by D C Ware
Irrespective, thought Kane, he had someone or more accurately something, very specific in mind to deal with the young knight.
Grabbing his cloak, Kane headed for his door. He needed to get to one of the message centers that were set up at certain towns and castles in the kingdom. He had agents close to Sir Ebros’ location that he needed to set in motion. None of them however knew his identity, let alone that he was a wizard, so he could not use the Gargoyle or any of his wards to contact them without revealing himself. The message centers kept a fleet of pigeons that would carry messages to the message center closest to your desired destination. At which point a mounted courier would take the script to its intended recipient. The cost was prohibitive but the service was fast and reliable.
“Well warned my friend. I had suspected the old man was not what he appeared to be. But a Gargoyle? That would have caught me off guard and likely been the death of me. I am Sir Ebros, lieutenant to the knight Swift, Third Knight of the Land.” Sir Ebros held his hand out to Midas.
Midas took his hand and answered, “I am called Midas. I am a Healer.”
“A healer. I’ve never known a healer that could see through a doppleganger like that. Maybe a Cleric but not a healer.”
“Well I have had some training in that as well. At the monastery where I am heading. And what about you good knight, what keeps you in these woods this close to night.”
“I am charged with a quest. I seek one who refers to himself as The Ferret. An assassin. Have you come across anyone suspicious in your travels other than the creature of course?”
“No. I am traveling with a companion from the Town of Milestill. We are heading to the monastery to consult with the Father regarding rumors of the king’s death. Have you any news of that?”
“Indeed so. I was riding with the Third Knight on a quest to spread the news when we learned of the assassin’s plot. It is true healer. The king is dead!”
Midas paused.
“That is sad news. I never met the king but he was ever a friend of The Church.”
“A friend and a follower healer.”
“Even so. If what you say proves to be true then I no longer need to reach the monastery. I must go to Kings Castle. That is where Father Wilmont will be.”
“What do you mean if it proves to be true?” Sir Ebros was puzzled. This was the first indication he had received from anyone since traveling with Swift that the news of the king’s death may not be true.
“Indeed good knight. I believe you speak the truth known to you but it is not for you and I to know the whole truth of such things. One thing living at the monastery taught me was that the machinations of lords and kings are not bound by the ethical constraints of men such as you and I.”
“So you mean this all may well be a ruse of the king’s own making?”
“Yes and not an insignificant one at that. The king would be risking all if the ruse were to go awry. Those who would be in a place to improve their station upon his death will not surrender power if they are successful in seizing it. And I assure you Ebros if the king is not dead he would be as sure as dead anyway.”
“So you make for the castle to aid the king’s cause?”
“Even so. As I said that is where Father Wilmont will be for the same reason. Will you accompany me knight?”
“I cannot healer. I am bound by a quest. My lord has charged me to find the assassin.”
“You misunderstand me Sir Ebros. That is precisely why you must accompany me. Your assassin is heading for the castle!”
The cabin The Ferret had secured was less than forty feet off the road leading to the castle. In less than a day troops of knights would be up and down that road and searching and questioning everyone in every cabin or house between the castle and Kings Harbor.
It was time for The Ferret to leave. Hurriedly he ran to the door trying to avoid being seen by anyone with all the blood covering him. His coin would signal to the castle that the fire was not an accident and that it was his work. A man seen covered in blood coming from the direction of the castle would be all the evidence they needed to know they had located the culprit. But it looked clear. No one was working in any of the fields nearby and the owner he had rented from - well. He would not be telling anyone anything.
Still, as he entered the cabin and closed the door. Leaving blood on the handle and on the floor. The muffled moaning from under the cot reminded him that there was still one person that could lead any authorities to him. This fact alone changed what would have been a gratuitous killing a day ago into a necessary part of completing his plan.
He pulled the child from under the cot. Frightened and trembling the child looked up at the assassin with tears in his eyes. The Ferret looked down at the child. He raised his left foot and brought it down again and again and again until Hugo had stopped breathing.
The Ferret was motionless. His right hand was trembling. He had abhorred himself. But what bothered him the most was that he did not know why killing Hugo, the way he did, wretched him. There was no doubt dozens of boy’s Hugo’s age in the plaza when the flames he ignited engulfed. Boys, girls, mothers and fathers. Young and old. He killed them all and felt nothing. But this, this bothered him because he could not help but feel the boy deserved more. He could not help but wonder if the boy would have made something of himself. If he could have crawled out from underneath the wretched circumstances of his miserable birth. Like The Ferret had.
He shook himself to. The time. He was wasting time. Already the castle would be on alert and once the fire was extinguished the hunt would begin. The hunt for him. He started moving quickly through the little cabin. He grabbed the items he needed for travel, arranged the kindling in all four corners and finally went over to the young child’s body to wrap it in the burlap blanket.
Just as he lifted the boy however a small leather bag fell from the pocket of the child’s breeches and dozens of tiny buttons spilled onto the cabin floor. The Ferret picked a handful of them up and put them in his pocket. And where the buttons had been he left a small stack of his signature coins.
Maybe the boy would make something of himself after all. Maybe he would be remembered and even feared, he thought as he studied the odd octagonal shaped buttons. Besides he liked the buttons better than the coins anyway.
“Tragedy my lord! Tragedy at the fair!!” The sergeant burst into the First Knight’s chambers. He was breathing heavy and had a look of sheer horror on his face.
Bonelord turned in his chair and looked up at the sergeant without standing. “It has begun,” he thought. At last he stood. Gathering his resolve he tried to calm the soldier.
“Be strong good sergeant! Whatever has befallen the castle, you must be strong. You are a soldier of the King. Do you understand?”
“I understand my lord.” The sergeant gathered himself, placed his hand upon his sword and stood straight up.
“Now tell me. What has happened and where?”
“Fire my lord. Terrible fire fueled by arson in the market plaza. We can’t extinguish it. The water only makes it worse my lord.” The sergeant felt himself slipping again and took a hard swallow and stopped speaking for a moment, “..the water is only making it worse.”
“Greek fire,” whispered Bonelord. “But how? Who?”
“We do not know my lord. My lord what are we to do.”
“Dirt sergeant! Order your men and the guards to man the upper battlements and start dumping dirt onto the fire.”
“But what of the people my lord. They are trapped and burning.”
“They are already dead sergeant. Bury them and that fire or else we will lose the castle! That’s an order!”
“Yes my liege.” The sergeant turned and rushed out the door, followed by two guards who were waiting at the entrance.
Bonelord buried his head into his hands and put them on his desk. “How many?” he thought. “How many people have I just consigned to their deaths. How many?”
Before he coul
d formulate an answer he felt the presence of three more people in the chamber with him. Bonelord turned his head in the direction of the door without raising it.
“Lord Protector, we have heard the news. How may the Church be of help?”
Standing in the doorway was The Abbot, Father Wilmont and Lord Nessleton.
The Lady was uncomfortable. That was not new. She was often uncomfortable. But right now she was asleep. Nonetheless she was uncomfortable. As she sat in her mind’s space, surrounded by nothing but the void of her existence, she would have appeared to be sitting in mid air in the midst of twilight darkness were one able to see her in her dreams. She sat with her legs crossed and her hands upon her knees, just staring into her being.
She often did this. Not every time she slept but a lot of times. It had been taught to her by the elves of the Kingdom of Lyss. They called it the ‘dowlite’. Although she had come to realize that the ‘dowlite’ and the waking dreams she was capable of were not one and the same. She did not know if any other humans besides her could achieve this state. Oh she knew of wizards, more than a few, who could dream walk but that was far from the same thing. In order to dream walk they had to be awake and they had to expend great power to enter the dream and even more to return again. Except that is the possessor of the ring. It’s power and not its wearer’s powered its owner’s journey through the halls of sleep. But other than that few were the wizards who knew how to meet her in this place and fewer were those who had the power to do it. Which was exactly why Matthew had chosen an audience with her here. A demonstration of his power. One she intended to note very carefully.
Before her appeared a very small ripple. A rippled line opening straight down the reality of her existence about the size of a man. And through it walked the wizard. Matthew. It is said he used to be handsome. A young monk with dark, short cropped hair. A bright smile and dark curious eyes. But that was long ago. Now his hair was long, wavy and wild. He wore a long goatee that begin at the edge of his chin and extended down six inches just as dark, wavy and wild as the hair on his head. His eyebrows were too thick and jutted out beyond the frame of his face. His nose was broken and reset and drooped over his lip. And his eyes. His eyes were dark orbs of evil. He was clothed in an ankle length sand colored thawb tattered at the sleeves and along its hems. And on his head he wore a faded gold laurel wreath.
Morcai stood before The Lady. Suspended in the void as she was. He smiled at her. A dry, polite and cautious smile.
“Matthew. It has been a long time.” The Lady smiled graciously.
“My lady it has. I hope my selection of this venue meets with your approval. I know how ‘comfortable’ you are in this space.”
“I am not comfortable, as you can probably tell. But the space suits me. I owe my discomfort to many other things. One of which I presume is the reason you have requested this meeting.”
“Ah, so it is. I would know my lady, if the time has come.” Morcai walked closer to the lady. His form beginning to shimmer.
“The time, Matthew?”
“When it is completed I will lend my power to this new king. Is it completed my lady? Am I that new king?”
The Lady sat in silence. Her silver eyes fixed on Morcai’s dark orbs. Neither spoke.
Captain Milan’s bosun paid Maverick and Gilbo the 300 gold pieces the Captain had promised.
As the three walked down the gang plank from The Adamante. Maverick finished counting the 300 pieces.
“298, 299, 300! It’s all there. So how much do I owe you old man. What is your name again?”
“Gilbo. Some call me Gilbo ‘The Traveler’ but Gilbo is fine. And the answer to your first question would be 30 gold pieces.”
“Ten percent! You charge a ten percent finder’s fee old man.”
“Considering the purse the Captain was able to pay I would think 30 gold pieces is more than fair.”
“It’s fair enough old traveler but I will give you your thirty gold pieces and another thirty on top of that.”
Gilbo spoke up before Maverick could finish his sentence.
“To keep my silence lad? You mean another 30 gold pieces to keep my mouth shut about the compass? I assure you son it’s altogether unnecessary. 30 gold pieces buys you the same silence with me as sixty.”
“Just the same old man, here is sixty. So your silence starts now. Understood?”
“Understood. And do wish the fair lady I met yesterday well lad. That young lady has a merchant’s eye!”
“I suppose she does old man. And I will convey your consideration.”
Oxley stood by Maverick and watched Gilbo head off in the direction of his inn.
“Well Ox that went well. And when I saw the size of that bosun I must admit I was glad to have you by my side. So you earned your pay after all Ox. Here you go.”
“This is 30 gold pieces Maverick.” Oxley held his hand open astonished.
“I know Oxley. I never had any intention of just paying you three gold pieces and I am sure Lyla didn’t either.” Maverick patted Oxley on the back. “What do you say we go back to the tavern and buy three gold pieces worth of ale!”
“Well, actually Maverick. We passed a few shops on the way to the pier that I have a mind to visit and sample some of their wares.”
“A few shops huh. You mean shops like ‘Pusse le Cat’, or ‘Bouncing Bess’ or ‘Flying Kate’ or maybe even the ‘Bette cum Yoldefoot’ Ox?” Maverick smiled.
“Well maybe not ‘Bouncing Bess’.”
Maverick burst out into open laughter. Oxley stared for a second and started laughing too.
“See you back at the tavern Oxley.”
Bonelord stood up.
“The Church, of course! The Church!” He exclaimed running toward The Abbot and Father Wilmont.
“Thank the One!” Remembering his last order he braced the two men. “The dirt! Hurry fathers we haven’t a moment to spare.”
“Marcus, can I help?” Nessleton walked up as the three men reached the door.
“Roger, it is good to see you again. I wish that time allowed us to catch up. But come, you can be of help too.”
The three men rushed down the gallery of the keep to the winding stairs of the tower. Smoke from the fire in the market plaza had already started to enter the interior of the castle including the tower stairs.
“That smell of garlic?” said The Abbot looking at Father Wilmont.
“White phosphorous!” the Father replied, “cover your noses!”
“White phosphorous then!” said Bonelord “not greek fire!”
Emerging out by the barbican the three men quickly turned toward the inner wall. Ten men were already heaving buckets of dirt down upon the fire and the people caught in it. Bonelord hurried to the battlements and ordered the sentries to stop pouring the dirt down.
“Fathers can you tend to the wounded? Have you healing potions?”
“We do Lord Protector. We will heal as many as we can. Can you and your men get them to us?” Father Wilmont answered.
“I have to direct the attack on the fire. Roger, take as many men as you need and funnel all the survivors - no matter how badly wounded - out to the north gate. The Fathers will be set up there waiting for you. I will direct the dirt onto the fire starting at the south end of the plaza and we will work our way north. But be quick Roger if the fire escapes the plaza the whole castle will be lost.”
“I understand Marcus, Fathers shall we go?”
“I fear you are incorrect Lord Aranrood. What does The Lady’s coming have to do with any of The Weapons of Power. As you know I am guardian of one such weapon, the ring; and were her coming concerning The Weapons of Power I would be one of the first to know.” Vandrel stopped walking and looked the elven king in the face to emphasize his point.
“Perhaps Wizard but let me ask you two questions. Have you consulted with any of the other guardians of the great weapons?” Lord Aranrood waited.
“No, I have not.”
&nb
sp; “And is it not true that you have received dreams of The Lady while wielding the ring? Dreams that she was coming. Coming to you?”
Vandrel did not answer. He was shocked. How could the elven king know such a thing?
“Come Vandrel, surely you are not surprised that I know of such things. Elf Mountain is home as well to a guardian.”
“Vinetach and The Bow of Light, of course.” Vandrel relaxed.
“Precisely.”
“And he has had dreams of The Lady as well?” Asked Vandrel.
“Not dreams wizard. Vinetach is but a sage and not a wizard capable of having waking dreams. Though as an elf he, like us all, has the gift of ‘dowlite’.”
“The art of physical separation…the astral form?” answered Vandrel.
“Yes. And Vinetach is the wisest of us all on this continent and he has perceived the coming of The Lady. He has seen her in astral form striding the way of the dream walkers. So I ask you again is it not true that The Lady intends to come to you.” Lord Aranrood’s voice hardened. He did not know Vandrel and to this point he did not know the wizard’s intentions. How he answered next however would reveal all and the elven king was prepared to act.
“You have been told the truth great elven king. The Lady intends to see me. And that is why I have come to you. She must not reach me or my abode. And I am sure she does not travel alone or without sufficient power to guard her passage through this land.”
“So you seek my help in diverting her. Why me? Why Elf Mountain?”
“As you have said elven king, because you safeguard a weapon of power as well. And though I cannot be certain, I believe you and your kind would be less tempted to agree to aid her in wresting the weapon from me if she made such a request.”