The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (43 page)

“What are you going to do with him?” Grand Master inquired with a yawn.

“Shackle him to the wall downstairs. Even if he is a coward and turncoat, we can hardly throw him out on the moor—not tonight. And if he is the assassin we’re expecting, he’ll do no harm there.”

Rufus was at the far side of the room.
Sleight
was back on the table with her hilt toward Stalwart. He stamped hard on Fitzroy’s instep, which released the grip on his neck, grabbed up his precious rapier, and spun around. Fitzroy had his sword out already, but he was no match for Stalwart. Grand Master and Nicely and Rufus all drew and leaped forward and ended in a hopeless tangle with the table. Four or five flickering parries and
Sleight
stabbed into Fitzroy’s forearm. He yelped.

“Sorry!” Stalwart shouted, slamming the door. He plunged down the stairs. Panther and Dragon heard the racket and ran to intercept him at the bottom. Sword in hand, Panther swung around the newel post to face the threat charging down, but Stalwart jumped up on the bannister and came racing down that, leaning into the curve. Before Panther could spit him, he leaped off. Dragon had just time to turn toward him and not enough to raise his sword before Stalwart’s boots came down on his shoulders. He collapsed with a scream. Stalwart’s bounce took him almost to the door; he swung around to fend off Panther’s attack. He wished it were Rufus, not the only one of the three who had believed his story.

He had always respected Panther’s fencing, but that was before Chef and Demise had made him over. No time for subtlety. Rufus and Fitzroy were hurtling down the stair to help. Panther cried out as
Sleight
ripped his ear.

Stalwart slid the bolt and pulled the door.

“Sorry!” he said again, vanishing out into the dark.

EMERALD WAKENED VIOLENTLY, DREAMING SHE was choking, buried alive. She sat up, bewildered and gasping for air. She was in
Falcon
, the dormitory. It was large and dark, smelling stale and chill, unused. A froth of stars shone through the windows opposite, and starlight glimmered spookily on beds arrayed along both walls. A tiny chink of light showed from the dark lantern she had set on the chair beside her bed, left lit in case of emergency.

Sorcery
! That was what had disturbed her. Earth elementals…death elementals…close. Very close! Not Silvercloak’s personal sorcery but something else—earthy, dark, detestable. There was fire in it, too, which seemed wrong. It was over…there?…no, more that way….
There
!

It came from those eyes…two tiny eyes peering in a window…. She slapped open the lantern shutter. The room blazed impossibly bright after the dark, and the eyes vanished. They had not been peering in at her. They were inside the dorm. A rat leaped from sill to bed, from bed to floor, and streaked along the room in a skitter of tiny claws. It vanished under the door.

Ugh! Nasty, filthy vermin! But
sorcerous
vermin? The stink of enchantment had gone when it did. Master of Rituals claimed that there were no rats in Ironhall. Death and earth would certainly be right for rats, but why
fire
? Incendiary rats? Fire included heat, light, vision…. Spying? Could a sorcerer send rats, real or conjured, to spy for him?

Hunt down the King, perhaps?

Emerald threw off the covers and leaped out of bed.

In the few moments it took her to dress, she almost lost her nerve. She would be challenged by armed guards, hair-trigger-ready to strike at imagined assassins. Even when she reached Bandit, would he believe her? Silly, flighty girls see rats and imagine sorcery all the time, of course. This was
not
imaginary! There had been a vile little sorcery right here in the room with her. Her duty was clear.

Ironhall was under attack! No time to waste.

She paused at the door to take stock: warm cloak, lantern, and Sir Lothaire’s magic key—which she preferred to carry, when she must carry it, dangling in the toe of a sock. She slipped out the door as quietly as squeaky hinges would allow.

Her feet made little hushing noises on the boards as she hurried along the corridor, then downstairs, lantern light dancing ahead of her, shadows leaping away in panic. Under her breath she kept repeating the password,
The stars are watching
. The hallway was dark, with no signs of Blades. Of course most of the Guard would be staying close to the King, in First House. There would be only a few patrolling the whole complex of West and King Everard houses.

Right or left?

“At last!” A man stepped out of the shadows to her left. She whipped the beam of her lantern around. A scream died as her throat seemed to close up altogether.

It was Servian.

Why? What in the world was he doing here in the middle of the night? Had he been lying in wait, hoping to catch the elusive Brat? Sleeping in corners? How many nights?

“Stay away from me!” she squeaked, backing. “You heard what Grand Master said!”

He smiled, strolling after her, blowing on his hands. In the tricky light he looked enormous, a giant. “But you didn’t? We have waited too long to begin your education, Brat. We have many lessons to get through tonight. Take his lantern.”

Before she realized that there was someone behind her, arms reached around and snatched the lantern away. She squawked and jumped free. There were two of them—Castelaine and Wilde, of course, Servian’s favorite cronies. She was trapped. Where was the Guard?

Servian chuckled and advanced purposefully. “You knocked me down in the mud, Brat. We’ll start by explaining the folly of that.”

She did not see the blow coming, did not even realize he intended to hit her. Blue and red fire and terrible pain exploded in her left eye. She reeled back in shock, almost fell. She had never guessed how hard a man could punch.

“Fists up, Brat!” Wilde said. “You’re in a fight. The first of several. Defend yourself.”

“What’s he got in his hand?” asked Castelaine, who had the lantern.

Through the thundering pain came the thought that, whatever happened, she must not let these hooligans get their hands on Lothaire’s magic key. She cowered away, arms up to defend her head. Servian’s second punch slammed into her back, sending her sprawling headlong against a door.

Which was not properly latched. She stumbled through it, and in a flash of inspiration slammed it shut and hit the lock with the magic key. For a moment nothing happened—some of these doors had not been locked in generations. The ancient tumblers clicked.

Servian jiggled the latch and shouted angrily. Fists hammered on the wood.

“What’s happening?” Intrepid squealed, sitting up. Other trebles echoed him.

“It’s the Brat!” Lestrange shouted.

Ironhall was under attack, and Emerald had locked herself in
Rabbit
with sixteen sopranos.

FITZROY AND HIS MEN SLAMMED THE DOOR AND slid the bolt and did not come out to look for the escaped prisoner. Stalwart felt trapped in a nightmare, like a fly in hot soup. Why had Nicely and Grand Master denied him? He had the rest of the night to wonder that, and he was not going to come up with an answer.

So here he was, shut out on a freezing night with no cloak—and no lantern. He found the ancient hitching rail snapped in two and Lumpkin gone. Spooked, pulled loose, and fled? Spooked by what? What had Fitzroy meant about not throwing Stalwart out on the moor
tonight
especially? What haunted the dark besides owls? The lantern was a battered ruin, kicked by the gelding in his struggles. He hoped it had managed to make a getaway and was not lying dead at the bottom of the Quarry by now. Or being eaten somewhere by something.

Tucking his hands under his arms, he retraced his path around to the balcony and the lights of the royal suite. Fitzroy would certainly send a report to Leader about him, but he was not inclined to wait for the results of that. He wanted to be
inside
as soon as possible. Either Bandit or Dreadnought would be on duty in the royal suite. He scrabbled up some rocks and stepped back to aim. Not at the windows themselves, but at the door.

The door was open.

Silence up there. Candles burning bright and ghostly smoke trailing from the chimneys above. Yet the door stood open on a freezing night like this? It had not been open when he went by the last time. All the little hairs on the back of Stalwart’s neck started to dance.

There was only one tree on Starkmoor, it was said. Ages ago someone had planted a seed or dropped an apple core under the royal balcony. In that sheltered, sunny nook, it had prospered enough to send up a very spindly sapling. It was still so puny that the Guard had not gotten around to chopping it down, although three years ago it had been strong enough to support Stalwart the Human Squirrel. He had grown faster than it had, but at the moment he had no choice.

With
Sleight
tucked through his belt, he started up. The sapling bent. It creaked pathetically. In the darkness he fumbled, scratched his face, lost his temper, but eventually was able to grab hold of the balcony rail and haul himself over. He felt better then, although he knew that monsters could climb, too.

“Starkmoor!” he said loudly, the rallying cry of the Order. As he stepped in, he went to rap on the door, but his knuckles never reached it. Whether he first noticed the stench or the ugly sucking noises didn’t matter. Something was alive in there.

Only just alive. There was blood everywhere. Furniture had been scattered askew and if the candles had been set in candlesticks instead of chandeliers, half Ironhall would be in flames by now. And the smell…He had heard many stories of the Night of Dogs, of how the monsters had climbed the walls, ripped out iron bars with their teeth, and of how they had to be hacked into pieces to kill them. They stank as they died.

The one on the floor was as big as a horse, and it was not quite dead. It had trashed the room in its death throes. It was still writhing, kicking, making horrible gurgling sounds as it tried to breathe. Something had ripped out its throat.

Something or someone? Silvercloak? Nothing human, certainly. Had the killer somehow set one monster against another?

Stalwart just stared as he struggled to make sense of this. All Ironhall had been dragged into his nightmare. The hellhound could not stand. Its head was bent backward so that the huge hole in its neck seemed like a gaping mouth, yet it sensed it had company and began beating its legs faster, trying to reach him, making little progress but hurling a chair aside. Where was the Guard? Why had no one heard this struggle and come to investigate?

If Silvercloak had sent the monster against the King, then it should have been chopped up by the Blades. If the Blades had set it out as a trap for Silvercloak, then how had he managed to dispose of it so easily? That did seem more likely, though. That would explain why there were inquisitors in Ironhall and no Blades in this room. When Master Nicely had mentioned dogs, Lord Roland had squelched him as fast as he had squelched Stalwart.

Where there was one deadly booby trap, there might be more. The moor now seemed much less dangerous than the royal suite.

Stalwart gagged. “Nice doggy!” he mumbled, and rushed out to the fresh air.

He descended the tree at a cost of two fingernails, a painfully scraped shin, and three branches. Now what? He peered around at the night apprehensively. A rapier would be as useless as wet string against one of those monsters.

The need to inform Bandit that Silvercloak might be on his way had passed. The present need was to save Stalwart from whatever was haunting the moor. If the royal suite had been booby-trapped, anywhere might be booby-trapped, including the gate. He knew a way into Ironhall that no one else did, though. As a soprano, in his Human Squirrel days, he had climbed to the fake battlements and hung a suitable memento up there for everyone to see. Grand Master had given him two weeks’ stable duties for that.

At the far side of the Quarry, where the curtain wall met the bath house, there was a narrow gap between the wall and the curve of the corner tower. He had worked his way up that crevice, feet against one side, back against the other. He was older and larger now. He was cold and weary. It was dark, and frost might make the stonework slippery.

But he was very highly motivated.

He stumbled off through the night, waving his rapier before him like a blind man’s cane. Every footfall sounded like a drumbeat. He fought a temptation to walk backward, watching for glowing eyes following him. The monsters might just as easily be waiting up ahead anyway.

He must go more carefully now, for there was no path. Ahead lay the Quarry, which was close to impassable even in daylight. He should be safe if he kept very close to the wall, although he would have to fight through thorn bushes and climb over rocks. There were places where the ledge was very narrow.

He spun around, heart pounding. “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Imagination? He had thought he had heard something.

He went on again, moving as fast as he could over the rough ground. He ought to be due for some
good
luck soon, surely?

FIRE WAS AN EVER-PRESENT DANGER. NO candidates, even seniors, were allowed to have light in their rooms after lights-out, and this rule was strictly applied.

Slavish observance of rules was not what landed one in Ironhall. Out came flint and steel and tinder. Sparks flew, and in moments a dozen candle flames brightened the dorm. Behind the door, Servian had fallen silent. Either a Blade patrol had chanced along, or he was hoping the Brat would jump back into the frying pan again.

Emerald struggled to adjust to both the absurdity of the situation and the sickening throb in her face. The pack converged on her. Some, like Intrepid, were mere boys. Others were taller than she—notably Tremayne, the stumblebum swordsman who shaved. Some of them seemed amazingly unaware of how cold the room was.

“Who did your eye?” Chad inquired.

“Servian. Now listen, all of you. Listen
deep
! I am not the Brat you think. Get dressed, all of you. I need your help. There’s—”

“There’s no help here!” Jacques shouted, raising a laugh.

“
Quiet!
” she barked. “You get dressed. And you, Conradin. You’re indecent. You want to know why Grand Master has been shielding me?”

“He’s not here now!”

“Catch-up time!”

“I’m not a boy. I’m a woman.” She gave the stunned silence no chance to erupt in hilarity and disbelief. “Not only that, I am a White Sister. My name is Emerald, and I was sent here by Durendal himself, Lord Roland, because there is sorcery….”

There was sorcery! Again she detected the reek of earth and death. The rat had followed her, or there were more of them around. It was behind her, in the corridor. It hurried by and was gone, but the brief contact made her hesitate and broke her tenuous control over the mob. Voices erupted in raucous and predictable demands that she prove her claim. She had no intention of doing so in the way they suggested.

She shouted them down. She could shout louder than they could because they did not want Blades or anyone else coming to investigate a riot. “Listen and I’ll prove it. Constant! Why were you put here, in Ironhall? What did you do?”

He scowled. “Stole a horse.”

“That’s true. Conradin! Why were you put here?”

“My mom died. No one wanted me.”

“You’re lying. I’m a White Sister and I can tell when people lie to me. Tremayne?”

“Stepfather,” Tremayne growled in a voice very far from soprano. “He hit my mom and I larruped him with a spade.”

“Good for you! That’s true. Chad?”

True, false, false, true…The trivial party trick caught their attention and won their belief. Even before she had asked all of them, the sorcery was back. “There!” she shouted. “Under that bed! There’s a rat!”

Chaos. She was certain that beds would burst into flames as boys with candles went after the rat. The tumult ended with one dead rat and two boys sucking rat bites. They were all convinced now.

“Get dressed! There’s sorcery around. Sorcerers are attacking the King, and I have to report to Commander Bandit.”

“But Grand Master said—” Jacques began.

“I’ll handle Grand Master. And don’t worry about the Blades—I know the password. But that idiot Servian is out there, and I need your protection. I need an escort. Hurry! I must report to Sir Bandit. The King will thank you, I promise you.”

Her eye was so swollen that she could barely see out of it, but she could ignore the pain now. By the time she had turned her back to hide her magic key and then managed to unlock the door—for a few horrible moments she thought it was not going to work—her army was ready. She led it out into the corridor.

Servian and his henchmen had disappeared, but another dozen sopranos and beansprouts had emerged to find out what all the noise was about. With much yelling of explanations, the tide rolled along the hallway, gathering strength. Someone began beating the fire gong. Beardless and fuzzies came running down the stair in varying shades of undress.

At the outer door—now that they were not needed—were Blades: Sir Raven, Sir Dorret, and another man she did not know. They stared in disbelief at the approaching riot. Dorret wore the sash.

“The stars are watching!” she told him.

He peered at her face. “What happened to your—
what
did you say?”

“The password, you idiot. You want the rejoinder, too? ‘But they keep their secrets.’ I am Sister Emerald and I must see Commander Bandit immediately.”

“You can’t go out there, lad, er, miss, I mean Sister. Fire and death!
What is going on
?”

“Sorcery. Ironhall is under attack. And I must go out there. Have the inquisitor’s dogs climbed over the gate? If they have, you must deal with them for me.
Open that door
, guardsman!”

“This Brat shows promise,” said an anonymous voice from the mob.

If Master Nicely’s dogs had escaped whatever control he was using on them, a messenger trying to cross the courtyard might never arrive. The Blades could not just open the door and let Emerald go alone. With the King’s safety invoked, their bindings overruled any lesser duty to guard dormitories, so they all went with her. So did her army, some of them barefoot and half naked. They raced over the frozen paving under the icy stars, and no monsters came ravening out of the dark.

Fists hammered on the doors of First House. A spy hole was opened, password demanded, and given. Deputy Commander Dreadnought himself admitted the visitors and was almost bowled over by the shivering tide that poured in after them.

Fortunately Fury was there in the confusion. He shied like a horse when Emerald came into the light.

“
Who did that to your eye
?”

“Tell you later. Bandit, quickly!”

“This way.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her free of the mob. Satisfied that a dead rat was being waved under Dreadnought’s nose while at least a dozen voices shouted explanations at him, Emerald ran upstairs with Fury.

There had to be more cloak-and-dagger word passing before they were admitted to the queen’s quarters. Then Fury went straight across to the inner door and tapped softly.

The exquisite little salon seemed a very odd place to find half a dozen swordsmen. The reek of their binding spell would have made Emerald’s head spin had it not been spinning so hard already. There was other, more sinister sorcery present as well.

The Blades’ attitude annoyed her. They clustered around her, glowering suspiciously and fingering sword hilts. She knew only one of them by name, and obviously none of them recognized her. She was not your average White Sister, floating like a swan through the court, simpering at gentlemen’s flattery.

“Why, Sir Fairtrue!” she trilled, offering fingers to be kissed. “How delightful to meet you here! Won’t you present your friends?”

Her fun was spoiled right away by Bandit, who came striding out from the dressing room with Fury at his heels.

“Rats,” she said. “Enchanted rats. They’re in West House and they’re here, too. Not pure conjurations, because the sopranos killed one, so real rats bespelled somehow. I think they may be spies. They’re hunting for the King.”

Bandit pulled a face. “I was hoping we’d got our man. Someone triggered our trap in the royal suite. I’m told it sounded like quite a fight. We haven’t investigated yet.”

“Proceed on the assumption that Silvercloak won.” Suddenly she felt very tired. The assassin seemed to be bypassing Ambrose’s defenses with terrifying ease.

“Certainly. So he’s using
rats
to find His Majesty?”

“They’ve found him. They’re here, very close—several of them, I think. And they may do more than just spy. Rats can climb walls or carry small objects. I’m afraid they could be used to ferry magic around.”

Eight Blades exchanged grim glances. Swords were not the best weapon against rats. Slingshots or terriers were what they needed now.

“You think Silvercloak could send a…a poisoned rat against the King without even coming into Ironhall himself?”

“I don’t know. Assume the worst.”

The Commander squared his shoulders. “I’m going to wake Fat Man. Sir Fairtrue, inform Sir Dreadnought. I want Master Nicely and Master of Rituals here immediately. Sister, I’ll need you to sniff out…inspect the turret room. Come with me, please.”

He headed back to the dressing room.

“Just a moment.” Bandit hurried up the cramped little stair. Sounds of royal snoring overhead suddenly ended.

Emerald waited. The magical stench of rat was stronger in the tower, away from the Blades. She fancied she could even smell real rat, a whiff of sewers, and hear furtive rustling in the shadows. A massive book lay open beside the candelabra and the chair where Bandit had been keeping vigil outside the King’s door. To take her mind off the rats, she wandered across and snooped. It was a treatise on common law. Everyone to his own taste.

He came down again. “Give him a minute.”

She nodded. How did one fight magical rats? Oakendown had never mentioned such things, but Silvercloak seemed to have a million personal tricks up his sleeve. The Sisters could detect sorcery, but rarely was there any defense against it.

“I have had more bad news,” Bandit said grimly. “You want to hear it or wait until we know for sure?”

“Can this night get any worse?”

“A lot worse.”

“Tell me.”

“Wart. Seems he came to the Royal Door. He was unable to convince my men that he was genuine. They tried to chain him up. He ran off into the moor.”

The night could certainly get colder.
Wart
! She shivered convulsively. “But Nicely’s dogs…What do you mean, ‘unable to convince your men’? He had his cat’s-eye sword with him? They know him!”

“Perhaps he wasn’t genuine. He was one disarmed prisoner against four Blades, one knight, and an inquisitor, but he wounded two Blades slightly, broke both Sir Dragon’s collarbones so he’ll need a healing, and then escaped. Doesn’t that sound like sorcery?”

“It sounds like Wart.”

“Perhaps it does,” Bandit admitted with a wan smile. “I’m not sure where he’s been these last few days, but he certainly wasn’t supposed to come here. I’ll investigate properly in the morning. It may have been another Silvercloak trick.”

“I hope so!” she said furiously. “It had better be!”
Wart, Wart, driven out on the moor to be hunted down by monsters
?

“Follow, please.” Bandit went back up the ladder to the bedchamber.

Queen Estrith, if she had designed the room, had been very fond of frilly lace and silver ribbons. The window drapes, bed curtains, and upholstery all featured faded pink rosebuds. This decor did not suit the awesome presence of King Ambrose, who was sitting on the edge of the bed glaring, still not fully awake and clearly in a mood to chop off heads at random. He wore a woolen nightcap pulled down over his ears and a white linen nightgown that would have made a substantial tent. To prepare for his visitor he had swathed himself in a voluminous velvet cloak of royal blue and stuffed his feet in boat-sized slippers.

“Sister Emerald!” he growled.

Emerald bowed.

“What happened to your eye?”

“Naught of moment, sire. They’re here,” she told Bandit. “There’s sorcery in this room, sire. Black magic. It’s carried by rats.”

Even Ambrose’s harshest critics—he did not lack critics—never accused him of cowardice. The cunning, piggy eyes narrowed a little. Extra chins bulged out behind his fringe of beard. The fat lips pouted. But he did not flinch at this dread news.

“It would seem, Sister Emerald, that we are once again placed in your debt in dramatic circumstances. Pray take thought to what reward we may bestow on you and do not skimp in your request. We shall discuss this later.”

He seemed to have no doubt that there would be a later. “Well, Commander? The Lord Chancellor’s strategy has successfully drawn the wolf to the fold. What do you propose now?”

Bandit’s voice was much harsher than usual. “Sire, I am going to strip this room down to bare walls and put a dozen swords around you until the emergency is passed. By your leave—” He spun around and ran down the stair, shouting.

“Let us begin!” the King said, heaving himself upright. “I cannot stand this impsy-wimpsy furniture. Open that door, Sister. I intend to enjoy this.”

Emerald hastened to obey, and then had to back out to make way for a rosewood commode wrapped in the King’s great arms. He went to the battlements and let go. Sounds of demolition came a long moment later. As an antique that piece had been worth a fortune. Fortunately he had dropped it on the moor side, not into the courtyard where it might have brained someone.

“Good riddance!” the big man huffed. “Want to try a chair or two, Sister? I think I’ll enjoy the loveseat next. Hideous thing! Should be good for—”

The turret room exploded. Caught on the threshold, Ambrose recoiled from the blast of heat, throwing up his arms to shield his face. Flames and smoke poured out the windows and door, and up into the sky. Emerald was out of the direct line of fire, but the accompanying wave of sorcery was stunning. She screamed and stepped back. She might well have fallen to her death had the King’s meaty paw not grabbed her wrist.

He tried to go around the tower toward the Observatory, but flames blasting from the window blocked the walkway.

“I think we shall proceed in this direction,” he growled, doing so and towing her behind him. He marched out onto the curtain wall.

She looked back in dismay. The whole tower had become an inferno, sending flames leaping high into the night. Golden light illuminated all of Ironhall and a billowing cloud overhead; even the snowy tors in the distance glowed amber. The Queen’s Tower must collapse very shortly and the rest of First House would follow. Without the King’s childish decision to trash furniture, both he and Emerald would be mere cinders by now.

Was that true? There was more to that sorcery than just an incendiary spell.