King's Blades 03 - Sky of Swords

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King's Blades 03 - Sky of Swords Page 11

by Dave Duncan


  hilts melted down separately, cat's-eyes

  put in storage. ..."

  "The blades alone might suffice,"

  Jongleur said without much confidence, "but the rebels

  may have taken them also."

  "I know where they are," Malinda said. "When can

  we leave?"

  Before she could be questioned, Audley intervened. "As

  soon as possible! If you are adamant that you must

  try this, Your Grace, then we must move as fast

  as we can. Sir Wasp, can we sail tonight?"

  Wasp shook his head in disbelief. "Captain

  Klerk has not stopped gibbering after that trip down

  the Gran. ... Yes, if we must, but why?"

  Audley stared glumly at the floor, meeting

  no one's eye. "Because we have almost certainly been

  betrayed."

  "Winter?" Malinda asked quietly.

  "He or others. Jarvis and Mercadier

  disappeared right after the funeral. They may or may

  not have learned what Your Majesty proposes. But

  Winter certainly knew, and he has gone."

  No one spoke for a long, hurtful moment.

  She had started with four Blades, and those four had

  seemed special even after she inherited the rest.

  But Abel had gone very quickly, then Dog, and now

  Winter. "I cannot blame him. He knows that if

  I succeed, Bandit will not have died, so Dian would

  not be a widow and the child she is now carrying will never

  be. If I can undo disaster for myself and my

  country and for the Blades, then I must undo good

  fortune for others. How will he try to block us?"

  "Chivial has a consulate here," Burningstar

  said. "The Dark Chamber will have agents watching this

  house and your supporters in general. His hardest

  job will be to make them believe his story. Once

  he does that, then they must send word to Grandon and

  Grandon must dispatch troops to Ironhall."

  "We can be there before them?"

  Wasp sighed. "Depends how much

  start ... But the wind is fair. Yes."

  "Can we muster enough men?"

  "Yes," Audley said, "but only just."

  "Have you completed your rituals, conjurers?"

  Jongleur tried to speak and was caught by a

  yawn. Lothaire nodded.

  "Then let us sail tonight, and go to Ironhall."

  Home is where journeys end.

  FONATELLES

  Newtor, the nearest port to Ironhall,

  comprised a dozen cottages around a fair

  natural harbor. It was much too small a

  place to support a livery stable, but it had always

  had one, secretly subsidized by the Order and

  run by a knight who was thus well placed to send

  advance warning of visitors arriving by sea.

  Ancient Sir Cedric, the last incumbent, had

  never had cause to do so. Now, with the Order

  dissolved and Ironhall itself in ruins, he had

  resigned himself to never setting eyes on another

  Blade. Common sense dictated that he should

  close down the business, sell off his few

  remaining nags, and go to live with his daughter in

  Prail, but either sentiment or inertia had so far

  stayed his hand. Hence his joy, that early morning in

  Fifthmoon, when a young man sporting a

  cat's-eye sword turned up on his doorstep

  demanding his nine best horses and no questions asked.

  As luck would have it, his nine best were also his nine

  worst, that being the exact number he had in the

  meadow, but he parted with them all most cheerfully and

  was almost reluctant to accept the gold coins

  proffered in payment. He took them, though.

  Later he noticed a small craft of

  unfamiliar lines heading out to sea and a line of

  riders heading off over the moor; he wondered

  what strange nostalgia drove them.

  Much the same question spun in Malinda's mind.

  These men were not being moved by loyalty to obey her

  commands--she was certain they considered her crazier

  than Queen Adela had ever been. Rather, they must

  feel a desperate yearning for the Blades themselves,

  the old Order, the ideal that had shattered so

  horribly at Wetshore. If her mad plan

  succeeded, she might save them from that.

  If it failed, they would have lost very little. She, of

  course ... but she would not think about that.

  The Queen's Men, last of the Blades. They

  were down to eight on this final outing. The conjurers,

  Jongleur and Lothaire, were both in their forties,

  but the rest were youngsters, with Oak the oldest, at about

  thirty. Audley was not quite nineteen yet, although

  he tried to keep this shameful fact a secret;

  Savary, Charente, Fury, and Alandale fell

  somewhere between. Wasp had very much wanted to come, but the

  conjurers had forbidden it. He was too closely

  associated with Radgar, they said, and his presence

  would enrage the invoked spirits. While it was

  unlikely that they could escape the octogram

  to attack him, they might well vent their fury

  on Malinda.

  The mood was somber as the nine rode up the

  gentle rise above Newtor, but once the sea was

  out of sight and sunlit moorland lay all around,

  Audley increased the pace and a mood of

  brittle humor began to show. Savary started a

  song that would not normally be heard in the presence of

  royal ladies, and some of the others joined in.

  Malinda wondered if they would sing on the way

  back tomorrow, if there was a tomorrow. It all depended

  on the swords. Had they been stolen or melted

  down or what? This whole expedition would be a

  futile waste of time unless they could find the

  swords.

  Or it might be a trap. When they came within

  sight of Ironhall, Audley called a halt

  and sent Fury forward alone to scout. Malinda

  thought he was being absurdly cautious. Even if

  Winter had betrayed them, the government could not

  possibly have reacted quickly enough to have troops there

  already--governments never did. Even so, it was a

  relief when a chastened-looking Fury returned

  to report that the coast seemed clear. They rode

  back with him in silence. From a distance the complex

  seemed much as it always had, and only when the

  pilgrims drew close did their eyes start

  to pick out missing roofs and daylight showing through

  windows. Then an eddy in the wind brought a rank

  stench of disaster. All burned buildings smelled

  bad, and Ironhall had been so meticulously

  burned that many buildings had collapsed. Even the

  moorland sheep and ponies seemed to shun it, for

  weeds already grew in the courtyard.

  Without a word spoken, the Queen's Men

  dismounted. Audley handed Malinda down.

  In silence the group walked up the littered steps

  and into Main House until their way was blocked

  by piles of ashes and fallen masonry. From there

  they could just see into the open court that had once been

  the Great Hall. Half-melted fragments of

  chain still h
ung from the blackened walls, but any

  swords that had been overlooked by the looters were

  certainly buried deep under the ruins.

  "Come!" Jongleur growled. "Let's try the

  Forge."

  The Forge was in better shape, because it contained

  nothing flammable except stacks of charcoal for the

  hearths, and those had not been touched. The tools had

  been stolen and windows smashed, but the gloomy

  crypt itself was little changed. Water still welled up

  in the stone troughs, overflowing into gutters, and

  finally trickling down the drain. The heaps of

  ingots and scrap metal were scattered as if

  someone had picked through them; they certainly did not

  contain seventy-two ownerless swords. The very few

  blades the visitors could find were obviously

  unfinished blanks or discarded failures.

  "The spirits are still present?" Oak demanded

  suddenly, his voice echoing.

  Fury, Savary, and the two conjurers were shivering

  as if about to freeze to death. No one bothered

  to answer. Instead, everyone gathered around the hole

  where the gutters ended as if to listen to its

  monotonous song.

  "Surely not!" Savary said. "They wouldn't do

  that, would they?"

  "If someone thought it up three centuries

  ago, they'd still be doing it last year," Lothaire

  answered, reasonably enough.

  "It's what Durendal told me," Malinda

  said. "And he would know." But he had only been

  talking of one instance, Eagle. They struck

  him off the rolls, dropped his sword down the

  drain, and impressed him as a deckhand on a

  square-rigger trading to the Fever Shores.

  Now she must gamble everything on that chance remark.

  Roland might have meant some other drain, real or

  figurative. Or that ultimate disgrace might

  be reserved for those who betrayed their loyalty--as,

  for example, by kissing their ward's daughter.

  Perhaps the Blades who rampaged and died at

  Wetshore had been seen as less despicable and

  their swords had been hung in the hall for

  Courtney's army to steal. She

  remembered the hole in the floor as being covered

  by a bronze grating, but that had gone. The hole

  itself was barely a foot across, too regular to be

  entirely natural, not regular enough to be

  completely artificial. What lay below? Did

  it twist down into the earth as a bottomless

  crevasse, or did it widen into a cavern?

  If, if, if ... If she succeeded, Dog

  would not be dead.

  Charente said, "I'll get the chains." He

  trotted out and Alandale followed. Audley sent

  Savary after them, to stand first watch.

  Charente and Alandale returned, weighted down

  with saddlebags that clinked as they were dropped. From

  them came long lengths of fine brass chain and a

  selection of hooks.

  "Who's the best angler?" Alandale said

  cheerily. No one answered. It was Charente who

  lowered the first hook down the hole, and all the rest

  stood around him, listening. Clatter, clatter

  --no clink, clink. The hole swallowed it

  all. Oak went to help him. They attached the

  second chain to the first and began to feed that down also.

  "Fasten something to the other end," Jongleur

  suggested. "We don't want to see the whole

  contraption disappear."

  Lothaire fetched one of the unfinished sword

  blanks, knotted the chain around it, then stood on

  it.

  "Anyone hear something?"

  The running water sang its own song and no one

  would admit to hearing anything else. Soon there was

  almost none of the second chain left in view. The

  chasm seemed to be bottomless.

  "Know something?" Oak said, puffing. "This isn't

  getting any heavier! It's piling up on something

  down there."

  "Go to the end anyway," Audley said. "Then

  haul it back up."

  "Your lead, Leader!"

  With good grace Audley stripped off his

  cloak and jerkin. Alandale copied him and the two

  of them began to haul the chains back in. They

  retrieved the second chain, then about half the

  first.

  "Listen!"

  Under the chattering of the water, something rattled,

  clanged, and faded away. ... When the hook

  came into sight, it was empty.

  Jongleur stated the obvious: "You

  caught something and dropped it! Try again."

  On the second try they failed to gain even that

  much satisfaction. By the third try, the chain was

  allowed to feed itself into the ground, which it did with great

  speed. It came out no faster, of course, but this

  time the hook emerged from the waterfall with a catch.

  Many hands grabbed for it--a rapier, snagged by its

  finger ring. The superb Ironhall steel was as

  shiny as new and a cat's-eye still gleamed on the

  pommel.

  Fury ran it over to the nearest window for

  light.

  "Suasion!" he read out, and the Forge rang with

  cheers and whoops of triumph. Where Bandit's

  sword lay, so would all the others. Surely it

  was an omen that Leader's sword had come first?

  Audley so far forgot himself as to grab his Queen

  and hug her.

  Her heart fluttered with sudden terror. She

  had been proven right, so now she would have to go through with

  this.

  Necromancy must be performed at night.

  Audley ordered Savary off to Blackwater

  to alert the Order's agent there, if he was still at

  his post.

  It took the rest of the day to retrieve enough

  swords. The conjurers said they wanted eight and

  then slyly withdrew to a quiet place to go over

  their rituals once again. The five younger men

  stripped off jerkins and doublets and took turns

  at the backbreaking work. Most casts came up

  empty, but not all, and each time another sword was

  recovered its name was read out and identified in a

  bittersweet mixture of sorrow and joy by those

  who had been friends with its owner.

  Farewell? "That was Fairtrue's!"

  Justice? "That was young Orvil's, wasn't

  it?"

  Inkling? "Herrick's!"

  Gnat? No one was familiar with Gnat. It

  might belong to some other century. It was laid

  aside. Doom the same ... Malinda hoped

  that they would not find Stoop, which had been

  Eagle's. It was in there somewhere.

  Lightning? "Falcon's."

  "I'd rather not use that one." Malinda had

  killed Falcon with that sword, but they would not

  believe her if she said so. She ignored the

  puzzled glances.

  They laid Lightning aside also.

  And Finesse, too, because no one could identify

  its owner.

  It was Malinda who attributed Master

  to Sir Chandos. Dian had told her.

  Savary returned to report that old Sir

  Crystal was now keeping watch on the

  Blackwat
er road; he claimed his grandson could

  outride anything that ate grass and would bring word of

  any suspicious travelers heading west.

  As the light began to fade, the swords stopped

  coming. Then Screwsley's Leech broke the

  drought. That made six in all. After that, again

  nothing. ... The men took turns eating while

  others kept the hunt going. The two conjurers were

  shamed into helping. Malinda made herself useful

  with the tinderbox, building charcoal fires in the

  hearths, adding scrap wood and brush to give

  light.

  They tried casting only halfway down; they

  tried different hooks, singly or clustered, but it

  seemed that the rest of the swords must lie either

  deeper than they could reach or around bends where their

  chain would not go. The men's hands were swollen by the

  icy water and cut by the chain; midnight was fast

  approaching, the best time for necromancy.

  "It's useless." Jongleur said. "Six?

  Or seven?"

  "Seven," Malinda agreed. She would have

  to risk Falcon. "Let's give it one more

  try!" She picked up the hook and kissed it.

  "Please," she said. "Go find me a man."

  The weary men all chuckled, as she had hoped

  they would. She tossed the hook into the hole and

  watched the chain pour after it until stopped by the bar

  at the end. She even tried to start the pulling and was

  appalled by the effort required. Audley and

  Fury eased her aside and took over, but even

  they ran into trouble. The chain had jammed. More men

  went to help and managed to pull it free. Three

  times the same thing happened, and when the hook finally

  came into view, it was holding two swords--

  Mallory's Sorrow and Stalwart's

  Sleight. They had eight without a need to invoke

  Falcon.

  "I suggest we take a brief break,"

  Jongleur said. "We suspect that closer

  to dawn might be advisable in this instance. And we

  all need to rehearse our--"

  Oak was on watch and now he came

  clattering down the steps; his voice reverberated

  through the crypt. "The boy's here! Says they're

  coming ... about fifty Yeomen, right on his

  heels."

  Seconds matter more than years do. One

  instant can change your whole life forever.

  SIR DOG

  "We must leave!" Malinda said. "We have the

  swords. Any octogram will do."

  "Not as well!" the two conjurers said in

 

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