The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades

by Dave Duncan

  “You couldn’t teach manners to a pig.”

  “That’s quite a lute you got this time. Who’d you steal that one from?”

  “It belongs to a friend of mine and you keep your paws off it, you oversized latrine worm!”

  The men-at-arms sitting around on their horses were watching to see if their leader would control his temper or hit a man half his size. Stalwart was too mad to care which happened. But he jumped when Thrusk’s huge hands grabbed at his neck and in one swift motion ripped his shirt and doublet open to the waist.

  “What’s that for?”

  The giant shrugged. “Just a precaution.” He had guessed about Ironhall. Thanks to Snake’s cleverness, he had found the only Blade who did not have a binding scar over his heart, but he was still suspicious. “I could flog you, for starters.”

  “Sure you could, but the reckoning is coming and it’s a lot closer than you think. You’re in over your head, animal.”

  Thrusk guffawed and appealed to his audience. “Listen to who’s calling me an animal!” Some of them laughed, too, although the humor escaped Stalwart. “Well, you won’t be around to sing any songs about it, sonny. The good Doctor has a very special treat in store for you.” Chuckling, Thrusk took the rope and walked back to his horse. Stalwart had no choice but to stagger along behind him on feet that felt like two red-hot bricks.

  “Because,” Thrusk said as he tied the other end to his saddle, “in future you are going to help guard our little nest for us. You’ll be one of our watchdogs. Right now I’m going to take the dog for a run.”

  21

  Sister Cloud

  SISTER CLOUD HAD BEEN EMERALD’S FIRST GUIDE in Oakendown. She was caring and affectionate and did not have a mean bone in her body—and not many other bones either. She was exactly what one would expect an air-love person to be, but she was also exactly what Emerald needed under the present circumstances. She provided sympathy, wash water, fresh clothes, and even her own spare pair of shoes, which were a better fit than those Emerald had been enduring for days. After that she busied herself preparing a meal; she answered questions.

  She had been the first Sister kidnapped, back in the spring. Two others taken after her had tried to escape and been eaten by the chimeras. Swan and her daughter had arrived only a few weeks ago. Emerald told them of her own experiences without mentioning Snake’s conspiracy.

  Cloud, in turn, told her all about Quagmarsh. There were a dozen sorcerers living there. The Doctor was their leader, or possibly his wife was, because it was her fire element that drove their partnership. He was a water-time person, infinitely patient. The rest of the inhabitants, men and women both, were bespelled to complete obedience.

  Emerald asked about chimeras.

  “Abominations! Monsters! He makes them by blending people and animals. Wants to mix human intelligence with animal speed and toughness; thinks he can produce an army of unbeatable warriors and send it to conquer Baelmark and win the war.”

  “What sort of animals?”

  “Anything. He keeps experimenting—rats, dogs, birds. Even cattle and pigs.”

  “So some of them are big?” Emerald, asked, thinking of the seal.

  Cloud rolled her eyes. “They’re all big and keep getting bigger! They roam the fens, eating everything they can get their claws on. And we’re reduced to eating gruel,” she added, handing Emerald a bowl. “All we got. Used to get nice fish.”

  The shadows were growing long, but the bugs were not as bad as before, for the sailors’ wind had risen—the breeze sent by the sea at evening to hasten the boats home. It was taken for granted that Emerald would move in with her fellow hostages, although she had the option of cleaning out one of the empty hovels for herself. The hut would suffice for all of them at a pinch, and company was comfort.

  As the three women and one child sat around on the floor eating their meager supper, Swan began to join in the talk and show a little vivacity, recovering from the agony of being separated from Belle. She might be a very charming woman in normal times, but her disposition was water-love, which was about the worst possible combination to withstand such an ordeal. Her daughter was unwilling even to look at Emerald or sit anywhere but on her mother’s lap. Whatever abuse had provoked their terrors could not be discussed while the child was present.

  Obviously neither Cloud nor Swan would offer much resistance to the traitors’ demands. Emerald vowed that she, as an earth type, would be made of sterner stuff. She did not think this den of horrors could remain secret very much longer. If Sir Snake and his Old Blades did not find it by themselves, the starving chimeras would lead them to it, preying farther and farther afield until they began eating farmers’ livestock. All she had to do was endure until rescue arrived.

  “What exactly will I be required to do?” she demanded.

  Swan’s arms closed protectively around Belle.

  Cloud sighed. “Two or three times a day you get called up to what they call the hall—it’s just a big hut, really. They will have four or five sacks laid out. Without opening them, you have to say which contain something bespelled and which don’t. That’s all.”

  “But you mustn’t lie!” Swan cried. “Carmine will ask you if you have lied, and Cloud and I will be given the same test. You can’t cheat them.”

  “Sometimes they give you the same ones again,” Cloud agreed. “There’s no way to cheat. They get brutal if they think you’re trying to deceive them or if you refuse to cooperate.” She glanced at Belle, who was sucking a finger. “And you may not be the one they make suffer.”

  Emerald pointed in horror at the child, and Cloud nodded. Fair skin that scars easily, Skuldigger had said.

  “I have never heard anything so despicable,” Emerald said. “But I have never witnessed a public execution either. I do hope I can start soon.”

  “Not just watch,” Swan snarled. “I’d like to do it.”

  “Slowly,” said Cloud, and that was the first time Emerald had ever heard her utter a harsh word against anyone.

  22

  Reunion

  EMERALD WAS SUMMONED JUST AFTER SUNSET. The messenger was a vacant-faced youth who bore the discordant whistle of the obedience spell. He seemed little better than half-witted, but when they reached their destination he pointed it out to her and ran off into the twilight. Perhaps he was not as stupid as he seemed.

  “Hall” was an absurd name for what was merely a large shed. It had no door on its hinges or shutters on its windows; its floor was packed dirt, and birds nested in the rafters of a badly sagging roof. There was no furniture, nowhere to sit. It did boast a stone chimney with a fire crackling on the hearth—ominously, on this still-warm summer night. The long metal rod that lay with one end in the coals looked suspiciously like a branding iron. Emerald stopped just inside the door and surveyed the people standing there.

  To her left were Doctor Skuldigger, his over-dressed wife, and two elderly men she did not know. Since they bore no enthrallment spell, she assumed they were sorcerers. Opposite stood Marshal Thrusk and a man-at-arms she recognized from the morning. Between them was Wart, looking much the worse for wear. His eyes were scarlet and swollen, his jaw was puffed out and already turning purple, and his doublet and shirt hung in rags, tattered and grass-stained as if he had been dragged. In an insanity of insanities, he was still clutching his precious archlute, hugging it to him with both arms, not using his hands. But he was still alive, which was a relief; and he smiled lopsidedly at her. She tried to return the smile, being reminded that her face, also, had been bruised by Thrusk’s fist, although not nearly so badly as his.

  She knew why the conspirators wanted her. She was horribly afraid she also knew why they wanted Wart, because the cage with the otter stood just outside the door. She braced herself for whatever was coming, wishing her lower lip did not keep trying to tremble.

  “Aw?” sighed the Doctor. “Here she is. Emerald, I must ask you some questions. Mistress Skuldigger will know if you try t
o lie to us, and in that case I shall have no choice but to order Marshal Thrusk and man-at-arms Foster to punish you severely. I hope you understand that it is kinder to settle the matter once and for all, and teach you obedience right at the beginning. Now, why were you expelled from Oakendown?”

  She told the truth as she knew it—if she had been the victim of a plot, it had not been knowingly.

  “What do you know of Sir Snake?”

  “That he is very stupid and incompetent.”

  “Ah, that is a lie!” Carmine said.

  “Your husband told me so himself.”

  The only person who found that exchange funny was Wart, who laughed. “Don’t believe that one if he tells you day follows—”

  Thrusk hit him. It was not a killer blow, just a backhand slap across the mouth, but it must have hurt like fury on top of the existing bruise. Wart staggered and almost dropped his archlute. When he straightened, he was blinking away tears of pain; blood trickled from his torn lips.

  “Can’t you control that animal, Doctor?” Emerald shouted.

  Thrusk laughed. “I’m not as much animal as he’s going to be very shortly.”

  Skuldigger ignored him. “Aw? What do you know about Snake that I did not tell you?”

  “Nothing but hearsay,” Emerald said. “I never met him.”

  And so on. For a long time she managed to answer without lying. But finally Skuldigger brought her to a fence she could not jump. “Do you think the boy knew that you were bait?”

  “What value have my guesses to you?”

  “Aw? You are evading the question. Marshal, you may start using the iron now.”

  “Yes, sir,” The big man stalked over to the hearth. He showed no signs of reluctance or distaste at what he was about to do. “Hold her, Foster.”

  Before Emerald could turn on her heel and run, the man-at-arms stepped between her and the door, although he did not lay hands on her—not yet. There was nowhere to run to, anyway. She would soon be caught and dragged back, and then either she would be made to suffer more or—much worse!—little Belle would.

  “Of course I knew,” Wart said hoarsely. “I helped Snake plan it all.”

  All eyes went to him. He seemed astonishingly unworried by his peril, brave beyond his years, even if he was as old as he claimed. Again Emerald sensed that odd disturbing something about him that had bothered her before, only this time stronger than ever. There was death in it, and a trace of love, time…it reminded her of some sorcery she had met somewhere recently.

  “Do tell us,” Skuldigger moaned, “everything.”

  Wart shrugged. “What is there to tell? The original idea was Snake’s. The King approved it. Sir Chefney did most of the organizing. I added a couple of details.” He showed no signs of lying, but he was certainly bragging. How could he be so bold? Did he have no idea what the otter was for? “We arranged for Emerald to be expelled from the school with no money and no way out except whatever the Sisters offered. Meanwhile, the Sisters were noting who in Tyton was wearing magic, and Mistress Murther’s was a very unusual magic. So Emerald was put in her path. Bedroom, I mean. When nothing significant happened, I came forward with the wagon and we trailed the bait…. Sorry, Emerald. But it’s true, isn’t it? We trailed the bait until you swallowed it, Skuldigger. Snake and his men made no effort to stop you, of course, because they wanted you to lead them to your lair—which you did. Thank you. They’ll be here shortly.” He stopped, grinning as well as his bruise would let him.

  He was not lying! And now Emerald remembered where she had met that sorcery—on the two Blades she had seen so briefly in the gate-house. Not that Wart was bound as they had been, but whatever she was detecting on him was strangely similar.

  “Mostly true,” Sister Carmine said uncertainly. “That last…he’s not sure…but he’s not really lying….”

  “Explain,” wailed the Doctor. “Marshal Thrusk and his men waited behind to see if anyone followed the wagon when it left the main road. No one did. There was no magic on it or on you. If you are not lying to us, then Snake lied to you. You were misled!”

  “Well, if you won’t believe me,” Wart said haughtily, “then I won’t play your silly games. So there!”

  “Aw? You force us to use force. The iron, Marshal—on the girl.”

  Thrusk chuckled and bent to test the cool end of the iron with a cautious finger, preparatory to picking it up. Wart turned his archlute so the soundbox was on top. Gripping it by its neck, he raised it like a giant club.

  Foster cried out a warning. Thrusk straightened and spun around. They both reached for their swords as Wart swung the long instrument in a great arc overhead. The soundbox crashed into a rafter, exploding in a shower of splinters and inlay—mingled with a deluge of dust and bird droppings. The strings twanged a sonorous dying dirge.

  Thrusk guffawed and let go his hilt. “Didn’t judge that too well, did you, shrimp?”

  Wart reached into the remains of the lute and pulled out a sword. “In the King’s name,” he shouted—voice quavering with excitement—“I, Stalwart, companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, by virtue of the authority vested in me as a commissioner of His Majesty’s Court of Conjury, command that all present do now lay down arms and submit to the Royal Justice.”

  Thrusk drew.

  “Kill him!” one of the older men shouted.

  Wart said, “If you insist,” and bounded across the room.

  23

  Fight

  IT TOOK STALWART THREE STEPS TO REACH HIS foe—and those three steps seemed to last the rest of eternity, as if all time elementals had fled away in terror and the world would never change again.

  On the first step he realized that he was heading into his first-ever real fight with real edges and real points, so he might get killed or maimed very soon. Speed counted for far more than strength, and even Sir Chefney had agreed he was fast, so he would not normally be worried by Thrusk’s size. But this was not normally at all. His hands were not back to their full strength, and he could not even trust his feet, which were just as important. His neck had not recovered from Thrusk’s little dragging games on the horse. He would be slower and weaker than usual; Foster was drawing at his back; both men were wearing armor. This was going to be very tricky indeed! As he completed the step he remembered the latrines at Firnesse and promised himself that he would kill Thrusk if he had to run up the brute’s sword to do it.

  On the second step he was assessing the grip and weight of the weapon he bore. He had never seen it or touched it before and yet it was comfortingly familiar, thanks to Snake’s fore-sight.

  On that wonderful first morning, just after they had changed mounts at the first posting inn and Snake finished outlining the plan, he had said, “You didn’t look at that sword I gave you.”

  In Ironhall, drawing a real sword—as opposed to a practice weapon—while on horseback was cause for some of the most ghastly punishments that could be inflicted on a senior, such as teaching courtly dancing to the soprano class. But Stalwart wasn’t a candidate anymore and an order was an order, so he drew. The blade was long and slender, a thrusting sword almost like a rapier with a single edge added. He didn’t like it much; it was heavier and less wieldy than a pure rapier and not sturdy enough for really serious slashing.

  Beside, the edge was dull and the point rounded!

  He howled in outrage.

  Snake laughed. “No insult intended! That’s as close a match as we could find to the sword you’ll be using on this outing. Want you to get used to it and shaped up on it, too. You have very little time. We’ll give you all the fencing we can—me and Chefney and another couple of hotshots to give you some real workouts. If you’re going to need a sword, brother, you’re going to need it fast. No time for tryouts or practice.”

  That made sense. Mollified, he waved the weapon a few times and managed to slide it back in the scabbard at full canter. “I prefer a rapier.”

  “I kno
w. Just thought something a little more versatile might be useful on this outing. This isn’t going to be any courtly duel, brother. This’ll be mixing it up, roughhousing.” Snake reined in to a trot to give the horses a break. “And you can’t have the real one. It’s inside a lute.”

  “It’s where?”

  “Inside a lute—an archlute, actually, because we needed the length and the extra weight won’t show as much. Lovely thing, cost more than you’ll earn in a ten-year stint with the Guard. We had our man disassemble it and hollow out the neck to take the blade. The hilt’s inside the soundbox. Then he put it all back together and the varnish is still drying. When in need, smash and draw. Just hope it doesn’t bind…”

  It hadn’t, and on his third step Stalwart was assessing his opponent. Thrusk was encased in a helmet and a simple cuirass of breastplate and backplate. There might be gaps where those met, but only a desperate man would gamble on finding them. Below the waist he wore no steel, only breeches well padded with linen, which might not stop a sword stroke completely but would probably save him from serious hurt. Heavy leather riding boots covered his legs to above the knee. There were very few places where Thrusk could be effectively damaged.

  He knew how to handle a sword, too, advancing right foot and right shoulder to meet the attack, holding a hand-and-a-half broadsword one-handed, and raising it to a guard position that in Ironhall’s own distinctive terminology would be approximately Butterfly. He had it a little too high for his opponent’s height, though.

  Hoping to make him raise it even farther, Stalwart lunged at Steeple and was parried to Stickleback. Hmm! Man Mountain was quick in spite of his bulk, and his power was hair-raising. There was no resisting his pressure when the blades engaged. Stalwart parried Thrusk’s riposte with the neck of the archlute and tried Osprey, which was a tricky compound riposte involving a double feint and a lunge under the opponent’s guard. Surprisingly, it did not end with his sword in Thrusk’s armpit as it should have done, but he felt his point catch Thrusk’s upper arm. Whether it just cut the cloth or nicked the skin he could not tell—and it barely mattered, because Thrusk’s recovery put his left foot in the fire. No matter how much a man might trust his boots, that situation would make him lose his focus.