Realms of infamy a-2

by Ed Greenwood

  In truth, Castle Stone’s unusual garden was the fortification’s only real claim to fame. Two hundred years past, wild rose hips planted in a small bower at the center of the main courtyard had grown into stunningly beautiful roses, red as new-spilled blood and thorned like morning stars. More luck than skill had allowed them to prosper and bloom over the decades, but their remarkably deep color caused the castle lord to claim them as his own. From that day to the present, the lord’s banners all bore the blood-red rose as their emblem.

  Those same banners had been flying at half-mast for two days now, ever since death had come for the old lord of the keep. The new Lord Stone, filled with the foolishness of youth, thought himself a builder of empires. He reorganized the sixty-man army, set his accounts to right, and replaced all his father’s advisors with younger, more farseeing men.

  This wasn’t to say that the new Lord Stone’s thoughts were focused only on matters far afield. Musing, the young nobleman wondered if there shouldn’t be a new symbol for his domain, a unicorn or great dragon, something to gain him respect-or even fewer snide remarks-from his enemies. At the very least, it was time to get rid of the gardener. The old sot had been at his post for five decades, at least.

  Pleased with his decision, Lord Stone sent his young chamberlain with the appropriate orders. The head of the household hurried to obey his lord’s wishes, his scepter of office thudding against the stone floor in staccato rhythm. For his part, Lord Stone turned his mind toward another matter vital to the keep’s continued prosperity-the menu for dinner.

  He had barely decided upon a choice of soups before the seneschal’s scepter came thudding quickly back.

  “There is a slight problem, milord,” murmured the head of the household. “Goodman Grim… refuses to retire.”

  “What!” Lord Stone bellowed. “When I give an order, I expect it to be carried out!”

  “I understand, milord. I agree.”

  “Well, why wasn’t it?”

  The seneschal toyed nervously with his heavy chain of office. “I tried to tell Grim your command honored him, that you were rewarding him with retirement. He didn’t see it that way.” Swallowing hard, he added, “He’s still out there, digging at the roses. I could hardly have him hauled away from his post. Grim has-begging your pardon and with all due respect-been in your father’s and grandfather’s service. He’s rather popular with the rest of the staff, and such a scene might cause unrest in the household.”

  “Unrest indeed!” The young nobleman jumped from his throne and stomped out of the chamber. “We’ll see about this!”

  All Grim had ever wanted to do was tend Castle Stone’s roses. Forsaking all other possible careers-including a promising apprenticeship with a traveling mage-the frail, bent gardener had grown up, grown wise, and grown very old working with his lord’s beloved plants. He fondly remembered his father, who had been the gardener before him, bringing him to the castle to view the prized plants. Their huge buds and gentle fragrance had entranced him even at that tender age; the young Grim had cultivated a garden of his own, nursed with loving care and the little magic he’d picked up almost instinctively, but none of his hundreds of blooms could ever equal one of the castle’s roses. He’d sworn then and there that growing the special flowers would be his life’s work.

  “Now, after all these years, they want me to go. If old Lord Stone were alive, he’d give them what for. There was a man for you. There was a man who appreciated the care it takes to raise roses.”

  Grim dug his hoe into the earth with more force than usual. Each stroke of the tool punctuated a colorful but silent insult he directed toward the new Lord Stone.

  The sound of footsteps in the garden finally drew him from his angry reverie. Turning, he saw his new lord and the new lord chamberlain. He bent his head in respect, but didn’t kneel, as he would have to the old castle ruler.

  The lord was a well-fed strapping young man, full of the strength of youth. The run from the throne room to the bower hadn’t even winded him. That couldn’t be said for the chamberlain. Of the same age as his master, he was bent over, gulping in huge breaths. It took both hands gripped tightly on his scepter just to keep him on his feet.

  “Grim, what’s this I hear you won’t retire?” Lord Stone began without prelude. “Listen, everyone needs to retire sometime or other. It’s time for new blood here at Castle Stone, men with new ideas-in every office. That’s what Progress is all about.” He waited for Grim to nod his agreement. When the old gardener merely stood there, staring blankly, he continued. “Perhaps I’m not making myself clear. Be a good fellow and run along. We’re giving your job to someone else. There, that’s an end to it”

  The lord turned to leave, smiling at a job well done.

  ‘That’s far from the end!” Grim wailed. “After all these years of service, I’m not going to be thrown into the dung heap just because your lordship is foolish enough to think he’s done with me!” Each word was louder than the last, until the gardener was fairly shrieking. “I’ve worked for this castle and the lords of this castle since before you were born! You’ve no right to set me aside this way!”

  Old Grim’s face grew perilously red, almost the hue of one of his prized buds. He could see the anger growing in the young lord, too, but he didn’t care. He raised his hoe to punctuate his words. “I’ll not-”

  That was the last straw for Lord Stone. No subject of his-especially not this withered old weed puller-was going to raise a weapon against him. He picked up the skinny old man, lifted him effortlessly over his head, and threw him with great force into the cold stone wall of the arbor. Grim’s body made a crunching sound as it hit, then slid wetly down the wall. Skin broke, ancient bones broke, and the old man’s heart broke.

  But as his blood pumped from his torn flesh, into the ground of his beloved rose garden, Grim raised his eyes to his murderer. “Curse you and your li-”

  Grim’s final words went unheard. The lord was already on his way out of the gardens. He was a busy man, after all, and the matter of the dinner menu was far from resolved.

  “Clean that mess up,” Lord Stone called over his shoulder to the chamberlain. “And make sure none of Father’s roses were damaged.”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ll see to it right away”

  The chamberlain dutifully made a circuit of the rose garden, thankful not to find one damaged flower. He made a mental note to find a new gardener to start the next day, then hurried to his other tasks.

  It took nearly an hour for the guards to get around to removing Grim’s body-Lord Stone had sent most of the troops to the village, scurrying like trained hogs after truffles. By then, everyone in the castle and village knew what had taken place. And those who predicted nothing good would come of Grim’s untimely death were absolutely right.

  Grim’s blood, tainted by his curse, oozed over the freshly turned earth and sloshed against the inner wall of the castle garden. Soaking into the well-tilled dirt, the crimson fluid bathed the roots of the largest rose bush. In brief hours the root system had fed on the wetness and transformed. Root hairs and root tendrils thickened and grew coarse. The earth began to ripple and shift in the rose bed.

  No apparent change occurred in the exposed part of the bush until later that night, when the moon’s light caressed the plant’s leaves. A soft rustle of its pliant vines marked its pleasure. Thickening, the rose’s leaves and stems spread at unnatural angles and lengths to claim as much of the moonlight as possible.

  Growing, doubling, even tripling in size, the cursed rose bush spread it sickness swiftly. It joined itself to the other roses in the garden, melding the root systems together into a gigantic, pulsing network beneath the soil. Rose thorns became huge hollow daggers along the pliable vines. The outside of every rose petal grew thorny teeth that sucked the life from the flies, moths, and bugs that ventured too close. The root system was busy, too, searching out and spearing every worm, grub, and beetle in the earth.

  A smooth, mel
on-sized gall developed at the monstrous plant’s center. The gall’s white markings pulsed in the last rays of the setting moon. The thing could sense the many life-forms contained in the castle, life-forms that offered more sustenance than the insects it had consumed until now. Slowly, stealthily, it sent creepers out to investigate.

  The rising sun, however, with its harsh and unpleasant light forced the leafy spies to retreat before they could learn anything of value. The monstrous rose shrank back against the walls, shifting its bulk into the shadows. It was considering some other way to investigate the castle when voices just outside the garden gate drew its attention; it didn’t really understand what the creatures were saying, but that didn’t matter. Its interest in the creatures was more basic than conversation.

  “The roses and the garden are behind that gate. It’s never guarded, so you’ll be able to come and go as you please.”

  “Yes, Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Take your duties seriously. You’ve been given a great honor.”

  “Yes, Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Do a good job every day. Lord Stone and everyone else here at the keep takes those roses very seriously.”

  “Yes, Lord Chamberlain.”

  “Now get to work.” The chamberlain thudded off to attend to several hundred other less-than-thrilling assignments given him by young Lord Stone.

  Foley Cornbottom, left standing at the garden gate, was not a happy man. He’d been plucked from his fields and informed that he was the new gardener of Castle Stone. Not that he wouldn’t enjoy the position in and of itself, but Lord Stone didn’t pay enough for him to abandon his farm completely, and he couldn’t imagine how he was going to manage both jobs. And then there was the manner in which his predecessor had been hurried on his way to the Realm of the Dead.

  Still, there wasn’t a thing to be done about it. When confronted by armed guards who tell you the lord will be very upset if you turn away his offer — well, you can only nod a lot and smile. With a sigh of resignation, Foley set about surveying his new domain.

  “What do we have here?” At first, Foley’s eyes grew huge at the impossibilities around him. His mind filled with wonder at the size and color of the plants. He’d heard about them from old Grim, but no commoner was ever allowed in the lord’s gardens to see the legendary roses for himself.

  And these were truly marvelous. Each blossom was the size of a man’s head, and the flowers all faced the garden path. It was almost as if… well, they seemed to be looking at him! A shiver of fear scrabbled down Foley’s spine.

  “Never mind that, Goodman Cornbottom. You’ve got a job to do and you’d better get to it.” He tapped his chin and looked about. ‘There’s where you should start. That obviously doesn’t belong here.”

  Foley’s rough hands reached into the shadows for the melon-sized gall. Lifting it, he noticed an unusually thick tangle of thorny vines connecting it to the earth. One of the thorns scraped along his palm, but it didn’t draw blood; he’d been tending plants for over a decade now, and his hands were tougher than thick leather.

  “A gall like this should’ve been cut clean long ago. What could old Grim have been thinking?” He turned the gall roughly. “Maybe he just never noticed you, eh?”

  The cursed vegetation tried to shrink back; the gardener only gripped it tighter. The rose monster ached to absorb this creature, but the skin on its hands was like stone. Perhaps there was another way…

  Vines with long, hollow thorns reached out behind the gardener. They quickly snaked up Foley’s legs, wrenching his hands away from the gall, pinning his arms to his side. The thorns penetrated at the neck and began to draw out the man’s life. And with the blood and marrow, the thorns drained something else from the gardener-his will and his intellect.

  Shocked at the sudden insight Foley’s mind afforded it, the plant paused. It did not kill the gardener as it had the flies and earthworms. It only drained enough of his life-force to sustain itself, enough of the man’s mind to leave him a helpless slave. Then the plant fell back, sated.

  Weak from the effort and reeling from its new perception of the world, the monstrous rose rested. As it did, Foley cleared some bothersome rocks away and watched for intruders until the sun set and the soothing light of the moon bathed the garden.

  Refreshed and certain it could protect itself once more, the plant sent the glassy-eyed Foley away, but ordered him to return with the sun-along with more of his kind.

  Late the following morning, Lord Stone took a stroll past the garden. He’d just finished debating the captain of the guards about the color of his troops’ new uniforms. Earlier he’d had a row with the chamberlain over the finer points of menu-planning. He talked to himself as he walked; it was a habit he’d fostered since the day he’d proclaimed himself the only fit conversationalist in the keep.

  “Well, that’s a good morning’s work!” The nobleman laughed to himself. He couldn’t see how the domain had survived all those years without his enlightened rule.

  “A little sword practice is just the thing right now,” he announced. “I mustn’t let myself get too out of shape — though it would be easy enough to do, sitting on a throne all day. Off to the practice field with me, then. It’ll be good for the troops to see their leader working — “

  It was then that the smell hit him.

  “What in Tyr’s blind eyes is that? It smells like someone built a slaughterhouse in the rose garden. Foley!” Lord Stone bellowed as he flung open the gate and stormed into the arbor. “What do you — “

  Foley and the castle cook had just upended a barrel of blood into the garden’s earth. They stood there, slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, staring at Lord Stone.

  The nobleman shared their dumbfounded expression, though his was born of shock. His father’s beloved roses had turned into monster things with thorns as long as daggers. Half-eaten pigs and chickens lay everywhere, entangled in vines. Then he saw three of his castle guards and the blacksmith spitted on thorns, expressions of horror on their ripped faces.

  A watermelon-sized gall lifted on a thorny tendril and moved toward Lord Stone. The nobleman raised his sword and swung powerfully at the gall, but hardened rose vines caught the blade midswing. Other vines smashed thorns into Stone’s bare arms and neck. Like Foley and the cook before him, Lord Stone gained a new appreciation for roses. “This plant must prosper and be properly fed, Foley,” Lord Stone said dully when the plant had finished with him. “I’ll order you more helpers. We’d best double the guard around the castle walls, too. Can’t be too careful, eh?”

  “Stop right there!” The gate guard called. “Who do you think you are, trying to enter Castle Stone without so much as a by-your-leave?” The gruff soldier, backed by three of his equally gruff fellows, raised his pike to stop the riders from crossing the wide drawbridge.

  The smaller of the two travelers was a squire, dressed all in red and feeling rather self-important. He rode a few paces ahead of his lord and stopped. “Since when is it necessary to answer questions before entering Stone Keep-especially for such an important knight as my master? Any king or baron worth the title would gladly welcome him at table!”

  The squire glanced back, looking for approval, but found only a frown on his master’s face. He probably should have waited for the knight to speak, but the upstart gate guards had irritated him so!

  “Back off, spratling!” The commanding gate guard snorted his disregard, then flourished his pike. “Your master will speak to me, or I’ll run you both out of here in a heartbeat. Now, who are you and what do you intend with the folk in the castle?”

  “Who am I, you ask?” There was a forced sense of wonder in the knight’s voice. He spurred his massive war-horse forward. The mount’s snort seemed as dismissive as the guard’s had been. “Is this Castle Stone?”

  “It is.” The guard planted the butt of his pike in the ground, aiming the blade at the armored chest of the great beast in front of him. Stop the mount and you stop the r
ider, his father used to say.

  “Is this still Castle Stone, ruled by my good friend, the ancient Lord Stone?” Before the guard could answer, the knight turned his handsome features to the sky and added, “And is it not now highsun, the one time of day this castle has always allowed travelers entrance to escape the heat?” Now there was a note of genuine incredulity in the warrior’s voice.

  “Things have changed here,” the guard said coldly. “But I’ll not be discussing that with you until you tell me what your business is with the castle.” The gate guard signaled a brace of crossbowmen to appear on the upper wall.

  The knight tipped his war visor down, preparing to deal out a few bruisings if necessary. The squire mirrored his movements and unsheathed his morning star.

  “I’m Sir Ganithar, known as ‘the Hammer Knight* to some, or simply ‘the Hammer.’ I’m a member in good standing of the High Moor Heroes’ Guild. I have just returned from three years of highly successful adventuring in the ruins of the Fallen Kingdom, if you must know. I now intend to spend at least a month in the tubs of this castle’s only inn. I’m going to eat something other than trail rations and spend my afternoons looking at every pretty woman bold enough to pass my way. Do you have a problem with that?” The last was said hopefully, as if the knight wanted a challenge.

  The guard quickly lowered his pike and handed it to one of his fellows, then signaled the archers away. His disdainful expression was one of bemusement, if not outright fear. If what he’d heard about this warrior was true, he didn’t want to be the one responsible for bringing about the ruin of the castle’s front gate. “The Hammer,” he said lamely. “Er, sorry I didn’t recognize you.”

  The guard knew the tales of Sir Ganithar the Hammer as well as his own life story. It was said that the knight’s enchanted warhammer was a thing of the gods. Others said Ganithar could walk unseen into any well-guarded place and take whatever he wanted.