The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades Read online

  “Run, Wart! Leave me and the wagon. Just run! See those bushes up—”

  “Run? Run from bowmen? Run from horsemen?” He did not add, Run through a swamp? as he might have done.

  “At least throw that wretched old sword away. Be polite, don’t annoy them, then maybe Thrusk won’t remember you, maybe they’ll just leave you here and take me. And I’ll be all right—you said so yourself. Then you can go and…and…”

  It wasn’t working. Wart still snarled, never taking his eyes off his old enemy approaching. “Now do you see why I didn’t want to tell you? Now do you understand why I was strictly ordered not to tell you anything at all? If you breathe one word, one hint that you were staked out for them to find, then we’re both cold meat.”

  “Yes, Wart. I’m sorry I didn’t trust you.”

  “At least you have a chance.”

  “So do you, if you’ll just throw away that sword. Now, please let go of it and get down from the wagon. Don’t make them see you as a threat, Wart! Be humble, Wart, please.” She had a sudden clear image of him sitting there nailed to the garlic barrel by a bolt through his head. And the shot might hit her by mistake.

  “As far as Thrusk is concerned, I’m already under sentence of death.” His voice had dropped to a growl.

  She had never seen real hate on a man’s face before—she could no longer think of Wart as a boy when he looked like that. Yet his only hope of survival lay in seeming harmless to the brigands.

  The shrill wailing of that awful sorcery was back, but it was coming from the Marshal and his men—all of them, as far as she could tell.

  “Halt!” Thrusk barked.

  His little troop halted. They were only a few feet in front of Saxon’s nose now—two on the left and three on the right, placed to shoot past the horse at the passengers. The squeaks and hoofbeats in the rear died away as the coach stopped. Horses whinnied greetings. Emerald risked a glance behind her and was not at all surprised to see Murther’s purple monster and its four beautiful chestnuts. One of the grooms was opening the door and pulling down the steps, and the armed guards were clambering down from the rooftop seat. Wart with his rusty sword was seriously outnumbered.

  Thrusk walked along the verge, staying clear of his men’s line of fire, on Wart’s side of the wagon. “Get down, both of you.”

  As Emerald began to move, Wart said, “Stay where you are! By what right do you contest our passage on the King’s highway, fat man?”

  Thrusk showed yellow teeth in his black jungle of beard. “By right of might, shrimp. Now get down or I’ll have my men—Huh?” He took one step closer, peering harder at Wart. So tall was he and so low the wagon that he was looking down, rather than up. “By the eight! It’s the minstrel brat, the sneak thief! Well, well, well!” His roar of laughter sent avalanches of ice down Emerald’s backbone.

  Wart glanced back. So did Emerald.

  And so did Thrusk.

  Doctor Skuldigger was just emerging from the coach.

  Taking advantage of that momentary distraction, Wart made a flying leap from the wagon, swinging the rusty sword in a murderous slash. What he might have achieved with it against a man wearing breastplate and helmet was never established, because he caught a toe on the wheel. His war cry became a howl of despair and he pitched headlong, sprawling in the dirt like a wagonload of firewood. He rolled and his sword rattled away across the gravel.

  Emerald ducked, but no crossbow bolts flashed through the air.

  “Flames!” Thrusk roared. “Try to kill me, would you?” He grabbed the front of Wart’s jerkin and hoisted him up bodily with one hand, as if he weighed no more than a blanket.

  Wart sagged in his grasp like a rag doll, half stunned by his fall, eyes wobbling, but evidently undaunted. “Killing’s too good for you, stinkard!”

  Thrusk roared in fury and slammed a fist the size of a loaf of bread against Wart’s jaw.

  Emerald screamed at such brutality. Wart hit the ground again, flat on his back. But Thrusk then drew his sword as if to chop off his opponent’s head and the time for screaming was past. “Leave him alone!” She was down on the road between the two of them with no clear recollection of hitching up her skirts and completing the sort of mad leap that Wart had attempted, even in her ill-fitting shoes. “You get back!” she yelled, spreading her arms.

  Thrusk snarled and drew back his free hand to swat her aside. An instant before he would have spread her as flat as he had spread Wart, a sepulchral voice spoke at her back.

  “Stop!”

  At that soft moan, the giant froze.

  “Incompetent oaf!” Doctor Skuldigger came mincing forward, followed a few paces behind by Mistress Murther and another woman. “Aw? What are you doing, Marshal? Tell your men to unload those bows at once.”

  Thrusk barked an order at his troop. “This trash tried to kill me.” He gestured with his sword at the unconscious Wart, the move being close enough to Emerald’s knee that she jumped aside. His attitude to the Doctor was one of sulky deference.

  Skuldigger was in charge. He sighed. “Aw? I instructed you that there was to be no bloodshed.”

  Blood was still being shed. Emerald knelt to examine Wart. He was out cold and bleeding badly from the mouth. Whether he had lost teeth or simply split his lips she could not tell, but his jaw was swelling up like a red cabbage. Perhaps this experience would cure some of his tricky habits. Having seen him do midair somersaults off the wagon, she could not believe he could fall flat on his face like that. He must have been faking, although she could not guess why.

  “Doctor!” she shouted. “This man has been injured and needs attention.”

  “I know that brat of old,” Thrusk growled. “He’s a felon! He was sentenced to hang years ago. Now he tried to kill me. Let me have him, master, and—”

  The Doctor moaned. “Must I always be served by idiots? He is half your size, ninny.”

  The giant growled defiantly. “He attacked me with a sword. You told us we could defend ourselves.”

  “Bah! He could not hurt you if you had both hands tied behind your back.” Skuldigger seemed moved close to tears. He turned to the two women. “Well?”

  Murther stayed silent, regarding the world with her inevitable pout. The other woman was younger and might have been judged beautiful if she had made an effort to dress better, comb her hair, stand up straight. Her gown and cloak had originally been of good quality but looked old and abused, as if handed down from a mistress to a servant. She herself was strangely hunched, arms tightly folded across her breast like someone freezing, although the day was warming rapidly. She might be seriously ill. She shook her head and mumbled something Emerald did not catch.

  “Stand back!” Skuldigger commanded. “Go, Murther!”

  “Back to the horses!” Thrusk roared. He marched off with his bowmen. Mistress Murther stalked back to the coach with her nose in the air. The sorcerous whistling faded almost to nothing.

  “Well?” the Doctor demanded again.

  The woman looked Emerald over without ever meeting her eyes. She gazed down at Wart, then shuffled over to lay a hand on the wagon. “Nothing,” she muttered.

  Skuldigger moaned. “You are quite sure of that, Sister? You do remember that any carelessness on your part will have terrible consequences?”

  For a moment fire glinted in her eyes, and she bared her teeth at him in fury or hatred. Then the former hopelessness fell over her face like a veil. “Yes, Doctor, I remember.”

  For a moment the horrible old man seemed almost about to smile. “Then you do not need to worry about being rescued, do you? Sir Snake has outsmarted himself again. Go back to the carriage.”

  She obeyed, shuffling away as if she carried all the sorrows of the world on her shoulders. Thrusk returned.

  Skuldigger sighed heavily, scowling down at the unconscious Wart. “Your mindless brutality has put a serious hitch in my plans. This boy cannot ride, and I will not have him bleeding all over my coach.”
<
br />   “Tie him across a saddle,” Thrusk suggested.

  “And if we are seen, idiot?”

  “He was condemned to hang years ago, little vermin. Let me hang him, or chop his head off, master. Please?”

  Skuldigger sighed mournfully. “No, he will be of use in our experiments. Here is what we shall do. Bring him in the wagon. Lay him face-down so he does not choke on his own blood, aw? You will escort us to the turnoff and wait there for the wagon, as previously planned. If you are quite sure that there is no pursuit, you will bring the boy to the boat.”

  “And if there is?” the Marshal demanded, his eyes narrowing to shadowed slits inside his helmet.

  “I already ordered you to slay as many of them as you can, did I not? But in that case you may kill the boy first. Will that satisfy your blood lust, brute?”

  “If I have time to do it properly.”

  “And see there is not one spot of blood left on the road here—you understand?”

  “Yes, master. Not a drop.”

  “Now we must hurry or we shall miss the tide.” The old man turned his agonized, droopy eyes on Emerald. “Give me your bonnet.”

  “I certainly will not! And I’ll thank you to explain by what right you behave like a common brigand on the King’s—”

  “Hit her.”

  Thrusk raised a huge fist.

  “No!” Emerald cried, stumbling back.

  “If you are hurt,” the Doctor moaned, “you will have only yourself to blame. Now, the bonnet.”

  Emerald hauled off her bonnet without ever taking her gaze away from the leering Thrusk; she handed it to the Doctor.

  “Now get in the carriage.”

  “I will not! Are these highwaymen yours, Doctor, because—”

  She did not see Thrusk move. One minute he was two paces away from her and the next he was standing over her, chuckling, and she was flat in the dirt. Her head rang. The shock of it left her gasping like a landed fish.

  “Aw? I said, ‘Get in the carriage.’ Now you will force me to have the Marshal kick you in the ribs until you obey. One…”

  Emerald scrambled giddily to her feet and lurched along the road to the coach. She might not know for certain who headed the conspiracy against the King, but she could name a convincing suspect. The other woman was obviously the kidnapped Sister whom Wart had mentioned, the one whose child had been taken hostage. Now Emerald was in the same boat. The bait had been taken, but where was the hook?

  15

  Knights to Remember

  STALWART WAS NEVER AWARE OF RECOVERING consciousness. He just gradually understood that he was in a lot of pain and helpless to do anything about it. For one thing he was face-down in a very smelly box, being bounced up and down on bare boards; he could see nothing except chinks of daylight between them. For another, he was bound hand and foot with a noose around his neck, so he dared not try to sit up in case it would choke him and he would not be able to loosen it again. The rope around his wrists was so tight that he could feel nothing at all in his hands. If the blood supply was cut off too long they would die and rot. What use was a swordsman with no hands?

  His mouth and jaw felt as if Saxon had kicked him there with all four shoes at once; some of his teeth were loose on that side and the taste of old blood was nauseating. To make it worse, his mouth was held open by a gag, a rag tied around his head. Guess who had done that—no prize offered? He could hear hooves and sometimes two voices, although he could not make out what was being said. The strings of the archlute murmured somewhere close to his ear. Under a heap of smelly sacks he was sweltering, but even in this poorly inhabited part of Chivial, no one could drive around with a corpse in plain view and not get asked questions.

  So he was alive, when he had not really expected to be. That situation did not seem much of an advantage at the moment, and Thrusk would make sure it did not last long.

  Someone cleverer than Thrusk was in charge, though.

  “We mustn’t let the enemy suspect that the wagon is being followed,” Snake had said. “So we’ll stay well back. One of us may ride forward and pass you from time to time, but don’t react. Don’t show you recognize us. Talk to people whenever you get the chance, because we’ll ask the ferrymen and other locals if they remember seeing you going past.”

  It was a good plan, but someone had been smart enough to see through it. Now the wagon was still trundling along the highway and it still had a man and a woman on the bench. It might be a long time before the Old Blades realized that a switch had been made and Emerald was gone.

  Stalwart had known right from the moment Bandit swore him into the Guard that he was destined for danger, and Snake had spelled it out for him an hour or so after that. He had known it but never really believed it—not like he believed now. That morning the prospect of adventure had blinded him to everything else.

  He left Ironhall in public shame, head down to avoid the disbelieving stares of the few juniors who happened to be around. There were no seniors in sight—thanks to Bandit and Grand Master, probably—but Bandit himself was at the gate, talking with the Blades guarding it. He did not even look around as Stalwart slunk past, but some of the others scowled and made biting remarks about quitters and cowards. It was not a happy moment.

  As soon as he was off by himself amid the lonely wilds of Starkmoor, his usual cheerful spirits returned. Hope and adventure put a spring in his stride and the wind danced with his cloak. He raced along the dusty track, jogging and walking by turns, bothered little by the weight of the lute on his back and not much more by the hunger in his belly. He never did reach Broom Tarn. About half an hour up the road he turned off on the shortcut over the Rockheap; on the far side of that, safely out of sight of Ironhall, two saddled horses grazed the wiry moorland grass. The man lying on his back nearby seemed intent on the hawks circling in the blue heavens, but he must have been keeping a eye on the horses, too. When Wart came in sight they raised their heads and he sprang up.

  He came striding over, hand out in welcome. His clothes were nondescript, almost shabby, but the sword at his side bore a cat’s-eye on the pommel. He was not only a Blade, he was the one Stalwart had been desperately hoping he would be, Sir Snake himself—Deputy Commander of the Guard during Stalwart’s first years at Ironhall, later dubbed knight and released, then called back to lead the volunteer group they called “the Old Blades.” The name he had chosen long ago still fitted him, for he was exceedingly lean; he had a knife-blade nose and a thin mustache. He was devious, they said, clever as a forestful of foxes. He had not named his sword anything obvious like Fang or Venom. No, she was called Stealth, and that said a lot about him.

  His eyes twinkled as he pumped Wart’s hand and thumped his shoulder.

  “Was counting on you,” he said. “Never thought you’d fail us. Welcome to the Blades, brother!” He laughed, joyous as the summer morning. “And welcome, O Youngest of All Blades, to the Old Blades, the unbound Blades! I have a job for you that will make your hair stand on end!” He made that sound like a great virtue. He led the way over to the horses—and what horses they were! The King himself rode nothing better.

  “I brought a sword for you to wear. Not a cat’s-eye, I’m afraid, but we’ll get your real sword to you shortly. Can’t have a Blade walking around unarmed, like a peasant.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Sir Snake.”

  “Oh, you go pile that manure elsewhere, my lad! You’re one of us now. You call me ‘Snake’ or ‘brother,’ understand? There’s food in the saddlebags and you can eat as we ride…. The King is ‘sire’ to his face and ‘Fat Man’ when he’s not around. Bandit is ‘Leader.’ You can be polite to Dreadnought and Grand Master when you feel like it, but don’t ever give me titles. Now let’s—” He paused for an instant. “And Durendal. Him we honor because he’s still the greatest of us all. No one else. Now get your tender young behind on that saddle. We have the width of Chivial to ride before we’ll see a bed tonight. Yes, I’ll tell you all abou
t it as we go.” He went to put his foot back in his stirrup and then paused again. “I’m told they call you Wart. Which do you want to be from now on—Wart or Stalwart?”

  “Wart’s more fitting…Snake. Call me Stalwart when I grow into it.”

  The glittery eyes studied him for a moment. “You may have earned it by next week.”

  “Then call me Stalwart next week,” the boy said crossly, and swung himself up into the saddle. He wished they would all stop talking about danger and tell him what it was they wanted him to do.

  If they did not ride the whole width of Chivial that day, they certainly crossed most of it, thundering along on the finest horses Stalwart had ever ridden. Until that journey he had rather fancied his skills in the saddle, but Snake was superb. Every hour or so they had changed mounts at a posting inn, taking horses reserved for the Royal Couriers, the best steeds in the land. As they rode, Snake spelled out the plan.

  “It’s risky, of course,” he admitted, “but I think we’ve thought of most things that can go wrong.” He had not foreseen Thrusk.

  Stalwart had blundered, yes. He had thrown his expense money around at Three Roads. That had been a stupid childish impulse, exactly the sort of mistake that might warn an enemy he was not what he was pretending to be. Nor should he have told Emerald that she was being used as bait. Yet he might still have pulled it off if Thrusk had not come on the scene. Thrusk’s involvement had been the worst of all possible luck, misfortune that could never have been predicted.