by Tim Pratt
“Crusaders do not compromise. Hrym, is it? Let this serve as notice that any act of aggression on your part will lead to the swift death of your wielder.”
“You mean a different swift death than the one you’ve already promised him? Death by sword instead of death by rope?”
Everyone was silent for a moment.
Rodrick said, “He makes a good point. If you’re going to kill me anyway, Hrym’s got nothing to lose killing all of you, too.”
“I’m vengeful,” Hrym said. “And that’s one of my better qualities.”
“I’m still not convinced you can—” The captain gasped and dropped her sword, which was suddenly encased in a thick carapace of ice.
“Unless you think my ability to freeze things is inexplicably limited to swords, you should be able to guess what I can do to you.” Hrym’s tone was insufferably smug.
“I’m so sorry,” Rodrick said. “There’s no reasoning with him when he gets like this. You should really just let us go.”
The captain sucked her frostbitten fingers for a moment and scowled. “Do you think I’m frightened of a little magic? This is Lastwall, boy. When the Whispering Tyrant raised our own dead against us, we still didn’t surrender. We certainly won’t run from you.”
“Wasn’t the Whispering Tyrant a bit before your time?” Rodrick said. “Oh, wait, I see, you’re using the institutional we. As a group the crusaders of Lastwall never back down, absolutely, understood, but within that institution isn’t there some ability for individuals to make accommodations with circumstance? Think of the good you and your soldiers can do against hordes of the undead, or orcs, or both—like vampire orcs, let’s say. Certainly they’re a greater threat than I am. Spare me, spare yourselves, and fight more meaningful battles later.”
“We’re all going to die,” the priest said gloomily, but not as if he intended to do anything about it. “As Iomedae wills.”
Someone cleared her throat. It was the woman with the spear, the first one who’d pointed a weapon at Rodrick’s nose, who hadn’t spoken until now. “Technically, Captain, since he’s a civilian criminal, we don’t have to deal with him at all. We could just hand him over to the Bastion of Justice.”
The Bastion of Justice. Sounded like a terrible place, thing, or idea—but it was probably preferable to the death of everyone in the camp. Rodrick nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, please, why don’t you hand me over to … that.”
The captain frowned. The priest said, “She makes a good point. The Bastion would be happy to get their hands on that sword, too, and we’re going to Vellumis anyway.”
The captain sheathed her sword. “Very well. What’s your name, thief?”
He almost lied out of habit, then remembered that a limited sort of honesty was the best policy for the moment. “Rodrick.”
“Do I have your word, Rodrick, that you will not resist us, or try to escape, or seek to do us harm while we transport you to the Bastion for judgment? Not that the word of a thief is worth much, but the priest will know if you lie.”
“Honestly, then? I’ll escape if I see an opportunity. But I can promise not to attack any of you.”
The captain chuckled. “Very well. Will your sword behave itself, too?”
“Hrym, don’t kill anyone, all right? These fine men and women are protecting us from being overrun by blood-crazed orc vampires. They deserve our respect and admiration.”
“Eh?” Hrym said. “Oh, fine. I hope this doesn’t take long. No killing. But if they try to take me away from you, I’ll ice them all.”
“All true enough,” the priest said.
“Sheathe your sword, please,” the captain said. Rodrick obeyed, and then his hands were wrenched behind him by the spear-wielding woman, who tied them together. They wisely left Hrym on his hip, though. A couple of stout crusaders picked him up and draped him facedown across the back of a horse—the same horse he’d tried to steal, which was either a joke or a coincidence—and then tied his ankles, too.
“Well, Hrym, we’re traveling on horseback after all.”
“Everything always works out for us, doesn’t it?” Hrym said. “It’s because we’re so virtuous.”
* * *
“So what’s this Bastion place, anyway?”
The woman with the spear had apparently been assigned as their minder, for she led the horse along the slow procession out of the woods and onto a well-maintained road Rodrick hadn’t realized even existed. A fair amount of dust blew into Rodrick’s face, leading him to keep his eyes closed, but that was fine; the view of a horse’s side wasn’t particularly stimulating anyway.
She said, “Lastwall is a military country. The army maintains watch over the ruins of the Whispering Tyrant’s realm to ensure he doesn’t rise again, and holds back the orcs in Belkzen. The crusaders are too busy to deal with less important matters—burglaries, drunken fistfights, ordinary murders, and the like. The Bastion of Justice is in charge of crimes committed by and against civilians in and around Vellumis. We’ll hand you over to them, give our testimony to the magistrate, and they’ll pronounce and carry out sentence.”
“Ah. What’s the sentence for trying to steal a horse?”
“Death, I assume. Our legal code is fairly simple.”
“So, effectively, I’ve postponed my death. I’m not complaining, mind you. A delay isn’t as good as a pardon, but it’s better than the alternative.”
“When we get to the Bastion, I’ll just threaten to kill all of them,” Hrym said. “They’ll let us go.”
The woman said, “Mmm.”
Oh no, Rodrick thought. “Except, of course, they’ll have wizards and the like on hand to try to neutralize Hrym’s power.”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never worked for the Bastion. But the defenders of Lastwall, as an institution, do have some experience dealing with magic-wielding enemies.”
Rodrick bounced along, thinking dark thoughts. The whole country of Lastwall, as he understood it, existed solely because after a mighty army destroyed the monstrous lich called the Whispering Tyrant, the winners felt the need to keep watch on his tomb to make sure he didn’t wake up again. Later they’d expanded their responsibilities to include acting as a bulwark against the Hold of Belkzen, a nation (of sorts) filled with warlike orcs bent on overrunning the Inner Sea … or so the stories went. Rodrick suspected the knights had actually found guarding a dead city boring, and considered massacring orcs, and being massacred in turn, a good way to pass the time. The crusaders probably didn’t run into many orcs who used magic, since as a people orcs favored hitting their enemies with sharp heavy things, but the crusaders had once upon a time fought an evil wizard-king, and they probably remembered a few tricks from the old days. They might well be able to keep Hrym from using his magic.
Still, all wasn’t lost. The sword was a powerful weapon, after all, and in Lastwall, they needed powerful weapons. Hrym wouldn’t agree to serve anyone other than Rodrick, so perhaps he could offer his services on the front lines, standing against the orcs … and escape from there instead. It was an article of faith for Rodrick that he could talk his way out of almost anything.
“How much farther to—what’s the place called? Valormouse?”
“Vellumis,” the spear-carrier replied. “It’s about a hundred miles.”
“You expect me to travel a hundred miles tied on the back of a horse?”
“Not at all,” she said. “We wouldn’t put the horse through that.”
“Good.”
“We’re meeting up with a larger caravan at Three Pines Ford. From there, you’ll travel tied up in the back of a cart.”
“Luxury,” Rodrick said, and meant it.
* * *
“I saved the world from a demon lord once,” Rodrick announced to the occupants of the cart and the world in general. Well, why not? It was worth a try. The woman with the spear was still there, watching over him, and quite vigilantly, too; if she’d been on guard duty the ni
ght before, Rodrick wouldn’t have gotten as close to successful horse thievery as he had. The priest was also sitting in the back, nestled among sacks of grain and barrels of salted meat, reading from a volume bound in wood that looked heavy enough to crush skulls. He tore a strand of hair from his immense beard, laid it across the page to mark his place, closed the book, and cocked his head at Rodrick. “Say that again.”
Rodrick obliged.
The priest clucked his tongue. “Interesting. You really believe that. Strange. You don’t seem mad.”
“It’s true,” Hrym chimed in. “Enormous thing like a centipede with a human face. Human-ish, anyway. Name of—oh, what was it? Calamitous?”
“Kholerus.” Rodrick shivered. “We stopped a demon cultist from freeing Kholerus from his prison beneath the Lake of Mists and Veils.”
“And here we are, imprisoned in the vicinity of another famous lake.” Hrym made a noise that might have been a laugh. “That’s irony for you.”
“Are they serious?” the spear-woman said.
The priest nodded. “They’re both convinced of their sincerity. And that name, Kholerus … I’ve heard it, but not many have, I think. The son of Deskari, the Locust Lord, driven with his father into the Lake of Mists and Veils by Aroden.” He rose and vaulted over the side of the cart—which was moving slowly, but still, he was acrobatic for a grizzled gargantuan war-priest. Rodrick allowed himself to begin to hope. Crusaders hated demons, so surely they’d love him?
Some time later the cart stopped, and the priest returned with the captain, who demanded to hear Rodrick’s story. Rodrick told it, with assorted interjections (mostly self-aggrandizing) from Hrym. Rodrick was careful to cast himself in the best possible light and avoid any outright falsehoods. Fortunately, there was no harm in leaving certain facts out: the secret to dealing with truth-tellers was to restrict yourself to lies of omission. The captain periodically looked at the priest, who affirmed Rodrick’s essential truthfulness with nods and grunts.
Rodrick’s throat was parched after the recitation of his great deeds, and the guard tipped a cup of water to his lips and let him drink his fill.
The captain looked at a spot just beyond Rodrick’s left shoulder. “A noble act in the past does not erase the stain of a later crime, but it may … mitigate your sentence. That’s up to the officials in the Bastion to decide.”
“He’s practically a paladin, really,” Hrym said.
“Well, I don’t like to boast,” Rodrick said. “But only because that’s not very paladin-like.”
The captain sighed, shook her head, and climbed off the wagon.
3
A CONVERSATION THROUGH BARS
Rodrick’s experience of the nations around Lake Encarthan had given him the impression that it was a land of timbered buildings and towering trees and dirt floors, so he’d expected Vellumis to be basically an immense fort.
It was with great surprise, then, that he turned his head to see a gleaming city of marble domes, immense archways, glistening white walls, and elaborately carved eaves. While Vellumis didn’t match the majesty of Absalom, or even his home city of Almas, it was without a doubt a real city, and Rodrick felt himself begin to relax for the first time in weeks. Yes, he was a prisoner, and if he couldn’t talk his way out of his predicament, Hrym would have to freeze a great number of noble crusaders to allow Rodrick to escape. But still, this was a city, the kind of place where he was most at home, the kind of place where great things could happen, the kind of place where fools and their money could be most expeditiously parted.
The cart curved around the outskirts of the city until it finally approached a domed fortress of stone surrounded by a high wall. “The Bastion of Justice,” the guard said. “Some of the best dungeons in all of Lastwall down there, I’m told.”
Rodrick thought about that. “Best … as in … most pleasant for prisoners? Or best as in most effective at destroying a prisoner’s will to live?”
The guard just smiled.
The gates opened, and the cart rolled into a courtyard full of military bustle: crusaders training, grooms doing things to horses, people running to and fro with urgency. The clash of steel on steel, the clang of hammers shaping metal, the smell of forge fires—Rodrick found it all terribly depressing. They were so organized. How could anyone stand it?
A crusader with a round helmet jammed on her head approached, frowning. “Do you have a prisoner for us?”
The captain nodded. “One for Underclerk Temple, I think.”
The crusader whistled. “Really? Let me see.” She climbed up onto the cart, and instantly drew her sword, leveling it at Rodrick. “Why does the prisoner still have a weapon?”
The captain sighed. “Because his sword is sentient and magical and promised to murder anyone who tried to disarm his master.”
“It’s true,” Hrym said. “Except he’s not my master. We’re partners. He’s the junior partner, really.”
“No one needs to murder anyone,” Rodrick said. “This is just a misunderstanding, and it can all be worked out. I’m a fighter for the side of good myself, mainly, just fallen on hard times lately.”
The official nodded slowly, but didn’t sheathe her sword. “Yes. One for Temple, indeed. Sir, you do realize you’re in the middle of Vellumis, a city of battle-hardened crusaders?”
“I’ve noticed, yes. Lovely city, too. Much nicer than I expected.”
“Will you hand over the sword, so we can talk without quite so much … tension?”
“It’s not up to me, I’m afraid. Hrym, would you like to go with this nice crusader?”
“No,” Hrym said.
Rodrick gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. He can be very stubborn.”
The woman rubbed her jaw with her free hand. “All right, then.” She shouted “Clear the courtyard!” in a booming voice, and then sat staring at Rodrick for three full minutes, the force of her attention entirely withering his attempts to dazzle her with a charming smile. After the courtyard had emptied of all personnel, including the big priest and the friendly-ish spear-carrier, the crusader leaned forward and cut the ropes tying Rodrick’s feet. She stepped out of the cart and beckoned him to follow. Rodrick struggled upright and climbed out of the cart, his hands still bound in front of him, but both resting on Hrym’s hilt.
She led him through deserted hallways of dark stone and down spiraling stairs, deep into the Bastion of Justice. “Not very well staffed, are you?”
“Everyone is avoiding the area until I have you secured, so if your sword does anything … inadvisable … casualties will be minimal.”
“Good for everyone else. Not so good for you.”
She shrugged. “Rank has its drawbacks.”
“What if I froze you solid and we ran away?” Hrym said.
“Your wielder would be filled with crossbow bolts the moment he poked his head outside,” she replied.
“Ah. That’s what I thought,” Hrym said.
“Here we are,” she said eventually, gesturing.
“Ah,” Rodrick said. “Yes. Only the best dungeons for me.”
* * *
Rodrick didn’t need long to explore his new home: a small room of bare stone with straw thrown on the floor, furnished only by a bench carved from a single piece of wood, so there were no nails to pry loose or legs to break off to use as weapons. Before he had time to become too bored, a guard opened the barred door and let in a gray-haired, sour-faced man carrying a black bag.
“Hello,” Rodrick said. “What’s in the bag?”
“Tools of the trade.”
“You aren’t a torturer, are you?”
The man barked a laugh. “Depends on who you ask. I’m a chirurgeon. Mostly I cut off infected arms and legs to keep the rot from spreading, but I’m just supposed to see if you’re healthy or not.”
“If you try to give him a sleeping draught or harm him in any way, I will bring terrible destruction down on this place,” Hrym said.
The ma
n frowned. “A talking sword, they said. I thought they were playing a joke. Oh well. Doesn’t matter to me. Swords never need tending on the battlefield, at least not from me. Stand up, would you, and stick out your tongue?”
Rodrick had undergone the occasional physical exam in the past, and this was less invasive than some: the doctor listened to his heart and lungs by pressing an ear to his chest, peered into his mouth and ears and nostrils, made Rodrick cough, prodded at his gums, asked him disgustingly personal questions about his recent bowel movements and whether he had any pain when he passed water. For the most part, Rodrick answered honestly.
“All right, I’m done.” The doctor picked up his bag, which he’d never even opened.
“What’s the verdict?” Rodrick said.
The man shook his head. “You don’t pay me. Why should I tell you?”
A guard let the chirurgeon out, and closed the door, and that was all that happened, for a while.
* * *
“I could pick the lock, if there was a lock.” Rodrick examined the door of the cell. “The door seems to be sealed by magic, which isn’t very sporting.”
“Rodrick, I can freeze the bars and you can break them with a kick.”
“True. A bit loud, though. Might bring the guards running.”
“So I’ll freeze them, and you kick them as well.”
“I see a few flaws with that plan.”
“You’re softhearted, Rodrick. You should be more like me. I don’t have any heart at all, soft or otherwise.”
“Even if the prospect of indiscriminate murder didn’t give me pause, I’m still hoping for a more elegant solution than destroying the Bastion of Justice and bringing the wrath of the entire nation of Lastwall down on us. They can be quite persistent, I understand, and I’d rather not be pursued across the continent. Though I accept that as a tactic of last resort.”
The door at the end of the hall opened with a squeal of rusty hinges. Rodrick wondered if the door made that noise naturally or if they’d worked on it with dirt and sand and steel wool to create the right ominous tone.