his carefully coifed hair now splayed across his face, the blackening bump on his brow, and a thin trail of snot dripping from his nose.
“Tie his feet to the chair and then get his waist,” Igraine said to Turley. To the Warden, she said, “Who am I? You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Now, I want the key to Her Majesty’s salt stores.”
“The…? Her salt? But why?”
“Just give me the key.”
Of course, of course, the Warden tried, belatedly, to uphold the standards of his office. “I can’t help you. I won’t.”
Igraine nodded. She stepped back and admired Turley’s knots, and then pushed heaved the chair over backwards, so that it crashed to the floor with a resounding thump. The Warden let out a brief yelp of panic and began to sob.
“As luck would have it, I’ve had my fill o’ torture this week. I think I’ll just…” Igraine said, before straightening up and looking about the room. “Wait a minute. You got any wine?” she asked the Warden.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 19
