The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (26 page)

Before she was halfway down the precipice, Emerald realized that her madcap rescue effort was unwise, but carrying on already seemed easier than turning back. The sword had taken on a fiendish, spiteful life of its own. It stuck out in front and behind, tangled in the undergrowth, and not infrequently managed to find its way between her knees. Now she understood why Wart had discarded it before going after the body in the river, and why the seniors at Ironhall were allowed a year’s practice in wearing the accursed things.

By the time she was three-quarters of the way down, the light had failed completely and she was calling herself every kind of raving lunatic. She slithered and slipped and stumbled, no longer sure she was even on the trail and very much aware of the roaring waterfall below her. What could she really hope to accomplish by setting herself up as a knight errant? The chances that she might manage to return Wart’s sword to him in a situation where he could use it were closer to invisible than the feathers on an egg. And reading out his commission to impress a gang of murderers did not seem a very promising program either.

She could not believe that Wart had been so clumsy as to fall in the river, but there was no sign of him on the path. Bruised, exhausted, and filthy, she came at last to the wide valley beyond the canyon, and the river of stars overhead spread out as a sea. There she could at least walk upright instead of scrambling along on all fours. Soaked by spray and too cold to stop, she had no other purpose than to continue her trek in search of Smealey Hall. She soon lost the trail, but if she stayed close to the riverbank—and not close enough to fall in—she must inevitably come to the little hill she had seen earlier. She set off through the rocks and weeds, waving the rapier in front of her like a blind person’s cane.

An isolated dwelling on the edge of Brakwood would certainly have dogs, but the wind was toward her, so her scent ought to escape their notice for a while yet. She struggled through thistles and brambles, with every new step a chance to sprain an ankle. Eventually a toothy black shape rose ahead of her, cutting off the stars to become the roofline of the buildings she sought. Soon she could even see pale gleams of candlelight in windows and a puzzling flicker of firelight at ground level.

Bats squeaked and wheeled overhead. She heard a horse whinny. She stopped. Horses reminded her of dogs. One bark and she would be lost—or found, rather—with nowhere to run, men coming to see what the trouble was…. She could not imagine herself fighting off a pack of mastiffs with a rapier, although she would probably try if the need arose.

The fire was certainly a bonfire. Why would anyone waste valuable fuel outdoors at night? The smoke was drifting toward her, so the dogs should not scent her yet. Unable to think of anything better to do, she decided to risk going halfway up the slope in the hope that she might find out something—
anything
—useful.

Five or six steps later, she scented magic. Very faint. Very subtle, too. A peppery smell, was it? Or a gentle humming? Hard to say. She had been shown something like it in Oakendown, as an example of…of…of what?

She stepped a little closer. To her right? Closer yet? Ah! It was a warding. Not identical to the classroom example but very similar. There was a hint of death in it, too weak for it to be a physical threat. Most of it was air and fire, the elements of motion. If she went too close, it would set off an alarm somewhere. Any moving body would trigger it, including a dog’s, so there would be no dogs here. It would be a very local spell, probably imprinted on a rock or a post, but there would be others, forming an enchanted fence all around the complex. Only a White Sister would even know the barrier was there.

Only a White Sister could hope to find a way past it!

To her right was the river. She set off to her left around the hill, staying at the very limit of her ability to sense the conjuration. As she expected, her path curved in toward the buildings until she sensed another source ahead of her. She proceeded in a series of arcs, skirting each ward in turn. That there would be a gap somewhere she did not doubt. The conjurations would weaken with time and have to be replaced often. In a sorcery school like this, that would certainly be a task for the novices. They would enchant the posts, or stones, or whatever it was they used, inside their octogram, then bring them out to repair the barrier. But the only way they could test their work would be to set off the alarms deliberately. Almost certainly they would have missed a spot or two.

They had. A stone wall could not stop magic altogether, but it would weaken an air spell, and she found a stub of an old stone wall. It had perhaps been an ancient fortification, because there was a ditch alongside it. In that, down at ground level, the warding was negligible. Slithering on her belly, Sister Emerald made a secret but extremely undignified entry into the compound of Smealey Hole.

A dozen or more buildings were grouped about a central yard. She had come a long way from the bonfire she had been tracking, so she skulked back around the dark perimeter toward it. The high building with lighted windows must be the main house, probably where the adepts lived. Her ears soon tracked voices to a couple of long sheds with many illuminated windows—she decided those were bunkhouses for servants or novices. Her nose identified the stable, brewhouse, chicken coop, bakery. But she also detected a nasty stench of magic as she went by a large, high building, which must therefore be the elementary.

She paused at the corner of a hay shed to inspect the bonfire that had guided her in. The three men sitting around it were serving no purpose she could think of unless they were guards, and the thing they were guarding was a low slate roof. The building itself must be mostly underground, either an ice house or a root cellar. The realization that Wart was still alive gave her a great rush of relief that made all the pain and fear and effort of the last few hours seem worthwhile.

Now, how could she get him out?

Behind the shed was a high tangle of weeds. Dropping to hands and knees again, she began to crawl. Unfortunately, the brush included a fair share of thorns, thistles, and sharp stones. Fortunately, the stinging nettles were past their stinging stage. Every few minutes she raised her head to look around, but the men were engrossed in a dice game, unaware of the curious local wind disturbing the vegetation. She had almost reached the building when she heard new voices, two men approaching from the main house. They were heading for the fire, though, and did not seem to have noticed her at all. If the prisoner was about to be moved elsewhere, she had arrived too late, but perhaps she could manage to throw him his sword while he was out in the open. She had seen Wart in action and knew how deadly he was.

Voices, mocking and resentful…a snarly order…then a clattering of bolts and bars. Emerald slithered faster, confident that the newcomers were making too much noise themselves to hear the rustles and crackles of her progress. Puffing, she reached the back of the roof just as the door was slammed shut again.

Through a small grille set in the stonework, she heard Wart’s voice, and then Badger’s.

Since Owen’s departure, Stalwart had been curled up on a sack of goose feathers—which was unfortunately the only one of its kind in the root cellar. He had built himself a cave out of apple barrels and boxes of sun-dried plums. In this lair he huddled around the lantern, hungry for any trace of warmth. The blankets he had been promised had not appeared. When he tried shouting through the door, the guards outside either did not hear or would not heed. If he put an ear to the jamb he could hear them out there, cursing over their dice, so he knew they had not gone away.

His stocktaking of his cell had not taken long. Although the building was old, it was solidly built of fieldstone and massive timbers, and he found no weaknesses he could use. The absence of mouse droppings proved that the roof was sound and the door was snug in its frame. There was no window, the only ventilation came through a shaft in the masonry of the rear wall, and that was barely wide enough to admit his arm. He reached in past his elbow before his fingers found a mesh of metal wire covering it on the outside. If he lit a fire to keep warm, he would suffocate.

He brooded on failure, which had an unfamiliar taste. Quagmarsh had been such a triumph! Now he had hatched a total calamity, and all because he had put too much trust in an old friend and not enough in a new one. Badger’s horrified reaction to the first mention of Smealey Hole should have been a giveaway. So should his denial of his previous story that he had found a secret passage there. So should his announcement in Waterby Castle, shouted for the Fellowship’s spies to hear. He had claimed to be unfamiliar with the area and then identified landmarks. Unwilling to believe an Ironhall brother would betray him, Stalwart had ignored Emerald’s warnings.

Idiot! Sucker! As punishment for his stupidity, the youngest-ever Blade was going to have the shortest-ever career with the Guard. Alas,
Sleight
would never hang in the sky of swords at Ironhall, and the name of her owner would not be inscribed in the
Litany of Heroes
. He would vanish unheralded down the Hole, after whatever horrors the sorcerers had in store for him. Perhaps, as a last request, he would ask the traitors to explain how Lord Digby had managed to die twice.

The usual clattering of bolts and locks warned him of visitors. By the time they entered, the lantern was back on its chain and the prisoner was seated on the chair with his arms folded and ankles crossed, desperately trying not to shiver, although he was sure his lips must be blue. The first man in was Badger, wearing a sorcerer’s black gown. On his heels came the big, hideous-faced sergeant, carrying a bundle. “Brought you some dry clothes,” he said.

The door was being closed and barred again as usual. Neither man was armed; the soldier’s scabbard dangled empty at his side. Prior Owen took precautions to lunatic extremes.

Stalwart had never wanted anything as he wanted those dry clothes. Perversely, therefore, he made no move when the Sergeant dropped the heap at his feet.

“What’s the price?”

“No price,” the ugly man growled. “You got splat-all to pay with.”

Taking his time, Stalwart began unlacing his doublet. “It took you long enough.”

“Been busy.”

“Sergeant Eilir has been working on your behalf,” Badger said.

Stalwart stopped for a moment to stare at him. “I used to have a friend who looked just like you.”

“You still do. I can’t save your life, but I’ve arranged so you’ll die quickly.”

Wart peeled off his doublet. His fingers were almost too numb to manage shirt buttons. “You have curious ideas of friendship.”

“I’ve been arguing for the last hour with a dozen sorcerers and a score of men-at-arms. It was only when Eilir backed me that Owen and his cronies yielded. They wanted to kill you by inches. Now he’s agreed that he’ll just cut your head off.”

“Why?” Stalwart took up the clothes provided and discovered a hooded gown of black wool and a brown fur cloak, nothing else. He pulled on the gown. “It’s murder. And treason. You can’t expect to get away with this. What have I done?”

Badger sighed. He did look miserable, give him that. “You won that star from the King, that’s what. The Fellowship has a spell that needs a link between the victim and someone else, and that link must be a gift. The star in your case—”

“And Digby gave Rhys a hunting horn?”

“Exactly. Did you get a good look at the body in the river?”

“It was—It
seemed
to be Digby.”

Badger glanced at Eilir, who shrugged as if to say that revealing secrets to a man in Stalwart’s position really could not matter.

“It wasn’t him,” the Sergeant growled. “It was the forester. The sorcery turns one man into a
simulacrum
of the other. By itself, the change is harmless and doesn’t last long. The adepts practiced on one another and some of the novices, and they all changed back in a few days. But while the spell holds, whatever happens to the simulacrum happens to the original, or the other way round. Stick a pin in one and both will yell. Nobody knew if the effect went as far as causing death, so when they’d made the Digby simulacrum, Owen put a sword through his heart. He sent a man off to Grandon to find out what had happened, to see if the sorcery reached that far.”

Stalwart stared in disbelief as he tried to comprehend this insanity. Trouble was, he
did
believe it. It was the implications….

“Are you saying they’re going to make me into a copy of King Ambrose? Me and what ox? He’s three times my size.”

This time it was Badger who shrugged. “They say that size doesn’t matter. I brought you the biggest robe I could find. And they’re certain it doesn’t hurt.”

“Except when that mad brother of yours cuts off my head! I bet that stings.” He dropped his britches and hose and wrapped himself up in the cloak, shivering more than ever.

“Yes!” Badger snapped. “We’re going to cut Ambrose’s head off just the way he cut off Ceri’s and Aneirin’s. You’ll die by a sword, the way they did, and Kendrick and Edryd and Lloyd did! Owen and I are the only ones left, and we will have our revenge.”

“The King’s head will fall off while he’s at breakfast?”

“Perhaps. He’ll certainly die.”

So would Stalwart. There were worse ways to die than having your head cut off. There were a lot more good ways to keep on living instead. “As I recall, Aneirin was executed for strangling your dad. I’m not saying your father didn’t deserve it. I’m sure he did. But why wasn’t Aneirin hanged like any other common killer?”

Eilir answered. “He asked to die beside his brother, and the King graciously granted his request.”

Badger was scowling. “Listen, Wart. I’m sorry this has to happen, truly. I swore an oath…” He shot an uneasy glance at the Sergeant. “I was the baby, much younger than even Owen. I was only a child when Nythia rose against the tyrant. I worshiped my brothers—Ceri was the oldest, and the leader by right of perfection. There was nothing Ceri could not do, nothing he did not excel in. Everyone worshiped Ceri, so you can imagine how he seemed to me. And the rest were little behind him. Kendrick was a swordsman; Lloyd already a sorcerer of note, although only an amateur; Edryd an artist…But that doesn’t do them justice. They were strong and skilled in a thousand ways and beautiful as the stars. They taught me everything…. Ceri rallied all Nythia and kindled the torch of freedom. Monster Ambrose brought in his army to stamp it out.

“By winter, half of my wonderful brothers were dead. Owen was at home, being passed off as just a boy, although he was fifteen and had seen some fighting near the end. Ceri and Aneirin were outlawed, hiding out in Brakwood. I was seven, old enough to help smuggle food to them. The wolves closed in. Sheriff Florian was sure that the fugitives were in the area; and he came here, to Smealey Hole, violating guarantees the King had given the Baron. He took Owen and me away, and Anwen, our mother. He swore to the Baron that none of us would eat or drink until Ceri was turned over to him. Ceri surrendered, of course. He would have died for any one of us, let alone three.” Badger fell silent.

No boy in Ironhall discussed his own past openly. Some of them had very lurid pasts and the others wanted everyone to think they did, too. So hints were allowed, but open bragging was cause for disbelief and retaliation. That way, everyone could pass as a murderer until proved guilty of innocence. Stalwart had never heard this terrible story; he did not want to hear it now. It was full of deceit and distortion, possibly direct lies, but it was also grievous and he did not want to feel sympathy for traitors.

“You’re saying Aneirin was a little hasty when he strangled Daddy?”

“Aneirin was fine until the siege of Kirkwain. What he saw there unhinged him. He seemed to be recovered, but he had a brainstorm when he heard about Ceri. Owen wasn’t there. Mother and I weren’t strong enough to stop him.”

“You
saw
it?” Stalwart squealed. “You were there?”

Badger chuckled, sounding not quite sane himself. “Oh, we had exciting times in our family! When Aneirin realized what he’d done, he went to Waterby and asked to die in Ceri’s stead. The King allowed them to die together. Kind of him, wasn’t it? Understanding, you must agree?”

There was no answer to that.

“Tell him what happened next,” Eilir said.

“After Father’s death?” Badger was pale and his voice almost shrill, as the telling dug up memories he had buried long ago. “Ceri was the new baron. He had never sworn loyalty to the House of Ranulf, but he was found guilty of treason—the trial took all of half an hour. His life, title, and estates were forfeit. The very afternoon the news reached Waterby, the Sheriff came with his men and drove us out of the house in the clothes we had on our backs. Literally! Not even a cloak or hat. Yes, it was snowing.” He stared defiantly at Stalwart, who said nothing.

“Owen, and Anwen, and me. Anwen’s health was poor. She and I would certainly have died without Owen. He had just turned sixteen, but he kept us alive that winter. The next year he got us across the sea to Isilond. He hired on as a mercenary, and we all starved together on a man-at-arms’s pay. For eight years he lived by the sword. Do you wonder that I love my brother,
Sir Wart
?”

Stalwart wasn’t going to admit that. “He isn’t worth spitting on, let alone loving! He doesn’t trust you, Badger! How can you trust him? He sends this hired pikeman along with you and even disarms him. Did he think I’d grab the man’s sword out of its scabbard? Or you would? Or we both would? He’s crazy, raving, deranged!”

“He’s careful,” Eilir said, “the finest warrior I ever knew. No man ever outsmarts or outfights Owen Smealey. I hired him as a raw recruit and discovered he was already a match for half the men in the troop. Within a year he was my captain. I could tell tales…” He shrugged.

Stalwart ignored him and concentrated on the man he’d thought was his friend. “How did you end up in Ironhall? And why? You couldn’t seriously have wanted to join the Guard.”

Badger chuckled again, a sound to raise the hair on the back of a man’s neck. “Owen made his fortune in loot eventually, but too late for Anwen. On her deathbed she made us both swear that we would be avenged on Ambrose of Chivial.”

Stalwart shuddered. “Plague and corruption, man! Owen maybe. He was a mature, veteran soldier. But you? How old?”

“Sixteen.”

“You were too young to—”

“Bah! How old are you now, Sir Wart?”

That was another question with no good answer. Not now. In a few more weeks the answer would be different.
There weren’t going to be any more weeks
! There wasn’t even going to be a tomorrow.

Badger sneered at the lack of response. “We came back to Chivial, Owen and I. He’d had enough of soldiering, and he’d conceived the idea of the Fellowship. The only real school of sorcery in Chivial was the College, and there were many sorts of enchantments it wouldn’t teach that people wanted and would pay for. Owen, although no great enchanter himself, had the dream and the money and the leadership. The Crown had put Smealey Hole on the market; it would be an ideal location. And when he had built his team of sorcerers, he could move against the tyrant, as he had sworn. That left me. How does an eager young man go about assassinating a monarch guarded at all times by the finest swordsmen in the world?

He quirked an eyebrow. “No guesses? Need a hint? No man can bear arms in the King’s presence, right?”

Stalwart said, “Oh, no!” but obviously the answer was
Oh, yes
! In the ritual of binding, the Brat gave the candidate his sword; the candidate stood on the anvil to swear loyalty to the King, and then the King struck the sword through his heart to bind him. The same sword. The candidate had to pass that sword to the King. If he leaped down from the anvil and passed it point first, even the Blades present could never move fast enough to block him. “You’re Prime!”

Badger’s smile was right out of nightmare. “I hope that tonight you will relieve me of the need to go back, friend Wart.” His eyes were too bright, his teeth too big. “But if I must go, I will go, because when Owen and I parted at the door of Ironhall, we swore to each other that we would not step off our chosen paths until Ambrose was dead. If I do go back, then the next binding he attempts will be his last. The sword will go through the
other
heart.”

Stalwart was aghast. It was unthinkable. “All these years? All the time I have known you, you’ve been plotting this? But it’s suicide! The Blades will kill you right away, and even if they don’t, then you’ll die a traitor’s death.” He shivered. They were all crazy, the whole Smealey brood. The curse on the Hole was plain insanity, nothing more. “No wonder Grand Master said you were jumpy! Fates, man! You put yourself under sentence of death?” He stared in horror at Badger’s mocking smile. “All these years?”

“All these years. But now my good friend Wart has come along to save me at the last minute. It’s you or me, Wart. More exactly, it’s you for certain and possibly me as well, if tonight’s attempt doesn’t work. Tomorrow at dawn I carry on to Grandon with your message to Snake. If Owen has failed and the King lives, then I must return to Ironhall and the binding. They’ll be starting very soon.” He turned away.