Night of the Eye (30 page)

“If it’s a sneak you need, then you’ve come to the right person.”

* * * * *

One hundred mercenaries and men-at-arms stretched across the heath behind Sir Morris Whetfeld. For three days, the Knight of the Rose had ridden before them from Hillfort, leading them to the castle of his father-in-law’s nemesis. To the family his new wife had twice nearly joined. The Berwicks had been thrice betrayed by the DiThons. Morris’s mailed fists curled in anger. These barbarians from Northern Ergoth had no sense of honor. No wonder they were merely cavaliers, instead of true Knights of Solamnia.

The Knight of the Rose shuddered at the thought of the misfits behind him who’d answered the notices the Berwicks had placed in every port of call. They were a scruffy lot, the dregs of society no doubt. Sir Morris would be happy when this siege was over and he could pay them and send them back to whatever holes they’d crawled from. He had no illusions about the honor of these swords-for-hire, but at least their loyalty could be purchased temporarily.

From the looks of things at Castle DiThon, Sir Morris would not need to purchase it for long. Aside from some sheep grazing on a nearby hillside, the place looked nearly deserted. Advance word of the attack
had obviously not leaked to Cormac DiThon. It was doubtful, even, that anyone inside had yet noticed that an army stood at the ready beyond the eastern walls. Morris had expected at least some sort of nominal, everyday castle defenses to be in place. The closed northern and eastern gates, from the knight’s vantage point, appeared to be the extent of its security.

Could it be a trap? Was DiThon more clever than Morris anticipated, or as foolish as he appeared? The knight could hear the men behind him getting restless, their horses prancing. Sir Morris was about to force an answer to his question by preparing his men for the initial charge when a lone figure appeared on the eastern battlements.

Wearing a tabard bearing what Morris knew to be the DiThon coat-of-arms and a helmet that was much too big, the smallish man called out nervously, “Yes? What is it? May I help you?”

Sir Morris Whetfeld was thunderstruck! “Good heavens, man,” he roared, “have you truly no idea we’ve come to siege your castle? Tell your master to come forth. I would speak with the blackguard before I lay waste to his moldering keep.” Even at such a distance, Sir Morris could see the man’s fear and indecision.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” the quivering man said. “I’m just the chamberlain. The lord, hmm, isn’t in residence today,” he blundered.

Sir Morris could scarcely believe his luck. “All the better, then. Direct whatever men-at-arms you have to open the eastern gates, and we’ll have a minimum of bloodshed and damage.”

The chamberlain wrung his hands. “That would mean surrendering, wouldn’t it? I don’t believe I can do that, sir. I’m just the chamberlain.”

“You’re about to be a dead chamberlain!” shouted Sir Morris, growing frustrated with the man’s timidity. He rubbed his face beneath the uplifted visor of his
helm. “Go and fetch the lady of the keep, if you must,” he ordered briskly. “And be quick about it, man, or we’ll open the gates for you from the outside.”

“One moment, please,” the chamberlain called, as if speaking to an unexpected guest at the door.

Not knowing what else to do, Sir Morris crossed his arms and waited, amazed at the odd turn of events. Many minutes passed, and still no one returned. Hearing his commanders behind him whispering among themselves, Morris began to feel foolish, which made him angry. Even the mercenaries began to joke loudly.

Sir Morris’s cheeks grew hot in his helm, until he could no longer stand it. “Time’s up!” he bellowed. Morris signaled to the men behind him. A group moved forward, carrying a massive tree trunk between them. Positioning themselves in front of the main gate, they began battering their way through.

Three times the huge ram crashed like thunder into the stout gate, and each time the timbers cracked and splintered a bit more. But the portal was built to withstand such punishment and undoubtedly would for some time.

Sir Morris shifted in his saddle. Surely these fools would just let them in. Even the pretense of resistance was foolhardy under these conditions. Another crash resounded. After a few more strokes, Morris would order a fresh crew to the ram; swinging the enormous log was a tiring job.

As his eyes ran along the parapets, Morris caught a movement several dozen paces to the right of where the chamberlain had been. Perhaps a sniper with a bow, waiting to pick off a juicy target like a knight on horseback. He waved several of the mercenary archers to his side and was in the process of pointing out the potential danger spot to them when the flutter turned into a figure of a young man Morris estimated to be approximately a score of years in age. He appeared
unarmed, and had more the look of a pirate than a soldier about him.

Cupping a hand to his mouth, the young man hollered down to the assembled warriors, “Halloo! I wish to speak with Master Berwick.”

Morris frowned. What was this distraction all about? “Who are you?” the knight demanded. “I sent the chamberlain for the mistress of the castle.”

“Lady DiThon is, ahem, indisposed,” said the man. “I represent the family’s concerns.”

Morris spurred his mount slightly, just enough to make it prance in place. “Any missive you have for Master Berwick you may deliver to me. I am Sir Morris Whetfeld, an honorable Knight of the Rose and Berwick’s son-in-law, as well as commander of this host. Speak your message, quickly.”

The figure on the wall studied Morris for a moment, then replied. “I have something here of yours.”
Crash!
“Tell your monkeys to stop their hammering, and I will show you something I’m certain you’ll find of particular interest.”

“There’ll be much to pay if this is just some delaying tactic,” warned Sir Morris. At length he extended his left arm, palm side down, and lowered it, whereupon the battering ram crew dropped the tree trunk. This fellow on the wall seemed entirely too cocky for someone in his position, Morris thought, and he did not like cocky young men. He had seen his fill of those among the knights back in Solamnia. He would hear out the chap’s message, but at the first hint of stalling, the attack would resume. Morris could not let this arrogant young man forget who held the upper hand.

The speaker reached behind the adjacent merlon and drew out a young woman with dark hair and downcast eyes. Even at this distance, she was remarkably familiar to Morris. He blinked in disbelief.

“Ingrid?” Morris stood in his stirrups now, blood
pounding angrily in his ears as his eyes searched the face of his new wife. “How is this possible?”

“Did you think us so provincial that we’d remain unaware of your plot?” snorted the man who stood next to the woman on the battlements. “You posted notices over the entire continent of Ansalon! It was not a difficult thing after your departure to snatch your comely wife from the manor house in Hillfort. You left it shamefully underprotected.” The man stroked Ingrid’s cheek. “Your tender wife has learned many an interesting thing during the trip here with ruffians and miscreants, haven’t you, my dear?” With a shudder, Lady Ingrid Berwick Whetfeld drew away from the man.

Sir Morris cursed himself for his carelessness. “This is an outrage!” he shrilled. “Preying upon innocent women in time of war is cowardly and dishonorable! If so much as a hair on her head is harmed, I shall topple this castle stone from stone and bury you all inside.”

The speaker on the wall seemed more amused than threatened by Morris’s histrionics. He hollered in reply, “I would keep a civil attitude, Solamnic. You really can’t afford to offend me right now.”

Sir Morris snarled at the man, his eyes on the woman. She said nothing. “Wife, don’t you know me? What have these base villains done to you? Why don’t you speak?”

“I am afraid, my husband,” she whimpered. “Please just do as they ask, so that we may be together again.”

“If you hurt her—” threatened Sir Morris again, shaking his mailed fist in impotent rage.

“She’s not been harmed,” the man interrupted, “and she won’t be, provided you stop this siege nonsense.”

Morris was ruffling up for a further barrage of insults and threats when he felt a restraining hand on his shoulder. He looked back to see the lined face of Anton Berwick, his father-in-law, peering intently up toward the wall. The merchant had insisted upon joining
the expedition, but Morris had managed to persuade him to maintain a safe distance in the rear. The unexpected sight of his daughter on the parapet had obviously drawn Berwick forward. The merchant shook his head silently now, and the knight dropped reluctantly back into his saddle.

“My dear Ingrid, are you all right?” Though he tried to mask it, the old man’s concern for his daughter was clear in his strong voice. He looked stiff and awkward in his new armor, and his considerable bulk seemed to overfill his poor horse’s saddle.

“I’m fine, Father,” replied the woman faintly, brushing a strand of windblown hair from her face. “They have treated me well enough. This one,” she said with a glance to the man next to her, “has been quite gallant, really.”

“Gallant? I hardly think so,” snorted the knight, but a strong look from Berwick silenced him.

The knight moved close to his father-in-law. “Father, how can we trust these villains? They are kidnappers and deceivers, completely without honor. If we redouble our efforts with the ram, their gate will crumble very soon. Then we shall have Ingrid back, and revenge for this outrage.”

But Morris could see the reply in Berwick’s eyes even before any words were spoken. “If they truly are dishonorable deceivers, as you say, then we cannot risk continuing the attack. Of course the gate would fall, but revenge is all we would claim inside, and we would both lose Ingrid. I cannot allow that.”

“But,” pressed the knight, suddenly struck with a thought, “how do we know that is really Ingrid? This could be an elaborate trick of magic.”

Berwick’s jowls shook. “You don’t know Cormac DiThon. However villainous he might be, he would never suffer the use of magic within his walls.”

Sir Morris would not be dismissed so lightly. “You must admit, then, that at this distance, any young woman of a
similar size with dark hair might pass for our Ingrid.”

Berwick thought for a moment, then addressed the castle again. “Young man, you are a goodly distance removed from my tired old eyes. How can I be certain that the woman standing with you there truly is my daughter, Ingrid?”

The man seemed prepared for the possibility of such a question. He leaned in close to the merchant’s daughter, as if in whispered conversation. After several moments, they separated and he replied, “This simple demonstration ought to be sufficient to persuade you.”

In a faint but clear voice, Ingrid said, “It is me, Morris.” She then recited a simple rhyme:

It was a poem Morris had written for Ingrid during their brief courtship, and they alone knew of it. A deep, crimson flush colored Sir Morris’s face. That was enough to tell Anton Berwick the poem was authentic.

The rotund merchant turned back to the castle. “What do you want from us?”

“I already told you,” the man replied. “Stop all this nonsense immediately and return to Hillfort.”

Morris raised his armored fist into the air, pointing at the man. “We will leave when Ingrid is returned to us!”

The kidnapper snorted loudly. “Do you think I just fell off the turnip wagon? If I hand her over now, you’ll simply resume your attack.”

“I give you my solemn word as a Knight of the Rose that we will not,” vowed Sir Morris.

“The word of a knight means naught to me,” said the man. “I believe only that which I can see with my own eyes. Your lady wife will remain here for two days.
That should give you time to get halfway to Hillfort. At that point we will return her the same way we fetched her. I assure you, Ingrid will be there waiting, as you left her, when you arrive.

“And don’t even think about doubling back,” the kidnapper added menacingly. “It should be pretty clear to you by now that we are aware of your every move.”

There was silence for several moments, as all parties considered the transaction. Then Sir Morris spoke again. “And what of the land you stole from us, with plans to extort our ships with tolls? That injustice cannot be allowed to stand. Especially now, considering what you have done to our Ingrid.”

“The land? Oh, yes, that,” the man muttered. “Uh, have your representatives contact ours concerning negotiations for the land.” With that, he turned quickly to leave.

Baffled, Sir Morris, gloved hands on the tassets covering his hips, glanced up. “Are you not Cormac DiThon’s representative?”

“I think I made that clear,” said the man.

Sir Morris bristled. “Then we will discuss possession of Stonecliff now, or we will not leave.”

The kidnapper rolled his eyes in vexation. “All right, then. If ownership of that small piece of land is to forever be a cause for war between us, we will retire from occupying it.”

“And that is acceptable to Lord DiThon?” asked Berwick, astonished.

“I said so, didn’t I?”

Both Sir Morris and Anton Berwick eyed the snappish representative on the wall one last, lingering time. “It is done, and we will leave in peace,” Berwick announced at length. His glance turned once more on his daughter before he rode awkwardly away through the ranks of disappointed knights and mercenaries who would see no fighting today.

Sir Morris Whetfeld also spun about, and his army followed him. “Have courage, my love,” he called to Ingrid with a last longing look over his shoulder at the woman on the wall. “Soon we will be together again.”

Ingrid waved a handkerchief at the retreating army.

* * * * *

“We did it!” squealed Kirah, crouching behind the protection of the merlon as the army noisily departed across the heath. “Gods, can you believe he actually said that to me?” She wiggled her newly bent front teeth and tugged at the elaborate frock with disdain. “Hurry up and make me look like myself again,” she pleaded.