The Bellringer

by William Timothy Murray

  "So where is he? This prize of yers? What's this? What happened to Stingorn? Murdered him, eh?"

  Bailorg gaped as he began to realize he had been duped.

  "Have you seen any Post Riders?" Bailorg demanded. "Any soldiers?"

  "What? No. Why should we?" said the head rogue. "Now what happened?"

  "Stingorn was murdered by Passdale men," Bailorg angrily stated. "They made off with my prize but just a few moments ago!"

  The head rogue stared at Bailorg for a moment before throwing his head back in laughter.

  "What's so funny?" screamed Bailorg.

  "Yer a mighty fool to take me for one! Why I'm a mind to part yer head from neck right where ye stand."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Everbody knows that a Passdaler committin' murder's about as common as the moon takin' a drink with the sun," he said. "Now, this is what I think. I think yer prize got away, an' yer scared yer master might not be too very pleased. At any rate, I guess ye'll not be needin' an escort."

  The man turned back to his horse.

  "Sorry boys! The job's off! Still," he turned back to Bailorg, "ye did promise a down payment on our services. An' seein' as how through no fault of our own we're now out of a job, the least ye can do is make us a little less, shall we say, upset?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, it's obvious that old Stingorn didn't get his pay. An' though he had it comin', I daresay that leaves ye with a coin or two extra. I think we'll pay a pretty penny to ye, if ye'll hand over that purse at yer belt."

  "You can go to hell, you scoundrel."

  "Who's callin' who names, now? Hand over the purse, or hand over yer head."

  The man drew his sword as did Bailorg.

  "Hurry it up, would ye, Capt'n? This place stinks!" said one of the men, throwing one leg casually over his saddle to have something to rest his elbow on so that he could put his chin in his hand.

  Robby saw the other men get comfortable on their saddles, pleased with just looking on and making no effort to help their leader. Nor did the man indicate he wanted any help. Just as they stepped toward each other, Robby felt a hand grasp him by the collar and hoist him up into the air.

  "Lookee here, Capt'n! Lookee what I done found!"

  Robby's feet dangled over the edge of the balcony, but, squirming, he could not see who held him.

  "Do ye want him?"

  "Aye! But bring him down. An' don't drop him!"

  Chapter 21

  The Thunder Mountain Band

  Robby was half-carried, half-dragged back down the stairs. He was wise enough not to resist the hulking man's grip, and soon he was released before the captain of the rogues.

  "This is one of the Passdalers!" Bailorg cried out lunging at him with his sword. The blade was deftly deflected away from Robby by the captain's, and a sharp kick to Bailorg's ribs sent him sprawling on the floor.

  "Hold on just a minute! Where's yer manners?" said the head rogue. And when he was satisfied that Bailorg was well reprimanded, he turned to Robby. "Now what's yer name, son?"

  "I am Robby Ribbon, son of Robigor, of Passdale."

  "A soldierly-lookin' feller, too, by yer dress, though I think yer missin' a necessary piece of equippin'."

  "Yes, my sword. I lost it in a fight."

  The men on the horses chuckled, but a glance from their leader tucked their chins.

  "Well, that happened to me, a time or two," he said. "I am Martin Makeig, some while back of Tracia, but more recently of the Thunder Mountains, or wherever me horse might lead me. Mad Martin, some calls me, but most here just calls me Captain. I take it ye've run afoul of this feller."

  "You could say so."

  "Well, ye ain't the first, but I dare say by the sounds of it ye made out better 'an us." He turned back to Bailorg, who had picked himself up and was glowering at them. "I reckon I'll have yer purse, now. Or maybe yer still in the mood to match blades? I'd be glad to do ye the favor of runnin' ye through, an' save yer master the trouble," he grinned, holding out his hand for the purse. "It'd be quicker, too, I'm guessin', than what yer master might do to ye."

  Bailorg sheathed his sword and unfastened the purse.

  "You'll regret the day we met," he said proudly.

  "Oh, I already do, sir!" Makeig said, taking the purse. He hefted it once or twice, then tossed it over his shoulder to be caught by one of the horsemen behind him who wore a pair of fancy gold-rimmed spectacles. He opened the purse and peer into it.

  "That there's Lantin Rose," Makeig said to Robby. "Got a head for numbers an' such. Been me purser for many years, now."

  "Ain't much here, Capt'n," the man said, looking over his spectacles. "Maybe a week of grog or oats, an' some change."

  "Well, go ahead an' pay him out, then."

  "Yes, sir."

  The accountant jangled through the coins and finally took two out and handed them to Makeig.

  "You're giving it back to him?" Robby asked, surprised.

  "Oh, we makes the point never to take all," Makeig said. "No exceptions, neither, for when ye make one, ye open yerself up for all kinds of confusion. 'Sides, sort of don't seem fair, it bein' so easy an' all. Here's yer worth," he said to Bailorg, holding out the coins, "an' it's mighty generous we are, givin' ye back more than any two of us together's gettin' from ye."

  Bailorg reached for the coins, but just as he was about to take them he slapped his rope around Makeig's wrist and the strange thing transformed with a hiss, binding itself to Makeig as hard as iron. The coins clattered and rang across the floor and before Makeig could react, Bailorg's sword was drawn again, its tip pressed against Makeig's neck before he had gotten his own sword back out with his other hand.

  "What the devil!"

  "I'll have it all back. And all of you: Off your horses!" he cried. The rope tightened around Makeig's wrist, and he cried out in pain and fell to one knee. All of the men drew their swords in a ringing chorus, but none knew what to do. "Tell them to do as I say!"

  "No, don't." cried Robby, stepping closer to Makeig.

  "Mind your own business, boy!" Bailorg spat at Robby who was loosening Swyncraff from his waist.

  "Don't let's be too hasty, laddie," Makeig painfully groaned as he tried to pry away the coil from his wrist and as Bailorg's swordtip neared Makeig's neck.

  Robby swung Swyncraff, curling it around Bailorg's sword and pulling it away. Makeig fell clear as Bailorg lost his hold on the mysterious tether and struggled to pull his sword from the vice-like grip of Swyncraff. Off balance for only a moment, he drew his dagger and suddenly pulled Robby toward him. Robby got his knife out in time to parry, and Bailorg pulled again on his sword to draw Robby in once more. Swyncraff uncurled, sending Bailorg stumbling backward a step, then Swyncraff stiffened and straightened into a long rod, and Robby strode into Bailorg.

  "This is for Billy!" Robby cried, clipping Bailorg on the side of the head. Another swing against the wrist sent Bailorg's dagger clattering away, and the next two-handed parry deflected a desperate lunge. Sparks shot from Bailorg's sword as it met with Robby's Swyncraff. The two swung at each other furiously, Robby driving Bailorg back toward the hearth while the men watched, too amazed to act.

  "So it was you!" Bailorg cried as he fought. "You are the one!"

  "Yes! I am the Bellringer! And it was you who killed Steggan."

  "Oh yes, that was me," Bailorg said just before Robby smote him in the ribs.

  "And did you also rape his niece?"

  "No, no! Ugh!" In spite of the blows he received from Robby, and the blood running from his mouth, he grinned maliciously. "I only watched."

  Bailorg fell down onto the hearth, choking for air, but his eyes were crazed, and he began to laugh.

  "I let him have his way with her," he wheezed. "You know, didn't want to interfere in a family affair, hee-hee-hee! Oh, oh! I think you've gone and ruptured my windbag."

  Bailorg went into a short fit of coughing, then smiled mildly up at Robby
as blood and spittle dribbled from his mouth.

  "Oh, I know about you two. Yes—cough-cough! Ugh! And who doesn't?"

  Robby stood over Bailorg, shaking with red rage, glowering at the kidnapper.

  "Oh, the dear uncle didn't know I was there, right at first, the drunken fool! cough-cough! I only regret that the bitch didn't get the blame for killing him like she should have. But now that I know you to be the One, looking back on it, I must say that I cherish the memory of it! She fought him like a cat! cough-cough-cough! And screamed like one, too! But he had his pleasure of her!"

  Bailorg leapt up, his sword in one hand and a flaming red-hot iron in the other, swinging both at Robby in a sudden fury. Robby knocked the sword away and before Bailorg could bring the blazing iron around, Robby plunged his dagger hilt-deep upward into his chest. Bailorg gasped and dropped the iron and his sword. His arms fell to his sides, his shoulders raised in an odd frozen shrug. Now nose to nose with Robby, he still managed a little wheezing laugh. Black with anger, Robby twisted his knife, pushing it upward cruelly, and Bailorg's laugh was stifled forever as his body stiffened and his eyes rolled back in his head. He went limp and fell heavily against Robby who then shoved him backwards off of the dagger and into the fire. Robby stood there, panting, dripping with blood up to his elbow, still clutching his dagger as if Bailorg might leap up once more. As he stared, his stomach suddenly churned and heaved violently during a long dizzy moment, and he felt himself sway and stagger uneasily as he watched Bailorg smolder in the flames. The snakewood rope released Makeig and fell away. Robby became vaguely aware of the men gathering around as he absently put his own Swyncraff about his waist again and sheathed his dagger, still unable to take his eyes from Bailorg.

  "That shore is some mighty belt," Makeig said. He was rubbing his wrist and looking over Robby's shoulder at the fire. "An' the rope that Bailorg used on me turned to ash an' fell right off into dust."

  "Strangest thing I ever saw," said Lantin Rose.

  "Some good fightin', though, for a young feller," commented another.

  The great black bird suddenly lurched from its place and flapped across the room. The men ducked and dodged, and the horses jumped aside as the bird flew into the corridor and away.

  "Whoa!" cried one of the bandits. "What a fright that gave me!"

  "Nasty, odorly creature, too!" replied another.

  The shock of what he had just done began to overwhelm Robby. He stared at the distorted face of Bailorg, now made even more ghastly by the flames that blackened it. A terrible disgust filled him, and he fought the need to retch. He had seen men killed before, not long ago on the road from Tulith Attis, but he had not taken part in that fight. The sickness he felt then, and that gnawed at him for weeks afterwards, was nothing like this. That first taste of violent death came about almost as if by accident. This time, he realized, it was personal, and, with even greater alarm, he felt a dark satisfaction.

  "Come along, son," Makeig said, handing Robby a bit of rag to wipe the blood from his hands. "Let's leave this here place."

  "Yes, I must go."

  Makeig gently pushed Robby by the shoulder toward the horses where he put the reins of Bailorg's horse in his hands and then led their mounts into the passageway.

  "Why did he make me do that?" Robby muttered. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

  "What's 'at, son?"

  Before Robby could answer, they heard the clopping of a horse approaching from the east passage, and they all became silent, shushing each other and their mounts.

  After a moment of listening, Makeig said, "That'll be Winterford comin'. One of our company sent out a few days ago toward Barley."

  "How do you know?" Robby asked, wiping his eyes and trying to get his stomach down out of his throat. "It might be one of my friends."

  "Listen to them hoof-beats," said Lantin Rose.

  "Hear that little ringin' sound?" Makeig added.

  Robby listened, then nodded.

  "That be our own special way of shoein'. Don't hurt the horse none an' makes a signal-like. Right handy in the dark when ye can't see friend from foe."

  From the gloom, a youngish rider approached cautiously.

  "It's us, Winterford!" Makeig called out to him.

  "An' mighty glad of it, I am!" the rider returned, dismounting and coming up to the group. "Who's this? An' where's Bailorg? Done stood us up?"

  "Not 'xactly. Things fell through a bit, ye might say, seein' how's Bailorg's presently roastin' on yonder fire. An' this here's the cook."

  Winterford gaped at Robby and craned his neck to see through the doorway and across the hall at the fireplace.

  "Ye don't say!"

  "I do!"

  "Well, good riddance! If ye ask me, that is. I knowed right from the start he'd be trouble!"

  "An' right up to the end," one of the men added.

  "So what's the story?" Winterford asked.

  "That'll wait 'til we're in sunlight again," said Makeig.

  "I need to be getting back," Robby said. "Thank you for the horse."

  "Gettin' back where to?" Winterford asked.

  "Back home. To Passdale."

  "Oh, I don't think that'd be a great stroke of an idear."

  "Why not?"

  Winterford glanced at Makeig, hesitating.

  "Well, come on with it," Makeig ordered. "What's the news?"

  "The news is that all of Barley's crawlin' with Redvests."

  "What's that? No!" Makeig's eyes widened perceptibly. "So they've come at last?"

  "Crawling with what?" Robby asked, looking back and forth between the two. "Red whats?"

  "Redvests," explained Makeig. "Soldiers out of Tracia, so called because of their bloody surcoats an' tunics."

  "Soldiers?"

  "Aye," said Winterford. "They come into Barley through the Boggy Wood, up northeast-like, thousands of 'em. They took up at Haven Hill last night an' then more spread out into Boskland. Burned it to the ground. The Bosklanders put up a fierce fight, so I was told, but was overrun. The Redvests moved into Passdale after sunrise this mornin', an' there was lots of fightin' along the riverbank. The Passdalers burned the bridge, but that didn't hardly slow the Redvests, seein' how as the Bentwide's just a little brook, now. Didn't take 'em long 'fore they had the town. Most of the folk got warnin', though, an' are movin' toward Janhaven. Some of the Bosklanders an' what's left of the Passdale Militia are still fightin' rearguard skirmishes, but the Redvests ain't pressin' it too hard right now, it seems. They done took up in the town."

  Robby gaped in disbelief at the young man giving the report.

  "Lo! Ye don't say," commented one of the rogues.

  "Them Boskmen're fighters when it comes to it. Yes, indeed!"

  "What're Redvests doin' this far north, I wonder?"

  "What about the Mayor? Did you see the Mayor or his wife?" Robby demanded.

  "No, no! I was too busy at the bridge most of the time. Knockin' Redvests about beside them Passdaler boys. Sorry, Capt'n, couldn't help joinin' in. Bones to pick, an' all. But I never saw the Mayor, not that I'd know him, anyways, nor any womenfolk in the fray, 'cept one girl with a nasty bow an' arrow."

  "Are they burnin' the town?"

  "No, Capt'n. They seem content with just takin' over everthin'. They got themselves situated in the Common House, an' in several of the houses, I hear tell."

  "I've got to go! I sent Billy back into that! No telling what he'll ride into!"

  "You mean that beat-up feller on the fine stallion?"

  "Yes!"

  "He's with friends, now. I seen 'em on the way. The same girl I mentioned with the bow, along with an odd, skinny feller with long black hair and beard, an' a big lumberin' kind of feller, too, all hurrying this way on foot. Saw the rider an' horse come into them not two miles away. The girl an' the big lug took charge of the hurt feller, then headed off northward. That other feller, the tall one, kept on comin' thisaway. I kept out of sight an' passed around him on the other
side of a hill, an' got ahead of him, like. But he's got a long stride. My guess he'll be here in no time."

  Robby reached for the reins of the Conundrum Box man's horse.

  "Then, by your leave, I'll take this one, too," Robby said to Captain Makeig.

  "Wait. Ye say what?"

  "That's my friend coming. I must go meet him and get back to my people!"

  "Hold on, there!" Makeig ordered flatly, stepping in front of Robby. "I'm thinkin' yer friends must be awful good'uns to risk their lives for one another. But if he's gonna take ye back to Passdale-way, why that's just plain foolish. Ye saved me life back there an', likes it or not, ye got another friend, now. An', anyhow, I'd like to hear what this one comin' might say 'bout these goin's on."

  "And who is it that wants to know?"

  Robby immediately recognized Ashlord's booming voice, and, realizing he would be careful, Robby covered his eyes with his free hand and looked downward, just in case Ashlord set off one of those blinding lights of his.

  "Mad Martin Makeig, it is! Who's that?"

  "Release the boy!"

  "He's as free as he wishes to be!"

  "I'm all right Ashlord," Robby called out. "They are friendly."

  "A pack of thieves, is what I think they are," Ashlord said, coming out of the gloom, sword in one hand and his walking stick in the other, held like a cudgel.

  "By needs, not by trade, nor by callin'," Makeig shot back. "But our reputation is somewhat sullied by rumor, I warrant."

  "So you are the Thunder Mountain Band, I presume."

  "That's what some folk call us," Makeig said. "Ye be the Watcher, Collandoth, called Ashlord. I've heard tell of ye."

  "Oh? And what have you heard?" Ashlord put his sword away and leaned on his stick.

  "More than I care to say. But if I ain't mistaken, 'long 'bout two months ago, right after the big storm, ye dispatched one of the two most surliest, meanest, vilest, contemptiblest, low creatures that ever stood on two legs."