A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) (32 page)

Corlin felt as though he had been plunged into a nightmare. Silhouetted against the fiery orange glow of encroaching dawn, a massive figure loomed above the battlements of the castle’s east side. A thing of rippling light and shifting shadows, sparks of blue light danced erratically over its enormous upper body. It glared down over the roofs of keep and stables, casting a cold dark pall of shock and fear over the occupants of the bailey; and it stank. Despite the westerly breeze, the pungent miasma of the marshes to the south-east of the castle still wafted from and around it and down into the bailey.

Unable to tear his horrified gaze away from the monstrous manifestation, Corlin staggered back against the wall and slid down onto his behind.

Ragar nudged Corlin’s thigh with his toe. “Take a look over to your right.”

His eyes screwed tight shut, Corlin shook his head.

The Grollart gave him a hard prod with a bony finger. “Blast it, Corlin! Look! It’s something you’ll never see again!”

Stubbornly refusing to face up to any part of the situation, Corlin hissed through his teeth “I know that!”

The tone of Ragar’s voice did nothing to disguise the fact that his patience was already very thin. “No, Corlin; there’s something else! Now look, for goodness sake!”

With considerable reluctance, Corlin opened his eyes and glanced to his right, trying to avoid looking at the shadowy thing which loomed beyond the castle wall. This time his eyes stayed wide open, and he stared in disbelief, now further convinced that he was embroiled in a living nightmare. Further along the walkway, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, Karryl was engaged in earnest conversation with a tall, silver-haired woman, and she was glowing with soft amethyst light.

Corlin had had enough. All his pent up frustrations with things he knew nothing about, disappointments and anger, all came boiling to the surface. He scrambled to his feet and, ignoring any protocol which might have required him to acknowledge the glowing woman, shook his fists high in the air.

Head thrown back he hollered up at the towering monstrosity. “Whatever you are, bloody well clear off! You’re a bloody illusion, a trick, and you don’t scare me!”

Prompted by the minstrel’s show of bravado, the troops on the ramparts stood to thrust their heavy crossbows high in the air as they too shouted defiance at the looming apparition.

From down in the meadow, the terrified cries of Treevers’ men carried up to the castle. “Marsh Ogre! Marsh Ogre!”

In the strengthening light the murky form took on definition, revealing a broad head crowned by straggling locks of reddish brown hair, below which tormented ice-blue eyes stared down. Large enough to swallow a sheep whole, a full-lipped mouth opened to utter a tremendous rolling roar that reverberated round the castle walls and across the surrounding meadows into the woods beyond. The noise sounded to Corlin like some kind of gargling words, but so deep and distorted he was unable to make any sense of them.

Loosed by Treevers’ bowmen, long-shafted arrows began to whistle over the castle battlements, only to be swiped away like buzzing insects by the gigantic arm of the towering figure. Now, defined by the early morning light as clearly and massively human, it held its other arm high, something glinting as it gripped it like a pebble between thumb and forefinger. With a flick of its wrist the giant sent the object curling high into the air. Its flight reduced to slow motion by the minstrel’s horrified brain, the object created a high-pitched humming as it tumbled through the air towards Corlin. In a display of false confidence he raised his arms to catch it, only to see it suddenly stop and hang in mid-air, inches away from his outstretched fingers.

The commanding tone of Karryl’s voice snapped Corlin back to near normality. “Grab it Corlin. I’m not going to hold it there all day.”

Horrified, the minstrel stared at the object grasped in his trembling hands. No longer in three separate pieces, Malchevolus’s clock was now one complete and fully assembled whole.

Realisation caught Corlin by the throat, forcing his cry of despair high into the chill morning air “No-o-o-o! Ott-e-e-e-e! What...have...you...
done
?”

Without even a pause to consider the consequences, appalled and sickened, the minstrel lurched forward, raised the ancient artefact high above his head, and with a long screech of loathing, hurled it down into the moat. His expression inscrutable, Karryl leaned over the battlement and looked down the high wall, before turning to Corlin.

The merest hint of disapproval coloured the Mage Prime’s voice. “It might have been a good idea to hang onto that for a while.”

Almost choking with the multitude of emotions he was struggling to control, Corlin stared at him and raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. “What would be the point? The damage is done.”

Walls and watchers for hundreds of yards around were battered by another rolling roar of distorted words as the gigantically transformed figure of Otty began to move. Clad only in a breech-cloth made from an enormous sheet of faded burlap, he strode up to his knees through the moat, and round the castle’s perimeter, the ground trembling under his footfalls as he headed for the west meadow and the assembled ranks which comprised Treevers’ army. Arrows flew, many of them bouncing off Otty’s chest and arms like twigs in a gale, but some he caught and, taking careful aim, threw them back like darts into the panic-stricken press.

Almost as if he knew what was going to happen, Ragar raised his flute to his mouth and played a rippling arpeggio of high-pitched notes. A storm of noise swirled in the air, a nerve-jarring cacophony of roars, screams and shouts, all overlaid by the inhuman, brain-curdling crackling hiss now erupting from each Fade-lizard’s open mouth and distended throat. Rendered terrifyingly visible by the music of Ragar’s flute, the creatures surged forward. A half-mile long semi-circle of muscle and venom, they crowded close, a tight cordon three or four deep, herding the army ever nearer to the moat, at the same time cutting out the small group that included Corlin’s brother Clies. Horrified, fascinated and appalled, the minstrel stood transfixed by the scene, barely noticing the gentle pressure on his arm until a soft clear voice saying his name made him turn his gaze away.

The silver-haired woman in the glowing robes stood beside him, filling the air around them with the scent of honeysuckle and spring blossoms as her amethyst eyes studied his anguished face. Somehow, even before she began to speak, Corlin knew who she was, but fear and awe failed to surface. Instead, he began to feel as though standing on a castle rampart at dawn beside the beautiful goddess D’ta was the most natural thing in the world.

The minstrel swallowed hard. His distress was evident as he looked into D’ta’s face. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I was ready to break myself in half to get that clock to Treevers and get Clies out of his clutches.” He stabbed a finger at the squirming yelling mob trampling the castle’s western meadows. “Now look! Why did Otty have to be any part of this?”

The amethyst-eyed goddess placed a gentle hand on the unhappy minstrel’s arm. “Often it is hard to understand why men do what they do. In Otty’s case, I am certain that he was determined that the clock should never come into Lord Treevers’ possession.” She tilted her head to one side. “Didn’t the inscription on the clock say that whoever made it whole again would also be complete?”

Corlin glanced over the battlement at Otty’s looming figure. “Yes; something like that.”

D’ta gave an assertive nod. “Your friend Otty wanted to be complete, and so he is. He wanted so much to be a big man, and that is literally what he has become; a big man with a big heart, who has changed the world.” She also looked across at Otty. “Regardless of the consequences, would you not agree that his determination was well founded?”

Corlin grimaced. “No! There must have been another way. Otty has as good as destroyed his own life, and my brother is still...out...there!”

As D’ta gave his arm a sympathetic squeeze, Corlin forced a wry smile. “I reckon Otty always wanted to be noticed. Well, there he is, larger than life. Can’t miss him now, can we?”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “Nevertheless, I think you would agree, Corlin Bentfoot, that the time has come for you to end this.”

Corlin frowned, his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he returned his gaze to the western meadow. His heart jumped in his chest as he saw that the group his brother was in stood widely separated from the rest of the army, but still penned in by a tight cordon of Fade–lizards. With giant strides Otty had already made his thundering way past the tightly packed troops and their reptilian shepherds and was now standing behind them and facing the castle. Raising his enormous arms in the air, he shook his huge fists as he opened his mouth and released a deep, reverberating roar. This time, Corlin understood. Otty, his capricious and unfathomable friend and erstwhile travelling companion had called his name. The thing he failed to understand was why. His mind in turmoil he stood almost transfixed until, on a sudden impulse he made a hurried stumble across the rampart and waved his arms above the battlement.

His actions anticipated by either Karryl or D’ta, Corlin’s enhanced voice rang out across the distance for all to hear. “Otty! Otty! Get Clies! Get my brother!” Struck by a sudden thought, Corlin turned and looked across at D’ta. “You could do it! You could bring him out of there and into the castle, couldn’t you?”

Her smile sympathetic, the goddess shook her head. “Even though I have the capability, unfortunately such an action is not permitted. I can only inform and advise.” To Corlin’s surprise she gave him a broad wink. “Carry on as you are. You’re doing fine.”

Blowing out his cheeks in frustration, Corlin turned to wave at Otty, but his giant friend was striding along the back of the army, the ground shuddering as he headed for the far side of the broad meadow. Fade-lizards hissed and chattered their teeth at him, even clambered onto his enormous feet, but Otty paid them no heed, simply kept pushing forward. With a satisfied kind of growl, he raised his head and looked straight at Corlin.

That was the moment Lord Treevers seemingly chose to disrupt the minstrel’s plan. Laying about him with the flat of his sword, and bellowing with fury, he forced his charger through the tightly packed ranks. Mercenaries, conscripts and even his own men at arms all felt the steel of his blade. With little or no room to fall they toppled against each other or buckled to their knees to be crushed or suffocated by the pushing, jostling mass above them. Some even fell victim to the iron-shod hooves of Treevers’ increasingly fractious horse as, ears back and eyes rolling, the hefty animal pushed, kicked and even bit those unfortunate enough to find themselves in its path.

Hands pressed against the cold hard stone of the battlement, and feeling sick with dread, Corlin turned to D’ta. “Otty doesn’t know Clies. How will he recognise him?”

The slender goddess folded her hands, resting her steepled forefingers against her chin as she gazed into the distance. “You must give credit where it is due, Master Bentfoot. Your brother is no fool, as well you know. Like Lord Treevers, who is now driven by fear of losing his prize, your brother will have heard your plea to Otty. No doubt he will make himself recognisable.”

At that moment the winds of war changed. Clearly enraged by Lord Treevers’ heartless treatment of his own men, a leather-clad mercenary was attempting to pull him down from his horse. From his position on the castle ramparts, Sergeant Ryman had an unobstructed view, as what had at the outset been a well-organised fighting force suddenly became a rebellious rabble. With precise and exaggerated movements and a wicked gleam in his eye, the sergeant cocked his crossbow and raised it to his shoulder.

Fearing not only for his brother but also in some strange and inexplicable way for Otty, Corlin yelled “What are you doing?”

Ryman’s lip curled as he jerked his head in the direction of the increasingly heated tussle. “You should be asking what that bloody idiot’s doing!”

They were given no chance to find out. Like a fast-moving landslide Otty’s enormous and muscular arm reached over the heads of half a dozen ranks of jostling soldiers. His outstretched hand hovered above the escalating brawl which now surrounded Treevers and his attacker, and with a contemptuous flick of his finger Otty sent the mercenary flying backwards through the air towards the encircling Fade-lizards. Ignoring the frenzied stabs and slashes of Treevers’ sword, Otty opened his hand, wrapped it round the terrified lord and lifted him bodily out of the saddle. A double cough, which sounded to Corlin suspiciously like a laugh, boomed from Otty’s throat as, with incredible accuracy he pitched Lord Treevers, flailing and screaming, into the moat. The weight of his armour and the thick quilted gambeson he wore underneath it guaranteed his fate. The minstrel struggled to suppress a grin as he pictured Otty’s equally accurate lobbing of the ball into the barrel in Redmire’s crowded street.

Massive arms swinging, Otty turned aside, and in a few strides was towering over the group which surrounded Clies. With no apparent sign of fear, Corlin’s brother had discarded his helm and was yelling and waving his arms at the gigantically transformed man as if he were a long-lost friend. Reaching down, Otty carefully gathered up each Fade-lizard one by one and placed them gently on the ground a few yards away, leaving enough room to rest his huge hand on the ground, palm upwards. With his free hand he lifted Clies into his cupped palm, slowly stood upright and, skirting round the edges of an army rapidly plunging into the mindless depths of panic, began to head for the castle.