"I suppose you have the usual repertoire of country jigs, folk songs and doggerel to put before us?" he continued. Will thought the best answer was to bow once more.
"My lord," he said, grinding his teeth as he kept his eyes down, and wanting to step up to the head table and throttle the sallow-faced man.
"No faint chance that you might know something of the classics? Some of the greater music?" Orman asked, his tone making it obvious that he knew the answer would be in the negative. Will smiled again, wishing that he had the skill to suddenly burst into the first movement of Saprival's Summer Odes and Interpretations.
"I regret, my lord, that I am not classically trained," he said, around the fixed smile. Orman waved a dismissive hand.
"As do I," he said heavily. "Well, then, I suppose we must endure the inevitable. Perhaps my people will find some enjoyment in your performance."
Not likely after that introduction, thought Will, as he passed the strap of the mandola over his head. He hesitated, looking around the room, taking in the stolid expressions of all present. I think I am about to learn what it is to die on stage, he thought to himself, as he struck up the opening bars of Katy Come and Find Me, a lively reel from Hibernia. It was a safe song for him, one of the first he had ever learned, and the opening instrumental passage was simple but stirring.
And of course, still seething with anger at Orman's attitude, he managed to botch it totally, playing in such a ham-fisted manner that he had to abandon the melody line and strum the chords instead. His ears burned with embarrassment as he plowed doggedly through the song, mistake building on mistake, missed note following missed note. He finished with a thwarted note on the bass string that summed up the ineptitude of the total performance.
Stony silence greeted him for what seemed like minutes. Then, from the back of the hall came the sound of ringing applause.
18
Will turned to look. A group of five men, dressed in hunting clothes, had entered the hall as he sang. Now they applauded, encouraged by the one who was obviously their leader.
Stocky and muscular, he had a square, open face and a wide grin. He moved down the hall now toward Will, continuing to clap as he moved closer. Then he held out his hand in greeting.
"Well done, jongleur, particularly in view of the frosty reception you've been given!"
Will took the hand that was offered. The handshake was firm, and the hand felt hard and callused. Will knew that feel. It was the hand of a warrior.
"What's your name, jongleur?" the man said. He was taller than Will and looked to be in his thirties. He was clean-shaven, with dark, curly hair and lively brown eyes. His four companions stood slightly behind him. Warriors as well, Will noted.
"Will Barton, my lord." The quality of the man's clothing left him in no doubt that this was the correct address. The title was greeted with laughter, however.
"No need for ceremony here, Will Barton. Keren's the name. Sir Keren perhaps on formal occasions, but Keren's good enough any other time." He turned to the top table, raising his voice as he addressed Orman.
"Apologies for our late arrival, cousin. I trust there are some scraps of food still left for us?"
Keren, thought Will, remembering the name. He was Syron's nephew and, by all reports, he was the one holding the castle together in the Lord's absence. He was said to be a capable warrior and a good leader. And, if first impressions were anything to go by, he was a totally different kettle of fish to his cousin.
Orman was speaking now, the distaste in his voice obvious. "The hall is used to your ill-mannered late arrivals by now, cousin," he said. Keren looked back at Will and gave him a conspiratorial grin, accompanied by a histrionic raising of the eyebrows.
"If you'll take your place, I'll have the servants bring food," Orman continued.
Obviously, the empty places at the head table were intended for Keren and his companions. But Keren waved the suggestion aside.
"Let's have places set here," he said, indicating the table close by Will. "We'll eat while we enjoy some music from Will Barton. It's about time a little fun blew through these dowdy old walls," he added, with a glint in his eye. "Let's hear something lively, Will! Do you know Old Joe Smoke by any chance?"
"Indeed I do," Will replied. He was glad he had spent the previous weeks practicing the correct words to the song. He was confident now that he wouldn't make the mistake of mentioning "Graybeard Halt." Halt, after all, was a name famous throughout the kingdom and it would do no good to suggest that he had any connection with the legendary Ranger.
It was amazing what a difference a small group of interested listeners could make. As he began the rippling melody, his fingers were sure and confident. Keren and his friends stamped and clapped along, joining in the chorus-and, gradually, so did the others in the room.
Not Orman, of course. As the applause for Old Joe Smoke died away, Will heard the noise of a chair scraping back at the high table. He glanced around to see the castle's lord leaving by a side door, his face set in a scowl.
"Well, that lightened the mood!" Keren said cheerfully. Will wasn't sure if he was referring to the song or his cousin's departure. "Let's have another, what do you all say?"
He looked around the table at his companions. For a moment there was little response from any of them. Keren leaned forward. His smile widened and he spoke a little louder.
"I said, let's have another. What do you all say?"
There was a sudden surge of enthusiasm as they chorused their agreement. Will regarded them with some surprise. Keren seemed to be extremely popular among his followers. Whatever he wanted, they seemed happy to go along with. But Will certainly wasn't complaining. After Orman's dismissive comments, it would make a nice change to have an enthusiastic audience.
He grinned around at them and flexed his fingers experimentally. The night was going to be better than he had expected, he thought. Much better.
The evening continued for another hour and a half. Then people began drifting off to their beds. Will, satisfied with his night's work, packed the mandola away and was ready to follow them when Keren stopped him. The cheerful grin had disappeared and his face was serious as he gripped Will's forearm.
"I'm glad to see you here, Will Barton," he said in a lowered tone. "People here need some diversion from their troubles. And they get precious little from my sour-faced cousin. Let me know if there's anything you need while you're with us."
"Thanks, Sir Keren," Will began, but the hand squeezed his arm a little harder and he amended the statement, "Keren, then. I'll do whatever I can to raise the people's spirits." Keren's ready grin lit up again.
"I'm sure you will. Remember, if you need anything, just ask."
And with that, he led his companions away.
Suddenly tired with the letdown that all performers feel after a successful night, Will trudged slowly up the stairs to his room. The dog greeted him with a questioning look and the usual thumping of her tail.
"Not a bad night," he told her. "Not bad at all. You can work with me tomorrow."
She dropped her nose onto her paws and fixed her gaze on his. Those steady eyes held an unmistakable message for him.
"You don't, do you?" he said hopefully. "Surely you could wait till morning?"
The eyes were unwavering and he sighed softly. He buckled on his saxe knife and pulled the black-and-white cloak around his shoulders.
"All right," he told the dog. "Let's go."
She padded obediently behind him as he made his way down the stairs and into the castle courtyard. It was a cold, clear night, with a definite hint of frost in the air. Above him, the stars blazed down, while a quarter moon hung low in the east.
Revived by the cold air, he breathed deeply as he looked around the courtyard. There was enough light from the stars and moon to throw definite shadows across the yard and it occurred to him that this might be as good a time as any to look around the vicinity.
The thin powdering of fresh snow on
the cobbles squeaked under his boots as he made his way to the postern gate beside the massive portcullis. One of the sentries stopped him as he made his way into the post beside the gate.
"Where are you off to then, jongleur?" he asked. His manner as neither friendly nor unfriendly.
Will shrugged. "Can't sleep," he said. Then, gesturing to the dog, "And she's always ready for a walk."
The sentry raised an eyebrow at him. "This is not a good place to go walking at night," he said. "But if you must go, you'd be best to stay away from Grimsdell Wood."
"Grimsdell Wood?" Will said, assuming a slightly amused, skeptical tone. "Isn't that where the ghoulies and ghosties gather?" He smiled cheerfully at the sentry to let him know that such superstitions meant little to him. The sentry shook his head.
"Make fun of it if you like. But a wise man would give it a wide berth."
"Well then, perhaps I will," said Will, sounding totally insincere. "Where is it exactly, so that I can make sure I stay away from it?"
There was a long pause while the soldier looked at him, recognizing his disbelief and bridling slightly at the ridicule underlying the minstrel's words. Jongleurs, he thought, they're always so clever, always so quick to joke about things. Finally, he pointed to his left.
"It's that way," he said, holding in his anger. "About a kilometer. And you'll know it when you see it, believe me. I'll let the sentries on the wall know you've gone out," he added, "in case you make it back."
And, feeling that he had had the last word, he opened the small postern gate beside the portcullis, allowing Will and the dog to slip through. The gate banged shut behind them and Will heard the bolts sliding home almost immediately. In country like this, one didn't leave gates open any longer than necessary once the sun was down.
For the same reason, the massive drawbridge was up. It wouldn't be lowered again till after sunrise. But there was a narrow two-plank access bridge across the moat that protected this side of the castle. Will stepped across it easily, the dog a little less so. He'd noticed before that she didn't like the feeling of uncertain footing underneath her.
He looked back at the castle, a crouching black mass above him. He could see one or two dark shapes moving on the battlements and realized these would be the night guards.
Resisting the temptation to wave, he struck out in the direction the sentry had indicated. The dog followed him then. As he snapped his fingers and said the word "Free," she quested ahead, running in a wide arc some twenty meters ahead of him, stopping and sniffing at new scents, cocking an ear at new sounds, but continually checking back to make sure Will was following.
There was a wild beauty to the countryside under its cover of snow. The road itself held only the thin dusting that had fallen that night. But in the fields and trees beside the road, the snow still lay thick and heavy from previous falls. Will had always loved the sight of a snowscape at night and he walked on contentedly, thinking over the events of the evening and the total disparity in the characters of Lord Orman and his cousin.
Gradually, the open countryside and the cleared fields began to give way as trees and bushes encroached closer to the road. It was darker here, without the fields and their cover of snow to reflect the ambient light, and Will felt a sense of the countryside pressing in on him. Crowding him. Watching him. He loosened the saxe knife in its sheath and touched the hilt of the throwing knife behind his neck. He told himself that this was nothing to do with superstition. It was just good sense in a potentially dangerous piece of country. He noticed that the dog's questing had fallen into a narrower arc than before. She obviously preferred the clear ground as well. But he reasoned that she would sense any ambush ahead of them and give him warning, so he continued.
And found himself at the edge of Grimsdell Wood.
19
Grimsdell Wood loomed-there was no other word for it. The trees here were taller, darker and more closely packed. The shadows under them were dense and impenetrable. The wood was brooding and dark and seemed determined to conceal its secrets from strangers.
The sentry had been right, he thought. He did know it when he saw it.
He walked slowly along the edge of the trees, clicking his fingers once to bring the dog back beside him. Her ears were pricked, he realized, and her eyes swept from him to the wood and back again, as she sensed where his attention was focused.
Then her hackles went up and she growled softly, her gaze riveted to one side. Will looked in that direction but for the moment saw nothing through the tangle of trees and undergrowth. Then he dropped into a crouch and for a moment saw a faint red glow moving among the shadows. Just for a moment. Then it was gone.
He felt the hairs rising on the back of his neck as he stood erect once more. He shook his head and laughed softly.
"It's a light," he told himself. "Nothing more."
She growled again, and this time Will saw the movement from the corner of his eye. A blue glow this time-that seemed to flare briefly in the tops of the trees and then disappear. He wasn't even sure than he had seen anything-but the dog's behavior confirmed that he had.
Then the red glow was back once more-and gone again before he could focus on it clearly. This time it was in a part of the wood several hundred meters from where it had first appeared. Will felt his heart beating faster, and his hands dropped to the saxe knife once more.
"Come on, girl," he said. "There must be a path into this wood somewhere."
He found one some thirty meters farther along. It was narrow and twisting, with barely enough room for one man. Perhaps it was a game trail. Or perhaps it had been made by man. Either way, he went forward into the wood, the dog moving a pace or two ahead of him, head down, nose to the ground.
After twenty paces, Will looked behind him and could no longer see the way out of the wood. The path twisted so much and the undergrowth and creepers and trees twined together so closely that his world had become confined to a space of a few meters. He continued on, his hand still on the saxe knife hilt. Years of Ranger training meant that he moved with virtually no sound and now he began instinctively to use the shadow patterns as cover for his movement.
There was no further sign of lights among the trees. Perhaps, he thought, the light bearers had been scared off when he entered the wood. The thought made him a little more relaxed. Maybe he wasn't the only one in this wood feeling nervous. He smiled at the thought and moved on.
Then the whispering started.
It was right at the limit of hearing, so that at first he wasn't totally sure he could actually hear anything. Then, he thought that perhaps it was the wind through the leaves-except there was no wind. It was an almost imperceptible susurration that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. He looked at the dog. She had stopped, one forepaw raised, head cocked to one side, listening. So the sound was there. But it was impossible to determine where it came from, and that made it impossible to make out whether it was voices or just a sound. It ebbed and flowed at the very edge of his senses, sometimes drowned by the accelerated sound of his own heartbeat, sometimes becoming almost clear, almost comprehensible. And then, in the middle of the indeterminate muttering, he began to make out individual words.
Unpleasantly evocative words. Once, he thought he clearly heard a voice say: pain. And then the muttering died until he heard, or thought he heard, the word death. And suffering, darkness and terror. Then more meaningless, wordless whispering.
He looked at the dog again. She remained alert but the actual words, of course, held no meaning for her. She was reacting only to the sound. His mind went back to the terror he had felt years before, when he and Halt and Gilan were hunting the evil Kalkara beasts across the Solitary Plain. Then, as now, the terror of unknown sounds had seized and threatened to overwhelm him. But then, he'd had the reassuring presence of Halt to quell his fears. Now he had only himself.
He took a deep breath. The saxe knife made a soft hiss as it slid from its oiled scabbard and he said, clearly and fir
mly, to the shadows around him:
"Steel."
The whispering stopped.
The dog looked at him. Her tail wagged once. Her hackles lowered and he felt better. Face your fears, Halt had always taught him, and more often than not they will fade like mist in the sunshine. Whispering and words were one thing, he thought. The razor-sharp, heavy saxe knife was another altogether. More practical. More real. More compelling.
And altogether more dangerous.
"Lead on, dog. Let's find these whisperers." He gestured for the animal to continue. He followed a few steps behind her, confident in her ability to sense danger.
It was as well he let her lead. Otherwise he might have walked straight into the black waters of the mere that suddenly appeared as they rounded a bend.
The path skirted its edge to the right. Set among the trees, it was an expanse of black water thirty meters across. At its edge, the trees trailed creepers into the water and leaned over to meet each other-some so tall that they nearly touched hands with their opposite neighbors-so that there was clear sky only above the center of the lake.
Vapor rose from the water's surface, twisting in wreaths of fine mist that dissipated as they rose to the trees. And bubbles broke the surface where rotting vegetation lay below. Or where some large creature breathed, he thought. On the far side of the water, opposite where he stood, the mist seemed to be thicker, forming what was most a curtain. He stopped to study the phenomenon, wondering why the mist should be thicker in that one spot. The dog sank to her belly, watching him intently, ready to move off if he started walking again.
Then, in a heart-stopping moment of absolute terror, a giant figure loomed out of the mist, towering high above the mere, seeming to rise from the black water itself.
It happened as quickly as that. One moment there was nothing Then, in the blink of an eye, the figure was there, fully formed. Huge and menacing, black against the mist, a shadow of a giant warrior in ancient, spiked armor, with a massive winged helmet on its head. It must have been twelve meters high, he thought as he stood, rooted to the spot in horror. The helmet was a full-face design, but where the eyeholes pierced it, there was empty space.
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