Within the Hollow Crown (9 page)

She stepped closer and closer as Halmir fired yet another Candle, killing yet another Guard. Only one Royal Guard remained, but they were only a few paces from the stables. Vye, likewise, was only a few paces from Halmir. Tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe, Swing!

But Halmir showed himself to be more aware of his surroundings than he let on. He turned and parried the attack, just in the nick of time. Or was it planned that way? He was too good for Vye to be sure one way or another. Vye and Halmir once again started dueling, allowing the Prince and his Guard to get into the stables.

The masters matched swords. Left undercut, right feint, left foot shift, right cross swing. Up, down, and around. Halmir could see that, if nothing else, Vye would save the Prince’s life just by using up time. He had to do something drastic. He swung his free hand out to the side, as though conducting the violins to crescendo.

The ground shook. The soil crumbling upwards, like the ground had failed to keep down a very bad meal. The dirt rose, in a way dirt was certainly not supposed to, and formed into the shape of a large, stone hand. The key word being large. It was easily six feet across the palm.

Vye swung at the monstrosity, but the dirt she cut away was quickly replenished. The hand grappled Vye, closing its fist around both of her arms, restricting her.

And then it started squeezing.

Halmir tur
ned and dashed off at a sprint. The Prince and his last Guard were mounted now, but he could still get a clear line of sight if he could make it around the gate before they cleared the courtyard.

But Vye wasn’t aware of any of this. The very ground was tightening around her, crushing her lungs. Her arms were pinned. Breathing was out of the question. Her vision was going red...

Halmir caught a glimpse of Prince Nathaniel as he turned the corner. But a glimpse was all he needed. He fired one more Candle Spell at the Prince. The Heir to the Throne was enveloped in the white hot, crackling energy of the spell. He screamed.

And he died.

Vye didn’t know the fight was over. She was wriggling, twisting, gasping, trying to get loose. But she was out of breath, and she was almost out of fight. She would have passed out if it weren’t for that painful snap. Most likely one of her ribs, she figured. A second later, two similar snaps.

It didn’t seem fair to her, to die in the hands of… well, a stone hand. This stupid, stupid, stone hand. Crushing her. She thought about the fact that it was just a bunch of dirt and pebbles. She thought it shouldn’t be causing this much trouble. She imagined it all falling back to the earth, inert and lifeless as it was supposed to be.

And then it did. It crumbled around her. She collapsed, gasping for air and panting heavily. Every breath was a shock of pain from her ribcage. Now she was going to hyperventilate. She felt like a loose collection of bones and skin, with a layer of dry dirt coating her. She felt like half a person.

Her eyes tried to find focus. When they did, they could only see one person moving. It was the Turin man, walking casually back to middle of the south courtyard. He just needed some clear space.

Vye lifted herself to her knees. How much longer could she keep up the fight? The pain of breathing alone was going to knock her out in a minute. To say nothing of bruises, internal bleeding, external bleeding, a broken rotator cuff, and utter exhaustion.

And
then she saw Flopson, the jester, ambling across the courtyard in his comic waddle, juggling three acrylic
balls
.
Flopson was in his late thirties, though if you had a conversation with him, you would insist her was just an older-looking child of eight. You would also insist that he was mildly insane, and you would probably be right.
His bag was missing a few
marbles
.

But those who had been around him and had paid attention, knew that he wasn’t an idiot. He knew what was going on. His wit was razor sharp, his tongue wicked, and his sense of humor layered. Vye had never seen him wearing anything other than his patched clown outfit, with the felt crown and the large collar, a mish-mash of very loud colors.
He had some eccentricities,
to be sure
.
But overall, he was the perfect fool for the castle.

And he was Michael’s fanatically loyal servant. Vye didn’t know the full story, but sometime in the past, Michael had saved Flopson’s life. And since then, the jester had protected the Count’s interests wherever and whenever he could.

Halmir stopped in the very center of the courtyard, where he began chanting and waving his hands around. As he did this, a small wisp of smoke started rising from the grass. In moments, the pathway back to the Turinheld would open before him, and he would be safely at home.

Flopson
straddled up to the concentrating Turin,
handling his balls with expert care.
 
A casual observer would assume it took all his concentration to play
with his balls
,
but a careful observer would have noticed that he stepped over a dead Royal Guard without looking down.

Halmir
noticed the jester, but he didn’t care. Nobody else was on the field except Lady Vye, and
she was just getting to her knees
.
He didn’t really know how to process the presence of the jester. There was a clown juggling in this field of death.

“Hey there Stinky,” Flopson said. “Hope you enjoyed the wedding.”

Halmir ignored Flopson, continuing his chant. The smoke was growing, expanding. He only needed to focus for a few more--

“I said, h
ey there, Stinky,” Flopson said, getting much closer to Halmir.

“Leave me alone,” Halmir said in his bes
t Cirilian. Argos had taught them the language of the enemy, of course.

“How rude,” Flopson said, still keeping the three balls in the air. “Perhaps I didn’t introduce myself properly. My name is Flopson.”

Flopson kept the three balls in the air with one hand while extending the other. Halmir didn’t shake it. Vye, in the meantime, had managed to lift herself to her feet. She was leaning on the sword like a cane, but she was up. Halmir was a good thirty paces, but she would make all of those paces.

Twenty-nine, Twenty-eight…

“Someone,” Flopson said, “Is going to have to teach you some manners.”

“I certainly won’t take lessons from you,” Halmir said in his own language.

“Well, you certainly didn’t take lessons from your momma,” Flopson responded, in the Rone tongue.

Halmir snapped a look at the fool. He hadn’t expected the insane man to understand him. There was a look in Flopson’s eyes that Halmir couldn’t read. Was he just jesting, as was his profession? Or was he insane, and actually challenging Halmir to a fight?

Twenty-two, twenty-one…

“Be gone before I tire of you,” Halmir said.

“
I can’t run that fast,” Flopson said, leaning to the side and juggling every other ball behind his back. Showing off.
Clearly, he could manage his balls in any position.

Eighteen, seventeen…

Halmir turned back to his wisp of smoke. The portal wouldn’t open if he continued to exchange banter with a fool. He needed to concentrate on the task at hand.

“Are you just going to ignore me now?” Flopson said. “What if I said your mother was uglier than the wart on a donkey’s ass?”

Thirteen, twelve…

Halmir continued to chant.

“Fine, you leave me no choice!” Flopson said, hurling the acrylics at Halmir’s head.

Halmir turned in an instant, raising his hands in defense. Like Gerard and Sandora, he could deflect arrows (or, in this case, juggling accouterments) if he had enough warning. But Gerard and Sandora had been charging across a field, with the archers in plain sight. Flopson was right beside Halmir.

He deflected the first two projectiles within a heartbeat. But Flopson’s aim was too good to be random. He had fired the three balls at three different angles, using both hands and a quick dance step. Halmir couldn’t bring his arm around fast enough for the third one.

It impacted against Halmir’s head, sending the towering Turin Warrior staggering to the side. Flopson started laughing, as though he had just seen the most hysterical thing in his life. He grabbed his stomach, as though it hurt. He was rolling on the ground.

Nine, eight…

Halmir was holding the side of his head. He was reeling in pain, and his vision was doubled. He just had to get through the Shadow-Gate, and he could fall unconscious all he wanted. All he had to do was keep the Gate...

Five, four…

Halmir spun back around to refocus on the Gate. But as he turned, he lost his balance. Somehow, his boots had become tied together. He fell, hard, to the floor, completely off balance. He didn’t even get his hands up in time, so his torso took the brunt of the hit.

Two, one…

Vye arrived. She was too tired to lift her sword and swing it, but she could easily fall on top of Halmir. Halmir tried to roll over, but Vye gathered up a final bit of strength and slammed the back of her elbow into Halmir’s cerebellum. Halmir fell promptly asleep.

Then, out of sheer exhaustion, Vye collapsed into a deep sleep of her own. The wisp of smoke dissipated, carried away in the wind.

Chapter
15: A Pirate in Name Only

Corthos was a pirate.

At least, that’s what he told people. Usually, pirates tried to pretend they weren’t pirates, to avoid trouble with the local constables. But for Corthos, his case was exactly the opposite. He hoped, dearly, that people would think he was a pirate. He wore an eye patch over his perfectly healthy left eye. He spoke with that particular brand of poor grammar that delineated his profession.
For a short time, he even had a
stuffed parrot strapped to his shoulder.

Corthos’ only regret was that he had never lost any limbs, and didn’t have any peg-legs or hook-hands to show off to the ladies at the pub.

And for most of his life, he was also lacking in one other respect: He didn’t have a boat. He worked as a dockhand, loading and unloading cargo. But he had never sailed anywhere. And he kept scaring the other dockhands with stories about kidnapping, raiding, pillaging, and buried gold, none of which was true.

Nobody knew where Corthos’ obsession with pirates began. Certainly, his parents didn’t encourage him.

“Corthos, come here,” his Father would say. “Now, I just spoke to Miller, and he said that you tried to kidnap his daughter for a ransom.”

“Aye,” Corthos said, mostly because he knew it pissed off his Father.

“And Smith said you led his kids on a raid of the wood shop, and stole three planks of wood.”

“Aye, it were a good pillaging.”

“Now, listen here, son,” his Father said, “You have to learn to play nice with other kids. You can’t keep pretending to be a pirate. And it’s high time we got you an apprenticeship. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“A pirate, matey.”

“Why can’t you be more like your brother and be a stone mason?”

“Nay, not a stone-cutter’s life for me.”

“Then, how about a woodsman?”

“Nay, I dunnot want to be a woodsm’n.”

“You could be a butcher. A baker. A candlestick maker.”

“There be only one life for me, and it’s on the high seas!” Corthos declared, as he drew his wooden sword and held it to the air.

“Fine,” Father said, “You can join the Count’s Navy.”

“Thems be weaklings with white uniforms and too many rules. Methinks I should be a pirate instead.”

“Corthos, my boy, you can’t become a pirate. People don’t choose to become pirates. They are born out of economic necessity, bad neighborhoods, that sort of thing. They are seaborne street gangs. You are a healthy young boy, and you have a loving family. I will not let you be a pirate.”

“You cannot stop me, Father! I will be a pirate no matter what it takes!”

And so he ran off. He went straight to the south shore, at the docks just east of Hartstone Castle, and lived there from the
age of ten
.

He picked up what work he could from the less picky foremen. He had pure brawn, so if you were willing to put up with the garb and the accent, he was excellent at moving heavy things.

He saved every farthing he got his hands on. He lived in what some would call abject poverty, but he had his dreams to keep him warm at nights.
Finally, he had enough to buy a
boat of his own
.
It wasn’t pretty, but it was his, and he loved it.

The shoddy craft didn’t attract the kind of clientele most people sought, but since Corthos prided himself on being a pirate, it suited him nicely. He was happy to deliver small loads of cargo, especially the sort that you didn’t want customs agents knowing about. And the same went for people. If they needed to get out of Deliem, he wouldn’t ask any questions.

But, to keep up appearances, he had a sign up by the boat, painted in black, which read: “Tour the Kingdom, starting at only ten Ducats.” Nobody was fooled into thinking Corthos was any kind of tour guide.  You would have to be really clueless to fall for his cover story.

“Jareld,” Thor said, “Look: A boat that will take us to the Island of Milos.”

Jareld whispered back, “I don’t think we want to take this boat.”

“But, for only ten Ducats…” Thor said, his voice anything but quiet.

Suddenly, a pirate popped out from below decks.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!” Corthos bellowed. Jareld and Thor recoiled in unison.

“Umm… Hello,” was all Jareld could manage.

“What is it ya’ need?”

“Actually,” Thor said, “We need to get to the Island of Milos.”

“Then welcome aboard the Leaking Tub!”

True enough, the boat had its name painted on the side. The Leaking Tub was built forty-three years ago as a minor supply ship for the Count’s Navy. It had been decommissioned some twelve years ago, which is why Corthos had managed to get it at a bargain price. The rudder was broken, the sails ripped, the steering wheel warped, and the hull rotted. Corthos admitted to himself that it was a fixer-upper, but a few more jobs and he’d have enough coins to give her a nice overhaul.

“I think we’re going to check with the Galleon over there, to see where it’s heading.”

“Wait a minute, matey,” Corthos said, leaping off the ship and onto the pier beside Jareld. “That there Galleon is a fine ship. The Stormbearer it is called. And she has a prime crew, to be sure. But...” Corthos said with a finger of warning, “It will not go where you wish. It be the Count’s ship, so e’en if it sail West, it likely won’t stray past Avonshire.”

“I see your point, but--”

“Now, the Leaking Tub ain’t much to look at, I’ll grant you that. And she may not ‘ave technically passed inspection in the last three years. And ya may have to share some of our rations with the mice from time to time. But I am bound by no law, by no man, and by no border, and for the right price, I can take ya’ anywhere in this great land, or beyond, if that be your wish.”

“How much to get us to Milos?” Jareld asked, taking out a small bag of coins and shaking it around. It seemed to Corthos that something could be worked out.