The Books of the South: Tales of the Black Company (Chronicles of the Black Company)

by Glen Cook

  The wizard stared into that.

  Smeds could not see that it made any difference.

  But the wizard’s smile went away. The color left his cheeks. In a squeaky voice he asked, “What have you boys been into?”

  “Huh? What do you mean?” Smeds asked.

  “Surprised I didn’t see it sooner. The mystic stench is there. But who would have thought it? The boy has had his hand on something polluted with the essence of evil. Something pregnant with the blood of darkness. A powerful amulet, perhaps. Some periapt lost in ancient times and just now resurfacing. Something very extraordinary and hitherto unknown in these parts. Have you boys been grave robbing?”

  Timmy stared at his hand. Smeds met the wizard’s eye but did not say anything.

  “You wouldn’t have been breaking any laws digging wherever you ran into whatever caused this. But you could get in deep if you don’t report it to the imperial legates.”

  “Can you do anything for him?”

  “They pay good rewards.”

  “Can you do anything for him?” Smeds demanded.

  “No. Whatever caused this was created by someone far greater than I am. Assuming it to have been an amulet, the burn can be cured only by someone greater than the man or woman who created the amulet. And that someone would have to have the amulet itself to study before trying to effect a cure.”

  Shit, Smeds thought. Where were you going to find somebody big enough to undo the Dominator?

  You weren’t. “What else can you do? If you can’t just fix him up?”

  “I can remove the tainted flesh. That’s all.”

  “What’s that mean in plain language?”

  “I can amputate his hand. Here. At the wrist would do it today. If that’s the way you decide to go you’d better do it soon. Once the darkness works its way into the larger bones there won’t be any way to tell how far or how fast it’s spreading.”

  “What about it, Timmy?”

  “It’s my hand, man!”

  “You heard what he said.”

  “I heard. Look, wiz, you got something that will stop the pain long enough for me to think straight?”

  The pudgy man said, “I could put a blocking spell on that would help for a while, but it would hurt worse than ever when that wore off. And that’s an idea you’d better get into your head. The longer you stall, the worse the pain is going to get. In another ten days you’re not going to be able to stop screaming.”

  Smeds scowled. “Thanks for just not a whole lot. Do the painkiller thing for him and let us go talk it over.”

  The wizard sprinkled powders, mumbled, made mystic passes. Smeds watched Timmy relax a little, then even manage a feeble smile.

  Smeds asked, “That it? Come on, Timmy. Let’s hit the road.”

  The wizard said, “I need to wrap that again. I don’t know that it would, but it if came in contact with someone else it might communicate itself. If the original evil was potent enough.”

  Smeds’s insides knotted and curled as he tried to recall if he had ever touched Timmy’s hand. He didn’t think he had.

  He barely waited to get Timmy outside before he asked, “Old Fish ever touch that when he was taking care of you?”

  “No. Nobody did. Except that doc I had look at it. He poked it a couple times with his finger.”

  “Unh.” Smeds did not like it. It was getting complicated. He did not like things complicated. Trying to untangle them usually made things worse.

  They had to have a sitdown with Tully and Fish. He knew what Tully would want to do: drag Timmy out in the country somewhere, cut his throat, and bury him.

  Tully had the soul of a snake. He had to break loose. The sooner the better. Right now probably wouldn’t hurt. Except then how would he get his cut of whatever the spike went for? Shit.

  “Timmy, I want you should go get drunk, have a good time, but do some serious thinking and get your mind made up. Whatever you want to do, I’ll back you up, but you got to remember it affects all of us. And keep an eye on Tully. Tully ain’t a guy you want to turn your back on when he’s nervous.”

  “I’m not stupid, Smeds. Tully ain’t a guy I’d turn my back on when he wasn’t nervous. He ever tries anything cute he’s got a nasty surprise coming.”

  Interesting.

  Smeds figured he had some deciding to do himself. Like, with the town up to the gutters in gray boys and their bosses about to find out the spike was gone from the Barrowland, was it time to hit the road and get lost someplace they’d never think to look? Was it time to do something with the spike so it would be safer than it was in his pack back at the Skull and Crossbones? He’d already had a cute idea how to handle that. An idea that might turn into a kind of life insurance if he went ahead and did it before he told the others what he had done.

  Damn, he hated it when things got complicated.

  * * *

  There was a hell of a row with Tully when they all got together. Tully seemed a little shorter on sense every day.

  “You think you’re some goddamned kind of immortal?” Smeds demanded. “You think you’re untouchable? There’s the goddamned grays out there, Tully. They decide to get excited, they’ll take you apart one piece at a time. Then they’ll give the pieces to Gossamer and Spidersilk to put back together so they can make you tell them what they want to know. And whatever you tell them then, it won’t be enough. Or do you think you’re some kind of hero that would hold out against the kind of people that learned to ask questions in the Tower?”

  “They got to find me before they can ask me anything, Smeds.”

  “I think we’re finally getting somewhere. That’s what I’ve been saying for the last ten minutes.”

  “The hell. You’ve been jacking your jaw about running off to some ass-wipe place like Lords.…”

  “You really think you could stay out of their way here? Once they knew what they were looking for?”

  “How they gonna…?”

  “How the hell should I know? What I do know is, these ain’t no half-moron bozos from the North Side. These are people from Charm. They eat guys like us for snacks. The best way to stay out of their way is not to be around where they’re at.”

  “We ain’t going nowhere, Smeds.” Tully was turning plain stubborn.

  “You want to stand around waiting for the hammer to hit you between the eyes, that’s fine with me. But I ain’t getting killed because you got ego problems. Selling that spike off and getting rich would be nice, but not nice enough to die for or go to the rack for. All these heavies turning up here before we even start trying to find a buyer, I’m tempted to let it go to the first bidder just to get out from under.”

  The argument raged on, bitterly, inconclusively, with Fish and Timmy refereeing. Smeds was as angry with himself as he was with Tully. He had a nasty suspicion he was just blowing a lot of hot air, that he would not be able to walk out on his cousin if it came to a decision. Tully was not much, but he was family.

  29

  Toadkiller Dog lay in the shade of an acacia tree, gnawing on a shinbone that had belonged to one of the wicker man’s soldiers.

  Only a dozen of those had survived that grisly night when they had taken the monastery. Half of those had died since. When the breeze blew from the north the stench of death was overpowering.

  Only two of the witch doctors had gotten through alive. Barely. Till they recovered, he and the wicker man were in little better shape than they had been in the beginning, back in the Barrowland.

  Toadkiller Dog kept one eye on the mantas gliding overhead and around the monastery, eternally probing for soft spots in the shell of magic shielding the place. Bolts ripped through any they found. Only one in a hundred did any damage, but that was enough to guarantee eventual destruction.

  The wicker man’s triumph over the windwhale had given a respite of two hours. Then another windwhale had appeared and had resumed the struggle. There were four of them out there now, at the points of the compass, and the
y were determined to avenge their fallen brother.

  Toadkiller Dog rose, bones creaking and aching, and zigzagged his way between dangerous spots to the low, thin wall that surrounded the remains of the monastery. He limped badly. His wicker leg had gone in the conflagration that had come when the Limper’s firedrake had turned back upon him.

  He consoled himself with the knowledge that the Limper was worse off than he was. The Limper had no body at all.

  But he was working on that.

  How the hell had they managed that turnaround?

  Toadkiller Dog rose on his hind legs, rested his paw and chin on top of the wall.

  The picture was worse, as he had expected. The talking stones were so numerous they formed a circumvallation. Groves of the walking trees stood wherever the ground was moist, feasting. They had to endure eternal drought on the Plain of Fear.

  How long before they moved in and began demolishing the wall with their swift-growing roots?

  Squadrons of reverse centaurs galloped among the shadows of gliding mantas, practicing charges and massed javelin tosses.

  That weird horde would come someday. And there would be no turning them back while the Limper had no body.

  They would have come already had they known how helpless were the besieged. That was the only smart thing the Limper had done, getting himself out of sight and lying low, so those creatures out there did not know where he stood. He was counting on the White Rose to think he was trying to lure her into a trap by pretending to be powerless.

  The Limper needed time. He would do anything, would sacrifice anyone, to buy that time.

  Toadkiller Dog turned away and limped toward the half-demolished main structure of the monastic complex. A frightened sentry watched him pass.

  They knew they were doomed, that they had become rich beyond their hopes but at the cost of selling their souls to death. They would not live to enjoy a copper’s worth of their stolen fortunes.

  It was too late now, even to find hope in desertion.

  One man had tried. They had him out there. Sometimes they made him scream just to remind everybody they were irked enough to take no prisoners.

  Toadkiller Dog squeezed through the tight halls and down steep, narrow stairs to the deep cellar the Limper had taken for his lair. Down there he was safe from the monster boulders and whatnot the windwhales dropped when the urge took them.

  The Limper had set up in a room that was large and as damp and moldy as might be expected. But the light there was as bright as artificial sources could make it. The sculptors needed that light to do their work properly.

  The bodiless head of the Limper sat on a shelf overlooking the work in progress. Two armed guards and one of the witch doctors watched, too. The actual work was being done by three of the dozen priests who had survived the massacre of the monastery’s inmates.

  They had no idea what their reward would be if they did a good job. They labored under the illusion that they would be allowed to resume the monastery’s work when they finished and their guests departed.

  In the southwest corner, the highest of the enclosure, there was a small spring. The monastery drew its water from this. Below the spring, kept moist by its runoff, lay a bed of some of the finest potter’s clay in the world. The monks had been using it for ages. The Limper had been delighted when he had learned of the deposit.

  The sculptors had the new body roughed in to the Limper’s satisfaction. It would be the body he’d always wished he’d had, not the stunted, crippled thing he’d had to endure when he’d had a body of his own. With the head on it this would stand six and a half feet tall and the body itself would fit what the Limper imagined was every maiden’s dream.

  About a third of the detail work was done and it was very good work indeed, with all the tiny wrinkles and creases and pore holes of a real human body, but with none of the blemishes.

  Only one of the three monks was doing any sculpting. The other two were keeping the clay moist, basting its surface with oil that would keep that natural dampness in.

  Toadkiller Dog glanced at the clay figure only long enough to estimate how much longer their good luck would have to hold. He was not reassured. Surely those things out there would stop procrastinating in a day or two.

  He retraced his route to the surface, prowled from wall to wall, eyeing potential routes of escape.

  When the hammer fell he was going out of there at a gallop, straight at the talking stone and jump over. They would not expect him to bolt and leave the Limper to his fate.

  He would find a more reasonable patron somewhere else. The Limper was not the only one of the old ones who had survived.

  30

  It was not a companionable camp where we were set up east of the monastery, where the smell of bodies wasn’t as bad. I mean, I did my best and me and the Torque boys and the talking buzzard and a couple of the talking stones had us some pretty good bullshit sessions around the old campfire. But the rest of them acted like a bunch of little kids.

  Raven wasn’t going to talk to Darling unless she made the first move. Silent wouldn’t have nothing to do with Raven on account of he thought Raven was going to try to steal his girl. A girl he never really had. Darling wasn’t talking to Raven because she figured he owed her about twenty giant apologies and he had to pay off before she gave him the time of day. And she was pissed at Silent because he was being presumptuous, and maybe at herself some, too, for maybe having given him grounds for his presumptions.

  Just between you and me and the pillow book, I don’t think she’s no blushing virgin.

  But maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Been so long since I been in rock-throwing range of a woman that the females of those back-assward centaurs are looking good.

  The Torque boys swear by them.

  Old wizard Bomanz ain’t getting along with nobody. He’s full up to his eyeballs with ideas about how this show ought to be run and there ain’t nobody will listen to him but the talking buzzard. The buzzard’s name is Virgil but the stones call him Sleazeball or Garbagemouth on account of the high intellectual content of most of his conversation.

  Already I’m getting blasé about all those weird critters. They kind of rattled me at first, but we been here eight days now. If I ignore what they look like I knew stranger guys in the Guards.

  What I can’t figure is why we’re sitting around. From what I hear there’s only a few guys holed up in that monastery. With what we got we ought to be able to take the Limper even in top condition. But Darling is the high lord field marshal here. She says we wait.

  She gets her orders from Old Father Tree. Must be he’s happy so long as the Limper is buttoned up in a sack where he can’t cause nobody no grief.

  * * *

  Raven said, “I misjudged her. She’s not just sitting on her hands.”

  “Eh? What?” I wanted to go to sleep. So suddenly he wanted to talk.

  “Darling isn’t just sitting here. There’s a dozen kinds of these Plain creatures so small you don’t notice them or so much like something you’re used to seeing you don’t pay any attention. She’s got those sneaking in and out of there all the time. She knows every breath they take. She’s got somebody on every one of them all the time. The mantas and centaurs and rock dropping are all for show. If the order comes down, the real main attack will be carried out by the little creatures. They won’t know what hit them in there. She’s a genius. I’m proud of that girl.”

  When it came to sneaky petey I figured she had some pretty good teachers, hunking around with the Black Company all them years. I told him, “Why don’t you go tell her she’s a genius, you’re proud of her, you still love her, will she forgive you for being such a butt way back when? And let me get some sleep.”

  He didn’t go see Darling. But he did get pissed at me and left me alone.

  Not that that did much good for long.

  What nobody knew but maybe Silent—since Darling can’t hear and she can’t lip-read the stones becaus
e they got no mouths—was that she already had the go-ahead from the boss tree. She was just waiting for the right hour to give the signal.

  Naturally she timed it for when I just got sound asleep.

  * * *

  Things were quiet in the basement where the Limper was hiding out. There was one armed guard, one shaman overseeing, one monk keeping the clay moist, and two more making a leg for Toadkiller Dog.

  The earth shook. A windwhale had hit the building with an extra big stone. Everybody moved to protect the claywork.

  A dozen Plain creatures exploded out of cracks and shadows. Little missiles flew. Little blades flashed. The fastest creatures climbed all over the soldier and the shaman. They let the monks escape. Once the soldier and witch doctor went down the creatures began defacing the claywork.

  It was the same elsewhere. None of the Limper’s men survived.

  * * *

  That monster Toadkiller Dog came flying out of the monastery and landed smack in the middle of a gang of centaurs. Blades flashed. Javelins flew. So did bodies. Then the monster broke loose.

  Mantas swarmed overhead so thick they kept running into each other. The thunder of their lightnings made a drumroll.

  The monster got to the barrier of talking menhirs and walking trees. He jumped over that, too. His fur smoldered and his flanks were pincushioned with darts. The walking trees tried to grab hold of him. His strength was too violent for them.

  He kept right on coming, straight at us.

  Menhirs popped into his way, stalling and tripping him. Mantas tried to cook him. Centaurs galloped with him, pelting him with javelins and dashing in to try to hamstring him. Me and Raven and the Torque boys all put three or four arrows apiece into him. He never seemed to notice. He just kept on coming, howling like all the wolves in the world at once.

  “Go for its eyes!” Raven yelled. “Go for its eyes!”