Knights of the Crown w-1

by Roland Green

  He had meant to ease her mind with an assurance that he would not stand between her and Gerik if they wished to remain betrothed. Now he wondered if he had chosen the right time, place, or words. Perhaps this eerie place was unsettling his wits, or at least tangling his tongue.

  “I will fret myself about children when I know who their father will be,” Haimya replied, and now it was Pirvan’s turn to stand mute. Before he regained speech, Haimya had pulled up the rope and lowered herself over the inner side of the wall.

  * * * * *

  Gerik Ginfrayson enjoyed sitting by the fire for more than its warmth. Half of the others seated around it were the muted slave-soldiers of Fustiar’s guard. They might not like him, but they would not mutter sly asides or open insults in hopes of provoking him to draw steel. They could only kill him and, so far, they seemed to fear their mage master too much to do that.

  Furthermore, the fire kept the darkness at bay, and the smoke of the half-sodden wood did the same to the insects. It even fought a rearguard action against the reek of the seldom-cleaned midden pits and the dragon’s lair-tonight, mercifully without its occupant.

  Best of all, the fire was a good long way from the entrance to the tower, which was now guarded by a creature who might be kin to half a score of races but seemed to belong to none of them. Nor was his creation, perhaps in defiance of the gods, the most disquieting thing about him.

  He went about armed with a Frostreaver. As far as Gerik knew, Fustiar had made two that endured, a trifle smaller perhaps than the true Frostreavers but otherwise altogether as potent. They seemed immune to even the heat of a fire, let alone the heat of the jungle, and he had personally seen each of them sever a man’s body at a single blow.

  He would be prepared to bet on the guard creature and his Frostreaver against anything short of a dragon. He would even be prepared to watch that bout, from a safe distance. He was not prepared to calmly approach the seven-foot-tall sentry with his six-foot-high axe except on Fustiar’s direct command-and for some nights past, the mage had been far too flown with wine to command Gerik or anybody else to do anything.

  Gerik hoped the mage would end his bout of wine guzzling tonight, if not before the black dragon returned, then before the dragon awoke and required orders. Something was troubling the beast, putting him out of temper, enough that he’d already killed one of the mutes and crippled another in a burst of wordless rage. The black seemed to have ample command of human speech, but not a word had he spoken to explain what was troubling him.

  Which made matters no easier for Gerik. He no longer cared much what he learned about anything here on the Crater Gulf. He wanted to flee with what he had already learned, and a dragon turning rogue, uncontrolled even by an evil mage, was a potent barrier to flight.

  It was then that the minotaurlike bellow of the guard creature echoed around the walls, bringing everyone to his feet, most weapons to the ready.

  * * * * *

  Haimya was as surprised as Pirvan to see the stairs up into the tower apparently unguarded. Nor did they encounter any magical protections as they approached the base of the eighty feet of ancient stone. The shadows hid them from casual glances, and almost from each other.

  The guard-maid now felt as if a hot stone were lodged in her throat. She could breathe well enough, but swallow only with difficulty. Also, the aches were growing; joints muttered dark protests with each step. Much worse, and she would be more hindrance than help to Pirvan, and she would have to trust him to deal fairly with Gerik-

  No, she did trust him. Pirvan was not the problem. Her own doubts and Gerik’s were the problem. So she had to go on, and if it was her last breath that she used to settle matters with her betrothed, then so be it. Her spirit would rest in peace, and his conscience would be clear, and Pirvan-

  It was then that the man-shape stepped out from under the stairs, rising to its full height. Seven feet or more, with the stature and shape of an ogre, but a beard more like a dwarf’s, clothing that was of all races and none, and in its hands-

  Haimya swallowed. She had never seen one, but no sellsword of her experience failed to study tales of every weapon she might face. Sellsword work sometimes lay far to the south, so there was no dearth of accounts of Frostreavers.

  The head was smaller than she had expected, but the bluish sheen was precisely right, and the handle was longer than she was tall. In the hands of that-of Fustiar’s creation, or else of some god so mad that his or her name was never spoken, even by the servants of the Dark Queen-in those vast four-fingered hands, it would be a terrible weapon.

  Which made it all the more important to deal with this guard, apparently the only one on the tower, before he could alert the camp. That might bring Gerik; it would certainly bring armed men of whose allegiance there could be no doubt.

  “One of us up the stairs, the other wait until our friend follows?” Pirvan suggested. “If the one on top doesn’t go too high, jumping’s safe. Our friend doesn’t look like he can stand much of a fall.”

  That meant putting the creature between them, but unless he had eyes in the back of his head or a second weapon, such a situation had its advantages. She prayed briefly that whoever had contrived this being had left out intelligence, then drew her sword.

  “Chance for who goes up?” She put her hand around the blade halfway up, Pirvan put his hand above hers, and so they continued. It was Pirvan whose hand ended up, waving in the air.

  “Sorry. Always use your own sword for this.”

  The bow they’d captured from the first sentry post had an almost dry string and six arrows that probably would fly true, at least to a target the size of the axe wielder. Haimya took those as well as her sword, and whispered a final suggestion to Pirvan.

  “If Gerik comes out before me, don’t wait. From on top, I can discourage pursuers with the last arrows, then get out of the tower on the other side.”

  This made a number of assumptions that Pirvan did not share, about the likely quality of their opposition. However, this was the wrong time to argue the philosophy of combat.

  Haimya slung the bow, crouched like a runner, then sprinted for the stairs. Pirvan was only two paces behind her at first, then let the distance open.

  As Haimya’s boots struck the stairs, the creature threw back its head and cried out. The sound seemed flung toward the moons themselves, and echoed around the courtyard and from the stones like the cry of a minotaur impaled or burned alive.

  Then Pirvan fell back, drawing his dagger as the creature lumbered around to the base of the stairs. The Frostreaver shimmered-or was it glowing with a light of its own? — then the creature raised it over its head and charged at Pirvan.

  Chapter 20

  Haimya ran up the stairs as fast as Pirvan ran on level ground. This was not quite as remarkable a feat as it might seem, as Pirvan was not running as fast as he could. A few steps were enough to tell him that the axe wielder was somewhat ponderous in its movements. If Pirvan ran full out, he would quickly leave the creature so far behind that it might give up chasing him and follow Haimya up the stairs.

  The plan of catching it between the two of them would then become precarious. Their best chance of eliminating it before the rest of the guards rallied to the tower or Fustiar awoke from besotted slumber to blast them with magic depended on that plan; its going awry would be no small matter.

  Pirvan ran around under the stairs and ducked through the uprights. He hoped the creature would run full-tilt into the uprights, which were roughly dressed tree trunks, hard enough to knock itself senseless, without knocking down the stairs.

  The creature was neither that swift nor that witless. It stopped well short of the collision, turned back to the stairs, and began to climb.

  Fortunately the risers of the stairs left plenty of gaps for a shrewd dagger thrust. Pirvan did not even have to stretch far to thrust his steel into the creature’s foot.

  His problem lay in doing enough damage to draw its attention. He ha
d to strike three times before the creature even broke stride. Only the fourth thrust, which nearly cut off a toe, inflicted a noticeable injury. The creature leaped off the stairs, brandishing the Frostreaver. It went to its knees, nearly dropping its weapon. It tightened its grip before Pirvan could close and try to snatch up the Frostreaver, however, then lurched to its feet, spun ponderously about, and struck wildly at the thief.

  The blow missed Pirvan by the width of a fingernail; he felt the puff of air on his cheek. He leaped aside and backward in one movement, slashing hard at the nearer arm. Only the tip connected, but the creature halted for a moment to shift its grip.

  In that moment an arrow sliced down from above and struck the creature in the neck. The arrow hit harder than Pirvan’s dagger, against thinner skin than the creature’s leather-tough soles. It pierced the hairy hide, to reach important blood.

  The creature waved the Frostreaver wildly with one hand and clutched at its neck with the other. It weaved and lurched, but did not fall. Instead it flung itself once again at the stairs, taking them two at a time. Now it climbed too fast for Pirvan to run under the stairs and discourage it. After letting it get a few steps ahead of him, beyond the swing of the great axe, he followed it.

  He tried to keep that safe distance and at the same time be close enough to strike if the creature faltered. It had to be in pain and weakening, but it showed no signs of faltering or even slowing. Nor did it seem to remember that there might be something dangerous behind it. All its bloodlust was turned entirely on Haimya, who had wounded it. It would let the rest of the world go by until it had settled with her.

  Pirvan’s experience was that fighters who forgot to watch their backs frequently did not last very long against skilled opponents. However, there was always such a thing as brute strength and speed doing the work of shrewdness and vigilance. This guard creature with the Frostreaver was one such.

  Pirvan had wondered why Fustiar had put the Frostreaver in the hands of such a powerful but unskilled fighter. He now understood that the creature had perhaps been bred with some inborn skills.

  This gave Pirvan a higher opinion of the mage’s powers, which was not a pleasant thought. It also solved no part of the fight at hand.

  Haimya was near the top of the stairs. She faced the creature, with that bent-knee stance that said she was ready to jump. Her sickness seemed to have taken little of her speed. He hoped her agility had likewise survived. She would be coming down on rough ground, from far too high to have a good chance of landing unhurt. Nor would it take a grave injury to make her easy prey for either the creature or the human guards who would soon be rallying to the tower.

  It occurred to Pirvan that, in trying to do perhaps too many things at once, he and Haimya had contrived to finally lose the advantage of surprise, about all that would let two people confront a small army and live. Had they marched in with trumpets and drums, they might have learned nothing about Fustiar, but they might have had more success in encountering Gerik Ginfrayson and speaking with him.

  The good will of the lords of Istar toward the brothers and sisters of the night work was not worth Haimya’s life-and Pirvan had more than a few doubts that the blood would end with her (or even with him).

  The creature lurched two steps upward. It seemed unsteady on its massive legs, and Pirvan saw that the stairs behind it were red and glistening. At least it shed something that looked like blood, rather than some vitalizing fluid conjured out of Fustiar’s evil learning.

  Then it seemed that everything happened at once. The creature took another step, then swung the axe. Haimya leaped to one side, thrusting upward with her sword. The axe smashed into the door, tearing through the ironbound portal as if it were silk. Pirvan did not see where the sword went.

  He did see Haimya hanging by one arm from the stairs. He saw the creature whirl, heard it let out a terrible, half-choked, bubbling scream, and saw that it no longer wielded the Frostreaver. One empty hand lashed out for Haimya, she slashed at it, and the fingers closed on the sword blade. A jerk, and the creature held Haimya’s sword in a bloody hand.

  Then it hissed like a caveful of serpents, threw up its hands, and toppled backward, so swiftly that Pirvan could not clear the way in time. He was lucky enough not to be caught, borne down to the ground, and crushed to pulp under the creature’s massive weight. But it flailed about as it fell, and one of those flailing hands crashed into Pirvan’s left arm. He felt the bone snap; he thought he would have heard it go if the creature hadn’t screamed again.

  Then the creature struck the ground with a thud that jarred the stairs and sent pain shooting up Pirvan’s broken arm. He ignored it, covering the last few steps to Haimya at a run. One arm was enough to grip her free hand and help her swing up to the temporary safety of the stairs.

  Much too temporary for comfort. She’d lost her sword, he’d lost the use of one arm, and they had between them four arrows, three arms, two daggers, and one bow.

  They also had the Frostreaver, at least in the sense that no one else could wield it against them. Whether its possession made any other difference remained to be seen, but to Pirvan seemed unlikely.

  “Good company to die in” was an old adage, and it was true here. Truer still, to Pirvan, was his opinion that Haimya would be good company to live in.

  He had to drag the Frostreaver with his good arm, but it went inside with them as they staggered through the ruins of the door into the lowest accessible chamber of Fustiar’s tower. It scraped and squealed on the floor, and Pirvan had a nightmare conceit that it was alive and protesting the change of ownership.

  Which, given Fustiar’s evident powers, was not altogether impossible.

  * * * * *

  Gerik led the six guards rallying to the tower. They didn’t really have enough intact humans to guard the place if neither Fustiar nor the black dragon were battle-worthy. Even taking six such to the tower would leave the gate and the ruins close to the dragon’s lair scantily protected, and that by mutes.

  Gerik quickly saw that six at the tower might be too few. The guard creature lay sprawled on the ground, its sightless eyes fixed on the clouds, two ghastly wounds in its neck besides the injuries it had taken in falling. Also, the Frostreaver was nowhere in sight.

  What was in sight was the door at the top of the stairs, splintered as if by a giant fist-or perhaps a Frostreaver. Gerik turned to the nearest man with a torch.

  “Give me your torch. I’m going up alone.”

  The man gaped. So did most of his comrades, particularly the man who’d fought the tree spirit up in the hills.

  “Ah-one’s not enough-”

  “If Fustiar is awake, he can deal with them. If he sleeps as usual, one is enough to keep any human foes busy until he does wake. If the foes aren’t human, one is enough to die learning that. If I don’t come out, no heroic rescues. Do you swear that?”

  The men straightened. “No, we won’t. We’ll at least try to learn what befell you, then take word to Synsaga.”

  Gerik threw up his hands. “Kiri-Jolith watch over you all.” They might be pirates, but there was some good and more than a little honor in anyone who would face unknown menaces for an almost equally unknown leader.

  The gods have a most peculiar sense of humor, to make me a respected leader of righting men under these circumstances, he thought.

  Gerik strode forward, sword in hand, passing the dead creature and slowing as he reached the slippery stairs. He would have thought better of his courage had he not gained a detailed description of the “tree spirit” from her victim. It could be a description of many women, but few of these were accomplished fighters, and only one accomplished female fighter was likely to be roaming the Crater Gulf shore at this time.

  A reunion with Haimya under these circumstances suggested that the gods’ sense of humor was worse than peculiar. One might say bizarre or even cruel, not without impiety but also not without truth.

  * * * * *

  For the first
time since she’d been aware of her sickness, Haimya wanted to curl up in a corner and lie there until death or healing came. She had poured her remaining strength into that fight on the stairs, and though the creature was dead, she wondered how long she and Pirvan would outlive it.

  Pirvan let the Frostreaver fall with a final clatter and looked about the chamber. It had clearly been a hall of some sort, in the castle’s youth. Then it had been cut up into cells or small chambers by wooden partitions, but even the inhabitants of those chambers were long dead and the wood long rotted. The hall was ankle deep in dust and rotten fragments, which would make for treacherous footing when it came to the final fight.

  Haimya did not seek a corner, but she did sit cross-legged in the debris and put her head down, until she felt her wits and breath return. Pirvan had unslung his pack and was rummaging bandages, salves, and healing potion out of it.

  Or rather, he rummaged out the flask that had held healing potion. A large crack across its base told them where the contents had gone.

  “Have you any?” he asked.

  “Less we need for both of us. I have taken some, or I might not be here.” She wished she had taken either more or less.

  “I wish you weren’t, Haimya. I wish you were in a warm bed a long way from here, with a jug of wine and a plate of cakes on the table beside the bed. I wish you wore a silk bedrobe and perfume. I wish-”

  His voice sounded ready to break, and she felt her face going red. Then footsteps sounded on the stairs, a shadow loomed in the doorway, and another voice spoke. She knew it well, knew but did not care for the gentle mockery it held, and felt herself going even redder.

  “Friend, who are you to conjure up such pictures of my betrothed? Or were you wishing that I was beside her in the bed?”

  “Gerik,” Haimya said. She tried to rise, then realized that one leg had cramped under her. She tried to straighten it, but before she could Gerik had come over to her and was helping her to her feet.

  She wanted to brush off both his aid and the dust from the floor, but that would have taken three hands. She contented herself with stepping away from him and brushing herself.