by B. V. Larson
The Duke nodded. “Good of you to bring her—although I did not expect you to take up my invitation so soon, Lord Therian.”
Therian bowed.
“You’ll have to surrender your weapons, of course,” said the chamberlain, stumping up to the group standing in the courtyard. He’d handed the horses to the stable boy and returned as quickly as he could.
Therian stiffened. “My blades are ancestral,” he said. “I would rather not surrender them.”
The Duke nodded. “That is acceptable. But you must swear not to harm my guests or retainers.”
“Of course,” Therian said, inclining his head. “If you will be so kind as to swear the same.”
The Duke stared at him for a long, cold second. Then a smile flickered. “What is the harm in it? For so long as you are my guests here—I so swear.”
“I so swear,” echoed Therian.
Everyone relaxed then, as matters of weapons and honor had been sorted out. They were ushered into the lodge proper. Gruum thought the place was no palace, but it was much better than a leather tent on a snow bank. There were candles and the stone floors were strewn with fine rugs, and the windows—although mere slits in the thick walls—were at least covered with hanging tapestries to keep out the worst drafts.
Best of all, to Gruum’s frozen eyes, was the large open hearth against the Hall’s back wall. The open hearth was designed in the tradition of such places in cold climates. Being about ten paces long and two paces deep, entire logs were burned to coals there, requiring many hours to turn tree trunks into ashes. The fuel had burned low, as it was late in the evening. What must be a single roaring fire at dinner had been reduced to a line of smaller fires that burned with flickering orange light.
“I will have the huntress cared for,” the Duke said. “I have the finest physician in these mountains. None know more of the arts of flesh, blood and bone.”
“Summon him then,” Therian said.
The Duke flicked his fingers toward the chamberlain, who paled, then hurried off to do his lord’s bidding. Gruum frowned after the man, wondering at his attitude. Why should he fear to awaken a doctor?
“Perhaps you should place her there on the divan, Gruum,” suggested the Duke.
“How is it Strad, that you know our names and the occupation of this girl?” asked Gruum. “I don’t recall—”
The Duke cleared his throat. Therian gave Gruum a severe stare.
“I’m sorry, milord,” said Gruum, bowing his head.
“I had not expected you to take me up on my invitation so soon, Lord Therian.”
“I found I’d grown tired of Kem. And I find the mountain air refreshing.”
“Of course,” the Duke said, pouring them each a goblet of red wine.
While they spoke, another figure entered the room. He was cowled and robed in heavy red cloth. He glided over to the girl on the divan.
The Duke took notice of the physician’s arrival and turned to greet him. “That’s her, Vosh. See what you can do for her.”
Gruum choked on his wine. Red liquid ran from each corner of his mouth and into the melting snow in his beard. He took one step toward the divan and the figure that hunched over the girl. He took a second, and his hand fell to the pommel of his blade.
“It’s true, sire!” he shouted aloud. “I see the network of bones! He lays his cold touch upon the girl!”
Gruum drew his saber—or at least he tried to. A black-gloved hand gripped his wrist and held it, keeping the blade in its sheathe.
Gruum whirled. Therian’s face was inches from his. It was his own King’s hand that kept him from drawing his sword.
“But, milord—” Gruum sputtered.
“Remember my words, Gruum,” Therian said. “We have foresworn any such rudeness.”
“Does your word mean more to you than this poor girl’s soul?” Gruum demanded.
“I have sworn.”
“And if I draw?”
“Then I shall be forced to remove your head, for you will have dishonored me.”
Gruum shoved his saber back into its sheathe. The blade rang with the force of the motion.
From the divan, Vosh looked up at the two of them. Bare teeth showed, because there were no lips to cover them. To Gruum, it appeared as if Vosh’s skull permanently grinned.
“She may live yet,” Vosh said. “You managed to get her up the mountain just in time. She has lost much blood… a pity, really. I can feel the nearness of sweet death in her. I can tell from touching her hot flesh, that her soul would have a fine, light taste. A taste like that of spring water in summer.”
Gruum could not restrain himself. He turned on the Duke. “How is it a mortal man such as yourself has retained the services of such a creature? This is no physician. This is a monster, a thing that should not speak, nor stir from its grave.”
“Vosh is not my retainer. I would not conceive of such an arrangement with so great a being. He is a guest here—as are you, mouthy commoner.”
Therian took a deep breath, as if faced with an unpleasant task. He struck Gruum a sudden blow to the cheek, using the back of one hand. Such was the force of the strike that Gruum was spun around and nearly dashed to the ground.
“I apologize, Duke Strad,” Gruum heard Therian say over the ringing in his ear. “He is a good man, but addled by the storm. He’s lost sight of his place in this world.”
“I accept your apology,” said the Duke formally.
“I must admit, however,” Therian said with carefully chosen words. “That I am surprised by your choice of houseguests.”
“Indeed,” the Duke said, smiling with half his mouth. “A Hyborean Lord, a Lich, a barbarian from the steppes and a wayward girl. This shall no doubt be an entertaining lodging.”
-11-
They were ushered to a room and brought hot stew and hot brandy. Gruum sipped and sniffed the food distrustfully.
“My good man,” said Therian in amusement, watching him. “They would not bother to poison us, should their intent be to break their word.”
“Something is not right here, milord,” Gruum responded. Reluctantly, he dipped a crust of bread in the stew and chewed. The flavor was good, but he could not enjoy it.
“Something is not right?” asked Therian. “I rather would say that nothing is right here. This is a cursed placed full of cursed beings. And I do not hesitate to include ourselves in that description.”
“I’ll not be able to sleep here,” said Gruum sitting on a cold, musty bed. The sheets so cold as to be half-frozen, but he had to admit the goose feather mattress was softer even than the snow outside.
“As you will,” Therian said. He folded his cloak over a trunk and addressed his own featherbed.
“What do you think they are doing with that poor girl, milord?”
“Hopefully, they are allowing her to get some sleep before dawn grays the windows.”
Gruum finished his food, then fretted and stretched on the bed. The sleep of exhaustion crept upon him and snatched away his mind. He could not resist the velvet blackness of slumber.
Sometime later, in the stillest hour of the night, his eyes snapped open. Had something entered the room with them? He sat up.
There, in the corner of the room, a pool of deep shadow lay. This was strange only because there was no bright light. The windows had grayed with the dawn, but there was no sunlight. Nothing, at least, that could be responsible for casting a shadow of such black depth.
“Milord?” whispered Gruum. He watched the shadow. Did it twitch? No, it could not have. His eyes ran to the ceiling, expecting to see an assassin hanging there, but there was none. There was nothing in the room that could have cast that shadow. No source of harsh light, nor an object to block it.
As Gruum watched, the shadow did move. There could be no doubt of it. The darkness left the corner. It crept to the foot of Therian’s bed, where it halted and lay in an ovoid puddle like thick, spilled ink.
“Milord?” Gr
uum called, his voice louder.
“What is it, man?”
“There is something… something that lies at the foot of your bed.”
“Yes,” said Therian, sighing. “Take care not to step in it. Do not turn the beam of a light directly upon it, either.”
Gruum thought these statements over for a moment before speaking further. While he watched, the shadow crept beneath the thick, round posts of Therian’s bed. Gruum was reminded of a cat, withdrawing from unwanted scrutiny.
“What is it, sire?”
“Do you not recognize it?”
Gruum blinked, and watched as the last of it moved under Therian’s bed and vanished completely. He could feel the presence of it, as if it watched him.
“It is the substance we left upon the roadway, is it not?” Gruum asked.
“Yes. It is Humusi’s bile.”
“Perhaps we should put it back in the pouch from which it came.”
“Be my guest.”
Gruum thought about it, and soon came up with a plan. He made no attempt to capture the gelatinous shadow nor to speak with it. Instead, he took the pouch, opened it, and tossed it upon the floor near Therian’s bed. He hoped if it had returned to them looking for solace, it would find further comfort in the depths of the pouch. Never once did he set a foot upon the cold flagstones.
“Will it slay us as we sleep?” Gruum asked.
“I think not. I think it was lost when we left, and it has followed us here. We are all that it knows.”
Gruum shuddered in his bed. He lay there, desperately tired, but could not sleep for another moment.
Later, when dawn was full-fledged, the breakfast bell rang in the Duke’s Great Hall. When Gruum arose, he checked every inch of the floor before setting a foot upon it. He inspected the interior of his boots with the intensity of a Kem taxmaster before daring to slide his toes inside. There was no sign of the shadowy puddle, but the pouch he had cast upon the floor did seem to bulge somewhat. Gruum avoided it carefully.
Therian was escorted to the head table, where he sat beside the Duke’s tall, empty chair. The Duke himself was absent. Gruum sat at the lower table, with the servants and guardsmen. Gruum watched carefully to see if Vosh would show himself, but he did not.
The food was excellent. There were fresh eggs, whipped and cooked in a mass within an iron kettle. The eggs were topped with glistening melted cream. Hot loaves of bread were served to everyone, which they used to scoop out the eggs and cream. Snow was melted over the fire in another kettle. Leaves were crumbled into the boiling water and strained out. The amber liquid that resulted was ladled out for drinking into dozens of stone mugs. Gruum sipped his and found the concoction flavorful. It filled him with warmth.
Gruum ate his fill and watched everyone. They in turn seemed to be watching him. There was little conversation and voices were muted when people did speak. The greatest surprise of the morning occurred when a new figure stepped out of the shadowy halls from the northern wing of the lodge. Light of step, but obviously weary, this new diner came late to breakfast and sat at the lower table across from Gruum. None there scolded her for her tardiness.
Gruum dipped his head and craned his neck, trying to get a look at the face beneath the drawn hood.
Finally, she turned to him. “What is it, sir?”
“I—” began Gruum, but stopped. He recognized her face, but in his shock he knew not what to say. “It’s nothing, Miss.”
How was he to speak to her? How was he to tell her that only one night before, she was as good as dead, and he had borne her at risk of his own life to this place? What had Vosh done to revive her, to bring her to this table as if she had not been at death’s gate hours earlier? He was haunted by the idea that he might have damned her soul in his attempts to save her, rather than allowing her a clean escape into death. Maybe, he thought, he had damned them all.
-12-
After breakfast, the chamberlain approached Therian and Gruum. It was the same man who had opened the portal for them last midnight. He invited them to join the retainers for a hunt.
“A hunt?” Gruum asked. “But the storm has only just passed.”
“Fresh game will be out and hungry after such a blizzard,” the chamberlain said.
“You are dedicated sportsmen to want to go out in waist-high drifts,” Gruum said.
The chamberlain sniffed. “We hunt every day while we lodge here. It is the purpose of this place.”
“What of the Duke?” Therian asked, speaking for the first time.
“He will not be joining us. You will see him tonight, I’m sure.”
Therian nodded. “We will join your hunt. But we have no spear or bow.”
“There is an armory downstairs, milord. I’m sure you can find suitable equipment there.”
Gruum watched the man leave. He turned to Therian. “What an odd bunch. Every one of them makes me uneasy. How can they know a lich walks among them and yet seem unperturbed?”
Therian gave him a slight smile. “You slept with a living shadow last night, and even managed to coax it into its pouch for transport. Who are you to judge the strange habits of these people?”
“I suppose you have a point there. But milord, we have not spoken of the Dragon’s charge. Do you know what we are to seek here? Is this the right place?”
“Oh yes,” Therian said. “We are in the right place. Of that much, I am sure.”
When they stepped downstairs, they found the armory to be a place of gloom, dust and cobwebs.
“Everything here seems ancient and disused,” remarked Gruum. Therian did not respond.
The two men poked about. There were barrels of rusty spears and an entire wall hung with swords. None of them seemed to be well cared-for.
“Perhaps I can help you gentlemen,” said a fair voice behind them.
Gruum and Therian turned with their brows uplifted. It was the huntress, wearing the same cloak and hood she had worn while Gruum carried her through the previous night. Gruum was especially surprised to see her standing behind them. He had not heard her feet echoing upon the stone steps.
Gruum smiled at her. “I did not catch your name at breakfast, miss…?”
“I’m Margaret,” she said, returning his smile.
“Maybe you can help, Margaret. I can’t find a weapon that isn’t coated with the work of a thousand spiders.”
She led them to a door in the back. They followed her through and Gruum made appreciative sounds. The room was full of well cared-for boar spears. Every point was shining, polished steel. There were crossbows as well, a dozen of them with strong prods. Each had two strings of fresh, braided gut hanging from the prods, ready to be strung by a huntsman’s hand.
Gruum took down one of the lighter crossbows and bent the prod against the stone floor. He found plenty of spring in the prod and had to grunt and struggle to string it. “I prefer a short bow, but this will do nicely,” he said. “Can I string one for you, master?”
Therian made a dismissive gesture. He stood inspecting the boar spears for a time before selecting one with a wide head and a haft of stout hardwood. He took it down and worked the air with it experimentally. Gruum sidestepped, frowning. Margaret stood her ground, smiling.
“An excellent weapon,” said Therian. “By the look of the grain, I believe the shaft is made of ash.”
“Ash wood is the best,” agreed Gruum, looking for a spear of his own. “Lighter than oak and almost as strong, it is less likely to split. What of you, Miss Margaret?”
“I have my own bow and dagger,” she said.
Gruum turned to her. “Do you recall how you came to be here?” he asked her.
By her reaction, he judged he had made a misstep. She looked down, and appeared embarrassed. “I’m told I owe you thanks, sir.”
“Think nothing of it,” Gruum said quickly, not wanting to upset her. Perhaps the idea of having spent the night helpless and in the care of two strange men was disturbing to her.
Therian watched them closely. He tested his spearhead to see if it was firmly seated. The spearhead had a thick, central rib down the center of it, a sharply tapered point and twin broadening blades that ran down the sides. To prevent the spearhead from sinking too deeply into the target, two quillons extended from the base where it sat upon the shaft. The quillons resembled the crossguard of a broadsword.
Therian turned to Margaret. “I would ask you a question, girl. Do you recall your physician’s role in your recovery? It was nothing short of a miracle.”
She blinked at him. “I—I’m not sure. I remember someone. A figure in a red robe. He did not come to check on me this morning when I awoke. Strange, the entire experience was like a dream to me.”
“How did you become injured?” Gruum asked, keeping his voice gentle and informal.
“Injured?” she asked, as if she had never considered the possibility. “I suppose I must have fallen. Perhaps my head struck a stone.”
“And your throat?” Gruum asked, unable to contain himself. His eyes probed at her neck, but he could not see beneath her hood in this torch lit chamber.
Margaret put a hand to her neck. She frowned. Gruum thought again that she had a lovely look to her. “It does itch. My voice is slightly scratchy, and when I swallow I feel an obstruction. What else can you tell me?”
Therian’s face flickered into a smile. “Forget about it, my dear. Let us focus on the hunt.”
Gruum cast an annoyed glance toward his master. He had hoped to learn more of this girl and her amazing recovery.
“Yes,” Margaret said brightly. “The hunt. I’ll meet you upstairs. They will be gathering the hounds and the horses now.”
She left, and Gruum stared after her. After she had disappeared up the steps, his eyes still lingered at the spot where she had vanished.
Therian huffed. “So easily beguiled. It is a wonder you do not trot after her.”
“You are one to talk!” Gruum said. “I saw you kissing Anduin’s claws, remember?”
“No, I do not recall your presence,” Therian said with sudden severity.