The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades

by Dave Duncan

  The long expanse of paving between her and Main House was gritty and cold, but it was too late to claim to be on business now. She set off. Her tormentors shouted a few insults at her, but they soon grew bored, as they always did when the Brat failed to fight back.

  One said, “Come on! I’m starving!”

  A deeper voice cried, “Stop!”

  Emerald settled back on her heels hopefully. The newcomer was Prime Candidate Marlon.

  “If you set the Brat a penance, Intrepid, then you must stay and make sure he performs it correctly. That goes for all of you who agreed with the punishment.”

  Groans.

  Intrepid shrugged. “Awright! Brat, you can walk.”

  By the time Emerald was upright, the rat pack was heading for breakfast at full speed—all except Servian, who, tying a shoelace, lingering within earshot.

  “Thank you, Prime,” Emerald said.

  Marlon smiled. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” she asked warily.

  “The story going around is that you’re an illegitimate son of the King and that’s why Grand Master is shielding you.”

  “Is he shielding me?”

  “Somebody is and it must be him.”

  “Well, I am definitely not any relation to His Majesty.”

  “Son of a noble, though?”

  She did not think she was anybody’s son. “That’s not the reason.”

  “Well, take care,” Marlon said softly. “There are some who resent your success. If they can nab you at a good time and place, they may try some catch-up.”

  They both looked at Servian’s retreating back.

  Having established that Grand Master had no need of her services that morning, Emerald made herself useful helping Master of Archives decipher some ancient records. Her eyes were better than his and she wrote a fair hand. He was so impressed that he predicted she would be Master of Archives one day, after serving her ten years or so in the Guard. That prophecy seemed no more believable than her royal birth.

  Around noon a revolting stench of magic suddenly became evident in the record office. Emerald dropped her quill and gabbled an apology as she fled out the door. Tracking down anything so repulsive was an easy task, although a highly unpleasant one. She went outside and saw a four-horse wagon standing below the steps into Main House. Something horrible had arrived in Ironhall.

  The inevitable fencing lessons were under way all over the yard, although the equally inevitable handful of juniors had run over to gawk at the team. Grand Master himself was conferring with the carter, an unmistakable squat, roly-poly man. Emerald forced herself to walk closer and soon detected his inquisitors’ binding spell under the other magic. Fish-eyed Master Nicely had come in person.

  Would he know her? If he was here on the King’s business, then it would not matter whether he did or not. But why, if he were, did the crates in his wagon contain something so loathsome and deadly? A traitor, even an inquisitor traitor, might give himself away when he discovered a White Sister inspecting his behavior.

  She went to stand at Grand Master’s side, shivering in the odious magic aura. She knew that spell. Once at Oakendown she had been shown a sample of that sorcery, or one very similar. Then it had been on a tooth as big as a man’s thumb—a tooth that had been dug out of the jaw of one of the monsters that had ripped their way into Greymere Palace on the Night of Dogs.

  Grand Master was in a foaming temper. He clutched a letter in both hands, kneading it as if about to rip it in half. Emerald could not make out the seal on it, but she would have bet her grandmother, if she still had one, that she would recognize it when she did.

  “…don’t believe me,” Nicely said, “then why not open the noble lord’s letter and see for yourself?”

  “I resent your insolence and insubordinate attitude.” Grand Master, after all, was a Blade and must share all Blades’ feelings about the Dark Chamber. He swung his scowl at Emerald like a saber. “Brat, go and tell Master of Horse that we need four men to move furniture.” Then he noticed the gaping juniors and unleashed a roar that scattered them like chaff in the wind.

  The Brat ran to the stable. She had abandoned her original shoes some days ago in favor of a smaller pair, looted from the wardrobe stores. No one had mentioned that her feet had shrunk. She returned in a few minutes with two stablemen and two of the younger kitchen hands. By then Grand Master was fuming in silence on the steps and Nicely had the tailgate down.

  “This one and these two, if you would be so kind,” he said prissily. “Will you lead the way, please, Sir Saxon?”

  He still had not spared Emerald a glance, so she stuck to Grand Master’s shadow as he crossed the entrance hall and headed up the great staircase to the royal suite.

  “His real name is Nicely,” she said quietly. “Senior Inquisitor Nicely. He has murderous sorcery in those boxes.”

  Her only answer was a scowl. By the time he unlocked the imposing main doors, though, Grand Master had made one of his lightning mood changes. He welcomed the inquisitor with a smarmy smile.

  “This is the presence chamber, although His Grace rarely uses it as such.” He gestured vaguely at the chair of state, the writing desk, and other furnishings. “That door leads to the robing room and bedchamber.”

  “And those have barred windows, I understand.” Master Nicely prowled around, nodding his polished-ball head approvingly at the balcony and the large windows. “Yes, this will have to be the place. Ah, put it down there on the rug, men…gently, now!”

  The four puffing porters were struggling under the first of the inquisitor’s crates. It was large enough to hold two dead bodies, and the men’s expressions suggested it was also heavy enough. Emerald’s suspicions of what it held were enough to make spiders run up her back. And the other two boxes were almost as big.

  “Brat! Go and put this in my study.” Grand Master thrust the Chancellor’s letter at her.

  She said, “Yes, Grand Master,” and departed. She had a clear impression that he did not want Inquisitor Nicely to recognize her. She suspected he already had.

  Grand Master could certainly have tucked the paper in his jerkin pocket. Emerald could therefore jump to the conclusion—if she chose—that what he really wanted was for her to read the letter.

  She so chose.

  The seal was not the Chancellor’s, as she had expected, but the writing was. The message was very terse.

  Honored Grand Master:

  You are charged in the King’s name that you give all necessary aid to the bearer of this missive, who travels as Master Cabinetmaker Nicely. He brings new furnishings for the royal suite, which need be installed in haste, as Princess Vasar of Lukirk follows betimes.

  I have the honor to be, etc.,

  Durendal, Knight

  17

  Contact

  THAT DAY THE TRAFFIC IN HOLMGARTH WAS unusually heavy. The sun shone bright but gave no warmth; silver frost lingered in the shadows, and Stalwart’s breath steamed as much as his barrow. All morning he trudged, paused to scoop, and then trudged on. Around and around and around. At intervals he wheeled his load over to the farm wagon. Up the ramp, tip, and run down again. All the time he must keep searching faces, studying everyone who came into the yard.

  The Royal Guard rode in around noon. Suddenly the posting yard was full of blue uniforms, cat’s-eye swords, and familiar laughter. Not all the Guard was there, of course, just an advance party of a dozen, about as many as the staff could handle at one time. Sir Herrick wore the officer’s sash. There were senior guardsmen with him—men who had been escorting His Majesty to Ironhall for years, who had given Stalwart scores of fencing lessons there: Brock, Flint, and Fairtrue, one of the heroes of the Night of Dogs…. There was Raven, who had been Prime when Stalwart was the Brat, and youngsters who had been his friends until their binding only months ago: Fury, Charente, Hector….

  Stalwart panicked. He turned his barrow and ran for the stalls as fast as he could zigzag be
tween horses and people and vehicles. He was doing this for his King, and there was no shame in it, and one day soon he would be on duty in the palace with those men, dressed as they were, strutting around. Then, perhaps, this would be an amusing memory. They could all laugh at how they had failed to see the Chancellor’s spy serving his King with a shovel, right under their turned-up noses. But, oh!—what if they didn’t fail to see him? What if he were recognized now? He had foreseen the problem, of course, but the true horror of it had not dawned on him until this moment, and he could not face it. Sweat streamed down his ribs.

  He hid in an empty stall, cowering in a corner behind his barrow, until his heart stopped racing, his breath stopped sobbing, his stomach almost stopped churning. But the problem did not stop. Duty did not stop. Coward! Poltroon! He was running away, shirking. Silvercloak might be out there right now, this very minute, a wolf hiding among the guard dogs.

  He must go back. Shivering and sick with apprehension, Sir Stalwart pushed his stinking barrow out into the yard again and returned to work. He had fought with naked blades against the King’s enemies and it had taken less effort than that.

  Most of the blue liveries had vanished into the inn. Herrick was chatting with fat Sherwin outside the office. Stalwart pushed his barrow right past them, almost under the Sheriff’s beetling belly, and neither man flicked him a glance. After that he felt better. He watched faces, being careful not to make eye contact with Blades. He did not see Silvercloak, and he was almost surprised when Herrick shouted to mount and the Guard sprang into saddles. They trotted away, leading a couple of spare mounts.

  Wart could breathe again.

  “Nicely done, Pimple.” Sherwin grinned through his beard to show he meant no harm.

  “You did notice!”

  “I did. He didn’t. There’s more on the way, o’ course.”

  From one trip to the next, the Guard never repeated its procedures exactly. That day the King did not appear, although he was obviously in the neighborhood somewhere. No doubt the spare mounts were for him, for he must always have the freshest, in case of emergency. Later Bandit led in a second party, and Dominic a third. They changed horses and departed, never noticing their brother Blade dueling dunghills with his trusty shovel. Wart began to feel much better. If he could fool the entire Guard, then the joke would be on them.

  He hoped his name would not get twisted into something like “Stall-worker.”

  The rest of the Guard bypassed Holmgarth and went on to the next posting house. To have taken every usable horse would have shut down the highway for other traffic, and they had come close enough. They had taken all the King’s stock and all the best of the others.

  As the sun touched the rooftops, Stalwart realized that Ambrose must be almost at Starkmoor by now. The immediate crisis was over, but the real game might be about to begin. If Silvercloak intended to ply his foul trade at Ironhall, he must follow close on the King’s heels. He must come tonight or tomorrow at the latest.

  The yard was chaotic. Coachmen and gentlemen travelers alike were screaming at the inferior quality of the stock being offered, arguing ten times as long as usual, driving the grooms to distraction, demanding to see five times as many choices, inspecting hooves, teeth, hocks in endless detail. They all had long leagues to go and the sun was setting. The inn was full. Tempers blazed. The yard boys were being worked twice as hard as usual, with far less space to do it in. One certain way to earn a beating was to foul a gentleman’s cloak in passing.

  Stalwart made a necessary trip to the wagon, ran his empty barrow back down the ramp, had a near miss with a horse—

  “Look out, you clumsy churl!”

  He spun around in dismay, knowing the voice. Two more Blades were just dismounting, having ridden in while his back was turned.

  It was Dragon, with Rufus beside him. Both in uniform. There were a hundred reasons why these two might be straggling behind the rest of the guard, and none of them mattered. Rufus had been next ahead of Stalwart in Ironhall, and Dragon next ahead of him. They had been bound the day Stalwart should have been bound. They were long-term friends. They knew him.

  For an age they stared at him in disbelief, ignoring the grooms and horses and travelers milling close around. And he could do nothing but stare back, feeling his dung-spattered face burning brighter and brighter red. He needed to melt.

  “Death and dirt!” Rufus said. “The lost sheep!”

  “Lost rat, you mean. Looks like he sunk to about the right level.”

  “That’s what happens to cowards who run away. Isn’t it, boy?”

  They had been friends, all three of them—once. But those days were gone. Blades could not be friends with a yard boy. They could not even admit to having been so wrong about him. He had run away rather than be Prime. Coward. Disgrace to Ironhall.

  “Answer me, boy!” Rufus barked. His black beard bristled.

  “You don’t…” Don’t what? Don’t understand? Stalwart couldn’t explain. He wasn’t allowed to, by King’s orders, and who would believe him any-way? “Yes, Sir Rufus,” he croaked. “I am paying the price of my own weakness.”

  “You’d have done better to starve on the moor.” Rufus was a decent enough man, easy-going or even lazy and a solid but unimaginative fencer. It would never occur to him to ask why his former friend had changed so suddenly and done something so shameful.

  “You smeared my cloak, boy,” Dragon growled. “That should cost some skin off your back. Kneel when I speak to you!”

  Dragon was as large as Blades ever were. He enjoyed throwing that weight around. As a soprano, he had always been hard on the Brat, including Wart in his time. But even an Ironhall Brat had more dignity than a coward who had sunk to being a yard boy. Stalwart threw away every last shred of self-respect and fell on his knees.

  “Please, my lord, forgive my clumsiness. I swear I did not notice….”

  Behind Dragon, the man bending to inspect a horse’s feet wore a silver-gray cloak that seemed oddly familiar. He glanced up and his eyes met Stalwart’s. Recognition was mutual and instantaneous—killer and carrot boy met again.

  “Have him beaten if you want,” Rufus said, “but have the hostler do it. We don’t have time. And this trash isn’t worth it.”

  “No, let’s tell Sherwin to throw him out. I don’t want to see this maggot crawling around here every time we have to come through Holmgarth.”

  “But then you’d have to admit to him that this dunghill was once one of ours, brother.”

  Neither Stalwart nor Silvercloak had been listening to that conversation. They recovered their respective wits at the same instant. The assassin sprang into the saddle and kicked in his spurs. Wart hauled the whistle out from the neck of his smock and blew as hard as he could.

  Then it seemed as if every horse in the yard tried to go straight up in the sky, and several of the closer ones broke loose from their handlers. They bucked or reared. Dogs barked. Men screamed and cursed and backed into other men and horses. Hooves lashed out. Chaos.

  “That one!” Wart howled. He grabbed his shovel—it was empty, unfortunately—but by then he’d lost sight of his quarry in the mad-house. “The gray cloak! Stop him!”

  Rufus and Dragon were having troubles of their own avoiding flashing hooves, and they wouldn’t have dirtied their hands trying to catch Stalwart anyway. He avoided them. Unfortunately, a horse swung into Dragon from behind and pitched him bodily into Stalwart’s abandoned barrow. Rufus, trying to escape, slipped in some-thing and sat down squelchily.

  By the time Stalwart reached the gate, he knew he was too late. Sherwin was there, with six or seven grooms bearing quarterstaffs. They all looked glum or furious, or both.

  “He’s gone?” Stalwart asked.

  “A whole fiery bunch have gone!” the Sheriff roared. “None of them paid. Four or five run-aways with them. And we have injuries.”

  Norton made a speech: “Didn’t see the man you wanted.”

  “You sure?�
�� Stalwart shouted. Could the killer be still hiding in the yard?

  Norton nodded.

  “Your boss going to pay for the injuries?” the Sheriff demanded, menacing as a thundercloud. “Men and horses both?”

  “Yes, I’ll sign the chit. How many of you saw the men who rode out of here?”

  Several had, and they all insisted that no one answering to Silvercloak’s description had left the yard.

  “Then we’ve got him! Sheriff, hunt him down!”

  Stalwart stood by the gate with a band of hefties while the yard was emptied. Dragon and Rufus may have seen him there, but they rode past without looking, too mad to speak. No new customers were admitted and the inn door was closed.

  By the time the hunt finished, the first stars were watching from the wintry sky. Stalwart had long since given up hope. He had failed. Despite his bragging to Lord Roland, when Silvercloak came to Holmgarth, Stalwart had let him escape. Oh, he could find excuses. If he hadn’t been on his knees the assassin would never have noticed him. If the yard had not been crowded far beyond its usual capacity…He could find excuses, but he could never use them. He had failed. No argument.

  Failed!

  He was shivering in his rags when Sherwin returned with his men. “Killed a few rats, is all,” he said.

  “Thanks, Sheriff. Thanks to all of you. It was my fault, none of yours. From now on, though, you can shovel your own stinking dung.”

  They chuckled.

  “Three cheers for the Pimple!” someone said, and they cheered.

  They meant well, so he had to laugh with them, and that hurt worse than anything. Then the posse dispersed to attend to its other duties.

  “Sheriff, do you suppose your brother could find some soap and hot water for me? I’ll sleep in the hay, but I must head back to Grandon in the morning.”

  “Grandon?” the fat man said thoughtfully. “Grandon? You saw your killer, didn’t you?”