The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (22 page)

Emerald knew that Wart could be almost as devious as his hero, Snake. It was no coincidence that the name he had given his sword,
Sleight
, was similar to Snake’s
Stealth
. She just hoped that he had some hidden purpose in giving Badger the star, because the more she saw of the man the less she was inclined to trust him.

After several inquiries, Wart was directed to an obscure corner of the bailey, to a tiny shed sporting a dozen or more sets of weathered antlers. Emerald and Badger peeked over his shoulders as he peered in the doorway. The gloomy inside was packed to the ceiling with bows, rods, spears, arrows, nets, mounted heads, horse tack, horns, stuffed birds, sample branches of a dozen different trees, a boar’s skull with tusks attached, stuffed birds, and mysterious sacks. Three white-muzzled dogs sprawled asleep underfoot, and the cubicle reeked of animal. In the center of this midden stood a small, bent, white-haired man wearing the green garments of a forester. He had the customary horn hung on his belt, too. What he could actually be doing in there was a mystery, because there was barely room for him to stand, let alone move anything.

“I was told to speak with someone called Mervyn.”

The ancient blinked at him. “Eh?”

Wart raised his voice. “The sheriff told me to see someone called Mervyn.”

“Ah, he ain’t the man he was ’fore his wife died.” The forester shook his head sadly.

“Who isn’t?”

“Ah, who is?”

“Are you he?”

“Who? What? Speak up, boy, you sound like a wood dove.”

The back of Wart’s neck was turning pink as he decided that the Sheriff had palmed him off on a doddering antique. He shouted, “Where can I get horses to go to Smealey Hall?”

“Horses live in stables, boy.”

“And who’ll give them to me?”

“No one. You buy your own horses.”

“Do you know a forester named Rhys?”

“That’s a cheeky question, boy. Very cheeky. You think I’m so old you can come ’round here making fun of an old man who’s been at his trade these three score years and more, almost four score?”

Emerald was having trouble suppressing a snigger.

“I’m not making fun of you!” Wart howled. “Do you know where Rhys is?”

“Didn’t sell it! He was proud of it, you hear?”

“Proud of what?”

“Speak up, boy. Stop mumbling.”

“Tell him,” Emerald whispered in Wart’s ear, “that you think Rhys was murdered.”

“Eh?” said the old man sharply. “What’s that about murder?”

Deafness could only be carried so far, evidently.

“Rhys guided Lord Digby to Smealey Hall,” Wart said in quieter tones, “and Lord Digby has been murdered. The King sent me to find out why, and I want to speak with Rhys.”

“He’s disappeared,” the forester said sulkily. “But he’s a good boy and it ain’t right what Sheriff says about him selling the horn and going off drinking or chasing women. Wouldn’t do that, Rhys wouldn’t. He’s a fine lad and I says so even if he is my grandson.”

“I’m afraid he may have been murdered, too.”

Mervyn nodded sadly. “So’m I.” Suddenly he advanced on his visitors so that they backed away, into the light. He stood in the doorway and looked them over. “You’re the King’s men. They said the baby one was in charge. Name of Stalwart. A Blade.”

Wart showed his sword. “This is Badger—this is Luke. The King sent us, Forester. If your grandson’s been hurt, we’ll see that the criminals hang. What were you saying about a horn?”

“He guided earl there. Lordship gave him a horn. It’s seemly for lords to reward good service, isn’t it? Fine bull horn with gold ’round the top, tooled leather strap. Blows a lovely call, it do. Rhys got lungs! Could hear the boy all the way to Kirkwain on that horn. He wouldn’t sell it for all the gold in Chivial.”

Wart glanced up at the sun, which was dipping behind the castle wall. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. How far is it to Smealey Hole?”

“’Bout a league.”

“North?”

“An’ a bit west.”

“You know if there’s more than one way in?”

“And why wouldn’t I know?” the old man said indignantly, drawing himself up as straight as he could. “Me being bred and buttered in Brakwood, lived here more’n four score years? You want to go and root out those sorcerers, boy?”

“I’d like to go and take a look at the place.”

“Why didn’t you say so sooner?” From somewhere the old man produced a green cap with a pheasant feather in it. He stuck this on his head and set off across the bailey, head down, at a lightning-fast shuffle. The dogs snored on unheeding.

After a day and a half in the saddle, the last thing Emerald wanted to see again was the backs of a horse’s ears. The second last thing was Wart blundering into trouble because she wasn’t there to warn him. If she complained, he would just leave her behind, so horse’s ears it would have to be. She was going to remain Master Luke for a while yet.

At the stables old Mervyn shot off orders like an archer firing arrows. “Patches for him, Snowbird for Sir Stalwart. You’ve not been skimping on his oats, have you? And Daydream for this one. Fine gentle ride she has. I’ll try Daisy, see what you’ve done to her.” The hands jumped to obey.

In the confusion of choosing saddles and watching the fresh horses being readied, Emerald managed to sidle close to Wart at a moment when Badger was out of earshot. “You are a flaming air-head! Why did you give him that star? If he’s a traitor, you’ll never see it again. It’s worth a fortune!”

“It’s not worth as much as my life,” he said glumly. “Or the King’s. Do you think I’d ever let Badger have it if I didn’t trust him?”

“You mean you
do
trust him?”

“Y…es,” Wart said warily. “I think Grand Master’s gotten to him. He wouldn’t be the first Prime who got driven up a tree by that nump. But I’ve known Badger for years, Em. If he says he’ll do something, he’ll do it. He’s solid as a rock.”

“Perceptive of you to see that. Your brooch is worth a fortune. He’ll be set for life.”

“He’ll be hanged for larceny, you mean.” Wart was watching the horses, avoiding her eye. “I’m giving him a chance to show his stuff. If he staggers into the palace, dead on his feet and shouting treason and foul play, he’s going to come to Snake’s attention, and Leader’s. Durendal’s, perhaps. Even the King’s. It’s a
big
chance for him!”

“Do you trust him or don’t you?”

Wart shrugged. “Well, yes! Of course. Sort of. Here comes your horse, Luke.”

Old Mervyn set a cracking pace; the horses thundered through the barbican, over the draw-bridge, and up into the town. Dogs, pigs, and chickens fled in noisy alarm; pedestrians leaped to safety. In moments the riders had left the houses and were out in open country, lit by a low sun ahead. Wart gave Badger a sign; Badger nodded without a smile, and turned his mount away to head back to Buran and the ferry. The old man did not seem to notice that one of his charges had departed; he rode as he walked, with his head well down. It was almost in the horse’s mane.

Although the plain was wide and fertile, the river forced the trail steadily northward, toward wooded bluffs on their right. The old man cut the pace before he winded the horses, and then Wart was able to pull Snowbird alongside and shout a conversation.

“Tell me about this Fellowship of Wisdom, grandfather.”

“Don’t know nothing ’bout them, lad. Standoffish lot. Teachers, so they say.”

“Do they sell conjurations—good-luck charms, healing?”

“Not so’s I’ve heard.”

Was he telling the truth or defending a bespelled Sheriff?

“You don’t go there much?”

“Nobody does, lad. Haven’t been there in ten years. Foresters don’t go, even. It’s near the forest, not in it.” After a brief pause, Mervyn added, “Saw lot of swordsmen around, Rhys said. Sheriff keeps the King’s peace! Why’d a gabble of enchanters need swordsmen around?”

As if he timed the interruption for maximum annoyance, he then turned Daisy off the main trail onto a rough path that disappeared into the steep bluffs on the right. Daisy was a very fat mare, almost as old as he was from the look of her, and she made little speed on the slope. Only when the track emerged in open parkland up on the bench, could Stalwart urge Snowbird alongside again.

“How many swordsmen?”

“A score or more, he said.”

Bad odds. “What else did Rhys tell you? This was when he went there with Lord Digby?”

“Aye. Nothing much, lad. He was left outside while his haughtiness went in to talk with them. Boy said the swordsmen stood guard on him as if they didn’t want him snooping. Not that he would have, of course. Honest lad—”

“Did Digby say anything when he came out? Did he seem angry, or frightened…?”

“Boy said he was white, like he’d had a real shock. He wasn’t talking, though. Didn’t say hardly a word all the way back to Waterby; lad couldn’t tell if he was mad or scared, his wife says.”

“Rhys is married?” Stalwart had thought they were discussing someone of his own age.

“Got three sprats,” the forester said proudly. “Eight great-grandchildren I got now. His three, and—”

“But as far as you know, the brothers are good and loyal subjects of the King?”

Mervyn rode in silence until Stalwart repeated the question. His deafness seemed to come and go according to his mood. He shot Stalwart a scornful look.

“How can they be, living in that house?”

The house was more important than its inhabitants now. Stalwart must become familiar with the surroundings so he could lead the Old Blades in.

“Tell me about the house.”

“Ah!” the old man said, launching his tale with every sign of intending to enjoy the telling of it. “There’s a curse on it, there is! Bad place. Been lots of families own it, but never for long. Baron Modred, now…well he got it from his father, Gwyn. Gwyn came from out west aways, somewhere around Ghyll. Rough type—said to have been a highwayman or worse. There’s tales ’bout him….” He told some. Obviously Gwyn of Ghyll had been born with poison fangs and gone to the bad thereafter. “There was a real Earl of Smealey back then. I wooed one of his serving maids for a while. Married a soldier, she did, and much good—”

“The Earl of Smealey?” Stalwart prompted when he could get a word in.

“No saying what happened to him, exactly. River runs right under the windows, see? Smealey River. It runs down the Hole and never comes up. Water probably joins the Brakwater underground—least, that’s what Sheriff thinks—but
things
don’t even come back up. Like bodies. No saying how many bodies gone down there in the last few hun’red year.”

“The Earl’s was one of them?”

“Who can say, see? Gwyn claimed he won the house at dice. Leastways he moved in and nobody felt like moving him out. Started callin’ himself the earl. Nobody else did, ’cept to his face. Then came the uprising of 308. First time I handled a sword, that was.” Mervyn sighed nostalgically, without saying which side he had fought for. “Gwyn pretended to join and then sold it out. Or else he saw which way the tide ran. An’ways, he betrayed the leaders. The old king created him Baron Smealey for that.”

“He sounds utterly charming,” Emerald remarked on his other side.

“Aye, that he was, lass,” Mervyn agreed, and carried on without showing any awareness that he had supposedly been addressing a boy named Luke. “He had two sons and a bushel of daughters. Eldest was another Gwyn. He and his father died in…around 320, must of been. In same night, so they say.”

“Did they also die of too much proximity to the river?” Stalwart asked.

“Who knows, when there were no bodies to examine? The second son was Modred, who became the second baron. Had several wives.”

“One at a time?”

“Mostly. River’s good for divorce, too. Bred seven sons. Ceri was eldest.”

Stalwart knew he ought to recognize that name, but he was distracted by the landscape, realizing that it was a very good site for an ambush. The valley had become a canyon—enclosed by rocky walls and shadowed now, as the sun set. The floor was tufted with scattered trees and enough scrub to hide several dozen swordsmen. Was the old man leading him into a trap? He considered the timing, and decided it would have been impossible for Lord Florian to order any such betrayal at such short notice. If there was going to be treachery, it would happen when he went back to Waterby. He would have to sleep with his eyes open. He hoped Badger had made a safe getaway.

“Is this the main road into Smealey Hole?”

Mervyn pouted at having his reminiscences interrupted. “No. This is back door I’m showing you. Not many know of it. Main road comes in from the east, fords the Smealey. Mustn’t do that too near the Hole, see?”

“Of course not. Tell me about Ceri.”

“Was ringleader in uprising of 354. Folks hereabout figured they worked it out between them—the boy would raise rebellion while his father crawled around King Ambrose, kissing his horseshoes. That way, whichever way things went, one of them would come out on top and rescue the other.”

This tied in with Badger’s story. “Then it was Ceri and one of his brothers that Durendal slaughtered when they tried to kill Ambrose outside Waterby?”

“Naw, that was Kendrick and Lloyd, other brothers. Another of the seven, Edryd, died in the siege of Kirkwain.”

“Then what did happen to Ceri?”

“Well, after the rebels lost, he was an outlaw for a while, roaming the hills. Till he made the mistake of dropping home for a bite of food and a chat, that is.”

“He went down the Hole, too?”

“He’d have been better off,” Mervyn said sourly. “His father sold him to King Ambrose. They say the price he got was his own head left on his shoulders. That an’ his lands.”

“So Ceri was executed?”

“Beheaded in the Bastion, side by side with Aneirin.”

“Another brother?” Badger had mentioned only one brother dying in the Bastion.

Mervyn nodded with the satisfaction of a storyteller whose tale has reached a fitting conclusion. “Aneirin was second son. He murdered Modred for betraying Ceri, you see. Strangled his own father with his bare hands! That pretty much finished the line of Gwyn.”

Stalwart counted on his fingers. “Two Gwyns, one Modred, then Ceri, Aneirin, Edryd, Kendrick, and Lloyd.” That put the score at: Curse eight, Smealeys two. “You left two unaccounted for.”

The old man shrugged. “There were a couple’a kids left over. Don’t know what happened to them. The Crown seized the lands. They say King thought of using the house as a hunting lodge, decided was too risky—the curse’d get him. Eventually he put it up for sale and yon bunch of sorcerers bought it.”

It was as gruesome a tale as Stalwart had ever heard. “How well do you know the grounds right close to the house?”

The old man nailed him with his usual shrewd stare. “Told you I hadn’ been here for ten years or more. As a kid I hung around some, courting that girl I told you about.” He shrugged.

Wart laughed. “And a bit of poaching.”

“Maybe.”

“I won’t tell the Sheriff. How much do you know about the secret passage?”

“What secret passage?”

“I was told that it was common knowledge that a secret passage—” That did not make much sense. “There’s a back door from Smealey Hole into a cave.”

“First I heard of it. Doesn’t mean there isn’t one, though. Whoa, boy! Here’s the Hole.”