Betrayal in the Highlands (33 page)

He threw off the last of the debris covering the forge.

“This is what I need you to do.” With his left hand, he drew forth his short sword. “I need you to remake this. Get it to a semi-molten state and then cool it again.”

Toby stared at the sword’s finely wrought blade. “Wh—?” he began then shook his head. “No, I, I can’t. I mean, I could. But …” He motioned to the cracked and blackened hearth. “Not with this! I need tools! I need a hot fire—a very hot fire.”

Edmund kicked over several charred boards and stones and picked up a dirt-covered hammer and a pair of tongs. He held them out to Toby. Toby didn’t take them.

“It takes months to make a sword,” he said. “Months! And that’s with a working forge! I doubt if these bellows would even work.”

“Look—” Frantic intensity crept into Edmund’s weary voice. “If I can make you a hot enough fire, could you heat this sword to the point where the metal will become malleable?”

Toby surveyed the wreckage around him and shrugged. “If I had a hot enough fire, sure. But it would take time. And why? If I heat it, you’ll probably lose these etchings. And the edge won’t be as true. You’re better off—”

“How long?”

“I-I don’t know. Depends on what you want me to do to the blade. I can’t make a short sword into a two-handed broadsword or anything like that. It doesn’t work that way. I’d need extra material, iron, and—”

“No, you don’t understand; I don’t need you to do anything like that. I just need you to heat the sword then quench the molten steel in some oil. You don’t need to alter the blade in any way.”

“Just temper and quench it?”

“Yes. Exactly. How long would that take?”

Still bewildered, Toby shook his head and shrugged again. “An hour? Two? But again, I’d need a very hot fire, and this forge—”

Edmund thrust his short sword into Toby’s hands. “Start gathering those bits of coal over there and pile them into the forge.”

“But Mister Edmund,” Toby protested. “Building a hot enough fire takes more than just a couple armfuls of coal!”

“Toby, I’m going to tell you a secret. I’m going to show you something very important, okay?”

“All right.”

“You have to promise me you won’t get upset or nervous. All right? And you can’t tell anybody what I’m about to show you, understand? I’m trusting you with my life and the lives of my friends. I need you. W-without your help, we’re all going to die.”

“Since you put it that way, sure. Whatever you need, Mister Edmund. But I don’t think you understand how hot the—”

“Just watch. And don’t be afraid, okay? I promise you nothing bad is going to happen. Remember, we’re friends and will be for a long time. Nothing has changed.”

“What’s this all about? What do you mean?”

Edmund studied Toby’s expression then held out a lump of coal in his dirty hand.

“Forstørre nå!”

The lump doubled in size.

Toby blinked, shook his head, and pointed at the black mass in Edmund’s hands.

“Forstørre nå!”

The lump again doubled in size.

Edmund threw the human-head-sized lump of coal into the forge and, gaze still fixed upon the now speechless Toby, touched it.

“Fyre av nå!”

With a tremendous
whoosh
, the coal burst into blue flames. A blast of dry heat gusted around them, knocking a cloud of dust and ash from the hearth.

“You’re a … a magic user!”

“Don’t be afraid,” Edmund whispered. “Everything’s fine. I’m still your friend, and I won’t do anything to hurt you. Not all magic users are evil. Do you understand? We just want to be left alone.”

Toby blinked several times. “I’m not afraid. I’m just … it’s just that …”

“Not all magic users are bad people bent on taking over the world. We’re just like you are.”

Toby swallowed nervously. “If people find out, they’ll burn you at the stake! They’re going to kill you. You’ve gotta get away from here!”

“That’s why I need you to keep my secret. If you don’t, they will kill me. I’m putting my life in your hands. Can I trust you?”

Staring at the bright blue flames dancing over the coal in the forge, Toby nodded, mouth hanging open.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t talk about this now, Toby. I wish we could, but we can’t. I’ll answer all of your questions later; I p-promise on my parents’ graves. Right now, I need you to help me make a very special sword.”

“I’ll do anything you want, Mister Edmund. Just tell me what to do.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Edmund limped through the smoky darkness. He was looking for Pond, and several people had told him Pond was patrolling Rood’s perimeter, trying to keep everybody’s morale high.

That was a good idea, Edmund thought. The men of Rood weren’t fighters but opportunists brought north with hopes of making quick fortunes or acquiring free land far from oppressive nobility. Some were desperate and had nowhere else to go; a few might even have been escaped criminals. Regardless of why they’d come, most of them would flee at the soonest possible chance. Running through the countryside in small groups like spooked deer, they would be hunted and slaughtered by the goblins. Keeping everybody together, fighting in a coherent, unified force was the only way they’d all survive.

Up ahead a campfire burned.

As per Edmund’s instructions, scores of them had been lit and manned just inside the walls. If a goblin or magic user were to climb over, somebody would see them. At least, that was the plan.

Studying the stars that peeked through the smoke, Edmund guessed dawn was an hour off, maybe two.

Two hours
…
I wonder if I can make it that long.

And then what? What happens at dawn? Everybody is going to leave and be butchered tomorrow night. Or the night after that. The goblins won’t let anybody reach the southern lands.

We’ve got to keep everybody here.

Then you have to give them some reason to stay.

He approached a small, cheery blaze snapping and popping in the darkness. Around it, four men lay sleeping on the ground.

Edmund was half tempted to let them be; the men were probably as exhausted as he was and even more frightened. But Edmund knew the goblins would be coming and when they did, everybody had to be ready.

“Wake up,” he said. “Sorry to do this, but you can sleep when the sun rises. Get up or we’ll be—”

Blood was pooling around the campfire. One of the men had a black-shafted arrow sticking out of his chest. Two others had their throats slit to the bone. A fourth had his head caved in.

My God!

This means the goblins are over the wall. They’re inside the village! Damn it.

He shot a glance back toward the center of town and then along the walls. Campfires still burned, but the buildings clustered around The Buxom Barmaid were dark and silent.

Everybody’s standing guard, spread out in small groups
…

I should have gathered everybody together in one place and made a defense at the town square. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Edmund’s left hand tightened around the hilt of his reforged short sword. Its blade was now black, much darker than the smoky color of his father’s sword, but he hoped it would cut through the goblins’ armor just as easily.

Where would Kravel go? If he’s inside the walls, where would he be right now? Think!

He’d be looking for you. Him, Gurding, and probably a few others with nets and ropes. They’d want to keep their numbers small so they wouldn’t be spotted.

Anxiety tightening his stomach, Edmund scanned the darkness. Four or five hundred feet to his left and right, small fires burned brightly. But nothing around them moved. All was quiet.

They’re probably dead as well.

Alone in the night, Edmund wished Pond and Becky were with him but then immediately regretted his selfishness. He was the one Kravel wanted. He was the one putting everybody else in danger.

His gaze flitted from fire to fire to fire dotting the ruins of Rood. How many men were dead, lying on the bloody ground, Edmund didn’t know. But what he did know was that he was going to have to save the living.

If only I knew where Kravel was
.

Stay where you are and he’ll find you.

But by then, he might have killed half the town. Unless
…
unless he finds me sooner.

Searching the darkness for salvation, Edmund considered a large maple tree growing close to the wall. He ran to it, leapt up, and grabbed a low-hanging branch. Pulling himself up as well as his still-tender right arm would allow, he fought through the tangle of twigs and leaves until he reached the top of the wall. Steadying himself, he stepped out onto it. Then he looked down.

Although it seemed much higher in the dimness, the wall was only fifteen feet up. Falling probably wouldn’t kill him, but if he landed awkwardly, he might damage a leg, re-break his arm, or be knocked unconscious—and he had no intention of waking up in chains.

Edmund walked carefully along the narrow stone, pushed through the maple tree’s dark canopy and out into the starlight, clutching the black-bladed short sword in his left hand.

“Kravel!” he shouted, his voice shattering the silence.

Nobody answered.

He surveyed the remains of Rood.

Many of the watchfires were going out, and the center of town still appeared abandoned. Even the hulking silhouette of The Buxom Barmaid seemed dead.

He stared at Molly’s dilapidated house. A mixture of resentment and shame filled him as he watched a thin stream of smoke rising from its chimney.

“Kravel!” he shouted again.

Save for the fire hissing below him, all was quiet.

He crept farther along the wall. For a moment Edmund thought he heard movement in the woods just outside the town, perhaps somebody running. But he didn’t care. If the goblins were nearby, they’d have to climb up and fight him one at a time.

“Kravel, you coward! Come out of your damned hole. See if you can t-take me alive.”

He waited.

He’s not here.

Yes, he is. He wouldn’t leave without—

Tree branches shook to his left.

Edmund turned to discover Gurding forcing his way through another tree canopy forty feet off. Stepping out onto the wall, the goblin grinned, his face still bloody and torn from Becky’s claws.

“Good evening, Filth.” He pulled twigs out of his helm and chainmail. “Alone this time? Your friends finally leave you? Or are they all dead?”

Edmund stalked toward him, careful to not to lose his footing. “I’m not alone. We have three magic users in the woods waiting for you.”

“You’re joking. I can tell.”

“Maybe. Just wait and see. They’re nearby. And they can throw balls of fire.”

“If that were the case”—he drew a bola from his belt—“they would have already done something, now wouldn’t they? I mean, why put off the fun?”

Edmund advanced, sliding his feet along the top of the wall, short sword glinting in the starlight.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you keep coming here.” Gurding twirled the bola. “I hate this place.”

“And I hate you.”

Gurding tutted. “That’s not a nice thing to say. You should have learned by now.” The whine of his bola grew louder as its metal balls spun ever faster. “You might have lost weight, and your stutter may have gone away some, but you’re still the same fat pig-of-a-human who fell sobbing at our feet back in that tower.”

Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to distract you.

Distract
…

Edmund paused to listen for movement in the neighboring trees. Other than the whistling bola, all was as quiet as a graveyard.

“Where’s Kravel?” he asked. “Is your master afraid of heights?”

“Master?” Gurding repeated in surprise. “He’s not my master. We hold equal rank. Although he’s held it for thirty-two days longer than I have.”

With his sword leading the way and his throbbing right arm jutted out for balance, Edmund closed the gap to thirty feet. The foot-wide wall was uneven and slick with moss and bird crap. There was also little room to pivot or maneuver, but Edmund continued inching along.

“I figured you were merely his dog,” he said, “the w-w-way, the way he orders you around.”

Gurding’s yellow teeth gritted. “Oh, I see. Verbal diversions. Very good. Kravel said there was more to you than met the eye.” He stepped closer. “I always thought you were a fool, myself. Why you keep coming here, I haven’t a clue. Is it the girl? You’d do better with the small, pretty one, the one with the black hair. Where is she?”

An image of Abby flashed in Edmund’s mind. Seeing his distraction, Gurding leapt forward, letting the whistling bola fly. Unable to dodge, Edmund stood helplessly as the iron balls whirled around him. Leather cords bound his knees. He tottered.

Don’t fall! Don’t fall!

Gurding approached his prisoner.

“Easy as taking a baby out of its crib,” he laughed, stopping when Edmund’s short sword sliced effortlessly through the thick leather cords.

“You can’t kill me.” Edmund cast the severed bola to the ground. “Your Highness would be very upset with you if you did.”

“True,” Gurding replied, transferring his scimitar to his lead hand. He edged toward Edmund, now nearly within striking range. “But there are many ways to immobilize a foe without actually killing him. For example, if I were to cut out your other—”

Gurding lunged and jabbed at Edmund’s chest.

Edmund sprang back, wobbled for a second, and then steadied himself.

Careful!

Edmund tightened his grip on his sword hilt, wishing that he could fight with his right hand.

Where’s that damned Kravel?

Maybe you hurt him far worse than you’d hoped.

“You never did tell me where Kravel was,” Edmund said, struggling to maintain balance.

Gurding’s boot slipped on the narrow stone, but he regained his footing before Edmund could seize the opportunity.