by Ed Greenwood
Inderos Stormharp chuckled. “Too late, lad,” he added, waving to Maershee for more wine with a hand that—without the Vodal—seemed empty of both ring and wand. “You’ll just have to settle down to enjoying yourself instead.”
1
The Lady of Jewels
The River Coiling is cold at night. It slid endlessly and restlessly past Hawkril’s shoulders as he swam steadily closer to the solid stone darkness of the castle walls, hoping no alert guard would hear Craer’s teeth chattering beside him—and that they’d not meet with a watersnake.
But then, what was one more pair of hungry fangs now? They were outlaws, every man’s hand raised against them. As a ripple slapped his face with chilling water, Hawkril recalled their desperate scheming, over a meager fire high in the Wildrocks.
It had been cold then, too, and he’d challenged his clever-tongued, spiderlike comrade to find them a warm lair before the winter snows.
“With what?” Craer had snarled.
“Your wits, Longfingers,” the armaragor had told him, almost merrily, knowing they hadn’t even coins enough between them to buy an ax to hew firewood. Craer Delnbone was quick-witted, too (no army procurer prospered for long who wasn’t). After all, “procurer” was just a handsome title for a word most folk knew rather better: thief.
“The only places that seem to have coins to spare are Sirlptar,” Craer had reasoned, “which holds far too many prying mages for my liking—and Silvertree, which already regards us as foes to be slain.”
“I knew we were going to end up charging right at the throat of the strongest foe you could find,” Hawkril had answered. “How are we going to find out where Faerod keeps his gold? His castle fills an entire island! He’s got that wizard Gadaster, too!”
Craer had smiled, and shared his one good bit of news: “I heard two merchants in Dranmaer hawing on about how important they were and how much they’d make off of Silvertree. One of them said old Mulkyn died whilst we were away at war. They wondered about his replacements—and if Aglirta has heard nothing of them, they can’t be powerful mages hired from someone else in the Vale—and so can only be more feeble at magic than Gadaster was … and thus hopefully less likely to find and track down two gown thieves.”
“‘Gown thieves’?” Hawkril had asked patiently, as he’d known he was supposed to.
“Who’s the richest woman in the baronies?” Craer had asked briskly.
He hadn’t had to frown for long. “The Lady of Jewels,” he’d replied, “or so rumor has it.”
“Exactly,” the procurer had agreed, proceeding to make a show of leisurely taking a tiny bite of the stolen lamb they were sharing.
The armaragor had put the toe of one of his boots into Craer’s thigh, not ungently, and the procurer had added hastily, “A tall, beautiful thing, or so we’re told, whom no one ever sees these days—not that many folk have ever been welcome to step into Castle Silvertree, or wanted to. She wears gowns festooned with gems; everyone still agrees on that, and she certainly did when she was a wisp of a girl; I saw her … and her forty-three guards.”
“Not a pleasant memory?”
Craer had shrugged, licking grease from his fingertips. “I’m sitting here talking to you with all of my limbs intact, am I not?”
Hawkril had given him a grin. “Yet I’d not be mistaken in thinking she lost no gems that day?”
The procurer had sighed theatrically, and told his fingernails, “I thought that if I let the girl be, she’d grow much larger … and of course, her gowns would grow with her, so I’d have more and bigger gems to harvest, some day.…”
“We set off to conquer the Isles,” Hawkril had growled slowly, “and now we’re talking about stealing a lady’s dress.”
“Not just any lady,” Craer had reminded him. “And recluse or not, this one can hardly be innocent or even nice—after all, she’s Baron Faerod’s daughter! The Lady of Jewels, famous for her life of indolent luxury. She probably has forty gowns festooned with gems—and only one body to wear them. Why, she probably has wardrobes and even whole robing chambers full of gowns she’s tired of and won’t wear. We’ll be doing her a favor by taking one off her hands—and one, just one should be good for five or six seasons of guzzling wine and searching for just the right woman in Sirlptar, or even fabled Renshoun across the Spellgirt Sea.”
Hawkril had shrugged. Craer had done it again. “Well, if you put it that way …,” he’d said slowly.
“Yes, we may well die in the trying,” the procurer had hissed in his ear, “but why not go splendidly, fighting and striving, instead of shivering away cold winter nights of hunger, waiting for the wolves to end it all?”
Water slapped his face again, jolting Hawkril out of his memories of warm dripping lamb. If he’d dared to speak at all, he’d have dared the procurer swimming at his elbow to justify stealing a gown—a lady’s gown, sargh and bebolt it!—again.
But they were close in under the grim gray walls now, and he dared not say a word. The icy breeze ghosting past could well be carrying the ears of a listening wizard. A mage whose boredom would die swiftly in the glee of slaughtering two outlaws daring to intrude on the island that was Castle Silvertree.
Why, oh why, did he let Longfingers talk him into such madnesses? They’d agreed to get in, steal a gown or whatever else of substantial worth they could easily carry off that didn’t look magical, and get out without tarrying to explore or get greedy.
Castle Silvertree occupied an entire island in the Silverflow … or at least its walls enclosed the isle. Walls that now towered up into the night like a black hand raised against them—a black gauntlet waiting to close down and crush what it grasped.
It was well known that a forested garden grew at the heart of the island, between the palace wherein dwelt the Lady Embra Silvertree—the tall, beautiful, never-seen Lady of Jewels—at its downstream end, and a dock and fortress, the true Castle Silvertree, at the “prow,” or eastern end. Walls as steep and crenellated as any bold baron’s linked them, rising from the rocky roots of the isle like a huge shield to wall out unwanted intruders. Two desperate outlaws from the ruin of Ezendor Blackgult’s army, for instance.
The Golden Griffon badge they’d been so proud to wear would now mean their deaths—and a ruthless man somewhere on the island ahead seemed a few swift battles away from claiming the kingdom Blackgult had fallen short of, with the baronies of Brostos, Maerlin, and Ornentar bowing to his writ and wishes. A greater snake than anything the Silverflow might hold.
The river rippled again, carrying away most of Hawkril’s deep growl of anger.
Craer had led the way, striking out from shore the moment full night was down and the river mists had risen, hopefully cloaking them from any watchers on the frowning battlements. Their only hope of reaching the isle without tiring was to swim for the dock and let the river carry them down the length of the fortified island, to the rough outcropping in the otherwise sheer castle walls, where a jetty had been torn away at the orders of Faerod Silvertree—to keep unwanted visitors far from his daughter.
Their only hope of even reaching the castle alive was to get to it before the moon rose and transformed the river into a sheet of rippling silver. Even a yawning guard could hardly miss two heads moving steadily nearer.
Tarry, old moon … for once.…
“Close, now,” Craer gasped, so quietly that Hawkril only just caught the words. As their fingertips brushed wet and slimy stone at about the same time, the procurer added in an almost soundless breath, “Seems like we’ve been in this bebolten river all night!”
He shivered like a swift-wriggling eel as he clawed himself up the broken face of rock, a dark and glistening shadow in front of Hawkril’s nose. They both wore carry-sacks and bore their weapons lashed into goosegreased scabbards … and they were both cold, wet, and having second thoughts about this bold—ah, by the Three, call it true and call it “foolish”—plan.
“Ready?” Craer asked in Hawkril�
��s ear, as the armaragor clambered up onto a rock shelf beside him and tugged off one boot to let far too much river water spill out.
“No, but if we meet a guard, I can always drown him,” the swordmaster muttered, carefully working his boot back on. They both wore their light fightingleathers without the battle padding that, when wet, would have made it too heavy to climb in. At least the walls here were rough set and easy to scale. No doubt the Lords Silvertree, down the years, hadn’t given much thought to the steadily diminishing ranks of thieves idiotic enough to try to drop in on a succession of barons known for their cruelty, slave-dealings, and love of torture. It seemed that the latest flowering of the line, Baron Faerod, was no more vigilant.
“Well, that’s it: he’s doomed now, the fool,” Craer told himself in silent sarcasm, as he wiped his fingertips on the stone walls until he judged them dry enough and reached up to find his first fingerholds.
The palace was somewhere on the far side of the island, with a Silvertree riverboat—according to local gossip, the home of restless Silvertree soldiery set there to intercept attempts by enemies of the baron to use his ferry—anchored not far off its walls.
Hopefully no one and nothing dwelt or guarded the walls just here, where the pavilion and jetty had been torn down, and two desperate men were now making their way up. “Desperate, or just foolish,” Craer grunted, not realizing he’d spoken aloud until he heard Hawkril answer from below.
“Master it, Longfingers: you’re desperate. I’m just foolish, look you?”
Craer grinned into the darkness and climbed on without answering. The going was easy—too easy, old instincts were shrieking at him—and they were almost at the crenellations that topped the wall already. He’d heard and seen no sign of sentries, but …
Straining to make no sound, and to hear even the slight whistle of sliced air a stealthily swung weapon might make, the procurer hauled himself up onto smooth stone strewn with bird droppings—a thankful sign of neglect—between two merlons. The wall was thick and showed not the slightest signs of weathering, here at its top. Not the slightest signs …
The hair rose on the back of his neck. A frowning Craer unlaced the ties on two of his daggers. Then, swallowing, he crawled forward to make room for Hawkril. The armaragor was patting his leg impatiently, wanting to get clear of the danger of a killing fall back down to the cold, waiting river.
A simple, railless walkway ran along the inside of the walls for as far as the lastalan’s eyes could see in either direction, without stair or tower or platform to break its run. It seemed deserted, silent trees standing in thick ranks right in front of them. The walkway was perhaps the height of three men aboveground. It didn’t seem to bear any traps or pitfalls but was in truth largely lost in darkness.
Some spells give off a faint, high singing, an endless keening of aroused magic … but there was no such sound here. The trees had been trimmed to keep ambitious boughs from reaching out to overhang the walkway. Craer looked up and down the deserted curve of the wall, frowning, but could see nothing amiss. Behind him, he could feel more than hear Hawkril’s heavy breathing on his shoulder. Something was wrong.…
He reached back and tapped the armaragor’s arm deliberately, twice—the Blackgultan signal to wait silently until bidden otherwise—and then eased himself forward, keeping low and inching with infinite care, looking for a tripwire that might bring death out of that close and dark foliage. He found nothing.
Unlacing the cords that secured his needle-thin whipblade shortsword, Craer thrust it out before him and waved it around. Its blade was black and dull finished, but the grease that might keep it from rusting glistened in the first light of the rising moon. Nothing happened, even when he touched the walkway and pressed down hard. Then he sighed, shrugged, and stepped forward and down, knowing this was going to be a mistake.
It was, but Hawkril had joined him before something brushed Craer’s leg. He spun away, and felt leather tear. Looking down, he stared at a humanlike arm that had sprouted out of the stones to clutch at him. Another was reaching for Hawkril—and a third!
“’Ware!” he snarled, shoving the armaragor away from him. His skin crawled as he saw a forest of fingertips growing out of the stones, now. “Jump!” he hissed. “We’ve got to get gone before—”
Cruel stone fingers clutched them from all sides.
“Horns!” Hawkril swore, and put his whole body behind a swing of his war sword. Craer heard stone shatter and shards clack and clatter off the stones around the swordmaster, an instant before he bent to hammer with the pommel of his own blade at the stony hands now tightening with crushing force around his own ankles.
“Get off the wall!” he snarled in Hawkril’s direction, twisting and stamping his feet as he whacked aside stabbing fingers of stone.
He heard the tall armaragor grunt with effort, and something struck his leg a numbing blow. Craer felt wetness in his boot—and sudden freedom. He spun away into space, drawing up his knees to land in what he hoped was earth and not spikes or the waiting jaws of some guardian beast.
His heels found soft earth and leaves that tore under him—and then he was rolling desperately out of the way, as an off-balance armaragor, arms flailing, toppled down out of the night almost on top of him. The procurer felt another blow on his leg … and then silence fell. He drew in a deep breath and sprang to his feet, tugging at Hawkril.
“There may be a warning spell! Come!”
The armaragor answered him with a groan and then a curse. As he rolled over to find his feet almost reluctantly, what was left of some spiny, berry-bedecked shrub fell from his back and shoulders. Hawkril looked down, found that he’d crushed whatever it was thoroughly, and waded rather stiffly out of its shattered ruin onto what must be a moss path. The garden ahead was a maze of moon-silvered tree trunks, winding paths, and beds of half-seen, shadowed flowers and shrubs. It seemed to be a succession of gentle hills.
Craer was already a few paces down the path, crouching and peering intently as he drew on soft (and sopping) leather gloves. “They say the baron hunts stags here,” he murmured, “and that his daughter wanders idly about in floral gardens that are probably that way.”
Without another word the procurer set off in the direction he’d pointed, in a sort of crouching run. He seemed to be limping. Ignoring his own pains, Hawkril dug in his heels and lumbered along in pursuit, grumbling, “If she’s wandering around a garden right now, in the dark, it won’t be for idle purposes … not unless she’s a deal less sane than most of us.”
Neither of the intruders saw the wall behind them ripple and bulge, for all the world as if it was pudding being mixed vigorously and not old and massive stone.
One of the crenellations toppled suddenly, and seemed to flow through the walkway and downward rather than crashing and shattering. When it reached the torn flowerbed where the two men had landed, it stopped, and its shape seemed to shift subtly. When it moved again, it walked like a man—a lumbering knight in full armor, visor down and stony blade raised to slay, its free hand wearing a massive spiked war gauntlet.
It moved stiffly, as if a little uncertain of its surroundings, but its course was clear: it was following the intruders, sword raised and ready to slay.
Hawkril thrust his head forward, listening intently. Faint crashings of disturbed foliage could be heard far back along the way they’d come. He frowned. “Dogs?” he asked, puzzled. “No, something that moves more slowly …”
“Come,” Craer said, moving on at a trot. He was limping, and his smile was tight and mirthless. “No doubt we’ll learn what it is soon enough.” A few paces on, he changed direction. “Formal plantings!”
“Whence this sudden fancy for flowers?” Hawkril growled. “’Tis a bit dark, surely, to be admiring blooms!”
The procurer gave him a pity-the-poor-dullard look and explained. “If the Lady Embra wanders idly in floral gardens from time to time, said floral gardens are therefore probably free of sentries or g
uardian beasts. Through the thick helm yet, Tall Post?”
The rustlings and crashings were growing steadily nearer. “Getting there,” Hawkril told his brotherinarms dryly, and joined the gasping procurer in a last sprint toward flowers and open moonlit spaces. The moon was very bright now; the open space ahead shone like a row of candlelit swords in a swordsmith’s shop. Against that shining rose a dark bulk: a rampant watchwyvern, its fearsome beak poised and its glittering gaze bent upon them.
“Graul,” Hawkril gasped, losing his breath for the first time. “What’s this, friend Craer? Rush to thy doom evening?”
“What?”
“Yon—look! The wyvern!”
“A statue, thick helm … see? There’s another, there, and—”
“In this place, they’re probably all real wyverns, made statues by magic until we try to walk past them,” Hawkril complained.
Craer asked mockingly, “Want to be an adventurer, laddy, and use that sword?”
The armaragor noticed, however, that as they ran the procurer shook his strangling wire out of his glove and let it dangle ready in his hand—and that the point of the short sword he bore in his other hand never dipped in the direction of its sheath.
The garden glades were lovely by moonlight; ’twas a pity something was chasing them and that they dared not linger for even a single look into each bower they passed. Ahead, the silver light touched stone balconies and gleamed back from windows.…
That were blotted out an instant later by something large and furred and silent, springing through the air with its gaping jaws agleam!
“Horns!” Hawkril swore, driving his blade at the thing as it plunged past. “’Tis a wolf!”
His steel met the leaping form solidly and tore along its ribs with a rattling impact that sent blood spraying and nearly tore the sword from his grasp. The wolf made no sound of rage or pain—only the snap of its jaws as it pounced on Craer and drove him over backward, biting viciously at his face.