The Fellowship of the Talisman (25 page)

“Nothing great,” said Duncan. “We have, it seems, stumbled from one disaster to another, but each time have managed to escape by the skin of our teeth.”

They told her, chiming in on the story by turns, while she sat listening intently, her head bent forward, the flare of the candles making another flame of her shining hair. One thing Duncan did not tell her, and the others did not think to, or noticing that he had omitted it, made no mention of it—and that was about the finding of the amulet in Wulfert's tomb.

Watching her as she listened, Duncan debated whether he should go back along the story's trail and tell her of the amulet, but in the end he refrained from doing so. Certainly, he knew, it was a thing that would greatly interest her, and perhaps she had a right to know—most surely had the right to know if Wulfert truly had been kin of hers, as she had said.

Finally, when the story was all done, she asked of Wulfert. “You remember that I was seeking him,” she said, “or rather, some word of him, for he must have long since been dead. You, Sir Hermit, before we were interrupted by the hairless ones, seemed to indicate that you knew of him. For some reason you did not explain, you appeared to be greatly distressed.”

Andrew lifted his head, looking across the table at the sternness of Duncan's face.

“Only, milady,” he said smoothly, “that I had heard of him, knew that he was buried in the village cemetery. My distress was that the village had regarded him as a saintly man. It was a shock to learn that he had been, instead, a wizard.”

“You were outraged to learn that he was a wizard and no holy man?”

“Milady,” said Andrew, “I and the people of my village were only simple folk. Perhaps even ignorant folk. We did not know of wizards. We had thought …”

“I can guess what you had thought,” said Diane. “And it seems that I remember you saying that he was placed in a tomb, that the village built a tomb for him because he was thought a saintly man.”

“That is right,” said Andrew, “but an oak fell and shattered it. In some great storm, perhaps.”

“There is a story, perhaps no more than a legend, that he carried with him a piece of wondrous magic. Had you ever heard of that?”

“No ma'am, I don't recall I ever had.”

“I imagine not,” said Diane. “He would have kept it secret. I suppose it now is lost. Oh, the pity of it!”

“Why the pity, ma'am?” asked Conrad.

“The legend says that it was designed as a weird against the Horde of Evil, known in these parts as the Harriers.”

“And,” said Duncan, “you hoped to recover it.”

“Yes,” she said, “that had been my hope. There now is need of it.”

Duncan felt the others looking at him.

“Even had you found it,” he said, “it might be of little value. One would have to know how to put it to most effective use.”

“No, I think not. I think the mere possession of it would be quite sufficient. The magic rests in the talisman itself, not in the user of it.”

“Perhaps you should search the tomb,” said Conrad, skating on thin ice.

“Perhaps,” said Diane. “I had thought of that. I had meant to go back again. But after the incident in the garden plot with the hairless ones, I had the frantic feeling that Cuthbert needed me, so I flew directly here. I found that he did indeed have need of me. I have nursed him ever since.”

She made a motion with her hands. “Although I doubt the searching of the tomb would be of any use. Even had the talisman been buried with him, which it might not have been, when the oak fell upon the tomb its contents would have been revealed to anyone who might want to investigate. Certainly there would have been in the village those with a ghoulish twist of mind. Undoubtedly, had it been there, it would have been filched long since.”

“What you say may well be true,” said Andrew, “but of this talisman you speak of I have never heard.”

“A tomb robber,” said Diane, “would not reveal himself.”

“I suppose not,” Andrew said.

No one was watching him any more, Duncan saw. The deed had been done. Rightly or wrongly, the lie had been told. To the man, they had backed him in his secrecy. Of them all, only Meg had said nothing and she, he knew, would not go against the rest of them. His fingers itched to go to the pouch at his side, touch the slight bulge of the amulet to assure himself that it still was there. But he fought successfully against doing it.

Tiny, who had gulped down a generous helping from the roast, earlier had been lying, asleep or half-asleep, in one corner of the kitchen, but now, Duncan noted, he was gone. More than likely he had gone out exploring. The castle had a lot of nooks and crannies that he could snoop in.

“There is one thing that intrigues me,” Duncan said to Diane. “I asked you earlier, but you had no chance to answer. It concerns the Huntsman. Why should he get himself involved?”

“He hates the Evil,” Diane told him. “As do many of the others of us. The Little Folk—you'll find few of them who have any liking for the Evil. Basically they themselves are not evil; only different. There are certain naturally evil beings, of course, like the werewolves, the ghouls, the vampires, and others who would willingly align themselves with the Harriers, holding them in high regard and believing that they may be one with them. But the Little Folk are decent people and so is the Huntsman.”

“I have wondered,” Duncan said, “if he could have been watching us all the time. We saw him a few nights ago and I am certain, at an earlier time, I heard him in the sky.”

“He could have been.”

“But why should he bother with us?”

“He is a free spirit, the Huntsman. I know very little about him, although I met him briefly a few years ago. He originated, I believe, in the Germanies, but I can't be sure of that. Maybe sometime in the past he may have witnessed some of the ravages brought about by the Harriers and has been watching them ever since.”

“A crusader for the right?”

“No, I'd scarcely call him that.”

“In any case,” said Andrew, “we are appreciative of the part he played today.”

“This Evil,” said Duncan. “I wonder what it really is.”

“Cuthbert, if you asked, probably could tell you much better than I can,” said Diane.

“Our archbishop at the abbey back home suggested that the creatures may feed on the misery of the world and that they will go to any lengths to keep that misery going.”

“I have heard that,” Diane said, “but Cuthbert is an expert on the Evil. He has spent long years in the study of it. He has at hand much documentation bearing on it. He's the one to ask about it.”

“Would he be willing to discuss it with us? Many experts grow somewhat jealous of the body of knowledge they have acquired.”

“Yes, I think he will.”

A burst of savage barking came from far away. Conrad leaped to his feet. “That's Tiny,” he said. “I'll take care of him. There are times when he hasn't got good sense.”

Turning, he ran out the door and the others pelted after him. “Sic 'em, boy!” yelled Meg.

“No, not that,” snapped Conrad. “Don't encourage him.”

They ran down a hall and across the magnificent dining hall, coming out on the circular corridor that fronted on the huge reception hall.

There they sighted Tiny. He was in front of the demon's column, his rear thrust high into the air, his front feet thrust out on the floor, his muzzle resting on them. His tail was waving frantically in good fun, and every now and then he lifted his head from his paws to unloose a half-playful, half-savage barking at the crouching Scratch.

Conrad went clattering down the staircase to the hall. “Tiny, cut it out,” he yelled. “Tiny, you damn fool. Leave Old Scratch alone.”

The demon sang out at him in protest. “Not Old Scratch. That is another demon entirely. That is the full-fledged Devil. To call me Scratch was a play on words. The ones who finally trapped and caught me would guffaw and roll upon the floor in laughter when they called me Scratch. For reasons that I do not entirely understand, it was a great joke to them. But they called me Young Scratch, to distinguish me, you understand, from the other one. But finally it became simply Scratch and that I have been ever since. Which is not an appellation that I enjoy overmuch, but since I have been stuck with it all these years I must live by it.”

Conrad strode across the floor to Tiny, grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. “Shame on you,” he said. “Here he is, chained to this stone, while you are running free. You should be ashamed.”

Tiny fawned on Conrad, but he did not look ashamed.

Duncan, coming up behind Conrad, said to Scratch, “You seem to be all right. Did he try to harm you?”

“Not in the least,” said the demon. “He was only engaged in some doggish fun. I did not mind at all. He had no intent to hurt me, nor, I believe, to even frighten me. In his doggish mind, he only played a game with me.”

“That's generous of you,” said Duncan.

“Why, thank you, sir. It is very decent of you to say so.”

“And by the way,” asked Duncan, “is it true, as you said, that you are a demon from the very pits of Hell? And if that is so, how come you here?”

“That is a long story and a sad one,” said Scratch. “Someday, when you have the time, I will relate to you the whole of it. I was an apprentice demon, you must understand, assigned to the antechambers of the Infernal Regions to learn my vocations. But, I fear, I did very badly at it. So to speak, I was all thumbs. I never did get anything quite right. I suppose I never really got into the spirit of the job. I was always in the doghouse. Constantly I was reprimanded for my lack of honest zeal.”

“Maybe you were not cut out to be a demon.”

“That may well be. But being a demon, I had little choice. There were few other occupations that were open to me. I would have you believe that at all times I did my valiant best.”

“So what happened?”

“Why, I ran away. I couldn't take it any longer. One day I just cut out. And do you know, sir, and this was the unkindest cut of all—I don't believe they made any great effort to run me down and haul me back.”

“Except for the chain, you have good treatment here?”

“Except for the chain, I would say so. I know that I am somewhat better treated here than a human would be treated should he find himself in Hell.”

21

Cuthbert lay propped up in bed by two pillows placed atop one another against the headboard. He wore a nightcap of startling red and a nightgown with ruffles at the throat and wrists. He was a sunken man. His eyes were sunken deep beneath white, bushy eyebrows, the cap coming down so far upon his forehead that it seemed to rest upon the eyebrows. His face was sunken so that his cheekbones could be seen, the skin drawn tightly over them, his nose stabbing out like a beak, the mouth a furrow between the stabbing nose and outjutting chin. His chest was sunken, his shoulders rising above it in their bony knobbiness. Beneath the coverlet his stomach was so flat and sunken that the pelvic bones stood out, making twin humps beneath the bedclothes.

He cackled at Duncan, then spoke in a raspy voice, “So. Diane tells me you smote them hip and thigh. That's the way to do it. That's the one language that they understand.”

“My band and I,” said Duncan. “I did not do it all alone.”

“You'll see the others of them later,” Diane told the wizard. “They are a motley group.”

She said to Duncan, “You do not mind if I call them a motley group?”

“I suppose you could call them that,” said Duncan, not too well pleased.

“You told me of them,” Cuthbert said to Diane. “A dog and horse and also a little burro. I'll want to see them, too.”

“The dog, perhaps,” said Diane. “Certainly not the horse.”

“I want to see the entire tribe of them,” insisted Cuthbert. “I want to gaze upon this little band that smote them hip and thigh. By gad, it does me good to know there are such still in the land. Not running squealing from them, but standing up to them.”

“The horse and burro would have trouble getting here,” protested Diane. “All those stairs.”

“Then I'll go and see them.”

“You know, sire, you must not exert yourself.”

He grumbled at her with mumbling words. He said to Duncan, “This is what happens when a man grows old. You can't exert yourself. You can't walk to the water closet. You must squat upon a pot to pee. You must move slowly and you must remain in bed. You must eat soft foods because your gut will not handle honest meat. You must be sparing with the wine. You must do not a single thing that you may enjoy, but many that you don't.”

“In a short while,” said Duncan, “it would be my hope and prayer that you'll again be doing all the things you most enjoy. But you must take what care you can …”

“You're in league with her,” Cuthbert accused him. “Everyone is in league with her. She can twist a strong man about her little finger. Look at her, the hussy, all that golden hair and the way she bats her eyes.”

“You know, sire,” said Diane sharply, “that I never bat my eyes. And if your behavior does not improve considerably I shall cook you up a mess of greens and feed them to you for supper. And see you eat them, too.”

“You see,” Cuthbert said to Duncan. “A man hasn't got a chance. Especially should he grow old. Take care you do not advance beyond the age of thirty. And now suppose you tell me about your little band and this great battle.”

“We would not have survived the battle,” Duncan said, “had it not been for Diane and her griffin and the Wild Huntsman …”

“Ah, the Huntsman—a stout fellow, that one. I well remember the time …” He speared Duncan with a sharp glance. “Don't tell me you're the Huntsman. A close relative, perhaps, but surely not the Huntsman. You can't fool me with your tales. I know the Huntsman. You can't palm yourself off …”