“Yes, Excellency. That is exactly what happened. It was a monumental failure, and the fault is naught but my own. My men acted bravely and competently throughout the long journey. I can only offer up my sword and my epaulets as penance.”
“You can offer more than that!” The Lord Regent’s voice rose, becoming shrill. “You can offer your blood, your life!”
“Father!” Selinda declared, stepping forward and raising her own voice.
“You stay out of this!” du Chagne snarled, turning to glare at her. His expression blazed, almost causing her to falter, but she raised her chin and met his fury with her own fierce determination.
“I won’t! Captain Powell’s behavior and his leadership were exemplary. The fault, such as it is, lies with me and with that wretched Assassin. The captain would have executed the prisoner at once, and I now see-too late-that this would have been in accordance with the situation. Instead, I insisted he be brought here to stand trial. I overruled the captain’s strenuous objections, invoking my own rank in imposing my will. I see that this was a mistake, and as a result of my mistake, not only has the fugitive escaped once more, but a good, brave knight has perished.”
Her father’s face turned a most disquieting shade of purple. His mouth moved wordlessly. Captain Powell broke the awkward silence.
“No, I cannot allow your daughter to accept fault in this matter, Excellency,” the knight said stiffly. “Though ’tis an expression of her noble nature that she does.” He softened slightly as he looked at Selinda, and she saw the gratitude in his eyes.
He abruptly snapped to attention, looking at some place on the windowed wall beyond the lord regent’s shoulder. “If your Excellency wishes some miserable portion of my unworthy flesh as just retribution, I offer myself willingly. Though it would not make amend for my failing, it is only justice I should suffer such fate.”
“Bah-get away from here, both of you!” snapped du Chagne. “This bastard has already cost me too many men-I cannot afford to lose even an incompetent, Captain! Go and supervise the stabling of the horses-I shall send for you at some point in the future.”
“Aye, Excellency.” Powell turned on his heel and with as much dignity as he could muster marched out of the vast chamber.
Selinda, steeling herself in the face of the lord regent’s anger, spoke softly. “Father…?”
“What is it now?” he snapped, then softened his voice. “What now?”
“The man who died… Sir Dupuy. Did he have a family? I should like to offer what comfort and recompense I could to his widow, see to the future of his children. It is only fair.”
Du Chagne’s eyes narrowed, boring into her. “I have problems of my own!” he declared. “You know nothing about my problems-about a room that looks like it’s full of nothing! Coal and fuel and the rising price of everything! And you dare to bother me with trivial questions about some fool of a knight?”
She was taken aback-he looked positively cruel!
“Such concerns are preposterous!” he continued. “He was a knight-he knew the risks he took, as do all knights. He didn’t have a family. He leaves no one who cares for him. Now go!”
Selinda turned and departed the great room, nodding absently to the guard who held open the door. What did her father mean: “A room that looks like it’s full of nothing”? He had been in a foul state from the moment of their arrival a few hours earlier, and at first she thought he was upset about the prisoner’s escape. She had noticed, with surprise, the treasure room atop the Golden Spire was closed and shuttered-something she had never seen before-and now wondered if that had something to do with her father’s mood.
Her mind was awhirl with questions and guilty awareness and a sense that things were even more troubling than previously imagined.
The duke knelt at the altar of his immortal lord. The dread scale teetered before him, the balance hanging in peril, until once again his blood was added to the measure. Finally the crimson fluid drained from the lord’s veins equaled the weight of a great pile of golden coins, and Hiddukel, the Prince of Lies, was pleased.
Now the Nightmaster stood over the nobleman. The priest’s mask was as black as the surrounding night, his words even darker. They were in the temple beneath the city, in the dampness and the dark.
“The young woman, the princess of all Solamnia, has returned safely to her home. She awaits the pleasure of the gods and the man who will claim her. She is the key, for the one who claims her will claim all Solamnia.”
“Aye, Master.”
“That man must make her his wife. He must take her as his bride. That man must be you, my lord duke.”
The kneeling duke looked up in confusion mingled with fear. “But Master-I already have a wife! How can I take another?”
“You cannot. Not so long as your present wife lives.” The Nightmaster leaned forward, holding out a piece of gauzy cloth to the kneeling duke. “Take this,” commanded the cleric.
The nobleman did. “What is it?” he asked nervously.
“It is a shroud of silence. You can drape it above your bed. When the curtains hang down, nothing that happens beneath it will make any sound. It is the will of Hiddukel that some things remain secret.”
“But…” The duke’s face grew pale, and he slumped, his knees buckling until his hands came to rest upon the floor. He had given so much blood to this dark god, so much trust and devotion, and now this.
“There are reports the Assassin escaped from the knights who captured him on the plains… that he is once again at large.”
“Aye, Master… I know these reports.”
“He could be anywhere… he could strike in the north… or the east. He could strike here.”
“He is a menace to all Solamnia!” the noble agreed.
“A menace… or an alibi. Think, my lord duke. Do you understand what must be done?” asked the Nightmaster. “Sometimes a lie can be seen as the Truth.”
For long moments the nobleman held his face to the floor, trembling. Only after considerable reflection did he gasp, raise his eyes in an expression of comprehension-and of horror.
“Yes. Yes, I understand… I know what you command,” he replied.
“Tell me!” insisted the dark cleric, his voice bubbling like lava.
“That my own dear wife must die at my hand-but that my people must believe the Assassin has killed her.”
CHAPTER TWENTY — FOUR
The Brackens
F rom the lip of the escarpment, looking down into the wide, flat river valley formed by the junction of the Upper Vingaard and Kaolyn Rivers, the Brackens presented a depressing vista. The forested swamp sprawled across the sodden lowlands in a tangle of hummocks, marshes, fetid ponds and sluggish streams, all broken by dense copses of moss-draped trees that rose from the mist like gaunt guardians. The hum of mosquitoes was omnipresent, an audible drone across the whole territory. Eerie birdcalls echoed.
The four travelers stood on the rim of the grassy bluff some fifty feet above the swamp and swatted at a few of the buzzing insects who rose to greet them, knowing that the pests would be far more numerous once they climbed down the steep hillside.
The Brackens extended as far as they could see in either direction. The shiny open water marking the main channel of the Upper Vingaard was just barely visible, three or four miles away. The escarpment extended along the entire length of the river valley, and the tangled, forbidding swamp was a constant barrier between the base of the bluff and the river. The distant trail of the plains road and the ford the gnomes-and many travelers-had used was far away, below the place where the two rivers merged.
“Do we have to go in there?” Dram asked, scowling.
“We came this far,” Jaymes drawled, scratching his chin. “Why not see things through to the main event?”
“The white lady said Salty Pete might still be alive in there?” Carbo asked dubiously. “How can she know such things? We saw him get dragged off by the big black draco!”
> “The White Lady told me she’d heard of a gnome held captive in there,” the dwarf said bluntly. “She didn’t know his name-but thought it might be your brother. Said he’s been there for a couple of years. The timing is about right.”
“Yeah. We lost Pete two years ago,” Sulfie said hopefully.
“I’ve learned to trust her,” Jaymes said with a shrug. “She’s surprised me more than once.” He glanced at the sun, which had cleared the eastern horizon. “We should get moving-if we’re fast, and lucky, we might be in and out of there before sunset.”
By now, the four travelers were fit, well fed, and reasonably well-rested. After leaving the Vingaard Range, they had spent a few weeks evading the patrols of knights that rode vigilantly across the plains. Traveling by darkness and finding hiding places-a herdsman’s hut, a clump of brambles, streamside caves-before each dawn, they made their way eastward and south from the Vingaard Mountains down to the river of the same name. Then they had followed the flow south until they reached this broad convergence.
The two gnomes remembered the route they had followed when they departed Dungarden, and now they found themselves in the same fateful area. Their goal lay before them, in all its unappetizing sprawl and decay. Even the smells were daunting-the stench was more than just the miasma of rot and stagnancy. There was a metallic, smoky overlay to the odor that bespoke of something more sinister than death.
“The ford we crossed is over there, to the left,” Carbo noted. “We didn’t go into this swampy stuff when we came from Dungarden. The wagon would have sunk right down, without a decent track, you know, but the road goes past the swamp, not into it.” He mopped his bald pate with a grimy rag, shaking his head at the ugly memories.
“Tell us about the attack,” the warrior said.
“Well, there’s the road. You see it coming down from the far bank? We trundled down that hill, twenty gnomes on two wagons, each pulled by two oxen. We came to where the road goes into the river there, then we crossed. It’s a good ford, shallow with a gravel bottom. Then the road comes into the woods along the edge of the swamp down there-it’s kind of built up with a stone bed, so the wagon was doing all right. That is, until the dracos attacked.”
“You keep calling them that. You mean draconians?” Dram pressed.
“Well, they made me think of draconians, but they were bigger-not dragons, but sort of like a composite of dragons and draconians. They spat acid, though, and killed the two oxen hauling the first wagon. We all raced to get into the second wagon and ran away, but Pete didn’t make it out.”
As he recounted the tale, tears glimmered in his eyes, and listening nearby, Sulfie shivered.
“Dragon spawn?” Dram guessed, shaking his head, looking at Jaymes.
“Likely,” the warrior agreed. He looked at Carbo. “Were they all black?”
“Yep,” the gnome recalled with a shudder. “They were the blackest, scariest things I ever saw! They hissed and roared, and that spit-it burned the fur and the skin right off the poor old oxen.”
“But your brother-you didn’t see him get killed?”
“No. One big draco-you called it a dragon spawn? — grabbed him up by the neck and ran off. He cried out just one time. The others came after us, and we had to flee. As soon as we got out of the trees they stopped chasing us, but Pete wasn’t making any more noise, so we concluded that he was killed.”
Sulfie spoke up, finally. “If they have Pete, then we have to go get him out of there. I’m not afraid of any big lizard!”
“Yeah, let’s go,” Carbo agreed. He went over to his sister, looked at her seriously. “Don’t be getting all hopeful. Remember what we saw.”
“Yes,” the female agreed, but she raised her chin in determination. “Remember the White Lady, too. She wouldn’t lie!” she declared, glancing at Jaymes and Dram, emphasizing that her assessment did not necessarily extend to present company.
“You guys coming too?” she asked.
“Yes,” Jaymes replied with a small nod.
Dram huffed and scowled. “Well, if Pete knows how to finish the damned compound so it can do something besides fizzle and smoke, then I’d like to hear about it. But I do hate mosquitoes.”
The human grinned. “Once the dracos start swarming, I guarantee you won’t even noticed the bugs,” he remarked.
Sulfie’s eyes were wide, but she wrapped her little arms around herself and started down the grassy bluff. The others followed and approached the moss-draped trees that marked the edge of the Brackens. The sunlight seemed to dim, and a thick, grayish haze lingered in the air, masking the brightness-though not the warmth-of the sun. If anything it was even hotter at the base of the hill, and the air was thick and steamy.
The mosquitoes were thick here too, a steady whining drone in their ears. The companions also heard birds cawing angrily to each other and a chorus of croaking frogs. A myriad of smells greeted them, none of them pleasant. The sooty, metallic stench seemed almost asphyxiating. The swamp was a green-black wall of dark, mossy trunks, vines and creepers, with thick ferns sprouting from the ground.
No obvious path presented itself, but Sulfie led the way, pushing away some vines and stepping between two ancient tree trunks. The others followed. In single file they plunged into the trees, trying to move soundlessly, surprised as the noisy frogs abruptly fell silent. The ground was wet everywhere with pools of stagnant water, and sometimes they had to hop from one gnarled tree root to the next. A large snake slithered across their path. Something bigger splashed in the water nearby, and they hurried on.
Deeper and deeper into the swamp they progressed, pushing vines out of the way, ducking under creepers, edging past hooked thorns. By the time they had advanced two dozen paces, sunlight was but a distant memory. Now they couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction. The mosquitoes swarmed over them.
They came across another snake-this one a black, venomous viper that coiled menacingly and raised its wedge-shape head, hissing. Jaymes pulled Giantsmiter from the scabbard on his back and brought the huge blade down with a single chop, cutting the snake into two wriggling segments. They pressed on in the sucking mud. The warrior held his weapon upraised.
Sulfie slipped off the gnarled root of an ancient cypress, sliding into what looked like shallow pool. With a little gasp of dismay she sank to her waist and began to settle deeper. She clawed at the root, then grasped Dram’s strong hand. Grimacing, the dwarf set his feet and pulled the gnome free. She was covered in mud and nearly gagged at the leeches wriggling on her leggings-but swatted them off. Grimly she rose to her feet, nodding when the dwarf said he would take the lead.
The smells grew stronger, swamp gas rising in choking clouds as their feet disturbed long-dormant layers of rot. A stink like carrion made Jaymes gag, and he held a handkerchief across his mouth, blinking away tears as he strained to see through the murk. Still that metal-smoke scent permeated everything, growing stronger as they penetrated deeper into the Brackens.
“Hsst!” said Carbo, drawing a big sniff through his wide nostrils. “Do you smell that smell?”
Jaymes nodded, his nostrils twitching. “Yes. Smoke, but not from wood.” Indeed, the vapor smelled bitter, acrid, more like something raised from a foundry than a campfire.
“That’s Pete!” cried Sulfie. “I’d know that stink anywhere! He’s busy cooking his stuff!”
“Stuff?” Dram asked.
“Yep. We each had one kind of stuff, Pap taught us about. Like my specialty is the yellow rock.” She gestured at the dirty sack on her back, which was filled with the samples of sulfir.
Carbo nodded. “Mine is charcoal. Pete’s stuff is the strangest of all, and he was very secretive about it-we don’t really know that much about it. He was always doing funny things with fire. But I know that smell! It means he’s still alive-it has to! This way!”
The gnome made to crash through the underbrush, but Dram placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Easy does it,” the dwarf w
hispered. “The dracos are probably still alive, too.”
With visible reluctance, Carbo nodded and moved on more cautiously, soon stepping out from the trees onto a narrow, muddy path of sorts. The others emerged after him, and without hesitation Carbo started toward the direction that seemed to lead deeper into the swamp and from which the strong smell emanated.
The new trail was narrow and muddy, twisting around the larger trees, but even Jaymes had enough headroom, as the vines and low branches had disappeared.
“You thinking what I am?” asked Dram, with a glance at his human companion.
“Yes,” Jaymes said. Who-or whatever-used this path was tall enough to clear it to a height of better than six feet above the ground.
The acrid scent grew steadily thicker. After a few minutes, the path opened into a shadowy, narrow clearing. Trees draped with moss and vines enclosed the space, with a tiny patch of sky overhead. That glimpse of blue only seemed to emphasize the gloom of this fetid place.
“There!” cried Carbo, pointing toward a gaping pit in the center of the small open space. The hole in the ground was dark, lined with mud, and venting an assortment of noxious gases. Greenish vapors were visible in narrow tendrils rising from the pit and wafting through the dense air. “He’s going to be down there!”
The gnome darted toward the pit. He didn’t hear the leathery wings flapping loudly overhead, but his companions were more alert.
“Duck!” cried Sulfie, leaping forward to tackle her brother. They tumbled to the muddy ground as a shadow flashed by. A black serpent swooped past, diving from overhead, barely missing the two gnomes. The creature’s large wings flared as it alit. It was not armed with any weapon, but its claws and fangs gleamed as it crouched and eyed the two gnomes. It looked like a small dragon. Crocodilian jaws gaped to reveal a forked, thrusting tongue, and its leathery wings buzzed.
Carbo sprang to his feet. He pulled his little dagger and was about to charge the strange serpent when, once again, his sister bowled into him, knocking him to the side just before a stream of yellow liquid spurted from the monster’s maw. The two gnomes rolled away, barely avoiding the lethal strike. The reptilian creature lashed its head on its long neck, following the course of the rolling gnomes, and started forward. It was indeed dragon-like, though more like the size of a large-and winged! — alligator than a truly monstrous wyrm.
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