Saving Thanehaven (3 page)

There’s a low muttering as the gargoyles converse together. Finally, the swamp gargoyle turns back to Rufus and asks, “What kind of thing should he give us?”

“I don’t know. What do you want?”

“Mud,” says the swamp gargoyle.

“A name,” rasps the beaky gargoyle.

“Freedom,” brays a gargoyle with huge, curly horns and pig tusks.

“Right on.” Rufus lifts his clenched fist in a brief salute. “I hear you. And guess what? Lord Harrowmage can give you all those things. But first, I’ve got to talk to him.”

The gargoyles hesitate. At last one of them says, “Why?”

“So
you
can talk to him.” Rufus is obviously hoping that this will satisfy the gargoyles, but they still seem confused. “Okay, look,” he argues patiently. “Does Lord Harrowmage often come out here to chat with you?”

“No.”

“No.”

“He never leaves his fortress,” the swamp gargoyle volunteers.

“Exactly! And if he won’t come out, you’ll have to go in. But you can’t go anywhere while you’re chained up. Which is why I have to speak to Lord Harrowmage myself.” Rufus spreads his hands. “Let me through, and I’ll set you free, okay? It’s that simple.”

Watching the gargoyles from his salt-dusted hollow, Noble wonders if Rufus really wants to see hundreds of gargoyles let loose upon the land. Noble doesn’t trust those gargoyles. They’re dumb beasts with big fangs and razor-sharp claws. Yet Rufus seems to think they won’t run amok.

Unless, of course, he’s lying.

“You want us to grant you passage?” the beaky gargoyle asks Rufus. “So you can tell Lord Harrowmage to unchain us?”

“Yes.” Rufus nods.

“But why would he do that?” inquires another, cannier gargoyle. “If he’s chained us up, why would he want to let us go?”

“Because he won’t need guards anymore. Once I’ve talked to him, the fighting will stop, and everyone can enjoy themselves.” Suddenly, Rufus spins around and beckons to Noble. “My friend and I have come here to discuss peace terms. That’s why there are going to be so many changes. Hey, Noble! Stand up!”

Slowly, reluctantly, Noble rises to his feet. The instant he reveals himself, the gargoyles unfold their wings as if they’re raising their hackles.

“The Slayer!” a gargoyle hisses from somewhere down the line. “The Slayer is our foe!”

“Not anymore, he’s not,” Rufus promises. “He’s sick of fighting. He’s come here to surrender.”

Noble swallows. But he holds his tongue.

“I mean, just look at the poor guy.” Rufus waves a careless hand. “He’s lost his boots. He’s not even armed.”

“He has a knife,” the canny gargoyle points out.

“You’re right. He does.” After a moment’s thought, Rufus offers a solution. “What if I ask him to throw it away? Would that make you trust him?”

Noble is becoming more and more disturbed by this ploy—if it
is
a ploy. He realizes, however, that it’s too late to back out now. He has no boots, no Smite, no plans for a strategic withdrawal. Following Rufus is his only option.

“It’ll be an act of good faith,” Rufus is saying. “Come on, guys. I’m not going in without Noble. And if I don’t go in, you don’t get your freedom. It’s that simple.” As the gargoyles begin to consult one another in a low, thick, disconcerted buzz, he leans toward Noble and whispers, “You won’t need that knife, I guarantee. This is much easier than I expected.”

“You’re really going to unchain them?”

“Of course! Why not?” Sensing Noble’s lack of enthusiasm, Rufus adds quietly, “I’m not making this up, you know. I believe in a better world for everyone. Including the nameless goons doing all the scut work.”

Suddenly, a deep, hoarse voice breaks into their conversation. The curly-horned gargoyle at the head of the line has turned to address Noble.

“If you cast off your knife and swear on the Tombs of the Seven Scryers that you won’t harm anyone or anything within the bounds of this fiefdom, then we will give you wayleave,” the gargoyle solemnly announces.

With a sigh, Noble jerks his knife from its scabbard. He tosses it onto the ground and places his right hand on his breast. “I swear on the Tombs of the Seven Scryers,” he intones, “that I will not harm anyone or anything within the bounds of this fiefdom.”

“Ditto,” says Rufus airily. “I mean—same here.”

“Then you may pass.” When the curly-horned gargoyle dips its head and folds its wings, every other gargoyle follows suit. A ripple of movement travels down the road.

Rufus and Noble exchange glances.

“I’ll go first,” Rufus suggests. “Just in case.”

“All right.”

“Not that I’m worried. This is going to be a cinch.”

Together they set off, hurrying between the ranks of silent gargoyles. Noble keeps checking over his shoulder, making sure that no one’s about to launch an assault from the rear. The gargoyles, however, don’t move a muscle. And there’s no one else in sight.

“I’m glad this road is flat,” says Rufus. “Since I figure we’re in for a long walk.”

“Yes,” Noble agrees. He doesn’t say anything else for a while, because he’s concentrating on the gargoyles.

At last, however, Rufus begins to exhibit signs of boredom. First, he whistles a little tune. Then he squints at the road ahead, shading his eyes with both hands. Then he breaks the oppressive silence with a question.

“So what are you planning to do with your life, now that you actually have one? Will you go back home, or marry the princess, or what?”

Noble blinks.

“You’ll have to start thinking about the future,” Rufus goes on. “You’ve always lived in the present, and that’s no good anymore. The future is where you’re heading. It’s like that fortress up there—even though you can’t see beyond the curtain walls, you have to imagine what’s inside.”

But Noble isn’t ready to tackle the fortress just yet. He’s still struggling with an earlier suggestion.

“I can’t marry the princess,” he splutters. “How can I, when I haven’t conquered the fortress?”

“Oh, please.” Rufus gives a snort of derision. “Whatever happened to dinner and a movie?”

“What?” Noble is utterly at sea. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is, you should consider your options. Do you want to start a family? Or head up the troops? Or keep on drifting?”
Suddenly, Rufus stops in his tracks. “Oh, wow,” he mutters. “That’s gotta be the fortress. Or is it some kind of cliff?”

Noble can’t be certain. Only as they draw closer does it become clear that the pale band stretching across the horizon is a lofty wall. At first, Noble is confused by the glossy, uneven surface of this wall. Soon, however, he realizes that it’s made of gigantic teeth—thousands of them—packed together more tightly than his own. Some of the teeth are molars the size of barns. Some are long, pointed fangs bundled up like firewood. The raised drawbridge is studded with razor-sharp incisors. Way up in the sky, the crenellated battlements look like a string of gap-toothed lower jaws.

“Weird,” says Rufus. “Mind you, they say that teeth are the hardest part of the human body.”

“Yes, but I don’t think those are human teeth,” Noble rejoins drily. His gaze drops from the gleaming wall down to the crimson river that encircles the island on which the fortress is built. This river is much too deep and tumultuous to ford. “We’ll never get a boat across there,” he announces, edging toward the sheer drop above the churning rapids. Rufus stares at him.

“A boat?” Rufus echoes. “Who said anything about a boat?”

Noble frowns. The drawbridge is up, and there’s no one on the opposite bank to catch a rope. So he can’t see any alternative to rowing.

Unless they swim, or fly.

“We can’t ride on gargoyles,” he points out. “Not until we unchain them.”

Rufus grins. “Are you kidding me?” he retorts. “I wouldn’t let you sit on a gargoyle, you’d break its back! You’re
enormous
!”

“Then how are we going to get in?” Standing on snow-white cobbles at the edge of a precipice makes Noble feel very exposed. He doesn’t like it. He wants to move. “Is there a rear entrance?”

“I don’t know.” Rufus turns to the nearest gargoyle. “Is there a rear entrance?”

The gargoyle nods. “Through the Labyrinth of Lost Hope,” it answers.

Rufus laughs. “That would be for door-to-door salesmen,” he says. “I think we should avoid that one.”

“Then what are we going to do?” Noble demands. He can’t understand why Rufus finds their situation so funny. At any moment, someone might open fire on them from the battlements. “We can’t swim. We can’t fly. We’d be mad to launch a boat and mad to enter the labyrinth.”

“Seems simple enough to me,” Rufus interrupts. “We’ll use the drawbridge.” Then he raises his voice to shout across the churning watercourse. “Hey! Hello! Is anyone home?” he bellows. “We’ve come to visit Lord Harrowmage!”

T
here’s no response. Silence reigns.

“I’m here to do a survey!” Rufus yells. “I have some questions to ask the householder! I come in peace!”

Still no one replies. After a brief pause, Noble raises his empty hands and clears his throat. “I am unarmed and unshod!” he booms. “I wish to negotiate a truce in good faith and without bias! Not a soul will suffer
any harm
if I am admitted into the presence of Lord Harrowmage!”

“Nice one,” Rufus says, grinning. At that very instant, a mighty gust of wind slams into them both. It’s come out of nowhere—without warning—pushing them backward as it becomes a minitornado, sucking up a whole column of fluid from the river and sprouting half a dozen watery arms.

Noble retreats a step, because he has no weapon. All he can do is run. But he doesn’t get a chance to do so before the column suddenly collapses.

A huge mass of liquid hits the surface of the river.
Crash!
Bloodred geysers shower the landscape in every direction. Noble is spattered with goo. So are the gargoyles at the end of the road. So are the white cobblestones and the leafless treetops and the giant yellow teeth.

Only Rufus emerges unscathed. His jaw drops as the wind and water slowly subside.

“Jeez!” he squawks. “What was
that
all about?”

“It was a trick,” Noble informs him. “Doubtless, Lord Harrowmage wished to see if I would fight back.”

Rufus blinks. “Oh. Right,” he mutters. After a moment’s reflection, he adds, “Good call. You’re not just a pretty face, are you?”

A sudden clanking sound makes them jump.
Kuh-chang! Kuh-chang! Kuh-chang!
“Watch out!” Noble barks. Two great iron chains are attached to the drawbridge, and as they grow longer, the drawbridge descends, gathering speed. The clanking becomes a whirring noise, then a whizzing noise, then … 
POW!

One chain snaps.

Noble ducks to avoid its broken end, which lashes overhead like a whip. The lip of the drawbridge hits the road with such force that the ground shudders. Chips of cobblestone fly everywhere. A gargoyle yelps. Dust settles.

Rufus observes, “That was probably my fault.”

Noble straightens. He glares at Rufus in disbelief. “How could that possibly have been your fault?”

With a shrug, Rufus tries to explain. “I’d be surprised if that drawbridge has ever been lowered before. I doubt it was even designed to be used.”

Noble shakes his head. “It’s a
drawbridge
, Rufus. Drawbridges go up and down. Otherwise they wouldn’t be drawbridges.”

“Theoretically, yes. But not this one.” Before Noble can open his mouth to protest, Rufus continues. “Think about it. Would you ever have come this way without me? You’d have taken a boat or tried the rear entrance. You wouldn’t have walked up to the front gate.”

Noble can’t understand this. It makes no sense to him. “So what?” he growls impatiently. “The fortress wasn’t put here for my benefit.”

“Yes, it was,” Rufus insists but doesn’t explain further. Instead he indicates the yawning gateway at the end of the drawbridge. “I’ll go first, okay? Seems to me that they’re extending an invitation.”

Noble is so confused that he doesn’t object. He just follows Rufus across the drawbridge, beneath the raised portcullis, and into a vaulted passage that’s dense with shadows. Noble can hardly see. Though Rufus is only a couple of paces in front, his slight figure soon grows indistinct. The daylight falling through the arched portal behind them seems pale
and weak—no match for the black depths up ahead. Not a single torch or lamp is burning to light their way.

Noble doesn’t like the darkness. It unnerves him.
Anything
could jump out of it. He’s surrounded by whispers and rustling.

“Can you hear that?” he asks Rufus.

“Yeah.” Rufus raises his voice. “Who’s there? Hello?”

“Come along … come this way … come …” The words seem to be fluttering around like moths, whisking past Noble’s ear before he can catch them.

Rufus stops dead in his tracks.

“No,” he says. “We’re staying right here until we have a bit of light. Otherwise we’re going to break our necks.” Abruptly, the whispering stops, and silence descends like a candle snuffer. “Why don’t you open a window, or something?”

“Windows … no windows … no windows here …” The air is thick with soft hisses. Then Noble becomes aware of a faint, eerie glow. As he looks around to pinpoint its source, Rufus suddenly cries,
“Eeww!”
and points straight up.

Half a dozen luminous grubs are squirming through cracks in the ceiling. Each grub is about the size of Noble’s arm. They’re shedding a sickly, greenish light that’s barely strong enough to illumine all the insects that cover the walls. Most of these insects are very large and flat, like stink bugs with
legs. They have sickle-shaped pincers, clusters of red eyes, and a death’s-head pattern on their wing casings.

They whisper and rustle as they scurry out of reach.

“Oh, man.” Rufus laughs in an appalled kind of way. “This game is
so sick
!”

Noble sets his jaw. He’s noticed that the grubs overhead are inching along the passage in a kind of loose formation. “I think we’re supposed to follow the light,” he suggests. And the insects back him up.