Before the group could find anything on Bigelow street, It found them. They had not gone more than two blocks when a shutter above and behind them was thrust open. They were still two blocks from the city wall ahead, and consequently, the dead-end of the street. It was after five bells and just as the sun dipped over the horizon, as if on cue, the Fiend appeared. In the window, revealed by the open shutter, a black form materialized, pointing something down at them. Just as Melissa whirled and brought her bow to bear, they heard a light “clink” and a crossbow bolt hurtled down, striking her in the shoulder, piercing her shirt of light chain links, and sinking deep into her flesh. Her arrow went off aimlessly and Melissa fell into the snow with a cry of pain. Dirk whisked her up and into a recessed doorway. Selric and Fiona dashed into an alcove across the street, a bolt nearly striking Fiona in the head, but hitting the door sill instead as she ducked for cover.
“He’s removed our missile fire. He probably thinks he can pick us off,” Selric said loud enough for Dirk to hear him across the street. He peeked out but the window, half a block away, now stood empty. Dirk and Melissa were on the side with the Fiend, so Selric and Fiona raced across to join them, diving quickly for cover. Melissa was already unconscious and sweating when Fiona pulled the shaft from her shoulder, dressed the wound and said an incantation, gesturing and praying to her goddess. The blood flow stopped, but Melissa remained comatose. Fiona looked closely at the bolt; the tip was coated with a black, gummy resin Fiona recognized as the poisonous sap of the Gondala tree, found in the tropical south.
“She’s been poisoned. He’s using poisoned quarrels,” Fiona announced with some worry.
“How bad?” Dirk asked.
“Not fatal. Its main effect is unconsciousness for a day or two followed by sickness and weakness for anywhere from one to three days,” Fiona said.
“But effective enough to remove her with one shot as a threat to him if that lone quarrel failed to kill her,” Selric said, peering down the narrow street. “We’ve got to find the door that leads up to that window.” Then from around the corner of the next street, they heard the sounds of pounding hooves, a neighing horse, and clashing metal.
Mendric had returned just before sunset and found the note. He was furious that Selric hadn’t waited, and he rushed out to his horse after fetching his helm and shield, the items he wore only for practice sessions or actual combat. He was not familiar with the neighborhood through which he rode and was hindered by the falling darkness, but it was not far from the Stormweather estate to the east wall, and he rode on furiously. He came upon two men busy unloading a wagon by lamplight and raised his visor as he pulled up. “Where’s Bigelow Street?” he asked as his horse, Bullward, stomped anxiously. One of the men ceased his work, scratching his head. “Hurry man!” Mendric urged.
“You missed it by two streets. Go south two blocks and you’ll cross it,” the worker said, pointing in that direction.
“Thank you,” Mendric blurted then urged Bullward on, who was only too eager to please as he bolted off. Mendric had gone only one city block when he spied a dark shape slinking up the street toward him. When this shape heard the hoof beats, It pulled out a crossbow and quickly fired.
The quarrel struck Mendric’s breastplate and snapped, falling harmlessly away and Mendric drew his huge sword, spurring his tremendous steed onward. The Fiend reloaded and pointed again. Mendric leaned forward, his sword drawn back, ready to strike. Firing, the Fiend hit Bullward in the neck, but the beast barreled on as Mendric brought his sword down mightily. The Fiend blocked the strike with Its crossbow, saving It’s life, but the weapon was shattered in the effort.
The Fiend crouched to spring, as Bullward reared, his hooves prepared and capable enough to crush the Fiend’s skull. The steed whinnied and fell to the side, succumbing to the Gondala sap. Mendric kicked free of the horse before becoming pinned, Bullward lying in the snow, snorting and breathing heavily. The Fiend drew Its scimitar and rushed the knight, the most formidable single foe It had ever faced. Steel rang as their great blades clashed. Though much larger, Mendric’s ancient family blade could not shatter the enchanted weapon of the Fiend. They grasped free arms in a test of strength, as their other hands locked steel. Mendric, though immense for a human, was no match for the Fiend, and Its grip on his arm was crushing. But the Fiend knew It stood little chance in a toe-to-toe sword fight with a fully armored warrior as skilled as the Stormweather, and It hurled the knight aside.
As Mendric rose, The Fiend barreled full strength into him like a charging bull, knocking him into a snowdrift. Then, It drew a poisoned bolt from It’s quiver and leapt upon him, viciously shoving the quarrel into a gap in his armor, where the thigh piece met the groin guard. The shaft pierced the chain links filling the gap between solid steel plates and sank into Mendric’s hip and he cried out. Desperation brought on by pain spurred Mendric and with a heavy gauntlet blow, he knocked the Fiend off and quickly rose. His sword was buried somewhere in the snow, so he drew his dagger and limped after the Fiend, struggling to keep the poison from overcoming him. The Fiend charged and with a mighty strike of Its scimitar, cracked Mendric’s great helm and increased Mendric’s dizziness, making his world spin.
Sir Stormweather grabbed the Fiend in a tight hug, using his height and the weight of his body and armor, making him heavier than the Fiend, and he overbore It to the ground, repeatedly slamming his knife into the black form. The Fiend bellowed and felt pain as never before. With all Its massive strength, It pressed Mendric clear off It’s body and used It’s legs to propel him across the street and into a wall. Mendric could only stand slowly; the poison now weakening him and making his legs unsteady.
The Fiend had not come to fight with the group, only to lay Its plans: and It certainly did not come to fight a man who felt no fear. The Fiend had felt fear in everyone It had ever attacked, even the great wizard; all excepting this knight. The Fiend checked Its abdomen: there were several deep, terrible wounds. Then It heard the others coming. It picked up Its scimitar and rushed into the nearest alley and found the closest sewer entrance, where It disappeared once again.
Selric was the first to round the corner. His first sight was a large horse lying in the street, then his eye was drawn to a knight he recognized by his armor and Stormweather crest. His brother kept standing, only to fall feebly again to the street. Blood was on his breastplate and ran profusely down his thigh, staining the snow all about him a deathly crimson. The knight teetered then fell once more, this time the last.
Selric never saw the Fiend slip away, but Fiona did and she ran after him, but when he entered the underworld, she stopped and returned to her friends. Dirk had come up, carrying Melissa in his arms, as he had the first time the Fiend wounded her. “Get over here,” Selric called urgently to Fiona. She did as ordered and quickly ministered to Mendric’s wounds. Selric already had his brother’s helm, coif, and thigh guard removed. Fiona plied her magic, significantly healing his wounds, but then became woozy herself; the repeated use of her powers slowly draining her life. “Great! Not you too,” Selric sighed, steadying her. “We can’t carry everybody back.”
“I’ll be fine,” Fiona lied wearily.
“Where’s the Fiend?” Dirk asked, rocking Melissa back and forth as if she were a fussy infant, his eyes darting this way and that warily.
“Disappeared into the sewers,” Fiona sighed, lying against the youngest Stormweather. “I could not, and did not want to, go alone.”
“What about Bullward?” Selric asked Fiona.
“What about what?” she asked.
“Bullward. Mendric’s horse,” Selric said. Fiona nodded, rolled to her knees and crawled to the steed. The wound was easy to patch physically, but the beast’s huge heart labored under the comparatively small dose of poison.
“I don’t know,” she called to Selric. “Mel would know better. It’s the poison from the crossbow bolts. He’s been shot in the neck, but the wound is minor.”
&n
bsp; “Well,” Selric said, looking at Dirk. “I’ll get some men and a wagon from the estate. You move them inside and try to keep them warm. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stood, took three deep, slow breaths, and then bolted off, unbelievably fast, down the street, disappearing around the corner and heading west, moving like the East wind.
Dirk kicked in a door of one of the dozen warehouses, and went inside. He searched until he found a stove, which he filled with crates he didn’t hesitate to smash to pieces. Dirk lugged the injured inside, while Fiona gathered her own strength and cleared away the snow from around the steed and made her own fire out in the street nearby. Not more than twenty minutes had passed when Selric came careening around the corner in a huge wagon. A dozen armed horsemen rode behind him followed by a second, smaller, wagon. Fiona directed the men to Melissa and Mendric, and they loaded them, heavily blanketed, into the small wagon. Afterwards, when Dirk—at the reins of the wagon now—had raced away, the men pulled supplies from the large wagon and with the store of poles and cloth, constructed a tent over Bullward. While many would have thought that rather extravagant, a warhorse was an expensive investment, aside from the fact that the horse was a favorite of Mendric, lord-to-be of a great noble family.
Two small fires were built within the tent and soon three animal trainers from the Stormweather animal training facility arrived to tend the horse, and several guards were posted outside as well. In the morning, when the Watch happened by and asked why the street was almost entirely blocked, the head animal trainer, Bellock, showed them the note given the family by the Head Constable. Bellock told them that it was important business, as explained in the writ, and that they should continue on their rounds. The Watch had no choice but to comply.
Alanna had been reading several books of lore in the hearth room, when Melinon, household servant, came rushing past her. “What is it?” Alanna had asked, seeing the urgency in his face.
“Master Selric informs me that Sir Mendric has been injured.” Alanna’s heart began to race nervously then she thought of Selric.
“And Selric?”
“He seems unhurt. I do not know more. I am just supposed to prepare the household for Mendric’s return.” He looked worried. “I must find Elgorn. Please excuse me, Mistress.”
“Where is Selric?” she asked.
“He went to the guardhouse,” Melinon said, pausing in the doorway. After answering, he bowed, then continued on through the kitchen, to the quarters of the most valued and important servants, all of whom lived in the manor itself. Those of lesser status were the ones who were given lodging in the building across the court. Alanna donned her cloak and rushed out into the snowy courtyard. Selric was mustering a squad of men near the stable.
“Selric!” she called, running up and embracing him. “What’s the matter? Is Mendric all right?”
“I’ve got to go, dear. I have to get two wagons from our warehouse on Simon Way and get back to Mendric. He’s been hurt, but he’ll be just fine. I’ll be back soon and explain it all then.” He held her shoulders firmly while he spoke, and his strength comforted her somewhat, then he kissed her forehead and leapt atop a horse and sped out through the gate, followed closely by his loyal men.
Alanna had been waiting for thirty minutes, though it seemed much longer, when the wagon returned, pulling slowly up. Dirk was at the reigns, Fiona by his side. Alanna and the two head servants ran to the foot of the stairs as several guards came from the Stormweather barracks to bear Mendric and Melissa into the house in a flurry of excited and urgent activity; everyone doing all they could for the heir.
“Where’s Selric?” Alanna asked with concern amidst the turmoil and bustle. Fiona turned to her.
“He’s seeing to Mendric’s horse. He’s fine,” she said, forcing a brief smile as she gently moved Alanna aside. “We should get them out of the cold.” Soon, all had gone inside and the wagon pulled away leaving Alanna alone in the courtyard, the wind picking up and blowing the snow all about her and stinging her pretty face. She thought of Mendric and turned, running up the stairs and pushing the heavy door open.
When she reached Mendric’s room, his attendants were leaving: only Fiona remained. “He needs rest,” Fiona said.
“Can I wait with him?” she stuttered, “I mean, until Selric comes back.” Fiona nodded then hurried to where they had taken Melissa, closing Mendric’s door quietly behind her. It was several minutes before Mendric opened his eyes. He gazed sleepily up and saw Alanna’s worried face as she stroked his sweating brow. At his stirring, she bent deftly forward and kissed his head. Mendric closed his eyes and was pulled heavily back into unwilling slumber.
Dirk was waiting next to Melissa when Fiona entered. “I think we’ll let her sleep here tonight,” Fiona announced, “and take her home in the morning.”
“Are you sure she’ll be all right?”
“Yes,” she said, patting Dirk’s cheek. “Just fine. She’ll be sick and weak for a few days, but there’ll be no lasting effects. I assume that the Fiend did it, like Selric said, to eliminate one of our numbers so we’d be easier to defeat, or maybe he planned on doing it to all of us. Mendric must have surprised him and foiled his plan.” Both then wondered what might have happened if Mendric had not charged to their rescue.
“Well, I’d better get home,” Dirk said. He rose and hugged Fiona warmly farewell.
“Is it safe? You should stay…here or with us. Strength in numbers,” Fiona said with a weak grin.
“I will be fine,” Dirk said with a deal of preoccupation.
“Ah. You go for her,” Fiona surmised, turning bitter. Dirk, weary and heart-broken still, did not have the will to fight her nor wonder how she knew concretely about Tallow, so he nodded solemnly, looked at the floor and made his exit.
Dirk rode a Stormweather horse home, in hopes of avoiding the Fiend, or outrunning It if encountered. The trip, however, was uneventful, and he put the horse into the warehouse with the other Bessemer stock, checked the guards to make sure all was well and that they were still on vigilant watch, then went up to his room. He trudged his way up the stairs and climbed the ladder into his room. Tallow raised her head, her eyes filled with sleep, when she heard the trapdoor open. Dirk let the door slam into place and kicked the bolt closed. When he saw her, he felt his heat rise. He did not consciously know why, but he wanted her.
“I must have fallen asleep,” she said, rubbing her eyes and stretching. She lay there amongst a mound of books, ledgers and scrolls, many of them open, and she watched him: he hung his cloak on the rack and laid his sword, as always, within reach of the bed, then he sat down heavily next to her and pulled off his boots. He sat momentarily still then snapped at her when she failed to move.
“Get those books off!” he said. She hurriedly rose and stacked them up neatly, then placed them on the floor at the foot of the bed and set the scrolls atop the tall pile.
“What’s the matter?” Tallow asked, timidly touching his broad back.
“Nothing. I’m tired.” It seemed that every time Dirk saw Tallow, he could not help but think of Cinder, and thinking of Cinder gone made him angry. Thinking of Tallow being gone made him more angry, anger, not fear, the emotion he preferred to let overtake him. “Get ready for bed,” he said. She removed her dress and lay down, waiting for him.
Dirk turned out the lamp and rolled over to face her, leaning up on his elbow. He put his arm around her waist, pulling her over to him and he kissed her slowly, deeply, and rather roughly. She looked at him questioningly in the dim light, barely able to make out his face. They had not made love since Cinder’s death. He lay there not moving, simply breathing; softly, slowly. She reached over and gently unbuttoned his shirt, then his pants. She pulled his shirt down over his shoulders and he took it off the rest of the way, as well as his pants.
“Is everything all right?” she whispered timidly.
“How could everything be all right?” he retorted angrily. He rolled on top of her and
started fondling and kissing her wildly, blindly. Tallow was uncomfortable with his behavior, but returned his affections. He did not seem to care about her apprehension and kept going. Though painful, Tallow accommodated his lust. She tried shifting positions to ease her pain, but Dirk became enraged and held her tightly.
“Ouch!” she cried. “Dirk, you’re hurting me.” Tallow lifted her knees in an involuntary reaction. Dirk pulled away and landed heavily on the bed beside her, facing away. Suddenly he leapt up, causing Tallow to flinch out of fear, but he simply loaded more wood into the stove. Then, from below, he heard something fall. For a moment thoughts of the Fiend seized him with fear, but then he heard the knocking of the Bessemer Boggle, as Dirk had grown to call the mysterious creature he had yet to even lay solid sight upon. In a rage, Dirk threw on his pants and hurried down into the frigid store. He began throwing items the direction of the knocking, cursing and yelling in a rage. Soon the noise stopped. Leaving the mess for morning, Dirk stormed back to his room and got back beside Tallow where she laid with her back to him.
Dirk wondered how he could be so cruel and dismissive to someone he cared so deeply for: someone he was so afraid to lose. He had brought her there, gave her a job, made her quit prostituting, and she had done it all without question. He forced himself to swallow his pride and he rolled to his side to hug her. As he brushed the hair from her face, he felt a tear upon Tallow’s cheek and his heart melted. With each growing day, everyone Dirk knew grew more and more on edge. Selric, certainly. Fiona; definitely. Even the average person met on the street was short tempered and edgy, wanting to look constantly over their shoulder. Was it the rumor of the Fiend, or was it something more sinister; maybe some fellness exuded from the creature itself?
By Moonlight Wrought (Bt Moonlight Wrought) Page 42
