Darkness and Light p-1

by Paul B. Thompson

  Merinsaard. He stood. "So you are Sturm Brightblade, of the House of Brightblade?"

  "I am," he said defiantly.

  Merinsaard signaled again, and a stool was brought in for

  Sturm to sit on. The soldiers withdrew, leaving Sturm and

  Tervy with the great lord.

  "I would very much like for you to join my company of men," said Merinsaard. "I can use a young, trained warrior like you. Too many of the scum I pick up are no better than the fool I just shortened by a head." He folded his hands across his flat stomach and looked Sturm in the eye. "In a very short time, you could have your own command of picked troops, cavalry or infantry. What" do you say?"

  The blood was still fresh on the floor, so Sturm consid ered his reply. "I have never worked as a mercenary before," he said equivocally. He pointed to Tervy and said, "Will you release the girl?"

  "If she behaves." Merinsaard placed a key on the table.

  Sturm picked it up and unlocked the fetter that enclosed Ter vy's slender ankle.

  "Before I commit myself, may I ask a question?" said

  Sturm. Merinsaard inclined his head affirmatively. "In this army, to whom would I be responsible?"

  "To me and no one else."

  "And from whom do you take your orders?"

  "I am supreme," rumbled Merinsaard.

  Sturm glanced at Tervy. The chain lay by her foot. She ran a hand over the crudely forged iron fetter. "I don't believe you," Sturm said, calmly.

  Merinsaard bolted to his feet. "You question me?" he roared.

  "Supreme commanders do not sit in lonely keeps, confis cating cattle like skulking freebooters," said Sturm.

  Rage purpled the great lord's face. Sturm wondered if he'd gone too far. In his next breath, would Merinsaard order both their deaths? No, the color slowly left his face, and

  Merinsaard leaned on the table.

  "You are wise for a young man," he said at last. "I have been given the task of collecting food and arms for a great host that will invade northern Ansalon soon. It is a task I undertake with total devotion. As to my leader, she — " He paused, conscious of revealing an important fact. "- she leaves all the handling of mundane affairs to me."

  "I see," Sturm said. What now? "Ah, what would be the terms of my service?"

  "Terms? I cannot offer you a contract, if that is what you mean. But know this, Master Brightblade, join with us and all manner of power and glory shall be yours. You will com mand and conquer. Among men you will be as a king."

  Merinsaard sat down. Sturm looked to Tervy, which put his face away from the warlord's. Their eyes met. Tervy gave a very slight nod.

  Merinsaard looked expectant, so Sturm said, "This is my answer…" The great lord leaned forward. "Now!"

  Tervy stood and pulled the chain as hard as she could.

  The folding table leg popped loose and the heavy tabletop collapsed on Merinsaard's legs. Sturm sprang over the fallen table, knocking Merinsaard down and pinning his hands.

  There would be no blinding incantation this time.

  Tervy grabbed the shiny helmet from the floor and scam pered behind the struggling men. She whacked Merinsaard on the head, and the big man howled under Sturm's clench ing hand. Tervy smote him again and again.

  "That's enough," Sturm said. "He's out."

  "Shall we kill him?" she said.

  "By the gods, you're a bloodthirsty child! No, we're not going to kill him. We're not assassins." The sight of the unconscious Merinsaard gave Sturm a dangerous idea.

  "Help me get his armor off."

  "Oh, you want to skin him!" Tervy said. Sturm rolled his eyes and hurried to untie the lacings of the warlord's armor.

  The great lord Merinsaard threw back the wall flap.

  Guards in the corridor stiffened to attention. The fierce

  Dragon Highlord mask turned to them.

  "I have immobilized Brightblade," he said. "He will remain here until I return. No one is to enter that room before me, do you understand? The paralysis spell will be broken if anyone does. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, lord!" the guards shouted in unison.

  "Very good." Merinsaard beckoned to Tervy. "Come along, girl." Tervy walked toward him, looking miserable.

  Chain dragged between her feet. She was hobbled with heavy iron fetters.

  "When you prove your loyalty, I will remove them,"

  Merinsaard said loftily.

  "Oh, thank you, great lord!" Tervy replied.

  The masked man swept on with the girl close on his heels.

  In the corridor, beyond earshot of the guards, Sturm said softly, "You did that very well."

  "Oh, thank you, great lord!"

  'You can stop now."

  In the maze of silk walls, Sturm found the flap leading to the room where Onthar and his men were kept. He burst in.

  Ostimar raised his sagging head, and when he saw the dragon mask, his expression ran from fear to hatred.

  "What now?" Onthar said.

  "I'm going to let you go," said Sturm. He handed Merin saard's dagger to Tervy, who busied herself freeing the astonished herders.

  "Where are Sturm and Belingen?" said Frijje.

  "Belingen betrayed his honor and died for it." Sturm removed the stifling helmet. "And Sturm is with you."

  It was all Sturm could do to restrain the herders from cheering. Even the normally taciturn Onthar grinned and thumped Sturm on the back.

  "There's no time for celebration," Sturm said hastily. "You must get to your horses and get out of here."

  Rorin said, "You're not riding with us?"

  "I can't. My destiny lies farther north. Besides, the only chance you fellows have is if Merinsaard wants to avenge himself on me rather than recapture all of you."

  The realization of what this meant quickly sank in.

  Onthar grasped Sturm's arms. "We'll face the hordes of

  Takhisis if you say so, Ironskin."

  "You may have that opportunity," Sturm said grimly. "So go. Warn all your people about Merinsaard. Make sure that no one else brings him cattle, or sheep, or other supplies.

  They would meet with the same treatment you did."

  "I will spread the word across the plains," Onthar vowed.

  "Not even a partridge will get to Merinsaard's stores."

  The herders gathered up their few belongings and started for the exit. Sturm added, "There's just one other thing."

  "What?" asked Onthar.

  Sturm paused. "I want you to take Tervy with you."

  "No!" she said loudly. "I stay with youl"

  "You can't do that. I've got to travel fast and light, and it will be too dangerous for you to remain with me," Sturm said solemnly.

  "It wasn't too dangerous in Merinsaard's room, when I spilled the table and thumped him on the head."

  Sturm laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "You're braver than ten men, Tervy, but there's going to be more than just swords or arrows coming at me. There is evil magic abroad in the land, and the full weight of it may fall on me in the coming days."

  Her lips quivered. "I don't care."

  "I do. You're a fine girl, Tervy. You deserve a long and happy life." He turned to Frijje. "You'll look after her, won't you?"

  The herder, still amazed to hear that the girl had subdued the mighty Merinsaard, replied, "I think she'll end up look ing after me!"

  It was agreed then, though not without some tears. Sturm hesitated a moment, then kissed her smudged forehead and sent her way with the herders. The pang of regret he felt was like a fresh wound, but Sturm knew that in the coming days his own odds of survival would be slim.

  The guards tensed when Onthar and his party walked into view. Sturm, mask in place, ordered the soldiers to let them pass. "These men are to return with more provender," he boomed.

  The herders' ponies were brought out, and they mounted.

  Frijje hauled Tervy up behind him. "You will bring the next herd to this same spot," Sturm said loudly.
<
br />   "Aye, my lord," Onthar replied. "A thousand head, I promise."

  Onthar swung his pony southward and kicked its dusty hide. He galloped away with the others strung out behind.

  Frijje and Tervy were last. The girl looked back until they were lost from sight. She held her right fist clenched to her chest; the temptation to wave farewell was strong.

  Hands clasped behind his back, Sturm strode down the center passage, acting like a general at inspection. He glanced into several rooms until he found what he wanted:

  Merinsaard's wardrobe.

  Quickly he shed the armor. Merinsaard was thicker through the chest and waist than Sturm, but otherwise they were nearly the same size. He donned a woolen tunic, scarf, and gloves. Though it was warm on the plain, in the higher elevations it would be cold at night. Sturm retained the dragon mask, and threw an ankle-length cloak around his shoulders. The hood hid his dark hair. There was no time to search for the sword that had been taken from him, so he

  'borrowed' one of Merinsaard's. Tas would be proud of him, he thought ruefully. The simple-hilted weapon was plated with mirror-finished silver, and fitted with a black leather scabbard. Sturm buckled the sword belt under the cloak.

  At the entrance of the grand tent, he shouted, "My horse!" A soldier ran to the picket line and returned with a magnificent white charger.

  "The apothecary reports the poultice has healed Mai-tat's hoof," the soldier said in a rapid, breathless voice. "The man begs your lordship to spare him."

  Why not? "I give him his life," Sturm said in what he hoped was a convincingly arrogant manner. He put a foot in the stirrup and swung onto Mai-tat. The spirited charger pranced in a half-circle, causing the soldier to retreat.

  Sturm opened his mouth to explain his departure, then quickly realized that Merinsaard would likely do no such thing. "I shall return before morning," he said.

  "The usual guard postings remain?" said the man who'd brought the horse.

  "Yes." Sturm tightened the reins to quell the nervous ani mal. "Let there be no mistakes, or it will be your head!" he said.

  He spurred lightly and galloped north, toward Castle

  Brightblade. Sturm regretted not having time to scatter the cattle inside the old keep. But there was no time for such diversions; the moment the real Merinsaard awoke and freed himself from his bonds, the hunt for Sturm Bright blade would begin.

  Chapter 40

  The Secret of Brightblade Castle

  Mai-tat was as fleet as he was beautiful, and in a very short time the dark hump of Vingaard Keep sank below the southern horizon. With the stars to guide him,

  Sturm bore northwest. A tributary of the Vingaard River lay due north and the Verkhas Hills to the west. In the fertile pocket of land between the two lay Castle Brightblade.

  The white stallion's hooves drummed a solo song on the plain. Several times Sturm halted his headlong flight to lis ten for sounds of pursuit. Aside from the whirring of crick ets in the tall grass, the plain was silent.

  A few hours before dawn, Sturm slowed Mai-tat as they closed upon a shadowy ruin. It was an old hut and a land marker, now demolished. The stump of the marker still bore the lower half of its carved name plaque. The lower petals of a rose showed, and beneath that a sun and a naked sword.

  Bright Blade. Sturm had come to the southern limits of his ancestral holdings.

  4/He clucked his tongue and urged the horse forward. The fields beyond the marker that he remembered as rich graz ing land and bountiful orchards were overgrown and wild.

  The neat rows of apple and pear trees were little more than a thicket now. Vines had long since reclaimed the road. Sturm rode on, tight-lipped, ducking now and then to clear the sagging tree branches.

  The orchard was split by a creek, he remembered, and so it was still. He steered Mai-tat into the shallow stream. The creek ran a mile or so to the very base of the walls of Castle

  Brightblade. Mai-tat trotted through the cool water.

  The east was brightening to amber when the gray walls appeared over the treetops. The profile of the battlements and towers brought a lump to his throat. But it was not the same as when he left; creepers scaled the walls in thick mats, blocks of stone had toppled, and the towers were naked to the sky, their roofs burned off years ago.

  "Come on," Sturm said to the horse, tapping him gently with his heels. Mai-tat cantered through the creek, kicking up founts with every step. He climbed the bank on the west side and plowed through the hedges. On the castle's west face was the main gate. Sturm clattered up the grass spotted, cobblestone road to the entrance. Shaded from the rising sun, the walls looked black.

  The narrow moat was little more than a muddy ditch now; without the dam to divert the creek, it would never keep water. Sturm slowed Mai-tat once they hit the bridge.

  Belingen's cruel remarks about knights jumping into the moat echoed in Sturm's mind. The ditch was nothing but a dark, swampy morass.

  The gate was gone. Only the blackened hinges remained, spiked to the stone walls with iron nails a foot long. The courtyard was thick with blown leaves and charred wood.

  Sturm looked up at the donjon rising before him. The win dows gaped blankly, their sills displaying tongues of soot where fire had raged through. He wanted to call out, to yell,

  Father, Father, I've come home!

  But no one would hear. No one but ghosts.

  The bailey had been used recently to house animals.

  Sturm found the tracks of massed cattle, and realized that

  Merinsaard's camp at Vingaard Keep was not the only site where the invaders were marshaling provisions. A deep anger welled in him at the thought of the low purpose for which the noble edifice of Castle Brightblade had been used.

  He rounded the corner of the donjon and entered the north courtyard. There was the little postern gate that his mother and he had fled through that last time he had seen his father. He saw again his father embrace his mother for the last time, as snow fell around them. Lady Ilys Bright blade never recovered from the chill of that parting. To the end of her life, she was cold, rigid, and bitter.

  Then he saw the body.

  Sturm dismounted and led Mai-tat by the reins. He walked up to the body lying face down in the leaves and rolled it over. It was a man, and he'd not been dead long — a day perhaps, or two. He'd been neatly run through from behind. The corpse still clutched a cloth bag in his fist.

  Sturm pried open the fingers and found that the bag held petty valuables — silver coins, crude jewelry, and some semi precious stones. Whoever had killed this man had not done so to rob him. In fact, by the dagger and picklock tucked in his belt, the dead man appeared to be a thief himself.

  Sturm walked on. He discovered the remains of a camp fire and some bedding, all trampled and tangled. Under a blue horsehair blanket he found another body. This one had died by sword as well. The usual sort of camp items were scattered about. Copper pan, clay pots, waterskins — more silver coins and a bolt of fine silk. Had the thieves had a fall ing out over their spoils? If so, why hadn't the winner taken everything with him?

  An empty doorway yawned nearby. To the kitchens,

  Sturm mused. He used a broken tent pole for a stake and tied Mai-tat.

  Sunlight streamed into the shattered donjon, but many halls were still pitch black. Sturm went back to the spoiled robber camp and made a torch with a stick and some rags.

  As he worked, he heard a stirring in the doorway. He whirled, sword ready. There was nothing there.

  The dead men had changed Sturm's perception of the cas tle. He'd been expecting a mournful tour of his old home, and a search for understanding to his father's fate. Now a more sinister air clung to the stones. No place was free of the probing fingers of evil, not even the former castle of a

  Solamnic Knight.

  The kitchens were picked clean, plundered long ago, even of their fire brick and andirons. Cobwebs clung to every beam and doorway. He came to the great hall, where his father had
often dined with great lords, such as Gunthar Uth

  Wistan, Dorman Hammerhand, and Drustan Sparfeld of

  Garnet. The great oak table was gone. The brass candle holders on the walls were ripped out. The fireplace, with its carved symbols of the Order of the Rose, had been deliber ately defaced.

  There was that noise again! Sturm was sure that it was footfalls. "Who are you? Come out and show yourself!" He waved the torch toward the vaulted ceiling. The stone arch es were cloaked in a tightly nestled layer of bats. Disgusted,

  Sturm crossed the hall to the steps. One set led up to the pri vate rooms, while another led down to the cellars. Sturm put a foot on the lowest of the rising steps.

  "Hello…" sighed a voice. Sturm froze. Under the hood his hair prickled.

  "Who is there?" he called.

  "This way…" The voice came from below. Sword in his right hand, torch in his left, Sturm descended the steps.

  It was cold down there. The torch flickered in the breeze rising through the stairwell. The corridor curved away on either side, following the foundation of the very ancient cit adel that Castle Brightblade had been built on.

  "Which way?" Sturm called boldly.

  "This way…" whispered the voice. It seemed oddly familiar as it sighed down the hall like the last gasp of a dying man. Sturm followed it to his left.

  He had not gone fifty yards when he stumbled upon a third dead man. This one was different; he was no robber.

  He was older, his beard untrimmed and his face worn by wind and sun. The dead man sat slumped against the wall, a dagger buried in his ribs. Oddly, his right arm was bent and resting atop his head, a finger stiffly pointing down. Sturm studied the face. It was familiar — in a rush, he recognized the man as Bren, one of his father's old retainers. If he were here, could Sturm's father be far away?

  "What are you pointing at, old fellow?" Sturm asked the dead man urgently. He opened the man's coat to see if Bren carried any clues to the fate of Sturm's father. When he did, the dead man's right arm slid out of position and came to rest pointing straight up, overhead. Sturm raised the torch.

  There was nothing above him but an iron wall sconce -