Wistril Compleat (8 page)

Kern looked up at Sir Knobby, mouthed the
words "How long?"

Sir Knobby pointed to Wistril's goblin clock
and held up six fingers. "Hoot," he said, softly.

"Six hours," said Kern, aloud. "They must be
at the foot of the mountain just now."

"Hoot," said Sir Knobby.

"House Carthrop," said Wistril. "A unicorn,
rampant, on a field of broken swords." Wistril spun the book
around. "Is this what you saw?"

Sir Knobby leaned over the book, hissed, and
nodded.

"They are Oomish," said Wistril. "Another of
the Lesser Houses, with holdings in the north."

"Was the Lady Emmerbee perhaps engaged to a
Carthrop as well as a Kauph?" asked Kern.

"Probably," said Wistril. He leaned back in
his chair. "Confound it, probably."

Sir Knobby hooted softly, and Wistril shook
his head. "No," he said, to the gargoyle. "Leave the gate open.
Tell the staff to remain indoors. I want no displays of hostility
-- is that clear?"

Kern tilted his head. "It's clear, Master,"
he said. "But is it wise? If that's an army, intent on mischief,
shouldn't we at least close the doors and make them knock?"

Wistril sighed. "If this is a wedding-feud in
the making," said the wizard, "then certain customs must be
observed. The challenger may not strike without first being
provoked; the defender must play the host until propriety is
violated."

And the victual fork has five tines," said
Kern, wearily.

"Indeed," said Wistril. He turned to Sir
Knobby. "See that the South Tower rooms are opened and aired," he
said. "Have the bed linens changed, and the lamps filled."

"Master," said Kern. "I put the wayward
spooks in the South Tower, and the roof leaks, and the wumpus cat
left an awful stench in the basement."

"How unfortunate," said Wistril without
turning his gaze toward Kern. "Still, we here in the humble
wilderness of the South can only offer what we have."

Sir Knobby grinned, saluted, and padded into
the hall.

Kern rose. "Shall I at least pack up the
spooks again?" he asked.

"Certainly not," said Wistril. "This is House
Kauph, not House Carthrop. Admonish them to stealth, but not
silence."

Kern bowed. "Aye aye, Cap'n," he said. "Are
we planning on entertaining our guests for the entire summer, or
just until they've looted the upper rooms?"

Wistril bristled. "We will play the host
until they tire of waiting for the arrival of Lady Emmerbee, or
until the South Tower becomes intolerable," said Wistril. "And if
the Lady should arrive, I will introduce her to her new husband,
provide them a magnificent wedding feast, and bolt the gates
securely behind them as they depart for a lifetime of marital bliss
in environs far removed from my own."

Kern rolled his chair back, rose, and marched
for the door. "I'll see to the spooks," he said, his eyes on the
whirling brass and glass goblin clock set on the right side of
Wistril's desk. "I'll suggest they make their presence known in a
variety of subtle yet terrifying ways."

"Excellent," said Wistril. "Afterwards, lay
wards on the other towers, and both our rooms. I shall be in the
workroom, if you require further instructions." Wistril closed his
book and rose. "And apprentice. This Carthrop may seek to provoke
us. Know that an insult from you is an insult from this House."

Wistril waved his fingers and vanished. Kern
made for the door, heard the slap-clack of unshod, clawed gargoyle
feet hurrying past, and forced a smile before entering the
hall.

Wistril stood square in the center of Castle
Kauph's open gates. Wistril's hands were on his hips, a
wide-brimmed black hat sat lopsided on his head, and he had changed
his customary brown robes for the black ones he ordinarily wore on
High Feast days.

Kern stood beside him. But while Wistril
glared down the winding, rocky ribbon of road that wound down the
mountain and into the forest at its feet, Kern stood sideways on
Kauph's threshold and stared back at the castle.

Gone were the short, fat towers and the
blocky, plain keep of the castle proper. Gone was the low-walled
courtyard, with its perpetually struggling rose-bushes and the trio
of mis-matched gazebos that served mainly as playgrounds for
hooting gargoyle youngsters. Gone were the window-boxes full of
Wistril's ragged, sporadically flowering herbs and gone were the
empty beer-barrels stacked at the foot of the South Tower. Even the
single-masted red schooner -- Kern often asked why Wistril kept a
boat atop a mountain, and Wistril just as often ignored him -- even
the schooner was gone.

Gone, all of it -- and in its place, Castle
Kauph as it might once have been.

The towers did not merely stand -- no, Kern
decided, they soared. The Keep was a stolid, brooding edifice,
battle-scarred and marked by fire, but whole and proud and
undaunted. The shrubs had become mighty oaks; the unkempt
rose-bushes, tall, sturdy fireflowers, the sad landlocked schooner,
a dragon's skeletal spine, skull, and fore-limbs, now a garden
sculpture held together with wires of silver and skeins of
light.

"Incredible," said Kern. "How did you do the
shadows, Master?" he said. "And the reflections -- perfect, all of
it."

"Thank you," said Wistril. He squinted into
the sun. "They come."

Kern turned, and hooves sounded, and in an
instant the tip of a lance and a cloud of dust rose above the
distant road.

The lance-tip grew, sprouted a standard that
flapped and tangled too violently to be discerned, and was soon
joined by bobbing helmets, armored shoulders, and the rank after
rank of riders.

Sir Knobby sidled up beside Kern. Kern
whistled softly; the gargoyle stood a full foot taller than he had
an hour ago, his fangs gleamed like fresh-forged knives, and his
eyes were blood-red slits that guttered and glowed like feast-fire
embers.

"Hoot," said Sir Knobby, with a toothy
grin.

"Hoot indeed," said Kern.

The riders reached the rail-less causeway the
villagers dubbed the Wizard's Bridge and thundered across. Wistril
whispered a word, and his iron-shod staff appeared in his hand.

"Do you think they plan to stop, Master?"
asked Kern. Half the riders were across the Bridge now; the first
rank, four horses wide, was a long stone's throw from the open
gates. "Or at least slow to a gallop?"

"Stand firm," said Wistril. "Sir Knobby.
Yawn."

Sir Knobby grinned, tilted his head back, and
opened wide a mouth wet and red. Stark white fangs glistened in the
sun, and from the gargoyle's throat came a thunderous, horrible
growl that lifted the hair on Kern's neck and stopped the foremost
of the horses dead in their tracks.

Riders screamed and cursed. The standard --
which Kern could now clearly see as the one from Wistril's book --
dipped, twirled, and fell.

The men cursing and reigning their mounts
were soldiers -- hard-bitten, hard-ridden men who had the look of
too many days on the road and long nights on the ground about them.
Their clothes -- uniforms once, perhaps, but now a motley
assortment of rags and patches -- were filthy and unkempt; their
boots were badly worn, and, in most cases, mis-matched. Their
weapons, though were alarmingly bright; no rust sullied the
halberds, and the edges of every half-drawn sword gleamed sharp and
deadly.

Most of the soldiers stared wide-eyed at Sir
Knobby, but Kern saw more than one turn wary eyes his way. I
wonder, thought Kern, what Wistril's glamour-spell has made of
me?

Kern grinned, and saw no fewer than three
hands grope for their sword-hilts.

"What is this?" bellowed a voice, above the
din. "Who called a halt?"

Shouldering aside horse and soldier alike, a
rider forced his way to stand before Wistril.

Kern tensed, and he saw Sir Knobby do the
same. "Hoot," said the gargoyle softly, his tone laced with
disgust. Kern nodded.

This man's armor gleamed. His helmet was
polished, and though dusty from the road, it bore not a dent, not a
scratch. His boots were shined to a high gloss, his sword shone
like a mirror, his clothes were whole and well-fitted. Not that I
dislike a man with a tailor in his hire, thought Kern -- but here
is a man who'll throw scraps into the fire while his soldiers go
hungry.

"I am Wistril," said the wizard, and again
Kern heard echoes of sorcery in his voice. "Wistril, son of Agad,
Master of the House of Kauph." Wistril's fingers blurred, and his
staff elongated, unfurled, and became the just-fallen standard of
House Carthrop. "I could not bear to see the proud sigil of House
Carthrop sullied in the dirt, so I picked it up. In doing so, I
fear I have caused a small equestrian catastrophe. Will you accept
my apologies?"

Kern ogled. Wistril was smiling. Sir Knobby
frowned, and set half a dozen war-horses to whinnying and
shuffling.

The rider -- Lord So-and-So of House
Carthrop, Esquire, Kern decided -- stilled his mount, snarled
something fast and Oomish to his men, and looked down upon Wistril
with barely concealed contempt.

"I am Baron Carron, Master of House
Carthrop," he said, puffing out his chest. "My House is renowned
for its lenience toward lesser houses," he said. "You need have no
fear."

"Oh, we all need a bit of fear, Baron," said
Wistril, with a smile. He opened his hand, and the standard floated
lazily from his grasp and bobbed toward the rider. "After all, sir,
is not fear the parent of caution, and caution the watchword of the
wise?"

The Baron's jaw twitched. Wistril made as if
to stifle a small yawn. "What brings Carthrop to Kauph, Baron
Caron?" he asked.

Horses shuffled nervously as Sir Knobby's
stomach suddenly growled.

"I come to meet the Lady Hohnserrat," said
the Baron. His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward Wistril.
"She is to be my wife."

Wistril beamed. "Indeed, sir. What a happy
occasion. But where, pray tell, is the most fortunate Lady
Hohnserrat?"

"On her way," said the Baron. He glared, and
his hand fell to rest upon his sword-hilt. "I trust we may be
assured of the hospitality of your House."

"Certainly," said Wistril, with a small bow.
"My House welcomes you. Will you dine with us?"

The Baron's eyes went soft, and his scowl
became a smirk. "We will," he said. "Poor fare though it may be."
He turned to his troops and bellowed in Oomish. Kern watched
Wistril, but the fat wizard's round face was betrayed no hint of
anger.

"How many may we expect?" asked Wistril.

The Baron turned. "My officers and I. A
dozen. Oh, and my wizard." The Baron spat. "So make it
thirteen."

"I shall have rooms for you all," said
Wistril. "And your men may camp outside my walls, if you wish."

"I do," said the Baron. He motioned toward
the gate. "Sunset, then," he said.

"Such is the custom," replied Wistril.

The Baron turned, mounted, and wheeled away,
bellowing as he went.

The ranks of dirty soldiers facing Kern,
Wistril, and Sir Knobby glared and shuffled. "So, fellows," said
Kern, brightly. "I have the most ferocious appetite, these days.
Which one of you weighs the most?"

None ran, but within moments the gates were
clear.

Kern sat uneasy in his chair and picked at
his food with his five-tined victual fork. He resisted the urge to
peer about at the Hall, in appreciation of Wistril's glamour spell;
the Baron can't see me gawking, thought Kern, if he is to believe I
see this every day.

Though in truth, mused Kern, I've never seen
anything like this. Oh, the true Hall is pleasant enough, in a
plain, well-scrubbed sort of way -- but now it looks like the court
of the High King himself. Gold candlesticks, silver chandeliers?
Master, wondered Kern -- are you perhaps overdoing this just a
bit?

Kern frowned. Though the Hall was rendered
gold-plated and splendid by Wistril's spell, the food was,
reflected Kern, unusually spare. Beef, boiled yet tough and hardly
seasoned; chunks of potatoes in a thick beef stock, and a helping
of wilted, chewy green beans that bore the tinny flavor of
vegetables too long in a jar.

Not once could Kern recall such a poor table
set at Kauph. Not even for wandering tradesmen, or the time both
Wistril and Cook had fallen ill and Kern and Sir Knobby had manned
the kitchen; even we knew better than to boil beef without a bit of
salt, he thought.

The Baron chewed and smacked and wiped his
lips with apparent gusto, though, as did his men. All except the
wizard, who had yet to lift his hands above the table to pick up a
fork.

Kern's eyes darted about the table. Wistril
ate slowly, his expression pained, and more than once Kern caught
Wistril stealing glances at the Carthrop wizard, as well.

The wizard, whom the Baron had introduced as
Herthmore, was robed and cowled, and sat so that his hood fell over
most of his face. Kern hadn't seen the man's eyes, or his nose. But
Kern did see the sickly yellow cast the man's skin, and the sheen
of old sweat that covered it. The wizard wore a chin-beard in the
fashion of Eastern sorcerers, and by watching the movements of bits
of old food lodged in the whiskers Kern could tell the wizard
mumbled constantly while leaning over his plate.

Even so, the wizard's words sounded no
further than his cowl, and the party ate without conversation,
until at last the Barn threw down his fork and knife and shoved his
plate roughly away.

"The wine makes the meal, I always say,"
boomed the Baron, to Wistril. "Mayhap a better vintage than this
--" he motioned with his half-full wine-glass, sloshing wine out
onto the wide oak dining table "-- will suffice to make apology for
the rudeness of your fare."

Kern tensed, and as he did so the Baron's
officers nearest him paled and looked quickly away.