"Not yet. It makes a target of us."
"Yes, but we aren't cats—"
"Quiet. Wait." Arvid had told them their main danger would be haste. Make a noise, he had said, clatter around like a horse fair, and our quarry will be ready for us. Paks waited, trying to see into the darkness by force of will. Spots danced before her eyes. Gradually she found she could see a little better. The room ahead was clearly a room—all shades of darkness, but smaller than the banquet hall above them. She tried to see if anything lurked in it. It seemed as if something—a pile of something—obscured the floor, but without light she could not tell.
"Go now," said Arvid, in Paks's ear. Together they moved under the lintel, separating at once on the inside to flatten against the inner wall. The others waited outside.
In here the smell was stronger. Paks wrinkled her nose, trying to decide what it was. It smelled—meatier, she decided. Rotting straw, bones, meat, and something like the inside of a dirty boot. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but the smell seemed stronger every second. Arvid sniffed, a tiny sound she could hear clearly.
"That smell—" she heard from outside. She thought it was Mal.
"Quiet," said Ambros. Paks stood still, trying to hear anything past the pulse in her ears.
"We'll go forward five paces," said Arvid quietly, "and then if nothing happens, we'll try a light."
Paks heard the scrape of his boot on the stone flags as he took the first step, and moved with him. One step. Two, three—and she stumbled over something, staggering on soft, springy, uneven footing. A yelp got out before she closed her throat; Ambros behind her scraped flint on steel at once. As the spark caught, that little light showed that she'd caught her foot on the edge of a pile of garbage. Dirty straw, old clothes, bones chewed not-quite-clean, a broken pot—she started to laugh with relief. Ambros's candle seemed brighter than she'd expected. She turned to Arvid; his eyes were wide with surprise.
"Just trash," she said, waving her sword at the heap. It was half her height, and easily three times her length. "They must have—"
Part of the pile heaved up—and up—a vast hairy shoulder topped by an equally vast hairy face. A rheumy eye glared at her from under shaggy brows. Then the mouth opened on a double row of very sharp teeth. By reflex, Paks struck at the arm that swiped down from the darkness. Her sword bit into it, slicing deep, but the arm's strength nearly cost her the grip. A deep bellow split the air, and the entire pile shuddered. Paks nearly lost her footing as the creature trampled its bed and attacked.
She had no time to wonder what it was. Taller, broader, than any human, it had a roughly human shape. Heavy pelt over thick skin—it turned Ambros's first stroke—long arms ending in clawed hands, and a surpassingly ugly face—Paks noticed these without trying to classify them. Its deep-voiced bellows shook the air around them.
"Get back, Ambros!" cried Arvid. "Keep the light—this thing can see in the dark."
Ambros made a noise, but moved back. Suli had come up beside Paks, and was doing a creditable job with her sword—except that she couldn't penetrate the thick hide. Paks had wounded the creature several times, while dodging raking blows from its claws, but it was still strong. Arvid, she saw in a quick glance, was trying to attack its flank, but it moved too fast—he couldn't seem to get a killing blow in. Paks had just begun to wonder where Mal and his friend were, when she saw him working his way around the creature to its back. Once there, he swung his big axe in a mighty arc and sank it into the creature's back. It screamed, a hoarse, high-pitched sound, deafening in that space.
"The axe does it," he yelled. "It's got—" But the creature heaved backwards; Paks heard the axe-haft smack into something, and Mal grunted. She jumped forward, unsteady on the piled trash, and sank her sword deep in its belly. Now it lurched forward, bending. She dodged. Arvid got a stroke in on its left arm. Mal pulled the axe out of its back and swung again, this time higher. It went to its knees, moaning. Paks aimed a blow at the neck, and blood spurted out, drenching her arm. Still writhing, it sank to a heap, its eyes filming.
"So much for silence and caution," said Arvid tartly, when they had caught their breath. Mal and Suli had lit candles now as well, and they all took a close look at what they had killed. Half again as tall as Paks, and heavily built, it was like nothing she had ever seen.
"What is it?" she asked, wiping the blood off her hands and face. The blood had an odd smell, and tasted terrible. Ambros shook his head. Arvid looked at her.
"I'm not sure, Paks, but it might be a hool. I've never seen one myself, but I've heard."
"A hool?"
"Big, tough, stupid, dirty, likes to lair underground. If you can imagine a solitary giant orc—"
"I thought hools were water giants," said Ambros.
Arvid shrugged. "Maybe I'm wrong. Whatever it is, it's dead. And we have just announced ourselves to the entire underground."
"I never did think trying to sneak in was a good idea," said Ambros. "Gird is not subtle."
Arvid raised one brow, and smiled. "No. That's why I'm not a Girdsman. But don't worry—now you'll have every chance for a suicidal frontal assault."
Paks had been poking gingerly through the trash heap that the creature had laired on. A copper armband gleamed; she picked it up. "Look. This is human-size."
"Hmm. Not worth much," said Arvid.
"No, but—I wouldn't have thought the robbers would throw it away."
"That's true. I—" Suddenly he stopped. They had all heard the sound: a rhythmic pounding, not loud, but distinct. Paks looked around. In flickering candlelight, she could just see a doorway across from the way they'd come in, and another door, closed and barred, centered the right-hand wall. Otherwise the room seemed empty.
"It's that door—the closed one," said Mal. He wrenched his axe free of the creature's backbone and started for it. Paks got there first, sword drawn. Arvid and Mal levered the heavy bars up and threw them aside. Then they pulled the door open.
Candlelight showed a small room, hardly more than a cell. A gnome, one shoe off, stood poised by the door; his shoe was in his hand, where he'd been pounding the door. Another gnome lay on the bare stone floor, covered in cloaks.
The standing gnome nodded stiffly and put his shoe back on. Then he addressed Paks in gnomish. She shook her head, and he frowned, then spoke in clipped accented Common.
"It is that you lead this rescue? Or do you claim us prisoners?"
"I—" Paks looked sideways at Arvid. He spoke.
"Lady Paksenarrion commanded us for the capture of the robbers, and now we have come to see what else hides in this keep."
The gnome bowed from the waist, and met Paks's eyes as he stood upright. "It shall be that you have the reward of the Aldonfulk, lady. For this indeed shall value be given. It is that our partner of Lyonya is eaten by that monster, true?"
"We haven't seen him," said Paks, thinking of the arm-ring with a shudder. "Is that what you think happened?"
"It took him. It seemed hungry. We heard cries. We could see nothing; I will not say what happened when I have not knowledge, but that is logical."
"Is your friend hurt?" The gnome on the floor had not moved.
"Only slightly—he was hit by arrow of robbers. He sleeps to gain strength."
Paks was surprised by the gnome's composure. Despite days of imprisonment in a dark cell, the death of one companion and the wounds of another, the gnome showed no distress. He turned to the other gnome, and spoke loudly in gnomish. Paks could not understand a word of it. She looked around to see if the others did, but they looked as blank as she felt. The gnome on the floor stirred, and opened his eyes.
"Surely you are hungry or thirsty," said Paks, counting how many days they'd been imprisoned. "We have water and food."
The response was less than she'd expected; the unwounded gnome nodded and came forward. "It is not so bad as you thought. The robbers brought food the first day or so. They fed the creature something too. Then they were gon
e. Then we had nothing. You will take us back to Brewersbridge?"
Paks handed him her water flask; the gnome uncapped it carefully and carried it to the other, who drank a few swallows. Then the first gnome drank. "We need not so much food as you," he said, returning the flask. "If you take us now—"
"But we haven't found the priest," said Ambros.
"Priest?" asked the gnome, with no change of expression.
"We believe that a servant of Achrya is nearby—perhaps deep in this place—and directed the robbers."
"Oh." The gnomes looked at each other. "It is a matter for humans. We are not daskdusky, to search after the webspinner's lair. If return to Brewersbridge, the return of your favor will be granted."
"We might as well," said Arvid. "We've lost all chance of surprise."
"And we can't leave these behind us," said Paks. "They can't defend themselves, with one of them wounded, and weakened as they are. We should get them to safety."
"I agree," said Mal. He had a large swelling bruise across his forehead. Paks realized that the axe-haft must have hit him on the face. "I don't know as I can fight as good as most days." Ambros looked at him in surprise, then concern. His voice seemed slurred.
"Will your friend need to be carried?" asked Paks.
The gnome bowed again, and gave Paks a small tight smile. "It is generous of the lady to think of that. If it is possible, he should not walk so far."
In the end, they came back to Brewersbridge that same evening, with the two gnomes alive and well, and clear evidence of the human trader's death. Ambros and Mal hacked off the creature's right hand and an ear as proof of what they'd found. The gnomes took rooms at The Jolly Potboy—they were well known enough that Hebbinford trusted their credit. Paks, her clothes still stained with blood, found Suli dogging her every step.
"Did I—I mean, I couldn't get through the hide, but did I do all right otherwise? I didn't scream, or anything—"
Paks felt tired. "No. You did fine, Suli—I said that—"
"Yes, but—you are going back, aren't you? You'll let me come? And I can take your clothes, now, and get Sevri to wash them—"
"No!" It came out harsher than she meant it, and Suli looked worried. Not frightened, Paks noticed, but worried.
"But—"
"Sevri has her own duties—she's not a washing maid. I'll do it; any soldier learns to keep her own gear clean." Paks could see that this was not pleasant news to Suli. She nodded, remembering her own feelings during training. "I told you before, Suli—being a warrior's not what you thought. Most of it is like this—cleaning gear, and keeping weapons in trim, and practice. If you don't do it yourself, you can't be sure it's done right."
The girl nodded, and leaned against the wall, evidently planning to stay until she was tossed out.
"Your own sword, for instance," said Paks severely. "Have you inspected it yet? Is it clean? Have you taken care of any nicks or dents? It's the grange's sword—you should return it in perfect condition."
Suli reddened, and pulled it from the scabbard—sticky with drying blood and hair.
"Go clean that," said Paks. "When you've got all the blood off, then polish it, and clean the scabbard. If you leave all that muck in the scabbard, then—"
"But how?" asked Suli. "It's inside, and—"
Paks took the scabbard and looked. Unlike hers, this was a simple wood casing, pegged in several places and glued along the edges. The upper end was notched for attachment to a belt.
"You're lucky. This is all wood. Take some wet grass or sedge—sedges are better—and tie them to a limber switch, and scrub inside with that. Then run clean water in and out of it. That should do. Set it in a cool place to dry—don't put the sword back inside, or it'll rust. If it smells clean tomorrow, you're done. Otherwise you may have to take it apart."
"Seems a lot of trouble, just to get a bloodstain off," grumbled Suli. Paks glared at her, sure now of her ground.
"Trouble! You don't know what trouble is, until you leave something to rot in your scabbard, and then nick yourself with dirty steel." She remembered the surgeons talking about wound fever, and poisoned weapons. "It's the way some tribes of orcs poison weapons, Suli. Store 'em in rotting flesh and blood." She was glad to see the girl turn green and turn to go without further argument. "Check with Ambros at the grange later this evening—you'll need to pick up another scabbard, and he can tell you where and when to meet us."
"Yes, Paks," said Suli, subdued.
Paks had just finished cleaning up, with her wet clothes hanging behind the kitchen, and her wet hair still chilly on her head, when Hebbinford came to tell her the gnomes wanted a word with her.
"Why?" she asked.
"Gird knows," he said. "Being as it's gnomes, it's some trading matter, I'd say. Remember that they're as full of pride as bees of sting—and as quick with it, too. They don't like jokes, and they don't like someone misjudging them on their size. Gnomes see everything as exchange—good for good, and blow for blow. They don't do favors, but they're perishing fair, if you can understand their idea of fair. And they never forget anything, to the ends of the world."
"Oh." Paks hoped they would understand ordinary courtesy as courtesy.
Both gnomes were seated before the fire in one of Hebbinford's private rooms when Hebbinford announced her. One jumped up and bowed. Paks made a sketchy bow in return. She thought she could see a gleam of satisfaction in that flat dark eye.
"Master Hebbinford if you would bring ale." The gnome gestured to a chair, and Paks sat; he returned to his own seat. His speech lacked the pauses and music of human language; Paks found it hard to follow, even though the words were pronounced correctly. "Is it that you were hired for our rescue?"
"No," said Paks, "not exactly."
"Then this rescue was in hope of reward?"
"No—what is it?"
"That is what I try to find out. For what service were you hired, if not for our rescue?"
Paks wondered how much she should say of the Brewersbridge Council's affairs. "Sir—pardon, if I do not know the correct address—" He took her up at once.
"Lady, it is our mistake. We thought you would not care to be precise. I am Master-trader Addo Verkinson Aldonfulk, sixth son of my father's house: the polite address in Common would be Master-trader Addo Aldonfulk, or Master Addo if in haste. This my companion is journeyman-trader Ebo Gnaddison Gnarrinfulk, the fourth son of my father's third sister: he should be styled Journeyman Ebo. And thine own naming?"
"Master-trader Addo—" Paks got that far before losing track. The gnome nodded anyway.
"That will do."
"—I am Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter, of Three Firs—"
"Three Firs is thy clan?"
"No, Master-trader Addo; it is the place of my father's dwelling." Paks found her own speech becoming both stilted and formal.
"Ah. We know that some humans have no clans." He paused as Hebbinford himself returned with a large flagon of ale and three tankards. "Be welcome to ale as the guest of Aldonfulk, Paksenarrion Dorthansdotter; no obligation is thine for partaking of this gift."
Paks stared, then caught her wits back. "I thank you, Master-trader Addo." She took the tankard he offered, and sipped cautiously. "You asked of my employment, sir. The Council of Brewersbridge has, as you may know, a policy against idle swordsmen in the town."
The gnome nodded. "An excellent policy. Human towns are too lawless as it is and human vagabonds cause trouble. We allow no masterless humans in the gnome kingdoms."
Paks reddened, but went on. "Master-trader Addo, the Council examined me, and decided that I might stay some time, but they asked a favor."
"Favor! What is a favor?"
She remembered Hebbinford's warning. "Sir, my—my vows are to another; I am traveling from Aarenis to the far north." That seemed safe enough. The gnome relaxed in his chair. "But they asked my aid in finding the hiding place of a band of robbers—the same who attacked you—and asked that I lead a force ag
ainst them if I could find them."
"And what pay did they offer for this?"
"Well—that I could stay longer than they would otherwise allow, and the use of a horse, and a share of goods recovered from the hideout, if there were any."
"Hmmph." The gnome chattered in gnomish with his companion. Paks could not tell how old they were, or if the journeyman were younger than the master. They had earth-brown, unwrinkled faces, and thick dark hair. Addo turned back to Paks. "It seems little payment for an uncertain task. How many days were you bound to stay and work at it?"
"No time was set. But I had money enough, and reason to dislike brigands."
"Hmm. And after our caravan was taken did they say aught about rescue?"
"No, Master-trader Addo. It was thought you had been killed with the others. One man escaped to tell of the attack. Many bodies were found."
"I see. Why then were you in the keep? To look for goods?"
"No. The robbers we captured said that someone else took over the goods. Ambros, the yeoman-marshal, thinks it is a priest of Achrya. Arvid Semminson says the goods are being sold at a distance."
"And you did not expect to find us."
"No, sir. But we were glad to find any that had survived."
Another conversation in gnomish. Paks finished the ale in her tankard, and thought about pouring another. But she felt constrained to wait until it was offered. Finally Addo turned to her again.
"If you did not come and search the keep would anyone else have come?"
"No, Master-trader Addo. Most people around here think it is bad luck."
"Superstition. Luck is a fallacy of humans; things either are or are not. That creature who ate our companion—was it dangerous to armed men?"
"Yes, sir. It was very large, and fought well; it took several of us to kill it."
"It is true you command this force?"
Paks frowned. "I would not want to mislead you, sir. I was asked to command, and did command, the force which killed and captured the robbers themselves. Today's foray was not entirely my idea—yeoman-marshal Ambros insisted that it must be made at once. But because I have experience, I was at the head of the party."
Divided Allegiance Page 27
