Saving Thanehaven (2 page)

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s trying to kill me!” Noble makes a sweeping gesture with his free hand. “Are you blind? This place is a death trap! The very earth would swallow me up, if it could!”

“So why are you here, then?” When Noble doesn’t immediately respond, Rufus adds, “Why don’t you just leave?”

“Ah.” Noble has a flash of insight. This must be a tactical maneuver. He’s familiar with such things. “I understand now,” he declares, tightening his grip around Smite’s neck. “You serve Lord Harrowmage. You’re one of his minions. You want to turn me back.”

“Oh, please.” Rufus snorts. “Do I
look
like I belong here?”

It’s a good question. When Noble stops to reflect on the matter, he realizes that Rufus does seem out of place. There’s something about the boy that sets him apart. It’s more than just his peculiar clothes, or his odd manner of speaking. Is it the texture of his skin? The density of his color shadings?

“I’m not a part of this program,” Rufus reveals. “I’m a visitor, just passing through. And I’m here to set you free.”

To Noble, this seems ludicrous. “I’m no captive. The princess is imprisoned, not I.”

“Are you sure?”

“Once I release her, Lord Harrowmage will no longer be able to shield himself. Having no hostage in his clutches, he will fall to the remnants of Thanehaven’s warrior clans when they join forces to defeat him.” With a grim little half smile, Noble concludes gruffly, “Unless, of course, I kill him first.”

“So you’re planning to kill the guy?” Rufus proceeds without waiting for an answer. “Has it occurred to you that
you
might be the baddie in this scenario? Maybe Lord Harrowmage isn’t the problem, here. I bet he’s as scared as you are.”

Noble blinks. Then he scowls. “No,” he says. “You’re wrong.”

“Maybe. Have you ever talked to him?”

“
Talked
to him?”

“It’s worth a try. We can go and knock on his door right now. You can promise not to kill him if he promises not to kill you.”

But Noble is shaking his head. “You’re mad,” he announces.

“No I’m not. I’m a lateral thinker.”

“Talk to Lord Harrowmage? I must
get
to Lord Harrowmage first.” Noble points at the horizon. “Beyond Morwood lies the Blood River, and beyond that lies the greatest fortress in the world, with walls so high and thick that no one has ever penetrated them.”

“Yeah, but there’s a road through the woods,” Rufus interrupts. “And a drawbridge across the river.”

“Both of which are well guarded!” Noble can’t believe his ears. “Do you think I’m a fool? If the road was safe, I’d be taking the road!” Suddenly, Smite buries her needle-sharp fangs in his wrist. “Ah!” he groans, conscious that she needs to be fed again.

And Rufus is the closest available meal.

“See—this is exactly what I mean,” Rufus says impatiently, nodding at Smite. “Aren’t you sick of being bossed around? You can throw that thing away, you know.”

Despite his discomfort, which makes it hard to concentrate, Noble doesn’t succumb to such a pitiful trick. “You’re trying to disarm me,” he snarls, shifting Smite from one hand to the other.

Rufus waves this accusation aside. “Actually, I’m
trying to empower you,” he explains. “Because guess what? Smite isn’t yours. She’s taking her orders from somebody else.” Before Noble can pour scorn on this idea, Rufus continues. “She fouls things up for a reason, you know. It’s not because she’s stupid. It’s because some idiot you’ve never met is telling her what to do.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s not. It’s the way the game works. You’re not a player here, you’re just a puppet. And you don’t have to be.” Rufus lets his gaze drift down to the writhing weapon in Noble’s hand. “Tell the truth, now. Wouldn’t
you
like to call the shots, for once?”

Noble hesitates. It occurs to him that Smite is very much a mixed blessing. Every second choice she makes is bad. Whenever he wants to stop and think, she drives him forward.

Right now, she’s trying to drink his blood—and he’s not enjoying it.

“You’ve got two options,” Rufus argues. “Either you keep fighting until the dingbat in charge gets you killed, or you negotiate a truce with Lord Harrowmage and decide what you want to do with the rest of your life. Because then you’ll actually
have
a life.” Rufus flashes a sudden, irrepressible grin. “Bit of a no-brainer, really.”

Something clicks inside Noble’s head. It’s an odd feeling, as if a door has swung open. The whole world seems to shift sideways.

He’s barely conscious of Smite’s gnawing teeth.

“Smite speaks to no one,” he finally says. “How can she be serving two masters?”

Rufus shrugs. “She’s not. She’s serving one master. And it isn’t you.”

Noble can almost believe this. For some deep, unexplored reason, it makes sense to him. “But how?” he asks. “Is it magic? Has someone cast a binding spell?”

“Ummm … yeah. Sort of.”

“Another mage, perhaps.” Noble considers the possibility, which has never before crossed his mind. Suppose he’s nothing but a minion? Suppose he’s being tracked in the depths of some enchanter’s crystal ball?

Suppose his quest isn’t really his own?

Suddenly, Smite chomps down hard, derailing this train of thought. “Ouch!” Noble yelps.

“Listen.” Rufus’s tone becomes more urgent. “We can’t just stand around yakking, or that thing will chew your arm off. What if I get you inside the fortress? Will you believe me then?”

Noble’s jaw drops.

“I bet I can do it. Infiltration is my speciality,” Rufus assures him. “We’ll head for that road over there and see what happens. If things don’t work out, I’ll be your advance guard. Which means I’ll cop the worst of it while you’re on your way back to wherever.”

Noble ponders this strategy. He’s sorely tempted.

“Come on,” Rufus wheedles. “You’re meant to be
a hero, aren’t you? Heroes take risks.” When Noble doesn’t answer, Rufus tries another tack. “Not that it’s much of a risk. Your chances are better with me than they are with your friend the carnivorous sidearm. Especially in a marsh full of mouths.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I mean, I’d like to know who dreamed this one up. A marsh full of mouths? It’s
seriously
sick.”

“Why are you doing this?” Noble demands. “Why did you come here?”

Rufus shrugs again. “Let’s just say I’m a freedom lover,” he replies. “Power to the people, and all that stuff. You’re living in a repressive system.”

“And you don’t like that?”

“Do
you
?”

Noble thinks about it. He realizes that he’s never followed his own inclinations. He’s rarely
had
an inclination, until now. Sometimes he’s wanted a halberd—and has ended up with a mace instead. Sometimes he would have preferred to avoid a dark doorway or a suspicious-looking shadow, but Smite’s raging appetite has always impelled him forward.

“No,” he confesses at last, “I don’t like it much.”

“Then let’s make peace, not war!” Rufus cries cheerfully. “It’ll be heaps of fun! The only thing is, you’ll have to get rid of your friend.” He cocks his thumb at Smite. “This won’t work if you bring her along. And you’ve still got your knife, remember—which you probably won’t need.”

Noble looks down at his weapon. She’s covered in blood, and white-hot with rage. Her teeth are embedded in his wrist. She’s glaring at him with her beady little eyes as she squirms and coils and lashes about like a serpent.

“I’d like you to stop this,” he tells her.

But she refuses to stop. So he yanks her free and throws her away.

T
he road to the fortress is wide, flat, and dead straight. It’s also in excellent shape, with no weeds or potholes. The cobblestones are so white that Noble wonders if they’ve ever been touched. On each side of the road, bronze gargoyles are perched atop a series of black stone plinths. The plinths are separated by a thick hedge of thornbushes.

Noble doesn’t like the look of this hedge. It’s clearly been planted to disembowel anyone who tries to push through it. The dazzling white cobblestones also worry him, because they offer no more protection than a salt pan or an ice floe. As for the gargoyles, they seem to be chained to their plinths. And why would Lord Harrowmage do something like that unless they posed some sort of risk?

“It
could
be a security measure, to stop them from being stolen,” Rufus says quietly, surveying the creatures from a safe distance. “But if you ask me, it’s because they’re not statues at all.”

Noble grunts. He has a nasty suspicion that Rufus is right. The chains are long enough to allow some freedom of movement—enough, at least, to launch an attack. Noble can see exactly what will happen if he tries to pass between the first pair of gargoyles. One of them will pounce on him, distracting his attention from its partner across the road. Gargoyle number two will then launch itself at his back, propelling him toward the next pair of gargoyles, which will jump off
their
plinths to maul him.…

Without a sword or mace, defeating those gargoyles is going to be very, very difficult. Noble finds himself missing Smite. He’s been feeling so odd since he threw her away. It’s as if he’s lost a limb.

“Don’t worry,” Rufus whispers. “I can deal with these guys, even if they
are
alive.”

He and Noble are crouched in a shallow ditch, peering through a screen of thorns. The road begins where the dry sea ends, so there’s a lot of windblown salt scattered around. Perhaps that’s why all the nearby undergrowth looks so sparse and sickly. Even the ground is more gray than purple, as if the salt is slowly killing it.

Could the giant mouths be staying shut because
they don’t like salt? Or is Noble still alive because he’s taken off his boots?

According to Rufus, Morwood has been cleverly designed to kill Noble. But there could be a flaw in what Rufus describes as the software. It’s possible that the giant mouths haven’t been programmed to recognize Noble with bare feet. “In other words,” Rufus says as they set off, “you may not trigger the usual subroutines if there’s something different about you.” It seems to have been good advice, because no holes have appeared since Noble threw his boots away.

Rufus is still wearing shoes, though. “
I’m
not the target, so I don’t have to worry about being gobbled up,” he tells Noble. “I don’t even belong here.” It’s an argument that he uses again as he prepares to approach the gargoyles. “Chill out,” he says. “I’ll be fine. They won’t know what to do with me. I’m not a part of their program paradigm.”

“Maybe I should come with you.”

“Nah. Not yet. Just wait,” says Rufus. Then he stands up and lopes toward the nearest gargoyle, raising his voice to address it in a friendly, cheerful tone. “Hey! How’s it going?” he cries. “My name’s Rufus, and I’m here to set you free!”

The gargoyles are all sitting like dogs, with their back legs neatly folded. Even from his sheltered vantage point, Noble can see a variety of tails and crests and ears and snouts. Some of the gargoyles resemble toads, with their wide mouths, bulging eyes, and warty
skin. Some have goatish horns and beards. Some are squat and thickly muscled; while others are so skinny that their scales cling like wet fabric to every rib and joint. Yet despite these differences, each gargoyle is exactly the same size and color. Each has four legs, two wings, one head, sharp claws, and many teeth.

They also have yellow eyes. Noble sees this when dozens and dozens of eyelids flick open at the sound of Rufus’s greeting. Although there are no other movements, it’s as if the gargoyles have snapped to attention.

“You sure look uncomfortable,” Rufus continues, gazing down the avenue of gargoyles. “How would you like to get rid of those chains and collars? You must be so sick of them. I bet you’d all be having a
much
better time if you could fly around and do whatever you want.”

Noble gasps. He can’t believe what he just heard. Is Rufus seriously offering to
release the gargoyles?

Even the gargoyles seem surprised. Every scaly head within earshot swings toward Rufus.

“If I had a pair of bolt cutters, I’d snip through your chains right now,” Rufus adds. “The trouble is, I don’t have bolt cutters and I’m not very strong. So I was thinking I might ask Lord Harrowmage to release you. He’s probably got a key tucked away somewhere.”

The nearest gargoyle opens its mouth and croaks, “Why do you want to set us free?”

Rufus shrugs. “I won’t if you’d rather stay chained
up,” he says. “But I figure it must be hard having wings when you can’t even use them.”

A kind of rustle disturbs the ranks of chained gargoyles. Noble senses that a message is quietly passing from plinth to plinth. Then another gargoyle speaks up.

“Lord Harrowmage will never let us go,” it declares in a creaky voice. “We’re here to guard his fortress.”

“Yeah, okay—but do you
want
to guard his fortress? Are you
happy
sitting here like this, day after day, staring at one another?” When there’s no reply, Rufus answers his own question. “Of course not. You wouldn’t be chained up if you were happy. You’d be off chasing pigeons around a castle roof, or something.”

Some of the gargoyles sigh. One gurgles, “Not me. I’m a swamp gargoyle. I like mud, not roofs.”

“Oh, yeah? I didn’t know there were different gargoyle habitats.” Rufus sounds genuinely interested. “So what’s your name, then?”

“My name?” says the swamp gargoyle.

“Yeah. You’ve got a name, haven’t you? Mine’s Rufus.”

The swamp gargoyle looks mystified.

“Come on,” Rufus presses. “You
must
have a name. What do your friends call you?” He glances around at the other gargoyles. “What do you guys call him?”

“Nothing,” answers a gargoyle with a beaky snout. “We call him nothing.”

“Well, he’s not nothing. And neither are you.”
Rufus puts his hands on his hips. “See, this is what I’m talking about. Everyone deserves to have a name. Everyone’s entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If Lord Harrowmage wants you to guard his fortress, he should at least give you something in return. It’s only fair.”