The Wildside Book of Fantasy: 20 Great Tales of Fantasy (24 page)

“What matter?” he laughed. “There’s nothing we can’t conquer. We’ll have our feet on a ship’s deck before the Stygians open their ports for the trading season. And then we’ll show the world what plundering means!”

ARMS AND THE WOMAN, by Lawrence Watt-Evans

“It’s not as if we didn’t know this one was coming,” Uril said loudly as he stumbled over a rock that protruded from the mud. “The books are very clear, and the astrologers confirmed the date.”

“We should have done something sooner,” Staun grumbled. “If we’d been sent out a little sooner we wouldn’t have to rush like this. We could have gotten there before it started raining, and we wouldn’t have to hurry. Why did the Council leave it until the last minute?”

“Because they’re a bunch of squabbling old fools,” Captain Lethis said as he pushed aside a dripping branch that hung low over the overgrown road. “We were supposed to be here days ago, but they wasted time arguing about who should go, and how many, chosen how, and who should pay for it all, and a dozen other details, until all of sudden they realized that the prophesied date was almost upon us.”

“If the Undead Lord gets loose because of their delays, I swear I’ll cut a few of their throats,” Staun said.

“And if he does I won’t lift a hand to stop you,” Lethis agreed. “But let’s not let it come to that, shall we?” He turned and beckoned to the stragglers, bellowing, “Come on, you!”

The other soldiers, with much cursing and grumbling, picked up the pace a little; behind them came a ragged little crowd of others, tagging along.

Officially the Council had chosen ten men for this errand, but altogether, including friends, helpers, family, and assorted camp-followers, there were almost thirty people slogging through the Forbidden Marsh in the pouring rain, making their way toward the ruins of Haridal Keep. There had been almost fifty when they left the Citadel two days before.

Near the rear of the party, a young woman named Siria was listening to the complaints and thinking that the score who had abandoned the quest were the sensible ones. After all, if this worked the way it was supposed to, there probably wouldn’t be much to see or do; the legends said that whoever wore the magical armor that the wizard Karista had given King Derebeth sixteen hundred years ago would be immune to the black sorcery of the Undead Lord, and could therefore easily strike the monster down before his resurrection was complete, sending him back to the grave for another four hundred years.

If it was really that quick, Siria doubted she would have a chance to ingratiate herself with anyone--she could be charming, given time, but she might not have that time.

And she really didn’t have anything to offer other than charm. These past two years since her father’s death she had used up everything else—not that there had been much to begin with. She was too small to keep up the land her father had worked, not strong enough to work it, and the lord had sent her away, giving the land to a husky young man more suited to farming.

Since then she had wandered hither and yon, looking for a place, and had found none. What she
had
found was that soldiers were often generous with a pretty girl, especially when they had just done something strenuous and dangerous and were feeling proud of themselves.

She hoped that this particular job would qualify, that the soldiers would find errands for her along the way, and when the Undead Lord was properly dispatched that they would invite her to join their celebration.

It shouldn’t be dangerous. The stories and written records from before the Extermination, left by the wizards who had dominated the world back then, were fairly clear about what needed to be done.

The earliest report of the Undead Lord dated back sixteen centuries, to a time when the world was awash in chaos and powerful magic—nothing like the quiet present day. That first time King Derebeth had disposed of the Undead Lord after a long, fierce struggle, and everyone had thought that was the end of it—but four hundred years later, when certain stars aligned properly, the creature had reappeared. After some messy delays the legendary Kurlus of Amoritan had retrieved Derebeth’s armor, not to mention the sacred Sword of Light, and dealt with the problem.

Eight hundred years ago the local wizards had been ready—even though magic was already in decline astrology was in full flower by then, and they had known the exact time when the Undead Lord would rise again. They were waiting, with a mercenary warrior by the name of Porl already wearing the armor and wielding the sword, and the Undead Lord had scarcely begun to materialize before being dispersed. The whole thing was over in a few minutes, according to the reports.

Four hundred years ago there had been some doubt about whether the Undead Lord would put in another appearance, and matters had been complicated by the Third Lodrian War, but a party of soldiers had been waiting. A Lieutenant Rusran had worn the armor and dealt the required blow.

Again, it just took a few moments.

So there wouldn’t be much to see unless something went wrong and the Undead Lord was able to restore himself fully to life—and in that case, anyone in the area stood a good chance of winding up dead or ensorcelled. Siria did not care for that possibility—but she didn’t expect it to arise. Captain Lethis and his men would see to that. They were the best that the Council had had on hand, and would surely handle this nasty business quickly and efficiently. They had all handled pre-Extermination relics before.

While she had supposedly come along to run errands beforehand, Siria was mostly looking forward to a time when the Undead Lord was safely gone. Once Captain Lethis and his men had the job done, no matter how easy it proved to be, they’d be feeling good, and might be generous with a woman who helped them feel better. The Council paid its soldiers well—especially when left-over magic was involved. The world was still cluttered with this sort of remnant of the bad old days before the Extermination, and the Council did not stint those brave souls who helped dispose of these menaces. Lethis and his men would have fat purses when this was done, even though sending the Undead Lord off to another four hundred years in limbo did not appear especially difficult or dangerous.

Of course, there might be unknown dangers. Siria had heard that the accounts of the previous manifestations were not as detailed as the Council might have wished—there was a mention in the record of the Undead Lord’s third appearance that the wizards had had some brief difficulty in finding a suitable candidate before choosing Porl, but there was no explanation of what the selection criteria had been. The report from the Lodrian Wars mentioned in passing that Rusran was given the job at the last minute when his commanding officer, a Captain Orilik, proved unable to do it, but again, there was no explanation of why Orilik wasn’t up to the task.

And of course, since the Extermination there were no wizards or sorcerers to ask for more details—they were all long gone. Only their written records and the scattered bits of magic remained.

This lack of clear, detailed information had worried the Council somewhat, and that was why they were sending ten of their finest, rather than two or three volunteers; it wouldn’t do to have no one in the party fit to wear the armor.

Lightning flashed, followed all too closely by a sudden clap of thunder; a moment later the rain turned from a drizzle to a torrent.

“Oh, enough!” a woman to Siria’s right exclaimed. “If they want me, they can find me back in Splittree.” She turned around and began slogging in the other direction.

As if that were a signal a handful of the party turned back, as well—but the ten soldiers kept on marching forward, and Siria stayed with them, as did a dozen others. After all, Siria had no place to go back in Splittree, no family waiting for her anywhere, and she was already soaked to the skin.

Uril, the big bushy-bearded pikeman from the Stoneford Marches, paused and looked back at the shrinking of their retinue. Siria smiled at him, and he smiled back.

That was promising—when this was done maybe he would spend some money on her, buy her a good dinner back in Splittree perhaps. She had been thinking that the group turning back were probably the smart ones, that she was a fool to stay, but Uril’s smile prompted her to reconsider. Uril would soon have money to spend, and she would not be particularly demanding; he might keep her around for quite some time, which would certainly be preferable to approaching strangers in inns and taverns.

And she was surely already as drenched as she could get...

That was when she slipped and fell face-first in the mud.

Before she even realized properly what had happened Uril had her arm and was lifting her back to her feet.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, looking down at the huge brown smear down the front of her frock and hoping there was no damage that wouldn’t wash out.

“You’re quite welcome,” Uril said. “You’ll want to be a little more careful up ahead—it’s just as slippery and a good bit steeper.”

Siria muttered something, she didn’t know exactly what, and turned away, ostensibly to brush the mud from her frock, but really to hide her blush. Here she had wanted to impress Uril as someone charming, someone who would be good company, and then, right in front of him...

Well, there was nothing to be done about it now.

Uril turned away and marched on through the marsh, and a moment later Siria followed, ignoring the snickers of the others. She kept to herself after that, apart from the rest of the group; she had no desire to turn those snickers into open laughter by letting them see her take another tumble.

Half an hour later the trees thinned enough to give them a clear view of Haridal Keep, former home to assorted necromancers and monsters. Captain Lethis and his men marched on, undaunted, but some of the others stopped and whispered.

Siria couldn’t hear what they were saying, but she could imagine. Haridal Keep, even after sixteen hundred years, was impressively forbidding. The castle had been built atop a huge mass of bare stone that thrust up from the earth, and some of the walls had not been built atop the outcropping, but carved directly from it. The towers had long since crumbled, and the battlements were broken and uneven, but most of the walls still stood straight and strong.

“I think I’ll wait here,” a plump woman declared loudly. “It’ll all be over by sundown, won’t it?”

A chorus of discussion arose, reached a quick crescendo, then died away as most of the party began to settle down under the trees, spreading canvas from branch to branch to keep off the rain.

Siria hesitated—it would be good to get under shelter—but then slogged on, following the ten chosen soldiers. Staying with the others, constantly displaying her soiled frock, would be too embarrassing.

Besides, she was curious to see the inside of Haridal Keep, and what the famous magical armor and sword looked like, and whether the Undead Lord would actually appear.

It was only when the party reached the long crumbling stair up to the castle gate that she realized that she was the only one besides the soldiers who had come this far. She hesitated before setting foot on the steps. Maybe she shouldn’t be here. She didn’t really belong with these professional heroes when they were going about their job.

“Come on,” Uril called, waving to her from a dozen steps up.

“Captain Lethis won’t mind?” Siria asked.

“Why would he? Come on and get out of the rain—assuming there’s any roof left in this drafty old ruin!”

Quickly, Siria scampered up the steps.

If nothing else, this got her feet out of the clinging, slippery mud that had made the journey so miserable. That alone made it worth the effort.

The main gate was a heap of broken stone; the soldiers simply marched over it, but Siria, with her much shorter legs, had to clamber awkwardly. Uril glanced back at her and hesitated, as if he might come to her aid, but she determinedly didn’t meet his gaze as she picked her way through the mess.

Past the gate was an empty stone courtyard, and then a gap in the yard-thick wall that had once divided the courtyard from the great hall. That gap had once had an archway and door in it, but they were long gone, the arch crumbled, the stones above it fallen away leaving an opening that was as broad as a farmer’s wagon at the base, and that widened to three times that at the top.

There was no roof, no shelter from the rain, in the great hall. Siria brushed wet hair from her eyes to see Captain Lethis standing there, consulting a document, with the other nine men gathered about him.

“The entrance to the crypt was behind the high table,” Lethis said. “That would be
that
way.” He pointed to one end of the room, but how he made his choice Siria could not guess. She followed along as the men marched across the ruined hall and began poking through the rubble that filled one end.

“Here,” Staun said, as he uncovered a black opening.

“Right,” Lethis said. “We’ll need a light.”

“Light it once you’re inside, out of the rain,” Uril suggested.

“Good idea,” Staun agreed, and Lethis nodded. Then they began climbing down into that lightless pit, one by one. Siria heard a splash, and quiet cursing, and muttered comments, as the ten men vanished into the hole.

She hesitated. That opening did not look inviting at all—but she had come this far, and what was the point of standing in the rain?

And then a faint orange glow appeared in the blackness as someone got a light going, and she realized from how brightly it shone that the daylight, not very strong to begin with, was fading—the afternoon must be almost over, the sun nearing the horizon. She would be waiting in the dark soon no matter where she was; she might as well go on.

Cautiously, she climbed over the stones and lowered herself into the hole.

Strong hands reached up and grabbed her waist, and she yelped with fright before realizing that it was Uril, helping her down.

A moment later she was standing in a tunnel with the soldiers, a tunnel where the low spots in the uneven floor were flooded to various depths. Three of the men held lanterns that thinned, but did not fully disperse, the surrounding gloom.

“This way,” Captain Lethis said, pointing. As he started walking, and the others fell into step behind him, he asked, “Did anyone get a look at the sun before we came down here?”