The Nature of a Curse (Volume 2 of the Year of the Red Door)

by William Timothy Murray

  "You mean the Elifaen?"

  "Yes, and others, too."

  "Does Duinnor have so many enemies among its subjects?"

  "They are not all enemies of the Realms, nor of Duinnor, nor even of the King. Some are people who have had no redress of wrongs and are neglected. People who seek rightness and justice and who feel they have given to Duinnor and to the throne far more than is returned. They do not wish to oppose Duinnor, many even wish to serve with honor. Some may feel, in the face of Tracia's Redvests and the threat of the Dragonkind, that it is better to make pacts with the enemies of Duinnor than to remain loyal and be laid waste by invading armies. But there are others who, although they may not be friendly to the Duinnor of today, may yet be true friends of the future kingdom. Those we left in Nowhere, for example. And in Tallinvale, too. And in other places, very far away."

  With this Ashlord's eyes twinkled as he glanced at Robby, and he managed a smile. "I would only counsel you to support each other. There is far to go, yet, and many things may come to pass, for good or ill."

  Sheila put her head down in thought, then looked again at Ashlord.

  "Is there no other way than for us to leave you behind? Surely there is something we can do to help you find the lair."

  "I will have all the help I need," he replied. "And I will not expose any of you to the vulgar contents of her den if I find it. No. This I should do alone, confident that you are all far along your way. Now, I bid you let me ponder for awhile."

  Robby and Sheila moved to the other side of the room and took their places in their bedrolls, spooning one another, Sheila's hand clutching Robby's arm that was around her. In spite of themselves, they fell asleep, and sometime in their slumber they separated, Sheila curled up and Robby on his back with his arm over his eyes. He awoke with a start, and he carefully sat up so as not to disturb Sheila. He could hear the snoring of Billy and Ibin, and in the dim light of the low burning fire he saw Ullin asleep in his place. Ashlord's chair was empty. Robby saw that the door was wide open. Instantly he grabbed Swyncraff and got up to peer outside. There, a few yards away with his back to the cottage stood Ashlord, his arms outstretched, his stick held high in one hand. Taking a few steps forward, Robby stopped, listening as his eyes adjusted to the dark. Ashlord was speaking so softly that Robby could not make out the words, a strange, smooth tongue. The breeze tugged at Ashlord's robes and hair and the low light coming from the open doorway of the cottage gave him a ghostly appearance. Goosebumps broke out on Robby's arms, and he shivered. Ashlord repeated a phrase three times and said more words, then the phrase three times again followed by different words. Over and again, he chanted softly until, after a few minutes, he lowered his arms, leaned on his stick and bowed his head, his shoulders slumped as if with exhaustion. He turned and saw Robby.

  "Robby," he said, coming toward him.

  "Were you praying? I didn't mean to intrude."

  "You didn't. Yes. In a manner of speaking. I was asking for guidance. To find what I must find. And strength. To do what I must do."

  Ashlord paused, standing beside Robby, looking into the darkness of the surrounding woods. He smiled.

  "You will have to carry on without me. For a little while, at least."

  "But, Ashlord—"

  "If all goes well, we will meet again before you reach Griferis," Ashlord said, leading Robby back inside the cottage.

  "How will I find that place if we do not meet up with each other in time?"

  "Go to the city of Linlally, in Vanara, and to the Hall of Ministers. There is a great library there. Find the Last Book of Nimwill. Read it. The Last Book of Nimwill. Some answers may lie therein. Pardon me," Ashlord looked back to the fireplace, "I must rest before dawn. And so should you."

  Chapter 23

  The Barleyman

  The world does not remain unchanged when our attention is upon the near at hand, any more than the stars cease their trek across the nightly heavens while we sleep. Happenings unseen take shape even when our backs are turned to them, and the workshop of time is one of ceaseless labor, one from which no product ever truly leaves. Who can say, then, how the labor of yesterday is removed from the challenges of today? Or that the thing unnoticed does not touch the matters before us?

  In this way, personal events flow into the great ones of the world, and little struggles, titanic to this person or that, are swallowed by history's flood of trials and conflicts. So it was, on the morning that Robby first saw the lair of Bailorg, who had taken Billy as a captive, that the battle at Passdale was fought and lost, and the fleeing refugees tried to make good their escape. That same morning, as Robby dismounted Anerath and prepared to enter into the old troll cave, his father was standing in his stirrups, leaning low over his horse's head, racing northward toward Lake Halgaeth, desperate to reach faraway Glareth and to spread warning of the invasion. Seeing him mount and ride off, and knowing who he was, the Redvest General Vidican immediately dispatched riders after him. Whipping their horses, four Redvest soldiers crashed through those who sought to block their way. They tore out of Passdale, riding swiftly along the forested road until they reached a muddy place where cattle had recently been driven across the mere stream that was now all that remained of the Bentwide's once deep and steady flow. There were horse tracks, too, amongst the cattle tracks, leading up the far bank, and two of the riders crossed over to trace the way along Farbarley while the other two Redvests continued their own pursuit northward. Soon, these last two saw the blue waters of Halgaeth glimmering through the trees, and, knowing about the Lakemen who might at any moment appear in their boats, they cautiously slackened their pace, slowly crossing over hilltops to peer ahead before going on.

  Thus they neared the place where Robby had not long ago met the Queen of Vanara, and as the two riders topped the overlooking hill, the one in the lead leaned over in his saddle to study the tracks he saw. The path forked; the left way led on and back into the woods ahead. On the right, a path sloped downward toward the lake, and the soldiers looked warily through the trees at the landing with its sculpted arm-shaped braziers jutting out over the water.

  "His horse has gone lame," said the tracker, a grizzled veteran with the hard look of many campaigns stamped on his face. "The tracks are muddled. He may have headed for the landing on foot, maybe for a boat, sending his horse on to throw us off. Blast!"

  The young soldier with him nodded, looking around, alert to anything that might come out of the woods at them.

  "I don't like this," he said. "Might be more of them folk hiding in wait for us."

  "Then you go on ahead and find out," the tracker ordered as he spurred his horse down toward the lake. "Ride back if you find the horse, otherwise keep going. I'll catch up to you once I've had a look around here."

  "Aye, sir!"

  As ordered, the younger soldier continued along the wooded path, winding up and away from the lake through the silent woods. He was not as experienced at tracking as his older partner, but the ground was soft enough for him to follow the hoof marks easily. Indeed, he had only gone a mile or so when he saw the tracks leave the path, and he dismounted, leading his mount through a thick bramble, going only a few yards before seeing a horse in a small clearing ahead. He silently tied his reins to a tree and pulled his sword as quietly as it would draw. Crouching, he advanced, trying to avoid any dry leaves or twigs, until he could see that the horse was riderless, its reins dangling loose. It was thrusting its head upward to get at some wild apples that hung on the edge of the clearing. Relieved that he did not see their quarry, he approached the horse and easily took the reins.

  "Good boy. Here. How's your leg, old boy? Eh? Let's take a look. Easy. Easy there."

  The young soldier sheathed his sword and, while patting the beast's neck, leaned over to have a look.

  "Oh, that's a nasty gash there, mate. Not used to these byways and such hard riding, huh? I expect not. There. Come along, leave off them apples. I doubt if they are good for you, t
hough tasty, I'm sure. Your leg'll be fine. Soon as we get back, I'll put a nice poultice on it, and you'll be prancing amongst the mares in no time!"

  It was not until he was nearly at the hill overlooking the landing, the mayor's horse safely in tow, that the soldier realized that the mayor must still be close by.

  "Unless he found a boat like Parnas said," he muttered, looking around for his partner. Craning to see through the trees, he hesitated, seeing no sign of Parnas. Sighing, he nudged his mount closer. When he cleared the trees and came onto the broad flat campground near the landing, he immediately saw his partner's horse at the water's edge, taking a drink. But Parnas was nowhere to be seen. His heart pounded a beat as he realized something was amiss, and he dismounted, still looking, hoping to see the older soldier crouched over some track or clue. He almost cried out his partner's name but caught himself, suddenly afraid of what may have happened to the experienced soldier, who was the kind of man well able to take care of himself.

  He tied off the horses on a hitching rail near the quay and went to Parnas's mount, but the horse was skittish and darted away.

  "Whoa, boy, whoa!" he soothed, splashing a few steps into the water to grab the reins, but they escaped his grip and the horse trotted off toward the trees.

  He had the urge to call out again for Parnas, and again he stopped himself, drawing his sword as he waded back ashore.

  "This place is spooky," he muttered at the forlorn-looking arms stretching up and out from the quay. Then he swept his gaze across the cold campfire rings scattered across the flats and back up the hill. Turning, he scanned the shoreline, looked out over the water, and then back again to the quay until his eyes settled on a dark splotch on the light-colored stones near the far end. Cautiously, he walked out onto the quay toward those upstretched arms holding the cold braiziers, his chest beating with fear, though not a soul could be seen, not a boat, either, anywhere on the broad, glistening surface. Going slowly, he looked from one side of the quay to the other, hearing only the gentle lapping of water against the stone and the slight rustle of air past his ears. As he neared the end where the two arm-uplifted braziers stood as if imploring the sky for fire, he saw that the splotch was a wet spot and that it trailed over the side. He leaned over and saw a ledge, made to be just above the water, where one could more easily step into or out of a boat. There, the puddle trickled off into the lake, and as a small puff of cloud passed over the sun, the water lost some of its blinking glitter and glare. To his horror, he saw a bit of red cloth, the color of his own uniform, floating just beneath the surface, billowing like smoke in the undulating current.

  "Or like blood," he almost said aloud.

  He eased down to the lowest step and leaned over carefully, dreading what he would see, and he reached into the water with his sword to push the floating cloak aside. He managed to get the tip of it just underneath the hem when an arm shot out of the water, and a gloved hand latched onto his sword and pulled hard. Yelling, the young soldier instinctively pulled back, trying to get away, but the dripping hand held fast. A figure rose up from the water, gasping and coughing, and the terrified youngster let go the sword and stumbled backward against the quay, squirming to escape. In panic, he turned to crawl away but felt a cold wet hand clutching his ankle, tripping him up. He yelled and kicked furiously, getting to his feet just as a large dripping shadow tripped him again.

  "Oh, no ye don't!" cried the watery figure hoarsely.

  "Mercy! Mercy!" screamed the soldier, trying to get back onto his feet to make a run for it. But the flat of his own sword struck him on the shin, sending him sprawling yet again. A powerful hand gripped the back of his collar, and as he tried to get up, he was flung violently off the quay and onto the rocky shore, knocking his helmet off. His attacker spun him over onto his back, a crushing knee pushed down on his chest, and he felt the tip of his sword against his shoulder and the blade of a dagger against his throat.

  "Mercy! Oh, please, mercy! I yield! I yield!" he uttered as best as he could with the knee pressing the breath out of him, the maniac's eyes glaring from behind dripping locks of hair.

  "Mercy! Mercy? Like ye showed the folk in Passdale?" cried the assailant.

  "I ain't killed nobody! Not my whole life!"

  "Then what're ye doin' in this get up?" the man banged away the nearby helmet and deftly returned his dagger to the hapless soldier's neck.

  "They made me come! They made me on account of I'm a decent tracker, and I gotta strong back."

  Suddenly the knee lifted and he could breathe, but he was jerked upward onto his feet by his collar and found himself staring down into the face of a very angry man, sopping wet and shaking from cold. Or was it fury? He realized it was the very man they had been after, the mayor of Passdale.

  "Whar're the others? Four came after me. Whar're the other two?" Robigor Ribbon shook the lad hard, "Whar!"

  "We split up. Parnas and me came this way. The others went off across the river a ways back."

  Robigor shoved him away and the fellow clutched his throat.

  "I 'spect they'll be along any time, then, soon as they see no tracks."

  "What happened to Parnas? My comrade?" demanded the youngster in an effort to regain his composure.

  "Dead. But he forced it."

  "You killed him?"

  "It whar him er me!" Robigor shouted, anger returning to his face. "An' it's a good thing for ye that..." He stopped himself. "Look here. Thar ain't gonna be no more killin' unless ye force it on me. I'm goin' to tie ye up on that tree over yonder. Yer mates'll come along soon enough an' let ye go."

  "Oh, no! You are under arrest. You gotta go back with me!"

  "I know me duty! Now get along thar, an' do as I say!"

  "You don't understand. I can't go back without you. Especially with Parnas dead. It won't be just my head. My family will be made to pay, too! You've gotta come with me!"

  Robigor grabbed the boy by the collar again and pulled him along at sword-point to the horses where he took a line from his horse's saddle then pushed the boy toward a nearby sapling, where Robigor meant to tie him up.

  "I've seen what they do to the families of those they call traitors!" the boy cried insistently. "If they're lucky, they'll be sold as slaves, the women, too, and used until they starve to death."

  "I got no choice, sonny. I can't just let ye go an foller me an' lead them others to me."

  "Then it is better that you kill me here," the boy pleaded, kicking at his captor, and swinging at him wildly with his fists. Robigor easily stepped aside and flung the boy back to the ground.

  "Stop it!"

  "I won't!" the boy sobbed, scrambling on all fours to attack Robigor. "Not until you kill me or come back with me!"

  "Quit it!"

  At any moment, the other riders would appear, and Robigor agonized over what to do as he dodged the clumsy efforts the desperate boy made.

  "They'll kill my family otherwise! Better me than them!"

  Robigor reached down and pulled the exhausted boy to his feet.

  "Do exactly as I say an' yer life an' the lives of yer kin might be spared. Ye must give me yer word an' yer trust. Will ye do that?"

  • • •

  Less than an hour later, the other two Redvest horsemen came over the ridge and, seeing the riderless horses mulling around near the shore, galloped down to them. They realized something was wrong and drew their swords as they came, looking about. Seeing some objects on the quay, they dismounted and cautiously walked out to have a look. One of the objects was a Tracian helmet. The other, just at the edge of the dock, was a sword. One of them picked it up and examined the blade. The others looked at the wet tracks of footprints, muddled amid splashed water.

  "A fight, for certain," he said.

  "Yep," nodded the other, holding up the sword. "See these fresh notches?"

  "Lakemen, probably."

  "Look, look!" said his comrade, seeing Parnas just under the surface. They hastily stepped down t
o the lower level, crouched over the water, grabbed the cloak, and pulled together until they saw the face of the dead man. Releasing the body, they stood, looking around quickly.

  Then one noticed a line tied to one of the mooring rings and pulled on it until the cut bitter end came out of the water.

  "They were in a hurry, for sure," he said, holding up the cleanly cut end.

  "You reckon they took the boy?"

  "Naw. Probably killed him, too. Floating off around here somewhere."

  They stood and looked northward across the empty water for a long moment.

  "Their boats must be swift, indeed."

  The other nodded. "Aye. Let's go."

  "Are we going to leave him?"

  "Do you want to haul him out and all the way back? Maybe you want to dive down there and get off his gear, first, eh? He'll float proper-like and be easier to haul in. Do you want to do that?"

  "No."

  "Then let's head back. We need to let Vidican know that the Lakemen have been warned about us."

  "What'll they do, you reckon?"

  "Oh, I doubt if they'll make trouble. But they'll send word on to Glareth, for sure."

  "The old man won't be happy."

  "Can't help it. But he'll be grateful to know rather than to wonder."

  • • •

  When the dam that was called Heneil's Wall gave way during the summer storm, the receding waters and torrential rains undercut a high bank of the lake some fifty yards south of the newly exposed quay with its outstretched arms. And when the bank eroded, a massive oak that was perched atop was uprooted and toppled by powerful winds. It may have been a mere acorn when Heneil built the dam to stop the lake from pouring into the Saerdulin. Or maybe it had been one of those rare older trees that, as a sapling, had overlooked the building of the ancient landing place. During its lifetime, the waters rose steadily higher until the old quay was completely covered but for the two hands that held the beacon bowls. The lake level continued to rise, eventually encroaching to within a few yards of the oak when, some few miles away, it began spilling away into the little stream that was later to be called the Bentwide River.