The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (9 page)

S
TALWART WAS NEVER AWARE OF RECOVERING consciousness. He just gradually understood that he was in a lot of pain and helpless to do anything about it. For one thing he was face-down in a very smelly box, being bounced up and down on bare boards; he could see nothing except chinks of daylight between them. For another, he was bound hand and foot with a noose around his neck, so he dared not try to sit up in case it would choke him and he would not be able to loosen it again. The rope around his wrists was so tight that he could feel nothing at all in his hands. If the blood supply was cut off too long they would die and rot. What use was a swordsman with no hands?

His mouth and jaw felt as if Saxon had kicked him there with all four shoes at once; some of his teeth were loose on that side and the taste of old blood was nauseating. To make it worse, his mouth was held open by a gag, a rag tied around his head. Guess who had done that—no prize offered? He could hear hooves and sometimes two voices, although he could not make out what was being said. The strings of the archlute murmured somewhere close to his ear. Under a heap of smelly sacks he was sweltering, but even in this poorly inhabited part of Chivial, no one could drive around with a corpse in plain view and not get asked questions.

So he was alive, when he had not really expected to be. That situation did not seem much of an advantage at the moment, and Thrusk would make sure it did not last long.

Someone cleverer than Thrusk was in charge, though.

“We mustn’t let the enemy suspect that the wagon is being followed,” Snake had said. “So we’ll stay well back. One of us may ride forward and pass you from time to time, but don’t react. Don’t show you recognize us. Talk to people whenever you get the chance, because we’ll ask the ferrymen and other locals if they remember seeing you going past.”

It was a good plan, but someone had been smart enough to see through it. Now the wagon was still trundling along the highway and it still had a man and a woman on the bench. It might be a long time before the Old Blades realized that a switch had been made and Emerald was gone.

Stalwart had known right from the moment Bandit swore him into the Guard that he was destined for danger, and Snake had spelled it out for him an hour or so after that. He had known it but never really believed it—not like he believed now. That morning the prospect of adventure had blinded him to everything else.

He left Ironhall in public shame, head down to avoid the disbelieving stares of the few juniors who happened to be around. There were no seniors in sight—thanks to Bandit and Grand Master, probably—but Bandit himself was at the gate, talking with the Blades guarding it. He did not even look around as Stalwart slunk past, but some of the others scowled and made biting remarks about quitters and cowards. It was not a happy moment.

As soon as he was off by himself amid the lonely wilds of Starkmoor, his usual cheerful spirits returned. Hope and adventure put a spring in his stride and the wind danced with his cloak. He raced along the dusty track, jogging and walking by turns, bothered little by the weight of the lute on his back and not much more by the hunger in his belly. He never did reach Broom Tarn. About half an hour up the road he turned off on the shortcut over the Rockheap; on the far side of that, safely out of sight of Ironhall, two saddled horses grazed the wiry moorland grass. The man lying on his back nearby seemed intent on the hawks circling in the blue heavens, but he must have been keeping a eye on the horses, too. When Wart came in sight they raised their heads and he sprang up.

He came striding over, hand out in welcome. His clothes were nondescript, almost shabby, but the sword at his side bore a cat’s-eye on the pommel. He was not only a Blade, he was the one Stalwart had been desperately hoping he would be, Sir Snake himself—Deputy Commander of the Guard during Stalwart’s first years at Ironhall, later dubbed knight and released, then called back to lead the volunteer group they called “the Old Blades.” The name he had chosen long ago still fitted him, for he was exceedingly lean; he had a knife-blade nose and a thin mustache. He was devious, they said, clever as a forestful of foxes. He had not named his sword anything obvious like
Fang
or
Venom
. No, she was called
Stealth
, and that said a lot about him.

His eyes twinkled as he pumped Wart’s hand and thumped his shoulder.

“Was counting on you,” he said. “Never thought you’d fail us. Welcome to the Blades, brother!” He laughed, joyous as the summer morning. “And welcome, O Youngest of All Blades, to the
Old
Blades, the unbound Blades! I have a job for you that will make your hair stand on end!” He made that sound like a great virtue. He led the way over to the horses—and what horses they were! The King himself rode nothing better.

“I brought a sword for you to wear. Not a cat’s-eye, I’m afraid, but we’ll get your real sword to you shortly. Can’t have a Blade walking around unarmed, like a peasant.”

“That’s very kind of you, Sir Snake.”

“Oh, you go pile
that
manure elsewhere, my lad! You’re one of us now. You call me ‘Snake’ or ‘brother,’ understand? There’s food in the saddlebags and you can eat as we ride…. The King is ‘sire’ to his face and ‘Fat Man’ when he’s not around. Bandit is ‘Leader.’ You can be polite to Dreadnought and Grand Master when you feel like it, but don’t ever give me titles. Now let’s—” He paused for an instant. “And Durendal. Him we honor because he’s still the greatest of us all. No one else. Now get your tender young behind on that saddle. We have the width of Chivial to ride before we’ll see a bed tonight. Yes, I’ll tell you all about it as we go.” He went to put his foot back in his stirrup and then paused again. “I’m told they call you Wart. Which do you want to be from now on—Wart or Stalwart?”

“Wart’s more fitting…Snake. Call me Stalwart when I grow into it.”

The glittery eyes studied him for a moment. “You may have earned it by next week.”

“Then call me Stalwart next week,” the boy said crossly, and swung himself up into the saddle. He wished they would all stop talking about danger and tell him what it was they wanted him to do.

If they did not ride the whole width of Chivial that day, they certainly crossed most of it, thundering along on the finest horses Stalwart had ever ridden. Until that journey he had rather fancied his skills in the saddle, but Snake was superb. Every hour or so they had changed mounts at a posting inn, taking horses reserved for the Royal Couriers, the best steeds in the land. As they rode, Snake spelled out the plan.

“It’s risky, of course,” he admitted, “but I think we’ve thought of most things that can go wrong.” He had not foreseen Thrusk.

Stalwart had blundered, yes. He had thrown his expense money around at Three Roads. That had been a stupid childish impulse, exactly the sort of mistake that might warn an enemy he was not what he was pretending to be. Nor should he have told Emerald that she was being used as bait. Yet he might still have pulled it off if Thrusk had not come on the scene. Thrusk’s involvement had been the worst of all possible luck, misfortune that could never have been predicted.

He remembered how Thrusk had sworn to get even with him, that day at Firnesse Castle. On the way to the latrines, Thrusk had collected a dozen men to come and watch the fun. Public executions were always a big draw, and no one had ever seen a thief executed quite this way before. The jokes were flying thick and fast.

When they reached their destination, one man blocked their path. He had gray in his beard and weather lines etched in his face, but a cat’s-eye shone yellow on the pommel of his sword, and a diamond Star on his jerkin warned that he was in royal favor.

“This joke is not funny, Marshal,” Sir Vincent said quietly. “Untie the boy. I’m taking him off your hands.”

Thrusk responded with a drum roll of oaths. Vincent took hold of his sword hilt and there was silence.

“If you call me one more bad name I shall draw. If you force me to draw, for any reason whatsoever, then you die first. This I swear.”

That was all it took. That was what it meant to be a Blade, even a Blade with a grizzled beard facing a dozen young men-at-arms. Thrusk sent a page to tell the Baron what was happening. He came at once and followed them all the way to the gate, screaming outrage. “Arrest that man! I am a lord of the high justice! This is rebellion against the King’s Peace! I shall complain to the Privy Council!” On and on. He was a plump little man with absurdly bowed legs and a very shrill voice. Sir Vincent mostly ignored him, and nobody dared interfere with Sir Vincent.

Unable to believe this change in his fortunes, little Wat Hedgebury the minstrel’s apprentice walked out under the portcullis clutching the lute he had almost died for—in hands that would not stop trembling. Vincent’s servant was waiting there with two horses. The knight gave the man the lute to bring and pulled the boy up behind him on his own mount, although he still stank mightily of his climb up the sewer in the night.

Before Vincent could urge his mount forward, Thrusk’s voice bellowed down from the battlements: “Don’t think you’re going to get away with this, thief! You can’t hide behind that old brigand forever. One day I’ll catch you and give you what you deserve.”

Vincent turned his horse to get a better view. “You want to come down here and repeat that?”

“Go while you can, old man. We’re about to loose the dogs on you. And if you do take that trash with you, don’t be surprised when your silverware starts disappearing. One day we’ll stretch his neck for him.”

“Don’t be so sure of that!” Vincent roared, the first time he had raised his voice. “Boys grow up. Next time you meet it may be his turn to jeer.” He kicked in his heels and the two horses cantered off along the road. For the next hour a gang of Thrusk’s flunkies rode at a safe distance behind them, shouting threats and insults.

They were leagues from Firnesse before Wat Hedgebury could speak at all. Then he just said, “Thank you, sir,” in a small whisper. His hands were
still
shaking.

The old man did not look around. “You are most welcome, lad. I enjoyed that little episode more than I have enjoyed anything for a long time. And you earned it.”

He did not explain that remark then. They stopped at the first Eastfare estate they came to, and he had his new friend throughly scrubbed and clad in fresh clothes. He ordered the old ones burned, and perhaps his own also. And it was there, when the two of them were eating a meal in a humble farmhouse kitchen, that he first spoke the magic name of Ironhall.

“You have wonderful agility,” he said. “You most certainly have courage. And you have a sense of justice. I think you would make an excellent Blade to serve your King.”

The future Stalwart had laughed heartily, convinced that the knight was joking.

The old man smiled, knowing that he was being misunderstood. “Was Owain a relative?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you any family at all?”

Wat shook his head, munching bread and cold roast goose.

“How old are you?”

“Almost thirteen, master.”

“‘Almost’ may be good enough. We must put you somewhere out of those men’s reach. The Baron is just a windbag, but that Thrusk is pure poison. He carries grudges. Somewhere far away. Do you really want to be a minstrel all your life, singing for the gentry, cap in hand for a copper penny? Sleeping in stables, trudging winter roads in leaky boots? Wouldn’t you rather be one of the gentles yourself?”

And Wat—he was always to remember that stunning moment when he realized that this talk was not just a gentleman’s joke—stopped chewing and stared in disbelief.

Sir Vincent shuddered. “Close your mouth, boy!”

After a swallow that almost choked him, the boy whispered, “Me?”

“You.”

“
A gentleman
? Is that possible?”

“I’d say the King’s right hand itself is possible. If you want, I’ll take you to Ironhall. Grand Master will accept you, I promise. You’re much too good to waste.” He chuckled at the boy’s stare of disbelief. “Weather looks good. They don’t expect me back at Valglorious for a few days yet. We can start right now if you’re ready.”

S
KULDIGGER’S COACH-AND-FOUR MADE NO great speed along the dusty, rutted trail, but for comfort it could not be surpassed. It could seat four people at ease and six at a pinch on softly padded benches upholstered in mauve silk. Yet Emerald wished fervently that she were back in Wart’s smelly wagon. Thrusk’s blow had left the side of her head swollen and throbbing; she was going to have a black eye from it.

The bait had been taken. If the mysterious Sir Snake was hoping to catch her kidnappers red-handed, he had better pounce soon. While she hated to concede a point to anyone as odious as Doctor Skuldigger, it did seem that he had won the bout, that Snake had been outwitted and must still be watching the wagon. She had last seen it being driven by one of Skuldigger’s coach guards clad in Wart’s cap and jerkin, with Murther beside him sporting Emerald’s bonnet.

To increase her misery, she was a prisoner in a vehicle screaming with magic. It came from the coachman on his box, the grooms on the back, the remaining man-at-arms on the roof. At times she could even hear it from Thrusk’s escort when they rode close.

Skuldigger sat on the rear bench of the carriage, facing his two captives, and for a long time he seemed to be lost in thought, staring at nothing with the woebegone look of a basset hound. After an hour or so, the carriage left the rutted trail which was flattered with the name of highway and began following a barely visible path over the rolling moorland. Now it moved slowly, often splashing through shallow ponds and streams. The wind brought a scent of the sea. He roused himself.

“Well, Sister Emerald, I am ready to hear your—”

“I told you last night, Doctor! If I were a White Sister I should never have been riding in that wagon.”

He groaned. “Aw? Emerald, you must never, never interrupt me when I am speaking, or I shall be forced to punish you. If you do not answer all my questions courteously and truthfully, without attempt to mislead or omit pertinent information, then you will have only yourself to blame for what you will have to endure in consequence. Is this not correct, Sister Swan?”

Swan had been staring fixedly out the window. She turned toward Emerald but did not meet her eye. “He will have you flogged or branded. He is utterly without compassion, utterly ruthless. He is also completely crazy, but no one can defy him. Resist him and he will break you.”

Skuldigger showed no resentment at being called a madman. “A very exact description of the situation—if you disobey you must be punished. You cannot hope to escape from Quagmarsh, where we are headed, so you may as well accept reality now and save yourself unnecessary suffering. I cannot use sorcery on you without destroying the abilities I need in you, so I am forced to resort to brutality.” His tone and manner implied this was an unavoidable tragedy. “Marshal Thrusk supplies this quite willingly and in much greater quantities than you can possibly withstand. Clear?”

“Yes, Doctor.” Her mouth was very dry.

“Sister Swan cooperates with me, you see? Her daughter, Belle, is a beautiful child, but she has the sort of fair skin that scars easily. Her mother knows that I left strict orders to feed the girl to the chimeras tomorrow, so it is essential that I return safely to Quagmarsh in good time to countermand those orders.”

Swan was staring out the window again. She seemed to be weeping.

“Now, Emerald,” Skuldigger moaned, “I want the true story. I am aware that Sister Swan cannot judge your truthfulness under the present circumstances, but when we reach Quagmarsh, I shall ask you if you lied to me. Swan can tell me then how truthfully you respond; if her reports are not favorable, terrible things will happen to you.”

Emerald had made a grave mistake in worming even a small part of the story out of Wart. If she were still as ignorant as she had been when she left Oakendown, she could talk freely. Now she knew things that she must not mention: Sir Snake, attempts on the King’s life that were not generally known, poisoned shirts, ensorcelled saddles, and even previous knowledge that Swan and her daughter had been kidnapped. If she lied she would be detected. If she refused to talk, she would be tortured.

“I am not a Sister. I was—for one whole day. Then I was expelled. The Companionship was shipping me home in that farm cart.”

The improbability of this tale made Doctor Skuldigger even sadder than before. “But you must have known you were being set out as lure for me?”

“No. I never heard of you—I knew nothing about you. And still don’t.”

He pouted. “Expelled for what cause?”

“I witnessed a sorcery and was ordered to lie about it. And wouldn’t.”

“Expelled? Expelled when half the country is screaming for White Sisters to protect them from myself and some of my colleagues? You wouldn’t be expelled if you committed multiple murders. Then you just happen to be billeted in the same room as Mistress Murther, who is my agent looking out for potential recruits. Are you so stupid that you believe this to be mere coincidence?”

“Not now I don’t. Now I think as you do, that I was deliberately set out as bait. But I am an innocent victim. I never saw the boy before and know nothing about him except what he told me.” She had spoken the truth so far.

“The boy will be questioned, do not worry.” The Doctor uttered another of his moans. “Aw? I am sure you are right. It is tragic that you must suffer so, but the fault lies entirely with the King and that bullyboy of his called Snake. He is a fool, though, and easily outwitted. Swan could find no trace of magic on you or the wagon or even the boy. I hope you do not disagree with her evaluation?” The bleary, red-rimmed eyes peered inquiringly at Emerald.

“I detected no sorcery.” Except an indefinable something about Wart…but lots of people bore such imbalances. It was certainly too faint to be of any importance.

Skuldigger showed his lower teeth in what was apparently a smile. “So Snake was relying on purely secular means to track you, my dear, and I have now outsmarted him. It is not the first time, and I am sure it will not be the last.”

“I am sure you are right, master.” Still she was telling no lies!

“When Murther sent word that she had located a suitable recruit, I suspected right away that you were a decoy. I detected the unsubtle hand of Snake, but I came anyway, because the man is nothing but a trained sword swinger, without finesse or ability. I suppose that eventually even the King will see that. But perhaps not, because Ambrose himself is a bigger fool than any. For years this fair land of Chivial has been molested by the evil Baels, and when someone attempts to do something about them, he is harried and persecuted. The King is not just a fool but also a profligate, power-crazy tyrant!”

Swan glanced very briefly at Emerald and then returned to staring out the window.

Emerald said, “I don’t think I understand, Doctor.” She would rather have the madman gloating over his own cleverness than interrogating her.

“The Baels, child! For years these pirates and slavers have molested our coasts at will. Foolish Ambrose can do nothing about them. Only superior sorcery will defeat them; yet I and others like me, who strive to develop this magic, are hounded by his government. Such research takes years and vast amounts of gold, yet we are persecuted by rapacious tax gatherers. And when some of my colleagues attempted to remonstrate, they were denounced as traitors!”

He was probably referring to the Night of Dogs, but Emerald did not need to comment. He was ranting, paying no attention to her or Swan.

“Now this despot is attempting to put us out of business altogether and ban our research! Well, we have ways of dealing with such incompetents, and you will have the honor of assisting us. Soon, I promise you, the crown will sit on the head of a three-year-old boy, and a regency council will certainly display more sense than his father ever did. The bungling Snakes and Durendals will be swept aside, and the government of this country will be in the hands of more rational men. Aw? I believe we have arrived.”