The Sword of Darrow (28 page)

The messenger turned his back and faced the carriage. He lifted the sword lying across his palms.

“It is so light. It must be terribly fast.”

“Indeed.”

The messenger opened a compartment on the wagon. There were several swords inside. He lifted one, placing Darrow’s sword inside.

Holding his own sword in both hands, he said, “Even my lightest sword is no match for your blade.” Then he reached in the compartment and placed Darrow’s sword in the scabbard on his new belt.

“Wait here,” he said. “I will inform the princess that you are ready.”

Darrow paced nervously in the yard. His new belt felt heavy. From the house came not the slightest sound.

The door opened.

What Darrow saw made him gasp.

Standing before him was no messenger and certainly no princess. Before him stood a goblin, tall and broad-shouldered. His hand gripped a weapon, the blade almost as tall as Darrow himself, curved upward and no thicker than a moonflower vine.

“So you are the boy wonder, Darrow.”

Darrow stepped back and grasped his sword. In his hand, the weapon felt cold. No warmth stirred his body.

He pulled the weapon from the scabbard. The point fell downward, almost too heavy to hold with one hand. But it was not the sword that most occupied Darrow’s mind.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“I am Beltar and I am here for a special purpose.”

“Do I have to guess?”

Beltar laughed.

“My dear Darrow, I am here first and foremost to offer congratulations. Your swordsmanship is wondrous. Your speeches have brought a downtrodden kingdom to its feet. And your battlefield strategy stands with the best of our time.”

“You flatter, my good general, as well as you fight.”

Now, Darrow’s moment was at hand. The great goblin general stood before him. Without Beltar, the goblins would be a weaker foe. In the next minutes, two swords could write the history of his kingdom.

From the moment, Darrow found new strength. In his shoulders and arms, a new power surged. With both hands, he lifted his sword slowly. It was no longer as heavy as before.

As the two opponents faced one another, Darrow looked deep into Beltar’s eyes. For a moment, he thought he saw doubt. And that doubt made his power grow.

The two warriors, swords lifted high, stepped sideways in a circle like two roosters in a ring. Darrow attacked first, swinging his sword hard across the sky. Beltar stepped back, easily avoiding Darrow’s stroke. The goblin countered with a sideways and downward stroke that barely missed Darrow’s head and nipped his shoulder. Blood trickled from the wound.

Again, they circled. Again, Darrow was first to attack. Spinning his body in a full circle, he brought his blade sweeping across Beltar’s side. Beltar stepped back, avoiding the blow.

Beltar’s strategy was simple. Under the weight of his heavy sword, Darrow was sure to tire. The longer the fight lasted, the better were the goblin’s chances. Carefully he stepped, inviting Darrow’s attack, dodging his thrusts, and measuring his opponent’s strength.

Darrow stood before him, his sword upright before his face, his hands and arms extended forward. Again, Darrow charged. Again, Beltar dodged. And after many more thrusts, Darrow lifted his sword once more. Beltar saw a quiver in his blade.

Darrow charged again, his feet slower, almost clumsy. Beltar stepped easily to the side. Now, Beltar stepped closer, offering just enough target to invite another thrust. Each time, Darrow responded.

Beneath the weight of his sword, Darrow’s feet were heavy and lumbering. Beltar saw his chance.

Towering over Darrow, almost twice his size, Beltar unleashed a mighty swing that sent Darrow staggering back toward the house. Again, Beltar charged with a bold thrust, and Darrow stumbled to the side, barely dodging the blow. Beltar attacked with a wide stroke aimed to crash across Darrow’s shoulder. Metal met metal in a thunderous clash. Both swordsmen staggered back.

When the two warriors looked up, only Beltar held his sword. Mouth open, hands empty, Darrow circled toward his weapon, which lay twenty feet away. His hand trembled, his face was white.

Beltar stepped into his path. Standing between Darrow and his blade, he stroked at his target in short, controlled swings. Defenseless, Darrow dodged.

A great smile spread across Beltar’s face. This boy, this fraction of a man, with one good leg and words so bold, had handed his armies humiliation and defeat. The sight of him, helpless and scared, was far too joyful to end.

Patiently, sure of victory, Beltar paced slowly around his prey. Here and there, he offered a thrust, not to fell his opponent but simply to watch him scamper away. His eyes twinkled. A low laugh rose from his chest.

Suddenly, Darrow lunged at Beltar’s feet. Smiling, Beltar stepped to the side. He could have slain him right there, but why? Untouched by Beltar’s sword, Darrow rolled behind Beltar, diving for his blade. Desperately, he grabbed it with both hands, his left hand gripping the blade. Suddenly, he was on his feet, but blood from his hand poured to the ground.

Darrow circled, back in the fight, fire in his eyes, his steps marked with a trail of blood. Beltar feigned attack. Darrow jumped to one side. Beltar jabbed in the air. Darrow ducked. With slow and steady steps, Beltar moved directly toward his foe.

Darrow did not retreat. As Beltar’s sword came crashing down, Darrow’s rose to meet it and spun in a circle, swinging his own sword in reply. Beltar stepped to one side, barely missing Darrow’s stroke. Pressing forward, Darrow feinted, lunged, stroked, and swung with new mastery that forced Beltar to retreat.

Darrow’s sword was quick and his feet were light. Suddenly, he was a dancer, bobbing up and down with wondrous movements across the ground. But as he lifted his weapon to strike again, his shorter leg caught the hem of his robe. He spun to break his fall. When Darrow found himself on the ground, his sword lay inches from his wounded hand.

He looked up. Beltar towered above him, smiling once more. For the briefest moment, Beltar stared into the face of his victim, savoring that timeless moment between life and death. Gripping tightly with both hands, he brought down his weapon, like a hammer, toward his foe.

But Beltar’s moment was Darrow’s chance. His left hand, caked with blood and mud, found his sword. He swung it across his body and there it met Beltar’s stroke. His parry was weak and it ricocheted off Beltar’s blade. But its force was enough not to block but to change its course, sending Beltar’s weapon deep into the ground.

Beltar tugged to pull his weapon free. Darrow was once more on his feet. Gripping his weapon with both hands, blood streaming down his arm, he launched a powerful swing. When the stroke was finished, the sword was streaked red.

Beltar lay dead on the ground.

The dark water rose and rolled against the ship, sending a great shower across the deck. At the wheel stood a thin man with a small pointed beard, stripes of pasty white skin showing through.

At his side was a sailor with a scarred face. He stared into the wind, looked back at the captain, and asked, “Why Sonnencrest? The goblins stole everything.”

“Ah, we shall see, mate,” replied Telsinore. “With a little luck, this trip will be one to remember. Ten years of evil deeds have built a mountain of treasure. The riches of an entire kingdom, puny though it is.”

“That sounds awfully sweet.”

“True enough, true enough. Riches are sweet indeed. But a treasure rising high in the sky cannot settle every account. This crime has a victim I have owed for some time. The gold in my chests will be a fine reward. But settling my debt will be the sweetest joy of all.”

W
here are the messengers? I’ll have their heads if they don’t arrive soon!”

In the palace where King Henry once ruled, the goblin king paced nervously across the room. Other than the shouts of the king, the palace was strangely quiet. Goblin soldiers stood twenty miles from Blumenbruch, waiting to ambush Darrow’s victory march. Dignitaries had made the journey to watch the battle unfold.

But the king knew more. Beltar had fought Darrow two days before, and the outcome, which he did not know, would shape the battle to come.

The king stormed onto the balcony. He leaned on the railing, rising on his tiptoes to see. There, he could view most of the city. More important, he could see the road to the east that would bring a rider with the message he waited to hear. His eyes scanned the far distance. The road was empty.

“Bekkendoth!” he cried.

“I want a horse sent to meet the messenger on the road and return with the news!”

“With all due respect, Your Majesty, the two riders will only meet and return together. You won’t learn the news a minute sooner.”

Again, the king looked hard into the distance. He detected something, a small speck. It was a dust cloud. Soon, he could detect a slow rhythm as the cloud advanced. Within the hour, his messenger would arrive.

Beltar would win. He was certain. But what if he didn’t? The king’s face began to twitch. Why was Beltar so special anyway? Every general could be replaced.

The rider drew closer. He was now entering the city. “Open the gates,” the king ordered, even though the rider was still fifteen minutes away. A servant scrambled down the stairs. A small crowd of soldiers and palace staff gathered, curious about the king’s order.

Malmut looked again. Three specks appeared on the road. All of them seemed to be moving at a rapid pace. The king wiped his brow. He cursed Zindown. Darrow had better be dead; if not, the wizard would pay for his harebrained scheme.

On the avenue leading to the palace, the rider appeared: a goblin soldier in full uniform, his horse galloping at breakneck speed. “This is a great messenger,” thought the king, admiring the horseman’s speed.

Closer and closer, the rider approached the gate. The small crowd had grown. All eyes fixed on the soldier and his mount. But as the rider reached the gate, he veered to his left, passed the gate, and disappeared down the road leading away from Blumenbruch and toward the border.

Nervously, the king looked again at the faraway road. A whole host of dust clouds, not moving in any orderly way, approached the city.

He marched inside and screamed at the servants. “Who chose this messenger? I want to address this person now.”

No one offered an answer. Out toward the gate he stormed, the crowd parting at his approach. A horseman entered and pulled to an abrupt stop, gripping the mane to stay in the saddle. The animal was soaked with sweat. Foam glistened at the edges of its mouth. The rider warily eyed the crowd. When he saw the king, he became afraid.

“What is the news?” demanded the king. “Tell me, tell me!”

The rider looked down, unable to answer.

“Are you mute?” cried Malmut.

The rider did not lift his head and spoke his words in a quiet voice.

“Beltar is dead.”

A murmur swept the crowd. Through the crowd, eyes searched for horses and wagons that might bring escape.

“Surely there is a battle raging,” the king sputtered.

“Battle?” The rider was confused. “Your Majesty, I thought we surrendered. A copy of your letter of surrender was sent to our commander by Darrow himself. Now, the army is fleeing. Surely, Sonnencrest will want revenge.”

The king cursed Zindown’s foolish ploy. It had backfired. All was lost.

Goblins began tiptoeing from the crowd.

Indeed, as the king looked through the gate, he saw horses pass, one here and another there, and then in groups without formation or order, a chaos of frightened riders sure to be followed by wagons and goblins on foot.

Silently, the king shivered with rage. Large wet stains appeared on his clothes.

The king charged into the palace, almost colliding with Bekkendoth.

“Where is Zindown? That mole-brained circus magician will pay for this blunder!”

Outside, the yard was almost empty.

“We have no time for Zindown, Your Highness,” Bekkendoth replied. “We must leave right away.”

But the king walked to the balcony and shouted, “Bring me Zindown.”

A grim expression filled Bekkendoth’s face. Darrow’s army would soon be upon them. He looked out the gates. The road, once filled with riders, was now packed with wagons and carriages and even a few soldiers running on foot. In the distance, he saw plumes of smoke.

An attendant burst through the door.

“Zindown’s carriage has arrived.”

The king scrambled down the empty stairs. In the yard, only Bekkendoth and three soldiers remained. There stood the carriage, black with the green bat spider painted on the door. The driver was a statue, hunched over staring at his feet.

“Where is Zindown?” the king demanded.

The driver lifted his head.

“Zindown is gone.”

But before the king could consider what it might mean, Bekkendoth was at his side, his hand on the king’s shoulder, whispering, “We must leave. We are no longer safe.”

“Bring the royal carriage,” shouted the king.

“The royal carriage will make you a target. We must use another.”

“My soldiers will protect me,” the king insisted.

“Your Majesty, the soldiers are gone.”

The king made no reply.

“Put him in Zindown’s carriage,” ordered Bekkendoth.

Two soldiers, holding the king’s arms, guided him to the carriage door. The king shook as he walked. Then he turned back.

“A king rides in a royal carriage!” cried the king, his voice trembling. The servants looked back at Bekkendoth. Bekkendoth nodded and the servants shoved the king inside.

Now the king leaned through the window. “My crown! My jewels!”

“Your Highness, all the riches of the world will be no good if we do not escape.”

But the king would not yield. So for twenty minutes, they waited while servants rushed inside to retrieve the crown and three large chests of treasure, all looted from the homes of Sonnencrest.

When the wagon was loaded, it pulled up to the gate and stopped. Bekkendoth looked out. A soldier ran by, his shirt stuffed with candlesticks. A goblin carrying a box of coins was stabbed in the back by another, who took the box as his own. The acrid smell of burning houses entered the carriage and the king launched into an uncontrollable cough.

Seeing the road ahead blocked with wagons and fleeing goblins, Bekkendoth wondered if escape was possible.

After a long time, the carriage jolted forward. In fits and starts, traffic began to move. When the first hour passed, they were almost a mile from the palace.

A sharp noise sounded from the side of the carriage. The king looked up, startled. Outside, three goblin soldiers waved swords.

“Out, you mud lizards. This carriage is ours.”

“Go away,” said Bekkendoth, peering from the window.

“Get out,” one soldier replied, “or you will be dragging on a rope from behind.”

Bekkendoth looked coolly back at the attackers. “The great wizard Zindown is inside,” he replied. “Would you like me to convey your message?”

The soldiers scurried away.

A rider passed, screaming that Darrow’s cavalry was coming up the road. Horsemen and foot soldiers scrambled from the road and into the woods. Others simply ran faster through the brush at the side.

Bekkendoth looked back. As far as the eye could see, wagons and goblins filled the road. How could Darrow advance? But the rumor cleared traffic. Now the carriage moved at a steady pace.

Another hour passed. The horses, which had pulled all day, no longer responded to the whip.

“Stop there at that farmhouse,” Bekkendoth ordered.

While the driver threatened the farmer with his whip, Bekkendoth harnessed two fresh horses. They charged back into the road.

These new horses were good ones. Pastures and trees, now graying in the fading light, moved past the window at a rapid pace. Soon, there were no wagons at all, only riders who led the retreat. Bekkendoth took a slow, deep breath. Perhaps they would make it after all.

At twilight, the great pines appeared, separated by scrubby grass that lined the road on either side. The carriage lifted sand from the ground and Bekkendoth could taste salt in the air.

He looked across the carriage at the outline of the king. Loud snores echoed in the cabin. The carriage rocked with a slow, reassuring rhythm. Bekkendoth’s eyelids were heavy. His head nodded. Soon, he was unconscious in his seat.

How long he slept, he couldn’t tell. He was awakened by a loud banging on the side of the door. He lifted his head, eyes blinking against the light. For a moment, he struggled to remember where he was.

“Out of the wagon, you slimy louts!” cried a large, muscular man with a scar that ran from his neck to the top of his bald head. There was a ring in his nose.

“Out, I told you! Unless you wish to be carved alive by my own little dagger, the Red Princess.”

“The princess!” cried the king, suddenly awake and confused.

“Shuddup in there, I tell you or I’ll fill your wagon with blood!”

Bekkendoth pulled at the arm of the king and led him out the door. The glare of torches surrounded the carriage. To his left, he saw the moon reflected in a vast expanse of water. Then he cringed.

Across the road lay a pile of wreckage. There were saddles, weapons, and wagons, overturned and broken, their contents emptied on the ground. Amidst the rubble were bodies, dead goblins, scores of them, cut and disfigured in gruesome ways.

The king’s own driver lay on the ground, a boot pressing the center of his chest. His eyes were shut tightly and he shivered.

From the torchlight, a man stepped forward. He was tall and thin with a scraggly, crooked beard. The light behind him made his face a dark shadow, but Bekkendoth could see a great gold chain on his neck that supported the largest emerald he had ever seen.

“Who are you, and why have you stopped my carriage?” stammered the king.

Bekkendoth shot the king a stern look. But the man just laughed, lifting his saber in the air.

“Ah, but the question you pose is backwards. Who are
you
, and what are
you
carrying in this carriage?”

Bekkendoth hung his head and answered in a low voice.

“I am a simple wheelmaker fleeing Sonnencrest. This man with me is the brother of a man who sells wagons to the king. He is wealthy. You can have his treasure. But be gentle; the man is disturbed.” Bekkendoth paused. “He thinks he is the king.”

The king began to protest, but Bekkendoth slapped him across the face. Stunned, the king quietly babbled to himself.

“Get on with it. Run them through!” shouted a voice behind a torch. But the pirate’s sword was in no hurry.

“First, let’s see how fine a storyteller this gentleman might be. Search the carriage.”

Three men scrambled forward and began opening the doors and compartments inside.

“Three chests, big heavy ones!”

The trunks were removed and the men pried at them with their swords. A grand display of riches spilled out onto the ground. For a moment, the pirates could only stand and stare.

From the carriage door, another man appeared. In his hand, he held the crown of the king. Smiling broadly, he placed the crown atop his filthy, lice-ridden head.

“Well, well, well,” said the pirate, eyes sparkling. “Perhaps he is king after all.”

“I suppose that it is time for introductions, though our acquaintance may be brief. I am Telsinore, captain of the world-renowned Tarantula pirates.”

Telsinore made a deep bow. As he lifted his body once again, he swept his sword backhanded across Bekkendoth, whose severed head dropped to the ground.

“The fate of the liar is cruel indeed.”

Amidst a chorus of laughter, the king’s eyes grew wide.

“And the driver?” said Telsinore calmly. The sword point thrust into his neck.

Telsinore looked at the king. He lifted his sword high. The king crouched, his arms covering his head. Just as Telsinore’s sword quivered above the king, the old pirate lowered it unexpectedly to his side. The pirate laughed out loud.

“You know, I have fought many a duel but never with a king. It would be terrible to murder a great monarch without giving him a fair opportunity to fight. Don’t you agree, boys?”

From beneath the torches erupted cheers, catcalls, and applause.

“Grab a sword and I will give you a sporting chance.”

But the king stumbled backward against the carriage, desperately shaking his head.

“Grab a sword, I say.”

The king shivered wordlessly before him.

“There, hanging from the side of the wagon, is a sword. Take it or I will saw off your toes.”

The men laughed uproariously at this threat and this time the king looked up at Telsinore, still unable to speak. He turned to the wagon. Squinting so tightly he could barely see, he laid his trembling hand on the weapon that hung from its side.