Sword of Betrayal

by Robert Evert

  “I have some news on that score,” Brago said. “It might cheer you up.”

  “What?”

  “I went in to see your selfless monk and gave him a silver piece. I then spied on him. Know what he did with the money?”

  “Spent it on a whore?” Edris snickered.

  “He put it under one of the stones forming the floor.”

  “And? What does that prove?”

  “It proves he was full of shit when he said he didn’t care about material possessions. Why would he hide the coin if he truly didn’t care whether it was stolen? He probably has a king’s treasury under there.”

  Edris propped himself on his elbows. “Yeah! He lied.”

  “Everybody lies, Ed. And everybody cares about material things, especially those who have them.”

  “The bastard. I say we go beat the crap out of him.”

  “How about we leave him alone and focus on the quest?”

  “Right.” Edris watched Brago withdraw another book from his pack. “What are you reading now?”

  “A treatise on herbalism.”

  “Eh?”

  Brago exhaled wearily. “I’m trying to learn how to make more effective poisons.”

  “You’re…you’re serious? I thought you were only kidding about that.”

  “When you’re big and strong like you, the world is easy. Ne’er-do-wells stay clear of you. People like me, however, need an equalizer, and poisons help immensely.”

  “Remind me never to piss you off.”

  “You’re the only one who doesn’t need to fear.” Brago found the page he wanted. “Of course, herbalism isn’t always nefarious. In fact, it’s exceedingly stimulating and practical.”

  “How so?”

  “For instance, there’re directions here to create a salve to repel mosquitos.”

  “Anything for hangovers?”

  “I shall check. However, in the meanwhile, self-restraint might serve you better.”

  “Self-restraint. Winners have self-restraint. Do you know Sir Howard has won eight quests? Sir Tutor has won five. I’ve won zero.”

  “Self-pity doesn’t become you, Ed,” Brago said, reading. “You simply need to start focusing.”

  “Focusing…right!” Edris closed his eyes again, wishing the room would stop spinning. He yawned and asked dreamily, “How did you learn how to read, anyway? I didn’t think poor people could read.”

  “My mother was your teacher,” Brago said resentfully. “Or have you forgotten what your father did to her?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Edris said, his voice drifting off. “I liked her. I liked her a lot.” He started to snore.

  “As did I.”

  Fifty-Two

  Edris awoke the next day well after noon. His head hurt and his tongue felt fuzzy. Even his eyes felt as though they were throbbing. Had the other knights got him drunk on purpose? Probably. He’d have to be smarter next time. In fact, he didn’t plan on drinking anytime soon.

  Lumbering along the street looking for a place to eat, Edris beheld the monk’s mud hut. His stride faltered as he recalled bits and pieces of the conversation he had with Brago the night before. Something churned in his mind.

  “Still here, mister?” a young voice said.

  Turning, Edris found one of the young boys who’d greeted him when he’d first arrived. “Still here,” he replied. “What about everybody else?”

  “Nope. Most are gone. Left weeks ago. Only you and a couple others remain. Not sure why any of you even came, to tell you the truth. There’s nothing here to help you find the statue. Hell, if you think about it, we have nothing to do with the statue or the raiders.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The raiders burnt everything down. These buildings are new. Not new-new, but you know what I mean. The original town wasn’t even here.”

  “This isn’t the original town site?” Edris asked, not sure why that bothered him.

  “No. It was over there.” The boy pointed to where Edris had cut down the tree.

  “Why’d they move it?”

  “Build where an entire town was destroyed? People slaughtered? Talk about bad luck. It’s like living on top of a grave.”

  “I suppose.”

  Edris stared at the field where the original town had stood.

  “Need anything else, sir?” the boy asked.

  “No.” He gave the boy a silver piece. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Edris called to him as he walked away. “Lad.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Was this town built in the same configuration as the old town?”

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Were all the houses and building in the same spots? The courthouse at the center of town? The stables on the east side?”

  “I have no idea, sir. Why do you ask?”

  Edris resumed staring at the field. There was nothing there except for a tangle of trees and bushes and a few foundations of former houses. Yet something about it seemed to beckon to him.

  “I don’t know. Just a hunch.”

  “Any other questions?”

  “No. Thank you,” Edris said. “But if you come across my friend, please send him my way.”

  “The scary fellow with the black hair?”

  “That’s him. I’ll give you another silver piece if you can find him.”

  Fifty-Three

  “Are you sure you’ve found the right place?” Edris asked Brago as they approached the overgrown fields where the original village of Cornibbling was reputed to have been located.

  “I believe so.” Brago pushed through the tall weeds, hooded lantern in hand. It was a cloudy night. Rain was on the way. “There’re flagstones.”

  “That could be from any building.”

  “Perhaps. But if you notice, many of the other buildings had stone cellars or were built with timber.” He pointed to the ruined foundations they were passing. “You can still see the holes where they secured the wood beams.”

  “And the temple was made mainly of mud brick…”

  “And had stones for the floor.” Brago stopped. “Much like these.”

  He uncovered his lantern and shone it over a series of flat grey stones, partially covered with dirt and grass. Saplings grew in between their cracks.

  “It’s roughly circular in shape,” Edris admitted.

  “Exactly. Now, will you please tell me what we’re doing here in the middle of the night?”

  Edris poked at the ground with the tip of his sword, trying to find the edges of a stone. “I have a hunch.”

  “A hunch?”

  Kneeling in the knee-high grass, Edris turned over a flagstone. Underneath, fat worms wiggled in the yellow light.

  “Let me ask you this.” He drew a dagger and traced it around the edges of another stone. “Suppose you were a monk and in charge of a golden statue of your god.”

  “Improbable but go on.”

  “Raiders are circling the town, shooting anybody who tries to flee. Others are setting buildings on fire. They’re coming in your direction and will be on you in minutes. What would you do?”

  “Smear blood all over my face and play dead.”

  “Sensible.” Clawing at the dirt, Edris turned over another stone. Black beetles skittered in every direction. “But what would you do with the statue?”

  “You think they hid it like the monk did with the coin?”

  “I don’t know. But I simply cannot believe that they’d leave the statue out for somebody to steal. Even if they didn’t care about the gold, they would’ve cared because it represented their god.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Start at the other end and turn them over. We don’t have much time. Soon, somebody is going to notice us out here.”

  Hacking at the grass, Brago cleared a spot and began digging his knife under an exposed flagstone.

  A half mile away, lights twinkled in the village.


  Thunder rolled in from the west.

  Edris turned over another flagstone, but he found nothing except packed dirt.

  A light mist fell.

  Brago flung another flat stone off into the darkness, then slashed at the grass a few feet over from where he’d been digging.

  The mist turned into a heavy drizzle, soaking them to the skin. Approaching thunder warned of harder showers to come.

  One by one, they dug up the stones until two rows of exposed soil ran through the weeds.

  Edris stood, arching his aching back. Wiping the rain from his face, he surveyed the vague outline of where the temple used to be. They were about a quarter of the way done. It’d take another hour to look under all of them.

  He stared at the black sky, fat raindrops pelting him.

  They were probably wasting their time. He had no basis for believing the monks had hidden the statue. Still, what else could he do? His father wouldn’t tolerate a loser.

  “Ed?”

  Edris turned just in time to catch what he thought was a black oval rock covered in clay. He brushed away the grime. Two green gems stared at him like eyes.

  Fifty-Four

  Edris scrubbed the mud from the Sacred Scarab, its tarnished gold glinting slightly in the lantern light.

  “Congratulations on your first win, Ed,” Brago said. “I’m sure your father will be delighted.”

  “For a day or two.”

  Edris held the statue in cupped hands, allowing the rain to wash away centuries of dirt. Despite being nearly completely black, it was unmistakably Sarababi.

  “All right,” he said finally. “We have a decision to make. If we grab our horses now and ride off in this weather, people will hear about it in the morning and undoubtedly come after us. If we return to our room, covered in mud, some kid is going to see what we’ve done here, put two and two together, and then tell everybody.”

  “Either way,” Brago said, “we’ll be found out in the morning. Best to ride now and get a few hours’ head start, don’t you think? Moreover, the rain might help hide our trail.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s your decision.”

  Edris inspected the dark sky, heavy raindrops bombarding him. He was wet and muddy and hungry, and the last thing he wanted to do was get on a horse and ride at breakneck speeds for hours on end. But they couldn’t stay where they were—not for long, at least.

  “Ed?” Brago prodded.

  “I know. Morning’s coming,” he said, unable to decide. He flipped a mental coin. “All right. We’ll ride immediately. We’ll need the lead.”

  “Very good. I’ll fetch the horses. You gather our belongings.”

  His decision finally made, Edris felt a burden lifted from his spirit. He tightened his grip on the statue. “Quickly now. We’re wasting time!”

  They broke into a jog, their boots crunching the wet grass as they headed toward the handful of lights shining from the windows of Cornibbling.

  In the darkness in front of them, four figures leapt up, swords in hand.

  “Excellent,” a voice said. “Now give us the statue.”

  Edris put the statue in his pocket and drew his two swords. “I’m not giving it to you, Tudor.”

  Sir Tudor and Sir Howard closed in, one from the right, the other from the left.

  “You’d rather die?” Sir Howard asked.

  Edris moved to his left, making sure they didn’t flank him. “Absolutely.”

  “Come, come,” Sir Tudor said. “You don’t mean that. It’s too soon in your young career. Give us the statue. We’ll tell everybody you put up a valiant fight.”

  “It’s my first win,” Edris said, finding a place with firm footing. “Wouldn’t you die for your first win?”

  The knights faltered. Evidently, they remembered all too well what their first win felt like.

  Rain pounded around them.

  “Stay your hand!” Sir Tudor called to Brago, who had drawn a throwing knife from his belt. “This is for knights only. Our squires will not intervene either.”

  “Then why do they have their weapons?” Brago asked dryly.

  “Put them away, lads,” Sir Howard told their squires. “And stay clear.”

  The squires sheathed their swords and retreated a few paces.

  “It’s still two against one,” Brago said. “So much for your so-called Code.”

  “I can handle two against one,” Edris said.

  Sir Howard smirked. “Think so?”

  Spitting rain that ran into his mouth, Edris readied his weapons—one to parry, the other to counter. He had to strike the first person quickly, then move to the second. He couldn’t afford to duel both at the same time. He stepped forward, careful not to trip over the debris littering the ruins.

  “Think about what you’re doing, son,” Sir Tudor said. “This isn’t a game.”

  Lightning split the western sky, revealing the doubt in the knights’ eyes. They obviously didn’t expect any resistance.

  Thunder shook the rain-soaked ground.

  “I’m sorry I’ll have to kill you,” Edris told them. “But you brought it on yourselves, so pardon me if I don’t weep over your graves.”

  Bounding forward, Edris swung one sword at Sir Howard’s chest, then jabbed the other at his lead leg. Sir Howard parried the first, but not the second. It bit deeply into his thigh, turning his pant leg red. He cried out. Pushing his advantage, Edris brought a sword down on his foe’s outstretched parrying arm. He intended to slap the wrist with the flat side of his blade, compelling the knight to drop his weapon; however, the blade’s edge sliced cleanly through the knight’s bone.

  For a second, everybody froze in horror as half of Sir Howard’s arm fell into the wet grass. Then the screaming started.

  Sir Tudor rushed to his companion’s aid, but Edris held him at bay with the points of his swords.

  “Do you yield?” he shouted through the driving rain.

  “Yes!” Sir Tudor cried, tossing away his weapon. “I yield.” He caught Sir Howard as he collapsed to the ground.

  “Damn it!” Edris crouched at Sir Howard’s side. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  Streams of blood spurted from the end of Sir Howard’s arm.

  “We need to stop the bleeding,” Sir Tudor said.

  Edris grabbed the end of Sir Howard’s arm and squeezed as hard as he could. The blood slowed slightly.

  Lightning crackled.

  “Damn it!” He shouted at Sir Tudor, “Go get a doctor! Run!”

  Covered in blood, Sir Tudor sprinted off into the darkness.

  “You!” Edris yelled at one of the squires standing in the shadows, mortified. “Do you have a rope?”

  “What?”

  “Rope! Do you have a god-damned rope?”

  “No, sir!”

  The other squire shook his head.

  Edris swore, rain pouring over him. “Give me your belt. Now! We don’t have much time.”

  Brago leaned over Edris’s shoulder. Of all them, he seemed unaffected by what was happening. “What do you require of me?”

  “Get the horses and our gear,” Edris answered. “Make ready to ride.”

  Brago tipped his dripping hat. “As you wish.”

  One of the squires held out his belt, trying not to get too close to the now unconscious knight.

  “Come here!” Edris commanded.

  “Why?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Rowan, sir. He’s Oliver.”

  “Grab ahold of his arm, Rowan.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Because when I let go, blood is going to shoot everywhere. We need to keep him from bleeding to death.”

  “I can’t…”

  “Damn it, Rowan. Get down here and hold the bastard’s arm. That’s it. Use both hands. Squeeze tight. Tighter. Squeeze like you’re choking somebody to death. All right. I’m going to tie the belt around his elbow. Don’t let go! You understand? You let go a
nd he dies.”

  His eyes closed, the squire tightened his grip. “Okay!”

  Quickly, Edris let go and wrapped the belt around the knight’s arm as tightly as he could. Sir Howard lay pale and motionless in a growing puddle of red water.

  Shouts joined the thrashing wind.

  “You!” Edris said to the other squire. “Oliver! Go meet them. Make sure they know where we are.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Can I let go?” Rowan asked, eyes still squinted shut.

  “Not yet.” Edris tied the belt as best as he could. “All right. Let go.”

  Blood seeped through the wound.

  “Bollocks!”

  A crowd of people hurried to them, some still in their bedclothes.

  “Who’s the doctor?” Edris asked Sir Tudor.

  A man slid to Edris’s side. “I am!”

  “Can you save him?” Edris asked.

  The doctor touched the knight’s throat. Then lifted an eyelid. “We have to get him to town. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “Do what you can.”

  As townsfolk lifted Sir Howard onto their shoulders, Brago rode up, leading Edris’s horse and holding his pack. Edris leapt onto his horse.

  Lightning detonated overhead.

  “Tudor!” he called through the storm. “I didn’t want this. This isn’t my fault. You understand? If you follow us, you’ll die too!”

  Fifty-Five

  For twelve days, Edris and Brago rode as fast as they could, buying fresh horses each time they came to a town. When they finally reached Upper Angle, evening deepened throughout the river valley. Galloping up to King Michael’s castle, Edris leapt from his horse and ran to the gate. He shouted for the gatekeepers.

  “Name?” a gatekeeper asked.

  “Sir Edris of Bend,” Edris said, panting. Then he added, hoping it’d help, “Son of Lord Elros. I’m the king’s nephew.”

  The gatekeeper scrutinized him more closely. “Business?”

  “I need to see His Majesty.”

  “Is it urgent?”

  “Yes. It concerns the Kings’ Quest.”