The Riddler's Gift: First Tale of the Lifesong (The Tale of the Lifesong)

by Greg Hamerton

  This might just work, Kirjath reflected, trying to piece the moves together into a plan. Give and take, truth and fake, there had to be a way to freedom.

  “Only if the cell door is locked, so your beast can’t escape,” Glavenor countered. “The Swords have sworn their lives to the protection of Eyri, and we are all prepared to fight to the death. But I will not risk the lives of innocent Eyrians to your demon.”

  Kirjath swallowed against the pressure of the blade. He could feel more blood trickling down his neck and into his cloak. “The Morgloth will depart, but you chase me then, and I’ll call his name before I fall.”

  Glavenor nodded his assent, and prompted the first move. “Men, to the cell. Trust me in this.” The command in his voice was intense. Even so, the Swords came with reluctance. They knew their lives were being traded, and could only hope that the Swordmaster knew what he was doing. Kirjath saw the greying Captain shoot the Swordmaster a warning glance, but even he stepped into the cell and stood beside the men. They formed a nervous huddle against the wall. All of them needed a two handed grip to steady their light blades. Kirjath savoured their expressions for a moment.

  Testimony to their stupidity that they believe their Swordmaster.

  They were bait, in a delicious trap based solely on a bluff. The Swordmaster could have twisted his blade at any time, and ended it all. He didn’t know.

  Kirjath focused on the area of his own consciousness that was the Morgloth. He felt a resistance to his command. The demon was displeased to return to the Underworld. The hunger was not sated, it would never be sated. The beast flashed wicked fangs at its master as it crossed the stones with a ponderous gait. It halted just short of the circular void that was the Gateway, shifting and weaving with frustration. It would only be a short lunge from where it stood to the fearful men.

  “I want to feel the breeze of freedom on my back, before I surrender my beast,” said Kirjath. “At the door, you remove your blade. I shall banish the beast.” He began to back slowly toward the cell door, away from the towering form of the Morgloth. Glavenor matched his pace exactly, stepping with fluid grace, as if in a dance. The sword remained steady against Kirjath’s throat. The Swordmaster pulled the cell door after them. It clanged shut, and he slid the heavy bolt into place.

  “Right, a little space then,” ordered Kirjath, eyeing the tall Swordmaster over his shoulder. “Remove your blade, and I’ll remove my hungry friend.”

  The Swordmaster took a step away from Kirjath, lowering his blade to a ready position. They eyed each other like alley cats, poised for action should either relent on their word. Glavenor tracked him as he backed to the main door.

  “Move against me, and the Morgloth has a feeding frenzy. I just need a word,” Kirjath warned. The Swordmaster nodded in silence, his stance as taught as a drawn bowstring. His free hand rested on the door handle, barring Kirjath’s exit.

  “Banish it.”

  “You’ll never open the door.”

  “And if I do, you’ll not banish the beast.”

  So the Swordmaster was not so stupid after all. Kirjath searched for a solution to the recurrent deadlock.

  In the instant that his thoughts wandered, the Morgloth strained against its mental leash. Hunger, bloodlust, anger and frustration assaulted Kirjath’s mind. He barely regained his dominance in time. The Morgloth screeched and yowled at him, resisting him with every fibre of its being. It had to go.

  The main door was wrenched open. It caught the Swordmaster by surprise, and for a moment he was forced to move away from Kirjath as a soldier stumbled into the room, a sheepish grin on his face. He smelled of cheap wine.

  “Victor, stand clear!” The Swordmaster’s warning was too late. Kirjath had seen his opening. With a snarl, he threw his body weight at the man, striking the soldier viciously against his breastplate. Kirjath’s ruined hands hit armour, and pain ripped through his arms, but the drunk fell heavily against the Swordmaster, knocking him away. Kirjath came away with the soldier’s dagger in his hand, but he didn’t pause to use it.

  He leapt instead through the open door, and slammed it closed behind him. He dropped to his knees, and wedged the dagger under the door jamb. The mental command he gave to a certain beast was simple, and clear. Although he knew he should run, he couldn’t resist a shout of triumph to the man inside the door.

  “That is what you get for opposing Kirjath Arkell. If you follow me, you shall taste worse!”

  Then he drew his tattered black robes close, and ran away through the back streets of First Light.

  The door shuddered behind him, but held. If he judged the Swordmaster correctly, there would be no pursuit. Not at first. The screams of soldiers filled the air. Kirjath smirked as he bolted past uncertain villagers. The gloom of the forest beckoned in the distance.

  Glavenor would save his men, before he thought to give chase. He was too noble a man, too just to be ruthless enough, too honest to sacrifice his men. A burly villager stepped into the street to block his way, but Kirjath simply ducked down an alley, and continued in his flight. The wind of freedom gave speed to his gait. He ignored the pain. No one would catch him now.

  The Swordmaster really did not know the first thing about the beast he faced. Already Kirjath could feel the link fading, weakening as he moved out of the Morgloth’s range. He would not be able to continue the channelling for much longer, he was already further from his minion than he had ever attempted before. Once beyond the limit of his mental range, the beast would be gone, wrenched back into the Underworld whether it wanted to or not. But for as long as he could, Kirjath Arkell was going to hold onto the Morgloth, keep it this side of the Gateway.

  For his beast was feeding.

  * * *

  Garyll Glavenor knew before he heard the scratch of the dagger that they were in trouble. He heard the Shadowcaster’s taunt. His shoulder rebounded from the jammed door. He spun, just in time to see the nightmare beast pounce upon Sword Ayche within the locked cell. Ayche’s screams were cut short.

  Glavenor raced to the iron door, with a sickness and rage building in his throat. Another Sword he recognised beat against the bars, but Garyll didn’t blame him for his cowardice. The Morgloth was draining the life from its prey just behind him. The Captain was the only other man still standing in the cell. His sword scythed across the beast’s elongated head, issuing a screech of tortured metal. The Morgloth batted the Captain aside.

  Glavenor shot the bolt and wrenched the cell door open.

  “Form at my shoulder!” he commanded the Sword. The terrified man turned reluctantly as Glavenor blocked the exit, but he seemed to take courage from Garyll’s advance on the beast.

  The Morgloth had consumed what it wanted from its third prey, and was rounding on the Captain. Steed had regained his feet, but slashed the air dazedly as he backed toward Glavenor. The Morgloth avoided his blows easily.

  Glavenor swung his massive blade in a full circle overhead, hoping against hope that Felltang would have enough speed to penetrate the awful skin of the Morgloth. His sword whined as it cut the air. The Morgloth halted its advance, its head tilted in puzzlement.

  Glavenor struck, aiming for the glistening neck. But at the last, as Felltang shrieked its death howl, the legs of the Morgloth buckled, and it dropped beneath the arc of Garyll’s blade.

  Surprise lasted only a fraction of a heartbeat, for he knew his art. He used the off-balanced energy of the missed strike to swirl himself in a full turn, then brought the blade downwards in an arc that intersected the Morgloth’s wing. Felltang found its mark, and bit deep. The wing was sliced almost to the trailing edge, yet there it held his blade with the tough grip of boiled leather.

  The Morgloth launched itself at Garyll with all the strength of its pain and rage. Whatever spell had brought it to its knees was gone.

  Garyll was seized in a clawed hand and hurled toward the roof. He yanked Felltang free. He braced himself as his helm slammed stars into his vision. Then he
was falling toward the beast. He pointed Felltang downwards at the gaping maw of teeth below. The Morgloth may have jumped clear of his descent; he was too dizzy to be sure.

  The impact of the floor brought the stars rushing back. He couldn’t see where the Morgloth was, and all he could do was to swing Felltang in a desperate circle around his body. The low howl of the fluted blade surrounded him. His vision cleared once more.

  The Morgloth was unsteady before him, weaving on soft legs.

  Did I hit it on the way down?

  He swung Felltang overhead, an instinctive reaction to the opening in his opponent’s defence.

  Before he could sink his blade into the beast a second time, the Morgloth jumped away. It issued a terrible screech, and jerked backwards over the stones to the dark circle it had emerged from. It didn’t look like retreat to Garyll, for the Morgloth threw its talons outwards to the rim of the crater, clutching even with its ruined wing to the stone. An instant later, it was gone, sucked through the strange gateway into the depths of the Underworld.

  The dark hole closed up. The dull grey of the original stone returned. Garyll did not attempt to understand what had just taken place. Justice was more important.

  “Captain, I must pursue the Shadowcaster,” he shouted as he ran. “If you should ever see him again, kill him on sight.”

  * * *

  Barely an hour after the Swordmaster had departed, two figures approached the Swordhouse. Captain Steed watched them through the narrow front window, his gaze as empty as the goblet in his hands.

  A tall, fervent man and a regal blonde woman. They were dressed in the garb of Lightgifters. They looked weary, though the man had a hungry look about him. He wanted something, he needed something, and the imminent demand he bore irritated Captain Steed the way a loose splinter irritates a wound. He had no time for pompous visitors. He had no time for anyone.

  He was sinking in his private sea of despair. He had lost three of his men, and because he hadn’t acted swiftly enough. The Shadowcaster should have been executed the moment he was brought into custody. Instead, it was his men who had paid the ultimate price. They had been a little blunt, but they had been his Swords, his companions. His friends.

  The Lightgifters entered.

  “If you’re here for the Shadowcaster, you’re late. He’s already left,” Captain Steed muttered. He didn’t bother looking them in the eye. They could hang for all he cared.

  “The innkeeper at the Tooth-and-Tale tells us you took a Shadowcaster prisoner for murder,” the man said. “You’ve let him go?”

  “He has escaped. You can see for yourself what it cost us,” Steed said in a toneless voice. He waved his empty goblet to where Victor was preparing the bodies for burial. Ayche was being bound in white linen, beside his two fallen comrades.

  Of all the men, I’m left with the drunk, he thought, then regretted the spiteful sentiment immediately. He didn’t wish to exchange death for death. He wished them all alive.

  “Who are you to ask?” Steed said gruffly, still not looking directly at the intruders. He sloshed another portion of the dark wine into his goblet from a depleted bottle. It had started with two fingers, just to steady his nerves.

  “Why don’t you pursue him, man? You’re letting a murderer get away?”

  Captain Steed took a long time to answer. He forced his hands to remain steady on the desk.

  “Our best man is already tracking him. It is none of your concern.” Steed heard his own voice hardening. “I say again : who are you to ask?”

  “My name is Rosreece,” the tall Lightgifter answered. “Is the tracker the same best man who let him escape? It sounds as if you need our abilities to apprehend this Shadowcaster.”

  Steed snorted. This Lightgifter was terribly full of himself. “Your healing essence won’t be enough.”

  “Hah! It sounds like you are in awe—of a mere Shadowcaster!”

  “Ros, don’t –” the woman began, in a pacifying tone.

  “It seems the might of the Sword is not what it was,” Rosreece asserted, ignoring the woman’s gentling hand as well. “We shall apprehend him, of that you can be sure.”

  The goblet buckled in the Captain’s hand, metal crumpling like paper. Liquid trickled over his white knuckles.

  “Have you ever dealt with a Shadowcaster, cockerel? This man has a beast at his command, the likes of which we have never seen. A vicious, deadly demon.”

  “The Morgloth!” exclaimed the woman. “Oh Ros, it’s true! Oh Mercy!”

  “That’s why we’re here!” Rosreece said. “To capture the creature of the Dark, to meet the Shadowcaster’s threat. Doesn’t seem as if your tinpots do too well at it.”

  Captain Steed cleared the desk from his seat. He had the arrogant Gifter off the floor with a stranglehold before he could restrain himself. The crumpled goblet skittered across the floor in his wake. With his free hand he forced Rosreece’s head to point towards the corner of the room, where the three bound corpses rested. “Open your eyes, Gifter. Look at my men—ravaged, dead. My men! Your ignorance of this Shadowcaster’s power will lead you straight to the grave.”

  Rosreece’s eyes bulged, but he struggled to make his voice heard. “I don’t expect mere Swords to have an understanding of matters of essence. You have been fooled. There are ways to counter the illusions of the Dark. Put me down.”

  “A fool, am I?” the Captain hissed. Rosreece’s face reddened under the intensified grip. “Leave us now, before I do something permanent about your manners.” He threw the Lightgifter back towards the woman. Her shocked gaze had not left the bodies in the corner.

  “I’m leaving, I’m leaving,” said Rosreece, in a voice that aimed to be threatening but came out more like a petulant whine. “At least one of us cares about upholding the law. I am going to bring this Shadowcaster to justice, seeing as how the mighty Sword has failed once already. Come, Hosanna.” He spun on his heel, and made to grab for the woman. But she avoided his hand. She met Captain Steed’s eye.

  “Was it a Morgloth?” she asked, hushed.

  Captain Steed bowed his head. “Yesterday, I would have called you a fool to suggest such a thing. Today I have seen the legend return. There is a Shadowcaster who commands a Morgloth. May you have better luck than us when you cross his path.”

  13. FISHERMAN’S REVENGE

  “The fish that learns to spit out the hook,

  always feeds well.”—Zarost

  Riding beside Twardy Zarost in his cart was better than walking, but not much better, Tabitha decided. The hard-sprung wheels felt every bump and crack in the bad road, and the wooden seat passed the message on. She wished there was more than just a blanket underneath her backside.

  Twardy Zarost grinned at her and bounced clear out of the seat as they passed over yet another rock. He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. His racoon-striped hat perched defiantly on his head. They reached a straighter section of road, and Twardy clucked to the grey mare, urging her into a trot. Tabitha grimaced as corrugations juddered her view of the countryside. Her hood slipped from her head, but a sharp glance from Zarost told her to pull the cowl up once more as a group of farming youths with herding dogs approached. They were harmless locals, probably returning from selling livestock at Cellarspring, but the Riddler had made it clear from the first that her face must remain hidden or she would be returned to the wine barrel.

  The land fell away steadily as they rode through Meadowmoor County towards the Amberlake. From time to time, the road ran precariously close to the rim of a deep river gorge on their left. The River of Falls thundered down the cleft, filling the air with its moist breath. Alders, pines and silken trees flanked the river like proud sentinels guarding their precious water.

  Tabitha just absorbed the detail of the scenery, not wanting to think. Her mind was filled with waterfalls and gentling hills, shimmering trees and the twisting brown course of the road to Amberlake. The road improved once it had descended from the high ground
, and by mid-afternoon they passed through the bustling town of Cellarspring and took the turn to Russel. As they traversed the lower farmlands, they passed farmers driving ploughs through the fertile soils of spring. It was the first week of the month of Furrow, a good time for sowing.

  Seeing the familiar activity reminded Tabitha of one farm that would not be worked at all. Here, the ploughshares turned around and around, ignorant of how they cut deeper into her grief. And so the wind which blew at their backs found its bite again. Tabitha searched for another distraction.

  “What does a Riddler do?” she asked, breaking the long silence.

  Twardy Zarost grinned and jutted his beard into the air. “A Riddler’s work is a simple thing. I must hide the truth without lying.”

  “Do you ever speak straight?”

  Zarost laughed. “You mean to say am I ever not a Riddler?”

  “When do you say exactly what you mean?”

  “Always will I tell the truth, always near the Ring, forsooth.”

  “But you’re always confusing me. All your answers have two meanings, or more.”

  “If some people do not understand the Riddler it is because they are not hearing properly.” He waggled a finger at her. “If some people listened more dearly, they may be able to hear things clearly.”

  He had slipped through her fingers again. Tabitha understood Garyll’s wariness of Zarost. To a man like Garyll, who lived by separating right from wrong, the Riddler’s riddles would be infuriating.

  “What did you do to anger the Swordmaster?”

  Zarost leant close to Tabitha, and whispered, “I stole his sword, his great big sword, upon the wharf market in Levin.” He drew away from her again, beaming with glee. “He’s lucky I didn’t steal his boots. Or his underwear.” He laughed, immensely pleased.

  “How? How do you steal the Swordmaster’s sword?” Despite herself, she couldn’t shake the image of Garyll Glavenor standing in a busy market, having recently lost his clothes. She hid her grin.