Of Shadows and Dragons (5 page)

The gate did not open after the first knock, nor the seventh. After the iron ring had struck the wood perhaps a score of times, each causing a loud, booming report that rang out in the night, the lock finally rattled. Someone worked at the mechanism. They heard scraping sounds.

Gruum swallowed hard, wondering who was about to greet them. He swayed in his saddle from fatigue and noted something had changed about the world. He blinked and wondered what was different. Slowly, his fogged mind realized two things, almost at once. One, the snow had stopped. Two, the snow wisp had vanished.

“Milord,” he said aloud, calling to his master.

Therian never looked at him. He gestured for Gruum to be silent. The King lifted his lantern and adjusted the grille so that it cast a pool of yellow light downward.

The door swung open. The space within was as black as a root cellar. A shadowy figure stood there.

“Who might you be?” asked a gruff voice.

Gruum was relieved to hear the human tones in the voice. He had suspected—but no, it was best not to mull over such thoughts.

“I am Therian of Hyborea. Introduce me to your lord.”

The other was quiet for a moment. Then the gate began to swing shut again, the bottom edge of it plowing through blown snow.

“And I’m the chamberlain here. Come back in the morning for a proper introduction, sir,” said the man.

Therian’s hand shot forward, instantly halting the gate’s progress.

The chamberlain struggled to push it shut anyway, but it would not be budged.

“I have an invitation,” Therian said quietly.

The chamberlain stopped struggling with the gate. He leaned out with a lantern held high. He eyed the two men, the unconscious girl and their half-dead ponies. He huffed, clearly not impressed.

“Very well,” he said. “You may enter. But be forewarned, my lord does not deal lightly with beggars nor highwaymen.”

“Neither does mine,” said Gruum, becoming angry.

The chamberlain showed them into the courtyard and led their horses away.

“What’s wrong with the girl?” asked a voice from behind them.

Gruum whirled around to find a familiar figure standing behind him. It was Duke Strad himself, standing resplendent in his blood red cloak.

“She’s been attacked, milord,” Gruum said. “Her throat is a ruin, but she lives yet.”

The Duke nodded. “Good of you to bring her—although I did not expect you to take up my invitation so soon, Lord Therian.”

Therian bowed.

“You’ll have to surrender your weapons, of course,” said the chamberlain, stumping up to the group standing in the courtyard. He’d handed the horses to the stable boy and returned as quickly as he could.

Therian stiffened. “My blades are ancestral,” he said. “I would rather not surrender them.”

The Duke nodded. “That is acceptable. But you must swear not to harm my guests or retainers.”

“Of course,” Therian said, inclining his head. “If you will be so kind as to swear the same.”

The Duke stared at him for a long, cold second. Then a smile flickered. “What is the harm in it? For so long as you are my guests here—I so swear.”

“I so swear,” echoed Therian.

Everyone relaxed then, as matters of weapons and honor had been sorted out. They were ushered into the lodge proper. Gruum thought the place was no palace, but it was much better than a leather tent on a snow bank. There were candles and the stone floors were strewn with fine rugs, and the windows—although mere slits in the thick walls—were at least covered with hanging tapestries to keep out the worst drafts.

Best of all, to Gruum’s frozen eyes, was the large open hearth against the Hall’s back wall. The open hearth was designed in the tradition of such places in cold climates. Being about ten paces long and two paces deep, entire logs were burned to coals there, requiring many hours to turn tree trunks into ashes. The fuel had burned low, as it was late in the evening. What must be a single roaring fire at dinner had been reduced to a line of smaller fires that burned with flickering orange light.

“I will have the huntress cared for,” the Duke said. “I have the finest physician in these mountains. None know more of the arts of flesh, blood and bone.”

“Summon him then,” Therian said.

The Duke flicked his fingers toward the chamberlain, who paled, then hurried off to do his lord’s bidding. Gruum frowned after the man, wondering at his attitude. Why should he fear to awaken a doctor?

“Perhaps you should place her there on the divan, Gruum,” suggested the Duke.

“How is it Strad, that you know our names and the occupation of this girl?” asked Gruum. “I don’t recall—”

The Duke cleared his throat. Therian gave Gruum a severe stare.

“I’m sorry, milord,” said Gruum, bowing his head.

“I had not expected you to take me up on my invitation so soon, Lord Therian.”

“I found I’d grown tired of Kem. And I find the mountain air refreshing.”

“Of course,” the Duke said, pouring them each a goblet of red wine.

While they spoke, another figure entered the room. He was cowled and robed in heavy red cloth. He glided over to the girl on the divan.

The Duke took notice of the physician’s arrival and turned to greet him. “That’s her, Vosh. See what you can do for her.”

Gruum choked on his wine. Red liquid ran from each corner of his mouth and into the melting snow in his beard. He took one step toward the divan and the figure that hunched over the girl. He took a second, and his hand fell to the pommel of his blade.

“It’s true, sire!” he shouted aloud. “I see the network of bones! He lays his cold touch upon the girl!”

Gruum drew his saber—or at least he tried to. A black-gloved hand gripped his wrist and held it, keeping the blade in its sheathe.

Gruum whirled. Therian’s face was inches from his. It was his own King’s hand that kept him from drawing his sword.

“But, milord—” Gruum sputtered.

“Remember my words, Gruum,” Therian said. “We have foresworn any such rudeness.”

“Does your word mean more to you than this poor girl’s soul?” Gruum demanded.

“I have sworn.”

“And if I draw?”

“Then I shall be forced to remove your head, for you will have dishonored me.”

Gruum shoved his saber back into its sheathe. The blade rang with the force of the motion.

From the divan, Vosh looked up at the two of them. Bare teeth showed, because there were no lips to cover them. To Gruum, it appeared as if Vosh’s skull permanently grinned.

“She may live yet,” Vosh said. “You managed to get her up the mountain just in time. She has lost much blood… a pity, really. I can feel the nearness of sweet death in her. I can tell from touching her hot flesh, that her soul would have a fine, light taste. A taste like that of spring water in summer.”

Gruum could not restrain himself. He turned on the Duke. “How is it a mortal man such as yourself has retained the services of such a creature? This is no physician. This is a monster, a thing that should not speak, nor stir from its grave.”

“Vosh is not my retainer. I would not conceive of such an arrangement with so great a being. He is a guest here—as are you, mouthy commoner.”

Therian took a deep breath, as if faced with an unpleasant task. He struck Gruum a sudden blow to the cheek, using the back of one hand. Such was the force of the strike that Gruum was spun around and nearly dashed to the ground.

“I apologize, Duke Strad,” Gruum heard Therian say over the ringing in his ear. “He is a good man, but addled by the storm. He’s lost sight of his place in this world.”

“I accept your apology,” said the Duke formally.

“I must admit, however,” Therian said with carefully chosen words. “That I am surprised by your choice of houseguests.”

“Indeed,” the Duke said, smiling with half his mouth. “A Hyborean Lord, a Lich, a barbarian from the steppes and a wayward girl. This shall no doubt be an entertaining lodging.”

They were ushered to a room and brought hot stew and hot brandy. Gruum sipped and sniffed the food distrustfully.

“My good man,” said Therian in amusement, watching him. “They would not bother to poison us, should their intent be to break their word.”

“Something is not right here, milord,” Gruum responded. Reluctantly, he dipped a crust of bread in the stew and chewed. The flavor was good, but he could not enjoy it.

“Something is not right?” asked Therian. “I rather would say that
nothing
is right here. This is a cursed placed full of cursed beings. And I do not hesitate to include ourselves in that description.”

“I’ll not be able to sleep here,” said Gruum sitting on a cold, musty bed. The sheets so cold as to be half-frozen, but he had to admit the goose feather mattress was softer even than the snow outside.

“As you will,” Therian said. He folded his cloak over a trunk and addressed his own featherbed.

“What do you think they are doing with that poor girl, milord?”

“Hopefully, they are allowing her to get some sleep before dawn grays the windows.”

Gruum finished his food, then fretted and stretched on the bed. The sleep of exhaustion crept upon him and snatched away his mind. He could not resist the velvet blackness of slumber.

Sometime later, in the stillest hour of the night, his eyes snapped open. Had something entered the room with them? He sat up.

There, in the corner of the room, a pool of deep shadow lay. This was strange only because there was no bright light. The windows had grayed with the dawn, but there was no sunlight. Nothing, at least, that could be responsible for casting a shadow of such black depth.

 “Milord?” whispered Gruum. He watched the shadow. Did it twitch? No, it could not have. His eyes ran to the ceiling, expecting to see an assassin hanging there, but there was none. There was nothing in the room that could have cast that shadow. No source of harsh light, nor an object to block it.

As Gruum watched, the shadow did move. There could be no doubt of it. The darkness left the corner. It crept to the foot of Therian’s bed, where it halted and lay in an ovoid puddle like thick, spilled ink.

 “Milord?” Gruum called, his voice louder.

“What is it, man?”

“There is
something
… something that lies at the foot of your bed.”

“Yes,” said Therian, sighing. “Take care not to step in it. Do not turn the beam of a light directly upon it, either.”

Gruum thought these statements over for a moment before speaking further. While he watched, the shadow crept beneath the thick, round posts of Therian’s bed. Gruum was reminded of a cat, withdrawing from unwanted scrutiny.

“What is it, sire?”

“Do you not recognize it?”

Gruum blinked, and watched as the last of it moved under Therian’s bed and vanished completely. He could feel the presence of it, as if it watched him.

“It is the substance we left upon the roadway, is it not?” Gruum asked.

“Yes. It is Humusi’s bile.”

“Perhaps we should put it back in the pouch from which it came.”

“Be my guest.”

Gruum thought about it, and soon came up with a plan. He made no attempt to capture the gelatinous shadow nor to speak with it. Instead, he took the pouch, opened it, and tossed it upon the floor near Therian’s bed. He hoped if it had returned to them looking for solace, it would find further comfort in the depths of the pouch. Never once did he set a foot upon the cold flagstones.

“Will it slay us as we sleep?” Gruum asked.

“I think not. I think it was lost when we left, and it has followed us here. We are all that it knows.”

Gruum shuddered in his bed. He lay there, desperately tired, but could not sleep for another moment.

Later, when dawn was full-fledged, the breakfast bell rang in the Duke’s Great Hall. When Gruum arose, he checked every inch of the floor before setting a foot upon it. He inspected the interior of his boots with the intensity of a Kem taxmaster before daring to slide his toes inside. There was no sign of the shadowy puddle, but the pouch he had cast upon the floor did seem to bulge somewhat. Gruum avoided it carefully.

Therian was escorted to the head table, where he sat beside the Duke’s tall, empty chair. The Duke himself was absent. Gruum sat at the lower table, with the servants and guardsmen. Gruum watched carefully to see if Vosh would show himself, but he did not.

The food was excellent. There were fresh eggs, whipped and cooked in a mass within an iron kettle. The eggs were topped with glistening melted cream. Hot loaves of bread were served to everyone, which they used to scoop out the eggs and cream. Snow was melted over the fire in another kettle. Leaves were crumbled into the boiling water and strained out. The amber liquid that resulted was ladled out for drinking into dozens of stone mugs. Gruum sipped his and found the concoction flavorful. It filled him with warmth.

Gruum ate his fill and watched everyone. They in turn seemed to be watching him. There was little conversation and voices were muted when people did speak. The greatest surprise of the morning occurred when a new figure stepped out of the shadowy halls from the northern wing of the lodge. Light of step, but obviously weary, this new diner came late to breakfast and sat at the lower table across from Gruum. None there scolded her for her tardiness.

Gruum dipped his head and craned his neck, trying to get a look at the face beneath the drawn hood.

Finally, she turned to him. “What is it, sir?”

“I—” began Gruum, but stopped. He recognized her face, but in his shock he knew not what to say. “It’s nothing, Miss.”

How was he to speak to her? How was he to tell her that only one night before, she was as good as dead, and he had borne her at risk of his own life to this place? What had Vosh done to revive her, to bring her to this table as if she had not been at death’s gate hours earlier? He was haunted by the idea that he might have damned her soul in his attempts to save her, rather than allowing her a clean escape into death. Maybe, he thought, he had damned them all.