by Peter David
She took two quick steps forward, sending me off-balance, and I would have fallen had I not gripped a table and saved myself. She pivoted and all the wheedling and cajoling was gone. Instead, in a voice just as hard as the gem she’d been palming, she said sharply, “If you force me into their hands, I’m just going to tell them you’re my compatriot. That you were the one who came up with the entire scheme!”
“They won’t believe you.”
She nodded her head vigorously. “Oh, yes. Yes, they will. I can be very convincing, Apropos, as you well know, considering my lies once managed to save your life. Well, now they’ll cost you your life, so you see that these things have a way of evening out.”
For one of the few times in my existence, I was speechless. I had never so wanted to knock a woman’s head off her shoulders as I did with Sharee at that moment. Because the horrific fact was that she might well be right. There was every possibility that she might be able to convince her pursuers that I was in league with her. Oh, there was a chance that she wouldn’t. That they’d just grab her, thank me for my time, and take her off to do whatever the hell they wanted to do with her. But in weighing the risks that were before me, it was one that I had no desire to take.
The Visionary coughed. Considering he was dying, he was being quite considerate about not distracting us from our own imminent and very likely demises.
Trembling with suppressed rage, I snapped at her, “Over there!” I pointed to the bar. “Behind there, there’s a trapdoor that leads to the cellar! Hurry! Hide yourself there, I’ll … I’ll think of something,” I growled.
She did not wait for me to invite her. Instead, shoving the gem into the folds of her tunic, she dashed over to the bar and vaulted it, her cloak swirling around her like mist. She dropped behind the bar out of sight, and a moment later I heard the opening and then closing of the trapdoor, telling me that she’d secreted herself away. Quickly I licked the palms of my hand and ran them over my hair to smooth it down. My heart was racing and I did all that I could to calm it before it tore right out of my chest in its urgency. There was, after all, no reason to panic. I was not entirely without resources, and I did, after all, have a few tricks up my sleeve.
I moved quickly to the bar behind which Sharee had just disappeared. With Sharee’s pursuers right outside, I didn’t have any time to waste.
Now understand, I was not a weaver, nor did I have any interest in such a vocation. But I’d had all manner of individuals come through Bugger Hall at one time or another, and therefore had managed—over a period of time—to be prepared for just about anything. From behind the bar, I extracted a small box and opened it, trying not to rush even though there was a good deal of urgency in my situation. Inside the box was a piece of what appeared to be ordinary white chalk … except, if one looked closely, one would have seen runes etched into it. I could not comprehend the runes on the chalk any more than I could on the parchment that the Visionary had read from, but there wasn’t time to worry about it. There was also a small, folded piece of paper in the box with a transliteration of what it said on the chalk. I took both of those and went straight to the threshold of the hall, drawing a quick line with the chalk while muttering the words as rapidly, but carefully, as I could. Then I went to the windows and did likewise. Once I had finished, I placed them back in the box, and then sat down on the far side of the main hall and waited. I glanced over at the Visionary. His head was flat on the table, his eyes glazed, drool coming from his mouth.
“Can I get you anything?” I inquired solicitously.
To my surprise, he responded, “Blanket … would be nice.”
“Oh.” I got up, went to a storage room, and returned with a blanket just as there was a loud and insistent thumping at the door. “We’re closed!” I called as I tossed the blanket on the Visionary. He sighed peacefully, comfortable in his ebbing life. In a way, I hoped that I would face death with that degree of aplomb … rather than the way I would likely face it, which would involve a good deal of sobbing and profanity.
“YOU’LL OPEN FOR ME,” came a voice from outside. It was deep and resonant, and obviously belonged to someone who was quite accustomed to being obeyed. I wasn’t particularly anxious to meet the owner of that voice.
Quickly I grabbed up the crossbow that had fallen to the floor, glancing once more at the crossbow bolts to make sure they were in place. I steeled myself and, trying to sound relaxed and conversational, without a thing to hide, said, “I think you’ll find yourself in error.”
The door exploded inward. The wooden lock I had affixed to it snapped off and flew across the room, landing in the fireplace and causing a slight jump of the flames. The door hung open and therein stood one of the largest bruisers I had ever set eyes upon.
He was a barbarian if ever I’d seen one. He was dressed in black leathers, with one of his arms equal in size to both of mine. He filled the entirety of the doorway, and his cloak was billowing and lined with thick black fur, probably from some creature he had slain with his bare hands.
He wore a helmet that was also of sculpted leather. The helmet covered the entirety of his head, except for a narrow T-shaped space which allowed vision. His eyes glowered from within. Two curved horns extended from its forehead, almost making me wonder whether he wasn’t some sort of demon creature himself.
I also couldn’t help but notice the sword that was hanging at his left hip. Even in its scabbard, I could see that it was a broadsword. The hilt was the size of a small child. I didn’t even want to think what the blade itself looked like. The breeze alone generated by a near miss from the thing could likely break one’s spine.
I knew his type all too well. The type who was filled with unspeakable capacity for brutal savagery, yet at the same time looked down upon all civilized men because he considered us soft, weak, and unworthy.
Behind him, barely discernible to the human eye, were the shadows of others, poised against the forest, awaiting an order from him. I couldn’t quite make out how many of them there were, but I knew I wanted them nowhere near.
“WHERE IS THE WEAVER?” he demanded, making no pretense of being there for any reason other than Sharee. The sheer volume of his demand almost caused my inner ear to collapse.
I arched my eyebrows, looking innocent. “Weaver?”
“BY CRUMM, DO NOT PLAY GAMES WITH US, LITTLE MAN.” His fingers tightened into a fist. He didn’t look especially happy. I could see the play of his muscles beneath the skin of his bare arms. I was suddenly glad he wasn’t bare-chested. There was only so much inferiority I could reasonably be expected to deal with on any given evening. “WE KNOW THAT THE WEAVER IS HERE.”
“Could you please … stop … shouting?” I asked.
He tilted his head slightly and looked at me with open curiosity. “SHOUTING? AM I SHOUTING?”
“Yes!”
“MY APOLOGIES! IS THIS ANY BETTER?”
“No! You don’t sound any different!”
He shrugged. “WHERE I COME FROM, THIS IS CONSIDERED NORMAL CONVERSATIONAL TONE. I’M AFRAID YOU’RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO LIVE WITH IT, BY CRUMM!”
“Who the hell is Crumm?”
“HE IS THE GOD OF MY PEOPLE! A DARK AND BARREN GOD, WHO DOES NOT CARE FOR—”
“Actually, I stopped caring about the answer even before I finished asking the question. So you can just stop telling me.” And I leveled the crossbow at him for emphasis.
He barely glanced at it. I don’t think he cared if I held it or not. Considering the size of him, I could have discharged both bolts into him and he’d hardly have felt it. “GOOD! FOR I HAVE PLACES TO GO AND THINGS TO DO! SO HAND OVER THE WEAVER!”
“I have a Visionary here,” I offered, trying to sound cooperative while the ringing in my ears from his volume subsided ever so slightly. “Will he do? You can have him, at least for a brief time.” I indicated the Visionary who, by that point, had the blanket over him. “See? There he is.”
“Don’t mind me,” the Vision
ary said helpfully, interrupting himself for a moment with a thick cough. When he regained his breath, he continued, “I’m just dying.”
“ALL RIGHT,” said the barbarian, obviously not caring in the slightest. He turned his attention back to me. “DID YOU KILL THIS MAN WITH THE CROSSBOW YOU HOLD THERE?”
“No. You did,” I said as judgmentally as I could. “Or one of your people did. Sent a bolt flying in here while you were chasing down …” I paused just in time and then finished, without the slightest indication that I’d changed what I was about to say, “whoever it was you were chasing down.”
It was hard to tell with the way that the helmet cast the shadow upon him, but he seemed to smile ever-so-slightly. “WHAT IS YOUR NAME, LITTLE MAN?”
“They call me Poe, you great shouting oaf.”
“POE … I AM LORD BELIQUOSE. STEP ASIDE OR I WILL KILL YOU.” He did not even bother to draw his sword, allowing instead his hand to rest on the pommel in a very significant manner.
“Well, I am certainly not fool enough to ignore an offer such as that,” I said gamely. I lowered the crossbow as if even the slightest thought of resisting was gone, and—stepping to one side—I gestured widely for him to enter, and tried not to smirk as I did so.
Confidently he endeavored to pass through the doorway … and slammed to a halt. What I could see of his features were clouded and confused, and he pushed against the empty space again and again, harder and harder, and it was all I could do not to laugh. Finally I gave in, allowing myself a contemptuous chortle as I watched his antics. He drew back a muscled arm and let fly with all his strength, and still the impact ended at the threshold.
“You’re wasting your time, Milord,” I said mockingly. “I applied a magical ward as a seal.” The truth was that I had taken a bit of a risk. I had no idea what it was that had caused Sharee’s abilities to malfunction, and for all I knew my petty magical talismans would likewise be ineffectual. Obviously, however, they were not, and for that I was most thankful, if I could just determine who precisely to thank.
“A SEALER WARD,” he snarled. Clearly I had upset him. Even more clearly, I couldn’t have given a damn.
“Exactly so, yes. Neither you nor any of your cronies will be able to penetrate it. You may have been able to break down the door since that was just outside the ward, but anything which you endeavor to send across the ward to injure me … well, you’ll have no luck there.”
I heard the thump of a crossbow. The bolt struck against the ward, hung there for a moment impotently, and then fell to the ground. I smiled once more, feeling rather pleased with myself. I may not have had a weaver’s skills, but I could put a ward in place as well as the next fellow.
I saw the rest of his minions moving forward, watching me, glaring at me. A nasty-looking crew they were, most of them hooded and cloaked, looking like phantoms in the night. “The more, the merrier,” I called out in good cheer. “You’re all not invited to come in. So feel free to stand there with each other and look stupid … which you’re all doing a bang-up job with, I should add.”
“YOU’RE MAD,” Beliquose informed me. “THAT YOU DARE SPEAK SO TO ME … TO ALL OF US …”
“I’m greatly saddened that you’re so bothered by it. What a pity that you can’t come in here and say that.”
Suddenly from behind Beliquose there was an infuriated roar, and a she-creature spat up from hell charged one of the windows. Her hair was wild and matted, she was stooped over in such a way that she seemed more beast than human, and she had thick furs on her shoulders and arms, except I couldn’t quite determine whether she was wearing them or she was genuinely hirsute. From a good four feet away she launched herself across the intervening space, obviously intending to smash in through a shuttered window. At the velocity with which she was traveling, I daresay that the shutters would not have slowed her if left to their own devices. It mattered not. The wards were just as effective upon the windows as upon the threshold. The creature rebounded, falling upon her back but coming up quickly in a roll and crouching, skittering back and forth like an oversize mastiff. She glowered at me from the darkness for a moment, then darted away. I was pleased there was no back entrance into the place.
“Taking the wife out for a stroll?” I inquired.
Lord Beliquose did not seemed particularly amused. “THAT IS MY HOUND. MY BLOODHOUND. HER NAME IS BICCE. SHE IS ONE OF MY MORE BELOVED SERVANTS, FOR SHE HAS NEVER FAILED ME. SHE HAS LED ME TO THIS PLACE, TO THE PLACE WHERE THE WEAVER HIDES. AND IF SHE INDICATES THAT THE WEAVER IS HERE WHILE YOU CLAIM OTHERWISE, I WILL NOT HESITATE IN CHOOSING WHOM TO BELIEVE.”
I felt as if I was going to start bleeding out my ears thanks to his voice. “Your loyalty to your creature is almost as touching as her loyalty to you,” I said, but the jocular tone of my voice was unrelated to the seriousness of the situation. If this creature was indeed a bloodhound—and I had every reason to believe her to be—then my normal talent for prevarication was going to avail me naught. The tracking ability of hounds was unmatched.
No one quite knew whence hounds had sprung. Some said they were virtually creatures of magic in and of themselves, while others claimed them to be a throwback race tracing their lineage back to the dawn of humanity. Whether they were more human than animal, it was impossible to say. But there were several things about hounds that I knew of a certainty. First, they were utterly loyal to their masters, and obviously that was Beliquose in this case. And second, once a bloodhound was on your trail, it was virtually impossible to shake them. Had I known that Beliquose had such a creature at his disposal, I would have taken Sharee’s gem, shoved it into a private, unwizardly place, and sent her on her way without hesitation.
Except I believed Sharee when she said she would have named me as co-conspirator, and barbarians such as Beliquose were notorious for seizing upon any excuse to commit mayhem and manslaughter. I was truly faced with the devil I knew (Sharee) versus the even larger devil I knew (Beliquose). And all the while I was determined to try and thwart whatever so-called destiny was reaching its ugly, tapering fingers for me.
So I stood there, trying to look nonchalant and in control of the situation when such was most definitely not the case. Endeavoring to force bravado, I called out, “The windows are even better protected than the entrances, Milord. It would do you well to heed my advice and be on your way. It is entirely possible your weaver may have been through here, which is what drew your bloodhound to this spot. But she has gone on her way. If you hurry, you might find her yet, but—”
With a deadly edge to his voice, Beliquose said, “I NEVER SAID THE WEAVER WAS A FEMALE. IF YOU HAVE NO CLUE WHOM WE SEEK, HOW DID YOU KNOW HER GENDER?”
Shit, I thought bleakly. I was losing my touch. I had spent two years in relative safety, not having to worry that the slightest misspoken word might lead to disaster. The easy life had made me sloppy, and now I was in a spot as a result of it.
“You mentioned it earlier, actually,” I said, trying to sound very off-hand about it.
“NO, I MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT.”
“I’m afraid, milord, that you most certainly did.”
“ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR, YOU PISSANT?”
I shrugged, realizing that it would probably be better if I didn’t reply, but the lack of response was more than enough to set him off. Beliquose suddenly threw himself with full force against the ward, and I took a step back even though I knew intellectually that he wouldn’t be able to penetrate it. He struck it again and again, perhaps out of sheer frustration more than anything else, and then he yanked out his sword. Gods, the thing was a monster, even more frightening than I would have thought. The edges were serrated, and the blade was at least two full armlengths long. I suspected that I wouldn’t be able to lift it even were I using both hands, but Beliquose gripped it in one hand and swung it with such force that sparks actually generated at the contact point. The ward held firm, but I was certain that the structure itself actually shook.
“W
HAT WOULD YOU PROPOSE, LITTLE MAN?” he demanded. “THAT YOU KEEP THESE WARDS IN PLACE INDEFINITELY? WHAT MAKES YOU THINK I AM SIMPLY GOING TO GO AWAY? MY MINIONS AND I, WE CAN STAY HERE FOR AS LONG AS IT TAKES. WILL YOU TURN AWAY TRAVELERS AND CUSTOMERS OF EVERY STRIPE SIMPLY BECAUSE YOU WILL NOT LET US CROSS YOUR THRESHOLD? IN CASE YOU HAVE NOT REALIZED IT YET, YOU ARE UNDER SIEGE. YOUR ONLY HOPE FOR GETTING OUT OF THIS ALIVE IS TURNING SHAREE OVER TO US, NOW!”
And I realized that he was right. Everything had been happening too quickly, and it was now spiraling out of control. I had not had the time and luxury to develop a completely thought-out plan. I was just improvising, trying to last from one moment to the next. There was, I suppose, a certain irony to that, considering the circumstances. Here I’d had a Visionary tell me everything that was going to happen. One would have thought that, given all that, I’d be able to plan ahead. Instead I felt as if I was running like mad to catch up with the destiny that had been set out for me.
Well, to hell with that. This was clearly a hopeless situation, and if turning Sharee over to them was my only way out, then that’s what I was going to do. Quickly I ran the Visionary’s words through my memory, and realized that he’d said I would agree to help her … but that didn’t mean I couldn’t change my mind. And he’d said that I would escape into catacombs … but not “we.” And he also predicted destruction of the tavern … but what if that happened at a date in the far future? What if it wasn’t even this place?
This “hopeless situation” might, in fact, be a win/win scenario. I might be able to defy prophecies and portents by turning Sharee over to Beliquose, in which case I was indeed master of my own destiny. Or at the very least I had found loopholes that would enable me to salvage this horrific predicament. She might well try to implicate me, but I at least had a shot at fast-talking my way out of that. As for the gem … ah, well, that was a tragic state of affairs. More of those, hundreds of those, all there for the taking in some place that only she could lead me to.