by James Enge
It was a pennywhistle or a pipe or some other kind of cut-rate flute. He began to play a little tune on it just as the Silent Word rang again out of the woods.
I staggered a little but didn't fall. There was some sort of magic in the pipe's music that masked the stunning force of the Silent Word.
Using his right hand to finger the pipe as he continued to play, he reached down and slid one strap of his pack over his left shoulder. Then he switched hands and put the strap over his right shoulder.
“Your pack's open,” I said. “I'll—”
He paused playing for a moment and said, “Have to get moving. Rats.”
This last bit meant less than a Bargainer's promise to me, but I could see how it was a good idea to get moving. We walked westward, toward Caroc town.
Presently, I got to thinking, though. The pipe made magical music—what was the magic for? Just to cover up the magic of the Silent Word? I didn't think so. Rats, Morlock had said. It couldn't really be to—
I turned around and walked backward, keeping up with Morlock step for step. He was right: it would have been a bad idea to stop and tie up his pack while the music was playing. Because it was drawing rats out of the wood.
There were hundreds already, creeping along behind us—the road was dark with them. I looked at Morlock; he met my eye and shrugged without pausing the music.
I swung around and walked forward. Obviously, there was no point in speaking—and, frankly, I was glad of that.
Sure, I was grateful that his magic pipe was keeping me from going unconscious every other moment. I was grateful his magic word had saved me from the Bargainers. He had obviously thought it safe to use, as the Bargainers would no more be able to hear the word or remember it than I had. It would affect any man or woman that way, no doubt.
But the Whisperer in the Woods, the Boneless One, was not a man or a woman. It had heard the Silent Word and was learning how to use it. If it learned how to use it against townfolk without striking the Bargainers as well, even the walls of town and castle wouldn't protect us: walls mean nothing if there is no one standing on guard behind them. The long war between the Castles and the Enemy might be over at last, thanks to Morlock. And me.
I should have left him to the Bargainers, I thought over and over again as we trudged toward Caroc. That was the bitterest pill of all, because it meant, in spite of everything, that Liskin had been right.
Dawn came about an hour before we reached the edge of Caroc Town. I told Morlock he could stop playing—the Enemy was never active during the day. He blew a final shrieking blast on the pipe, very unlike the tripping persuasive music that had drawn the rats, and they fled in all directions.
I didn't have my hillconch with me—it was hooked to my horse's saddle—but I shouted the ritual restoring law to the road and the woods. Morlock listened with interest as he stored his pipe in an odd pocket in one of his sleeves and tied up his pack. Then we walked on to the town.
I was not surprised to learn, when we reached Caroc, that I had been horribly killed by Bargainers in the woods and Liskin, though striving valiantly to save me, had been forced to flee with my horse, for the safety of the Four Castles and, indeed, all humankind.
The sad news reached me through Besk, who was waiting for me at the east edge of town with a mug of beer and a piece of cheese. While I ate the cheese and drank the beer (I offered Morlock the first shot at both; he waved them away, but it looked to me like he really wanted the beer), Besk told us about how Liskin rode into the town before dawn reporting the terrible things he had seen.
A small crowd had gathered around by this time, enjoying the prospect of a man hearing about his own death. I could have said a lot of things, but what I did say was, “That Bargaining little weasel. Besk, Morlock. Morlock, Besk.”
Besk's pale brown face went blank and then, for the first time, he looked straight at the stray I had recovered from the lawless woods.
“Morlock Ambrosius?” Besk asked.
Morlock shrugged his crooked shoulders.
Besk seemed to accept this as an answer; he nodded solemnly and said, “As a maker of sorts, I honor you, of course. As a Coranian of sorts, I've been taught to hate you. But I could never take that stuff as seriously as I should, I'm afraid. You'd better leave him at my place, Roble, before you go to report. The Barons won't treat him well.”
“Can't,” I said flatly. I was a little surprised that Besk had heard of Morlock, but not very: Coranians are supposed to get more news from the wide world than the rest of us, and what they get they share at their Mysteries. (Besk had the wrong ancestors to ever be a full Initiate of one of the Inner Circles. But he, unlike me, had some of the right ancestors, so he could be a member of one of the Outer Circles.) I didn't know what Morlock had done to get on the wrong side of the Coranians or when he had done it; frankly, I didn't care. Something more important than him or me had come up, and now was not the time to hand in a false or, should I say, Liskinized, report. I'd never cared for the Baron of Caroc (who struck me as a stiff), but he needed to hear the truth from me now, including whatever Morlock could tell him about the Silent Words.
To my surprise, Morlock agreed. I thanked Besk for the breakfast (or is it supper when you've been awake all night?), left him among the crowd, and trudged toward the castle.
“Besk is a good man,” I said, after we'd walked awhile in silence.
“He seems so,” Morlock replied. “But…”
“But what?”
“There was something a little strange about him.”
I should have been offended, but I knew what he meant. I shrugged and we went on without speaking.
The audience hall of the Baron of Caroc was full of rubberneckers and armed guards when I ushered Morlock in. The atmosphere was festive but unpleasant. It was like some creepy Coranian religious holiday (although there were almost as many brown faces as white ones in the audience hall).
I conducted Morlock up the hall to the throne where the Baron sat, ramrod straight.
“Sir,” I said, a little embarrassed (I don't usually have to run my mouth with so many people listening), “I bring you news from the woods. And—”
“I know about your prisoner, Liskin,” the Baron said. “Don't worry: you'll have your reward.”
“The name's Roble,” I snapped, my embarrassment vanishing in annoyance. (It was just like Liskin to cop the credit for my “prisoner,” after abandoning us both in the woods.) “Someone's been feeding you false reports. Sir. And I don't know what you guys have against Morlock, here, but there's something more important going on in the woods.”
“Nothing is more important than the capture of one of our enemies from the old time,” the Baron said gloatingly. “But I suppose you will deny your identity, enemy?” he said, speaking directly to Morlock.
Morlock shrugged indifferently, much as he had when Besk asked his name. From the old time: how old was Morlock? Did they really hate him personally, or was it someone he was descended from?
“Why is he still armed?” the Baron demanded. “You—Riskin—Loble—whatever your name is. Take his sword. Take his backpack. Take anything he has on his person.”
“Including his tin whistle?” I said sarcastically, but my heart was falling. I didn't like where this was going. The Baron had goons to lock people up and search them; that's not what the Riders are for, and I was annoyed the Baron was talking to me like one of his jailors. But I couldn't just stand here while they made plans to carve Morlock up, either. He'd saved my life when he could have let me die.
I didn't figure I owed any loyalty to the Baron. The people who lived in Four Castles came first, I figured, especially the people I cared about, then people I owed something to (like Morlock). The Baron of Caroc wasn't on either list.
No, what bothered me was what would happen when I refused. He'd just call in his goons and I might end up in a cell right next to Morlock. That wouldn't do anyone any good. But I didn't like the idea of knuckling u
nder, either.
Just when the situation was bad, Morlock made it worse by drawing his sword. A gasp went around the crowded audience chamber.
It's a crime to draw a weapon in the presence of any of the Barons, of course, except in their defense. But that wasn't what shocked the crowd; at least I don't think so. It was the blade itself. They were all staring at it with their mouths open.
I admit it was weird. I hadn't had a chance to look at the blade before, when Morlock was fighting the Bargainers. The blade was like a long pointed slab of black basalt with veins of white crystal running through it. It seemed as if the white parts began to move, like white flames flickering against a black background. Morlock almost seemed to flicker a little bit, too, and his gray eyes actually seemed to glow. He closed his eyes and I could see the light of his irises shining eerily through the thin skin of his eyelids. His movements were sluggish, almost sleepy.
It reminded me of how he had been when I first saw him. He was going into the rapture state, I suddenly realized. Why?
…the sort of magic Coranians have always been good at… he'd said, right before the Silent Word struck us both down. He'd meant the kind of magic that preserved physical life by devouring someone else's…no, their tal. It was just what the Enemy did. I'd wondered then if the Enemy might once have been a Coranian, though I didn't have a chance to ask the question.
Did Morlock think the Enemy might be here—not in the woods but in Four Castles? Could he use his altered vision in the rapture state to find out?
The Baron was shouting for someone to take his sword. I didn't move to obey; if Morlock was doing what I thought he was, I wanted to know the answer at least as much as he did.
Eventually, though, three soldiers wearing the Baron's surcoat approached. The light in Morlock's eyes died; the light in the sword faded. I was wondering whether to intervene when he opened his eyes and peaceably surrendered the sword, hilt-first, to one of the guards (who seemed reluctant to touch it). He shrugged off his backpack and handed it to the second guard (who grabbed it with two hands and grunted a little; it seemed to be pretty heavy). He nodded politely to the third guard. Then he kicked him in the crotch, knocked him down, and ran past him.
I was as startled as anyone. (I'd figured Morlock was going to surrender and plead for the Baron's mercy. Not a shrewd move, necessarily, but one where I could lend my assistance without ending up in the slammer.) Before I knew it the crooked man was up on the dais, struggling with the Baron, with both of his hands on the Baron's left arm. Morlock wrenched the arm suddenly; there was an indescribable sound, like a moist crackle, and he had torn the arm from the Baron's body.
But there was no blood. And something dark dangled and writhed at the Baron's side, where his arm had been, like muscles with no bone or skin.
The guards had dumped Morlock's sword and backpack and (except for the one still rolling around on the floor with pain) were going to the Baron's rescue. But this stopped them. Like everyone else they stood gaping at the scene playing out on the dais.
Morlock stripped the severed arm of its sleeve and rapped it against the back of the throne. It was hard, chitinous, like a shell. He presented the torn end to those standing agape in the hall; we could see that it was hollow. The Baron of Caroc wasn't human—just a sort of land-crab that looked human….
“Is your enemy the Boneless One who lives in the woods?” Morlock asked. “What of a boneless one who walks among you—misdirects your efforts—eats your lives?”
He took the Baron (who was striking at him with one remaining clawlike hand) by the armless shoulder. He tore the shoulder in two different directions, and the Baron's torso came apart. Morlock tipped him forward and something oozed out of the gaping tear in the chest, like the soft boneless body of an overcooked snail. It fell on the dais steps and slid down a few, leaving a gleaming trail of slime behind it.
It had human eyes, though. And its shapeless mouth screamed in the Baron's voice as Morlock stepped forward to crush it.
The crowd's horror burst into panic. I wasn't the first person to rush for the door, but I wasn't the last one, either. Pretty soon we were all charging toward the wide doors of the audience hall, forcing our way out, yelling our heads off. The crowd spun me around as I went through the door, and I caught a glimpse of Morlock, calmly shouldering his backpack, his sword back in his hand, the Baron a red smear on the dais steps behind him. He met my eye and saluted me gravely with the sword. Then the crowd pushed me out through the door and I lost sight of him.
The morning was warm; I was tired; my armor was heavy. It took me a long time to get from the Castle to the Riders Lodge, where I shed my armor with the help of one of the duty squires. I kept the sword, because I'd bought it with my own money, and I didn't expect to be back.
I went from the Riders Lodge to my house. It was mine, technically, but Naeli's older sons, Stador and Bann (already journeymen in their trades), were actually living there these days. Business is thin for any young man starting out, so I was paying for most of their groceries as well. Thend, the youngest, lived with Besk as his apprentice.
Stador and Bann, thank the Strange Gods (or whoever really runs the universe), were at home instead of work.
“We heard you were dead,” Stador explained, embracing me, “and then that you weren't—”
“I need you to go to Besk's, right now,” I interrupted. “Take whatever you would if you were never coming back. Because you're not. We're leaving Four Castles.”
“Why?” Stador wanted to know.
It was a reasonable question, but what was a reasonable answer? A stray I brought back from the woods killed the Baron of Caroc. The Baron of Caroc had no bones. The Whisperer in the Woods knows one of the Silent Words. None of it sounded reasonable to me.
“Your mother,” I said slowly, “if she were alive, would certainly wish it. Is that enough? Will you wait for the rest?”
“Sure,” they said agreeably, and each of them got a small bundle of stuff.
I sent them on ahead to Besk's to get Thend started. “If I don't follow in an hour,” I said, “start without me. Don't come back here; go west, into the woods. I'll follow as soon as I can.” There were some tools I needed to gather if we were going to rough it in the woods until we got to the lands beyond. I found a lump of beeswax, as well, set aside to make candles, and brought it with. I thought it might afford us some protection against the magic Morlock had unknowingly given to the Enemy in the woods.
There was someone pounding on the front door by the time I was done, so I went out through a window in the back of the house and ran away up the alley. I heard someone following me almost immediately, but I ran on for a stretch, hoping to tire them out.
Finally, I heard whoever it was gaining on me, so I halted and turned, my face friendly, my hand near my sword.
It was Morlock. My face fell, but my hand dropped away from my sword.
“I can't tell you,” I said as he ground to a halt beside me, “how not glad I am to see you.”
Morlock shrugged his crooked shoulders, his white face impassive. Maybe he was used to that kind of reaction. I could understand that, if he screwed up other people's lives as swiftly and as thoroughly as he had screwed up mine.
“You're leaving Caroc,” he said, gesturing at my bundle. “Perhaps the entire, er—?”
“Four Castles, yes,” I said. “I'm getting my sister's boys out of here, too. Somehow I don't figure my prospects in the Riders are what they were yesterday. What with me causing the Baron's death and all.”
Morlock looked at me quizzically. “Would you want a career in the Riders,” he asked, “knowing what you know now?”
“What do I know?” I said. I started walking again; I had to get to Besk's. Morlock fell in beside me. “So the Baron had a hard shell and no bones. It didn't mean he was a bad person.”
“He certainly seemed like a pleasant fellow,” Morlock replied solemnly, “for the little while I knew him.”
> I glared at him for a second, then had to turn away; I didn't want him to see me smile.
“Roble,” he said to my back, “I need some help.”
“Well, you certainly came to the right place,” I said, turning toward him with renewed anger. “You certainly have a store of credit with me. There's nothing I wouldn't do for the man who wrecked my life.”
“You've been cattle for these things,” Morlock said, his face less impassive, his voice carrying an edge. “You and everyone you've ever known. Does that content you? Is it the life you'd wish for your sister's children? For your own?”
“I don't have any.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't want—” I bit my sentence off. I wasn't that crazy about women as women, but I had thought about having a family sometimes. But I didn't want the Boneless One in the woods to eat my children, the way it had eaten Fasra, and Naeli, and countless others. I didn't want them to live in fear of the woods, the Bargainers, the Riders, the dark. I didn't want them to live the life I'd lived.
“Okay,” I conceded gruffly, “maybe it wasn't such a great life. It was the one I had. Now, for taking it from me, you want me to—”
“I want you to help me destroy the enemy in the woods.”
“What's it to you?” I demanded. “You can walk away from here and never come back.”
He shook his head. “When I was taught the Silent Words I swore never to pass their secret to someone who would use them for harm. Now, inadvertently, I have. There is only one way to redeem my word: to kill the thing that lives in the wood. I may not be able to do it alone. Will you help?”
“Urk.” I thought about it—for about half a second. It was a chance to kill the thing that had killed Naeli. “All right. But I want to send my nephews on their way first, in case it doesn't work out. I don't want the Barons or whatever those things are after them.” I paused for a moment, then asked, “What are they?”