by Dave Duncan
"Not as many as there were," Fairtrue growled.
"You must have them hunted down, Commander!"
"I've arranged for that, sire."
Before Durendal could comment further, the nearest
window collapsed in a shower of glass and lead and
wood. The thing that came in through the drapes was
roughly dog shaped, but as big as a bull. It
had six-inch canines and claws almost as long. As
four men converged on it, another window crashed.
Durendal jumped for the King and manhandled him
toward the corner of the room. Ambrose was big.
He instinctively resisted, dropping the
broadsword to fight off this assault, but
Durendal had more muscle and a binding
to aid him. He thrust his sovereign bodily
into the garderobe, slamming the door.
The King tried to open it. Durendal threw
all his weight against it. "Stay there until I
tell you to come out!"
The first monster was a heap on the floor,
methodically hacked to pieces. The second was
now being given the same treatment, but not before it had
crushed a man's head in its jaws. Who had that
been? There were four windows in the room. He
began organizing precautionary defense at the
other two. If the hound things could climb three
stories up the side of the palace, the outer
walls were not going to keep them from invading the
grounds. How many dogs were there in Grandon? What
was the range of this conjuration? How huge were they
going to become?
How many windows led into the royal suite?
"Flint! See to the next room!"
Another monstrosity started to come in the first
window. Fairtrue hacked off a taloned paw
and it toppled back and vanished into the darkness with a
long, discordant howl, cut off abruptly as it
met the rose garden far below.
"Nice one," Durendal said. He ran over
to look out. He caught a brief glimpse of the
palace with innumerable windows flickering lights and
what seemed to be scores of enormous ants
scrambling upward. Then a huge set of
slavering fangs opened in front of him. He
jumped back and rammed Harvest into the jaws.
He heard more windows shattering and a door going
down in the distance, suggesting that all the defenders in
the corridor were dead or wounded. It was going to be
a long night. He snapped orders, setting
guards on each window, with backups to spell them
off and clear away the debris so that the fighters
had room. The King had emerged from the closet, but
just far enough to reach the bed and catch hold of the girl,
who had fainted. He dragged her to him and carried
her into the garderobe. He came out again, scowling
at Durendal.
"I'll stay here. If they get close,
I'll even hide inside."
To his own astonishment, Durendal laughed.
"If they get close, I'll join you!"
Several voices shouted at once, "Leave
room for me!"
Bloody flesh was making the floor slippery.
The stench of eviscerated dog was
appalling. Monsters fought their way in through the
windows almost on one another's tails, but the
Blades had their measure now--hack at the
muzzles to cut away the deadly jaws, chop off
the legs. The flesh still writhed, but it could do no
harm.
Men began screaming out in the dressing room.
Flint and his helpers fought a determined rear
action, retreating back into the bedchamber before the
ghoulish attackers. Soon the doorway was almost
blocked by corpses.
Durendal had begun to feel better, though.
His initial impression had been wrong--the sheer
weight of this attack showed that it must be directed
at the King. There could not be enough dogs in all
Chivial to put so many into every window in the palace.
Unless they started tearing their way through the stonework
he could hold this room. Blades protecting their
ward would fight for days before they dropped dead, and
he did not think the hounds' attack could match that
defense. Everyone in the room now was soaked in
blood. Young Ebony was sure to lose that crushed
arm and was weeping on the bed, being tended
by Sailor.
It was going to be butchery, but nothing worse
than that. Just a very long night.
MONTPURSE
Very (continued)
Lunch in Durendal's quarters the next day
was a boisterous celebration. Snake was there, and so
were a score of old friends from the past--Felix who
was Keeper of Brimiarde Castle; Quinn, now
Master of Rapiers at Ironhall; Hoare who
was father of four--his wife produced them in
pairs--and many more. It was a school reunion.
Parsewood, on his knees, was lecturing the
solemn Andy on what a great man his father was.
Scrimpnel jiggled Natrina on his lap, and the
little minx was playing up atrociously. Kate, the
only woman present, was being hailed as the
heroine of the hour. Nonsense, she said, every White
Sister in the palace had pealed like thunder; it
hadn't been detecting the conjuration that was the
problem, it had been doing something about it. She
beamed proudly at her husband and nagged the
footmen to distribute the wine faster.
From cellar to turrets, Greymere reeked of
dog guts. Flesh was being carried out in barrows.
Thoughts of the death toll lurked just below the gaiety,
but the Blades had won the most dramatic
victory in their entire history. Every success
must have a price, and in warfare it was often the
price that measured the victory--a dozen
members of the order had died to write this epic in
the annals.
Brock, who had ambitions to be master of
rituals at Ironhall one day, was
pontificating on how the thing could have been done in
apparent defiance of the rule that spirituality could
only be applied with an octogram. Enchanted
dog food, he opined, with much more confidence than
conviction. Audience response was moving from
scathing to outright hostile when the Chancellor walked
in. Everyone who had found a seat stood up; those
already upright bowed.
"No, no, no!" Montpurse pulled off his
chain of office and thrust it at Kate. "Hide
that in the laundry bin!" He pecked her cheek.
"I'm not here officially. I just want to be one
of the gang again, like old times. Franklin, you young
scoundrel, what's this I hear about you and the
ambassador's daughter ...?" He
began working his way through the overcrowded room,
greeting everyone by name without hesitation. Kate
hung the chain around her neck for safekeeping and
headed for a mirror.
"How is the big man?" asked Hoare when his
turn came.
"Preening," Montpurse said with a cautious
peers of the realm. Don't anyone mention
garderobes for the next ten years."
"Congratulations to you also," Durendal said,
fighting his way through with a glass of wine. "This ought
to put paid to our mutual unfriend!"
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, taxing the orders was his idea,
wasn't it?"
Montpurse sipped his wine. A ripple of
silence flowed out from him until he was the focus of
every eye. He had never been one of the gang--even
at Ironhall he had always been a chief.
"Not so simple, I'm afraid," he said
quietly. "Whom do you think Parliament will
blame?"
The room erupted in protest. Durendal
felt a touch and turned to see the worried face
of Hawkney, one of the new juniors.
"The King wants you, Leader."
Montpurse smiled thinly at Durendal and
said, "Good luck."
What did that mean?
The King was in his dressing room, which alone
among the rooms in his suite had escaped
assault in the night. Feet had tracked
bloodstains across the rugs, but there were no other
signs of damage, and the stench was bearable. He was
busily complicating the efforts of his valet
to undress him.
Royal toilets were frequently public
occasions, but this one was as private as could be, with
only old Scofflaw, the valet, and a single
Blade by the door--Flint, who was discreet. His
commander did not post gossips to such intimate
attendance on the King.
Durendal bowed when the royal head appeared from
inside an undershirt.
"I owe you my life again, Commander."
"My duty, sire. And my pleasure,
too."
If the King had been preening earlier,
he wasn't preening now. He scowled as he
stepped out of his britches. "What's the latest
toll?"
"Much the same--twenty dead, seventeen
mutilated, a couple of dozen bitten less
seriously. About half those were civilians, the
rest swordsmen. Six of the dead were women,
sire, which--"
"And where did all those swordsmen come from?"
"The Blades? Oh--you mean the knights?"
"You flaming well know I mean the knights!"
Ambrose said with a sort of wry menace. He was
amused, though. "Hurry up, man, I'm
freezing to death." That was to Scofflaw.
"Well, from all over, sire. Starkmoor, a
lot of them. From the length and breadth of Chivial.
They were all very glad to have a chance to serve again.
..."
"But it was you who thought to summon them and have them
standing by. I was wrong; you were right." The King
sighed. "Give me your sword."
Durendal felt a jolt of alarm. "Sire,
if you are planning what I think you are, I must
respectfully point out that the danger has not
yet--"
The King held out his hand. "I have kept you bound
too long, my friend. How old are you now?"
"Thirty-five, sire." Thirty-six in a
few days. "But I'm still--"
"And how old is the next oldest Blade in
my Guard?"
"Four or five years younger, I suppose."
Nearer ten. Panic! A Blade released from his
binding was a lost soul. "Sire, I beg you
to remember that reading the inquisitors made. If
I'm not bound then you can't trust--"
"Readings are camel drippings!" the King
boomed cheerfully. He seemed quite unaware that he
was wearing only his underwear and exposing a belly that
would have filled a wheelbarrow. "Bound or unbound,
I trust you before anyone in the realm. Now give
me your sword and kneel!"
Many times Durendal had watched Blades
whining and pleading when faced with this terrible moment.
He had always promised himself that he would not be such
a fool when his own end came. Nevertheless his shaking
fingers took a shamefully long time to remove his
ruff, open his doublet, unbutton his shirt, and
expose his shoulders. He knelt before the king. The
sword that had bound him touched his flesh--
right, then left ...
"Arise, Sir Durendal, knight in our
Loyal and Ancient Order."
There was no peal of thunder, no sense of change,
and yet now the burden must be gone. No longer
need he worry night and day about defending his
ward. Perhaps it would take a few days for that
realization to sink in. What was he going to do with the
rest of his life? He could leave court! Kate
would dance on the ceiling. Aha! He could kill
Kromman!
He should have known that something dramatic would
happen right after he went back to Ironhall. It
always did.
Smiling, the King held Harvest out to the side.
Flint came forward to take it, carefully
avoiding Durendal's eye.
"Baron Roland, as I recall?"
"I suppose so, sire." Strange--it still
felt like a loss.
"Your-- Blast you!" That remark was directed
at old Scofflaw, who had seen an
opportunity to leap forward and plunge a garment
over the royal head. Ambrose reluctantly
put his arms through the armholes. "Your
recommendation for your successor, Lord Roland?
Dreadnought?"
Durendal glanced toward the door, where Flint
now stood again. The King frowned and gestured for the
Blade to leave, which he did, taking Harvest with
him. The door closed. That left Scofflaw, but
he never spoke to anyone except perhaps the King.
He was older than Ironhall, probably
half-witted, a bent and desiccated husk of a
man. Junior Blades and younger courtiers
told terrible Scofflaw jokes. (what has
four legs and steams? Scofflaw ironing the
King's britches.) Scofflaw did not count.
"Bandit, sire." Dreadnought was
twenty-eight, much too old.
"Bandit?" The King frowned. "Which one is
he?" Once he had known every Blade in his guard
personally. "Not that corset, you blockhead! It
pinches. The old one."
"The one with the eyebrows, sire. He never
enters the Cup contest, but he's the best man
by far. They'll follow him into a furnace."
The King shrugged. "Send him up, then."
"I may tell him that you asked for him?"
A chuckle. "If you wish, my
lord."
With half his buttons still undone, Durendal
started to bow.
"Wait. I'm not finished." The King gasped
in agony, but that was merely the corset being
tightened. "Pull, fool, pull! You expect
me to go out looking like a butter churn? Tighter!"
He groaned. "Find Chancellor Montpurse
for me."
Someone tipped another bathtub of icy water
over Durendal. "Your Majesty?"
"And bring me his chain."
"Sire! But--"
> "No buts. It's for his own good. If I
don't do this, Parliament will impeach him."
Sick at heart, Durendal muttered, "As
Your Majesty commands." The rank injustice of it
burned like ice in his belly. All this uproar was
Kromman's fault, not Montpurse's. He
began to bow again.
"Wait," the King said again. "We'll settle
this now. I have every confidence that you will be an
excellent chancellor. It brings an automatic
earldom at the next investiture."
"Me? Me? You're joking ... er, Your
Majesty. I'm a pigsticker, not a
statesman, sire!" The floor rocked under his
feet.
Trailing Scofflaw on the end of his corset
strings, the King stumped over to tower above
Durendal. "Would you recommend I appoint
Kromman?"
Oh, bastard! Couldn't he at least have found a
more honorable argument than that? "Sire, I am not
capable. I am only a swordsman. But
Kromman is a liar and a killer and a human
slug. Your Majesty cannot possibly be serious
about--"
"No, I am not. Now kneel and kiss my
hand and then go and get that chain."
Bugger! Gross, fat, conniving bugger!
Unbound or not, Durendal could not refuse his
sovereign. He knelt as Baron Roland
to kiss the King's hand and rose as first minister of
Chivial.
Happily wearing his sword again, he went down
to the Guard Office, where he found Bandit listening
with a tolerant smile to a dozen bragging
juniors. This party was more sober than the
riot going on in his own quarters, but no less
exuberant.
"The King wants you."
"Me, Leader? Me? He doesn't know me
from a long-eared owl. Why?" Bandit was little changed
from the fresh-faced kid Durendal had met on the
moors the day he returned Fang
to Ironhall, but he was as solid as Grandon
Bastion and personable to a fault. He would handle
the King as deftly as he wielded a rapier.
"I have no idea. He specifically asked for
you, though."
The thick line of eyebrow bent in a frown.
"There's been a mistake! He must be confusing
me with one of last night's heroes. I did
hardly anything."
"Tell him so to his face."
Bandit straightened his doublet and hurried off.
His excessively puzzled expression was a
small ray of pleasure on a very gloomy day.
Durendal glanced around the company and was
satisfied that none of them had guessed.
"Again I tell you that I am proud of all