by Dave Duncan
The Count’s pry bar lay discarded at his feet. He was still wrapped in nothing but a fur cloak that displayed his hairy chest and forearms. He wore his broadsword on his left and his right hand held a lantern he would have to drop before he could draw, giving Ringwood plenty of warning. The big seneschal was unarmed. The back door behind them was barred and bolted.
Ringwood had the upper hand for the moment. Could he keep it against two Vamky men?
“Oh, there you are, Your Grace!” the Count said. “We were worried. Put that sword up, sonny. It’s bad manners to draw on your host.”
“It’s worse to sell a guest to her enemies.” Ringwood walked closer. Insectile rustling and clinking sounds from the cellar indicated that something was still scrabbling up the steps, but he ignored that. “Did you hang Wolfgang Webber, or just pretend you were going to?”
Lamplight shone back from the Count’s eyes. “What filthy business is that of yours?”
“Just tell me you didn’t leave orders that he was to be taken to the octogram and healed after we left.”
“Sir Ringwood!” the Duchess protested at his back. “This is absurd. I told you how Lord János helped us after Fadrenschloss burned. He has been a loyal friend to me, and he was a lifelong friend of Ernst von Fader.”
Ringwood kept his eyes on the Count. “He’s also an apostate Vamky knight, Your Highness. He left the Order after Luitgard died, but that didn’t free him from his oaths. Yes, he helped you and the Baron. Then Harald arrived with orders for him. That was why János recommended Harald to the Baron, and why he hinted you ought to leave before Harald loosed any more swarmings on him. And he got other orders later, didn’t you, my lord? When Radu turned up for his father’s funeral you arrested him. Why? You said it was because he’d left the Brotherhood, but that was exactly what you’d done yourself.”
“He kidnapped a child who’d been left in my care!”
“And who told you that? Was Radu so stupid? He took care not to be seen, he said.”
“What business is this of yours, sonny?”
Ringwood was almost enjoying this. Bellman would be proud of him. “It certainly concerns your seneschal here. Did you tell him how you battered Radu to jelly and caged him in a pit like an animal? He knew no secrets you cared about. You were told to interrogate him because Vamky wanted to hear how much he’d discovered. Then they told you to hang him. And you would have done so if we had not arrived in the nick of time.”
Max made the sort of “?” noise a bear would make on being kicked awake in midwinter.
“And when Her Highness showed up two days ago,” Ringwood persisted, “you sent word to Vamky and promised to bring her in, as you had been instructed. Max knew we were coming, didn’t you, Seneschal?”
Max said carefully, “I knew he would be bringing guests.”
“So his lordship sent two messages he didn’t tell us about. Unfortunately his friends didn’t go along with his plan. Or they got impatient. They decided to drop in this evening and help themselves. What went wrong?”
“You tell me, lad,” János said in tones that would scare off a wolf pack. “You’re the one spinning yarns. Why would friends of mine wreck my house, kill my dogs, kill or disable my guards?”
The sounds of tumult were growing louder. Were the attackers outside fleeing into the house to find safety from the shadowmen? If so, the Count might have outsmarted himself.
“That I’m not sure of,” Ringwood admitted. “Were you asking too much for her?”
“And why,” the Count inquired, as he casually shifted the lantern to his left hand, “would I have turned on Wolfgang, if I am still loyal to the Brotherhood?”
“I didn’t say you were loyal. I said you take orders, and I’m sure you were furious when you realized that Wolfgang was spying on you. Besides, what harm did it do? The boy had a nasty hour or so and his arms were smashed so badly they may never heal properly, but a knight-brother must expect to suffer a few hard knocks for the cause, yes? Did you hang him, though? In my Order that would be seen as going a little too far. Tell me you know he was hanged.”
“I will not. Now stand aside while I see to my house and my people.” János advanced a pace and halted when the glinting point of Bad News did not budge. He knew of True’s truth-sounding skill and had been very careful to speak in questions, avoiding direct statements. So Ringwood still could not be absolutely sure.
He was pleased how steady his sword was, though, and the Duchess had stopped arguing. “I will let you pass and apologize, my lord, if you will state that you have received no orders from Vamky in the past year. That you hanged Wolfgang. And tell us why you tortured Radu.”
“I will do no such thing! Stand aside!”
“Drop your sword,” Ringwood said, watching the Count’s eyes.
The Count threw the lantern at him with his left hand and drew his broadsword with his right. He swung a cut to kill his impudent tormentor. His sword clanged to the ground and he screamed in pain.
Much, much too slow! Ringwood had appealed for assistance with a quiet “Starkmoor,” batted the lantern aside with Bad News, and parried inward. Steel screeched. The old man’s power in engagement was incredible, but Ringwood turned to his right, throwing all his weight into it, and that opened room on his left for Ranter to step in and crack the Count’s elbow with an upward blow of the flat of his blade. The broadsword fell. Match over.
Felt good.
Very, very good! First real fight. (The less blood you shed the better, Grand Master said; lawyers feed on it.)
“Thank you, brother,” Ringwood said. “Seneschal, I do think you should go and see what’s happening out front. If I were you, I’d be worried that the attackers will set fire to the house. The rest of us are going out through the cellar and we will take your lord along as hostage.”
Max Priboi, former Vamky novice, was staring very hard at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “There may still be shadowmen down there.”
“Quite likely. But I know for certain that there are two living factions up here who wish my ward no good, and they are more dangerous. If you are still alive and in control in the morning, you may be able to ransom this creature with some horses and a light breakfast.”
János roared, “I am not going down there for all the—”
Max’s great hand slammed him back against a wall. “So that’s why Radu disappeared right after the funeral without saying good-bye to anyone?” Again he hurled the Count back, shoving with two hands this time. “Beat him to jelly, huh?” Obviously he would switch to fists, given any excuse.
“Until the sun turns to water and the moon burns!” János roared.
The seneschal growled angrily and backed away. The second fight was over.
“What does that mean?” Ranter demanded.
“Part of their oath, I’d think,” Ringwood said. “They’re both Vamky men.”
“No more!” János shouted. “I spared Radu, didn’t I? I did not report that the Duchess had come back. Am I telling the truth, girl?”
True nodded. “He is, dear.”
“So he ratted again?” Ringwood said. “He turns like a weathercock. Seneschal, you are excused.” No need to make any more enemies right now.
“You’re crazy to go down there, lad. At least wait here until…” Max paused to listen.
Voices were shouting not very far away.
“Quick!” Ringwood shouted. “They’re coming.”
“Sir Ranter,” Ringwood said loudly. “We’ll send Count János ahead with two lanterns. Follow him. You may need to prod him along with Invincible, and he doesn’t understand gentle. Take a lantern, too. Your Highness, you must trust me. Follow Sir Ranter, True. I will bring up the rear.”
“If you think,” the Grand Duchess said, “that I am going down those stairs under any circum—”
“You think lights will protect you?” János yelled. “Then what killed my brother and the miners?”
“Ignora
nce or panic,” Ringwood said. “Move him, brother.”
Ranter had years of practice at bullying and had been lugging Invincible around for months without a chance to use her. In no time he had the Count yelping with pain and starting down the steps, a lantern in each hand and minor flesh wounds in his buttocks.
“Let me past!” Max said.
Taking no chances, Ringwood backed into the pantry to let him go by.
The big man raised a fist in salute. “Good chance, Sir Blade. If I’m still in charge in the morning, I’ll try to help.” He sighed. “But if that’s Vamky out there, then you’d better not trust me.”
“Thanks. I understand. Better hurry.” The sounds of battle were coming closer.
True retrieved the Count’s broadsword. “Onward and downward!”
“You can’t use that!” Johanna protested.
“Oh, can’t I? You think I don’t have the muscle? I can take Ringwood two falls out of three. Let’s go.” She disappeared into the stairwell with sword and lantern. Wonderful woman!
Fortunately the Duchess did not seem to have noticed True’s brag, which was untrue, if not totally without basis. She was staring in horror at the gloomy doorway. “This is madness!”
Ringwood handed her a lantern. “It is necessary. We have to get you to the wedding, Your Grace.”
“You do? But you were arguing—”
“—the other way yesterday. But now they know you’re back, they’re out to kill you. Attacking a count’s house in the middle of the night? They’re desperate!” He gave her another lantern. “We have to display you in public as soon as possible to show the world you’re alive. Or very soon you won’t be. Please, Your Grace! I can’t carry you and fight off shadowmen at the same time. Which is it to be?”
Obviously his ward had an unreasoning dread of darkness or underground places or something similar, but he knew she had courage, and now she proved it again by doing as he asked. He followed her in, awkwardly pulling the door closed behind him. He doubted anyone would come after them. It would depend how desperate the enemy were, whoever they were. Fine Blade he was, not even knowing the identity of the foe who had been trying to kill his ward for half a year!
Four steps down Johanna cried, “Eek! What’s that?”
“Just a shadow-thing,” True said cheerfully. She had waited below the obstacle. “Hold your light low and walk right through it.”
“It” had once been a man who had died in chains. It had no legs, which was why it had taken so long climbing the stairs after its fellows. In a good light it became transparent and immaterial, so its efforts to grab ankles were ineffectual.
“Wait for us, Ranter!” True shouted. “Don’t get too far ahead. We’re coming.” Her voice echoed down into the cellars.
• 4 •
Bellman crept down the stairs until he reached the second corner, and from there he could see down to the barred gate, which was shut. He could hear voices and something else: Crack! And then again, Crack! He went on, one fearful step at a time. A man spoke. Someone laughed. Then a voice he knew—
“Stop that!” Johanna shouted.
His heart jumped, but that was only her voice when she was wearing the locket. Someone growled a reply he could not make out. It sounded like a threat.
He went on down until he could peer through the top of the gate below him. The room was much larger than he had imagined, but otherwise just as Radu had described: bright lanterns, six timber doors on the right, a heavy table in the center with two benches (one tucked in close, one pulled back), and four barred doors on the left.
And five men.
One of them was heavyset, almost portly, clad in a shabby, dirty robe, and if it was not Grand Duke Rubin himself, it was his exact double. At the moment he was standing inside the second dungeon, holding the bars of the door and shouting at what the other men were doing. As Radu had described, he was also restrained by a long chain attached to a metal collar.
Another man was crouched on his knees in front of the third barred door, with his wrists tied to it. His gown had been pulled down below his waist and one of his captors was swinging a whip. Crack! Another bleeding cut joined the weave across the prisoner’s back. Two more brethren were watching.
No. If Bellman just crept away and let that go unchallenged, his conscience would torment him for the rest of his life. No matter that the alternative would probably reduce the rest of his life to a matter of minutes, he must do something to stop that. Three against one? To a real Blade those were frightening odds, but not impossible. Grand Master in his youth had once overcome four, but Bellman was not a real Blade; his hands shook with fatigue; he had never finished training; he had only one good eye…
Stop that! It had been the candidates in Ironhall who had consistently bested him. He had beaten plenty of Blades from the Royal Guard at their first or second attempt. It was only when they discovered how to come in on his blind side that they had made him look like a turtle. The brethren could not know about that.
“I said stop it!” Rubin shouted. “You are disgracing the Brotherhood! This man has not been tried or convicted of anything.”
“And I said to keep your mouth shut or I will push your balls in it and nail it shut!” said the larger of the two spectators. “We are interrogating a spy.”
“He is a knight-brother, entitled to a trial.”
Bellman chose a couple of picks, rolled up the wallet again, and moved down to the gate as quietly as he could.
“I have already told you everything I know,” Radu said, his voice unsteady.
“Tell us more!” the larger spectator said. “Achim!”
Crack!
Radu gasped. “I dropped the letter somewhere.”
“You dropped it here! Again, Achim.”
Crack!
Bellman applied pressure and confirmed that the gate was locked. He slid the pick into the lock, working by feel, keeping his eyes on the brethren. Fortunately the lock was on his right, so if one of them looked his way they would see someone waiting to be admitted, or just a nosy parker spying. Unfortunately his hands were shaking. He found a ward…
Crack!
Radu cried out that time. “No! I couldn’t find this place. I dropped it somewhere else. I knew someone would find it and see it was delivered. Then I learned my father had died, so I went to his funeral.”
“You are lying. You were identified.”
Crack!
“Identified by me!” the Grand Duke shouted. “At first sight I thought it was Radu, but I made a mistake. It was another man. I was wrong.”
“And I told you to keep your mouth shut!” said the large man. “What are you waiting for, Achim? Keep laying them on until I tell you to stop.”
Crack!
Radu choked down a scream. “Would I have come back if I had done anything wrong?”
“You will pay for this, Samuil!” the Grand Duke shouted.
So the big one was Samuil. The lock was simple enough, with only two wards to circumvent. Bellman could touch the bolt now, could even make it move slightly, but the pick was too short to push it far enough. He tried the other.
Crack!
Radu cried out. “Please! Oh, please stop!”
“Sir,” said the other spectator. “It is true that the prisoner is a knight-brother, so under the rule of our order, he is entitled to a trial. He should not be interrogated without—”
“Shut up, Gerlach!”
Crack!
“I’ve told you everything!” Radu yelled.
Crack!
Either Bellman was overlooking something, or this pick was still not long enough. Or was the bolt set too heavily in the detent? If he applied more pressure and broke the pick, then he would have lost any chance of opening the door.
“I don’t care if you have told us everything, Brother Radu,” Samuil said. “You have not paid for my eye yet. Get on with it, Achim! Or paid for these scars on my face. We have a long night ahead of us.”
Crack!
Radu moaned.
Click! The gate was free.
But both Samuil and Gerlach had heard. They turned to look. Bellman waited, keeping his head lowered as the brethren did, his face shadowed.
Gerlach strode over. “Who are you? What you want?”
Bellman gave the first name that came into his head. “Knight-brother Harald delivering a package for Cantor Samuil.”
He held up the leather roll holding the picks, but he kept it outside the bars. Gerlach reached through for it. Bellman grabbed his wrist with his free hand, heaved Gerlach forward, and slammed his arm down on a crossbar, throwing his weight on it in an effort to break it. Judging by the resulting scream, he had at least come close.
He shouldered the gate open, taking the unfortunate Gerlach with it, and jumped through, drawing Bravado. Two more swords hissed from their scabbards. Three against one, six eyes against one and a bit. The moment of surprise had worn off. Samuil advanced to meet the intruder, but he came cautiously, so maybe Ansel had been right when he said Bellman looked like a swordsman.
Achim, the torturer, instead of blindly following his superior into the fray, started around the far end of the table. He clearly hoped to take Bellman from behind and that was soldier’s thinking, a reminder that these were trained fighting men—not Blades, but sure to be good. They would want to take the spy alive. That did not mean uninjured. This was going to be very dicey.
Bellman ran forward and kicked over the bench in front of Samuil, making him jump back. No, only five eyes! One of Samuil’s was milky white, and his face was patched with white scar tissue. Healings could not heal everything, especially flesh destroyed by burns.
Leaving the one-eyed man for later, Bellman ran back around the table to meet Achim. Gerlach was still upright, struggling to draw his sword with his left hand, but a fast slash at his neck in passing put him permanently out of the fight. No quarter asked or given…
Achim was big, but in spite of that and his floppy white robe, he moved like a skilled swordsman. Having been appointed torturer, he was probably the youngest and strongest of the three. He brandished a bastard sword, a hand-and-a-half broadsword, which he swung in a wide slash that would have cut Bellman’s head off had he waited for it. Bellman parried it with the pick bag he still held in his left hand—he would lose fingers if he tried that very often—and raised his head. Achim saw the Grand Duke’s face inside the hood. Distraction! Bravado struck his left wrist, sending the broadsword clanging to the floor.