The Iron Tempest (7 page)

“Passing through?” he asked.

“Yes,” she lied, “I’m on my way to find a place with Agramant.”

“Agramant, eh? That’s not Moorish armor you’re wearing. I would have thought you Frankish, had anyone asked.”

“It’s Frankish armor if I’m fighting for Karl and it’s Moorish armor if I’m fighting for Agramant.”

“Like that, eh? Freelance, are you?”

“Just trying to earn my way through college.”

“A scholar, too? A little too pretty to be a scholar, I’d say.”

“You would, eh? Then by that reasoning, you must be a genius.”

“Well, I didn’t get to be a personal messenger of the king by being stupid!” A shadow crossed his face that Bradamant wished was literal rather than figurative. “Say,” he growled, “what did you mean by that remark?”

“That if I’m too good-looking to be smart, than you must be too ugly to be human, dog boy.”

“By the beard of the prophet!” the man cried, jumping to his feet and spilling the table over the diners opposite. None of them objected, but instead fell over one another in further retreat. They knew from hard experience when a fight was in the offing. He drew a dagger from his belt and waved it at her. “I’ll not take that from any tin-plated hussy!”

The conversation, Bradamant thought too late, had not gone entirely as Melissa had coached her. There was no point in turning back now.

“Well, which part did you object to? Being called a dog or being called a man?”

Brunello’s face purpled and contorted in fury. It had, as Melissa had suggested, already resembled a squashed tomato—what Brunello did to it now was far beyond what ought to rightly ever be inflicted upon an innocent vegetable. Three men elsewhere in the room—all husky, iron-nerved, with thoroughly calloused sensibilities (one gutted cattle in a local abbatoir, one robbed fresh graves and the other slit throats on the highway for both profit
and
fun) found the sight of the furious Brunello too much to bear and hurriedly left the inn.

Bradamant was glad that she had checked her sword, for if she had it at hand she would surely have obeyed her immediate impulse and the man would be now lying at her feet, split from stem to stern like a butchered hog. There were two objections to doing that: first, as bad as the man’s exterior was, there was no telling what awfulness lay within; and second, Brunello, however loathsome he may be, was her only link to Rashid.

She rose to her feet unhurriedly and drew her own dagger. She fixed Brunello with a stare that would have quailed a basilisk (and had, but that’s another story). She was a full head taller than the man, who seemed to wither before her like a garden slug in the full glare of the noonday sun.

“Prepare to die, Stybard,” growled Bradamant, who while dangerously impetuous was still no fool, “you fish-eyed son of a streetwalker!”

“
Stybard
?” he asked. “Who’s Stybard?”

“You are, you miserable mealworm. Make your peace with Allah or whatever it is you pagans do.”

“My name’s not Stybard. My name’s Brunello.”

“No it’s not. You’re Stybard, the man that stole my horse.”

“It’s true, I tell you!”

“I
knew
it!”

“No! No! I
didn’t
steal your horse! My name’s Brunello. Ask anyone here.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Here, look here,” he said, hastily pulling a crumpled piece of parchment from his belt. She snatched it from him and gave it a quick glance. It proved to be an out-of-date weekend pass from some captain of the guard or another, but it did have Brunello’s name on it. It was spelled wrong but it was good enough. Not that it made any particular difference since she was in any case bluffing the terrified coward.

“It seems, sir, that I mistook you for someone else,” she said, returning the paper to him and her dagger to her belt. “I beg your pardon.”

“Quite all right,” he replied, using his sleeve to wipe away some of the perspiration that poured down his face. It left a grey swath from forehead to cheek. “Anyone can make a mistake.”

“You’re too kind. May I buy you a drink?”

“I, uh, I don’t see why not.” It was the last thing in the world that he wanted, but he was afraid to refuse the inflammable young lady.

They sat, their ales before them, and Bradamant tried to reestablish the conversation.

“You’re not a stranger here, then?” she asked.

“I am,” he replied, then, lowering his voice conspiratorialy: “In fact, just between us, I’m on a secret mission for Agramant himself!”

“Really?”

“Certainly. You’d not think it to look at me, but that’s because my disguise is so effective. In truth, I’m the king’s own right hand.”

“I knew there was something special about you.”

“It’s hard to disguise breeding. A curse in my profession, you can understand.”

“It’s obviously difficult for you. You should get a sorcerer to change your appearance entirely.”

“Sorcerers aren’t that easy to find, at least ones that know what they’re doing.”

“Shouldn’t be that difficult a spell, I wouldn’t think.”

“You know something of magic?”

“Not much more than the average person, I suppose.”

“I’m a bit of an expert myself, you understand.”

“You’re not!”

“You’ve heard of Atalante?”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Known him for years! Met him when he was still doing card tricks for drinks! Can’t count the ales we’ve had together. Helped him out on some tough spells, I have, when the old boy’s been stuck.”

“I know a couple of card tricks, myself.”

“Here, I’ll show you something better than a card trick, girl . . .”

There was suddenly a deafening noise from outside the inn, as though a building had collapsed or a cartful of winecasks had overturned. The inn shook like a wet dog.

“Merciful Mother of God!” Bradamant cried. “What was that?”

The air was still vibrating like an aspic when she leaped into the lane beyond the door. Barely ahead of her was the innkeeper, his family and a dozen others who had been attracted by the din. Every single one of them, even the dogs, cats, chickens and pigs, was staring openmouthed at the sky, as though at a great comet or an eclipse. Bradamant followed their gaze and when she did her mouth, too, fell open.

Just above the rooftops was an enormous winged horse, as black as a ragged fragment torn from the midnight cloak of Nyx. She was astonished to see that it had the head and foretalons of an eagle. On its back was a knight clad in glossy black scales. Bradamant thought he looked like an enormous scorpion. As she watched, the horse and rider disappeared, keeping a course straight into the northwest. A moment later a sweeping sound rushed past Bradamant’s ears.

“That was the great sorcerer himself,” said the innkeeper, softly, as though the magician might still be able to overhear him; at the same time, he seemed rather proud of the spectacle, as a civic booster might be in displaying a factory site to an out-of-town investor. His wife, meanwhile, was mumbling either a prayer or an incantation. Bradamant saw that most of the spectators were likewise either praying or fingering charms and talismans. “We see him pass over here often,” the innkeeper continued to no one in particular, ”sometimes closer than at other times, sometimes farther. Sometimes we see him soar so high that the stars themselves are disturbed in the eddies of his passage. Every once in a while he’ll carry off the most beautiful maiden in the vicinity. It’s gotten so no female over the age of ten, maiden or not, comely or ugly as a brick, will venture out of doors during daylight.”

“Haven’t you tried to do anything?” asked Bradamant, astonished and disgusted at this complacent speech.

“What would you suggest? How can we defend ourselves against such an invader? We can’t fly, can we? We’ve prayed ‘til we’re hoarse and our knees are bloody, but it’s done no good. And every one of us is in bad now with the priest for resorting to itinerant enchanters, wizards and magicians so that not only are we the poorer for having wasted our money on charms and magic philtres, but now we have to pay penance to the church as well. It’s a bloody damn nuisance, I can tell you.”

“Where does this sorcerer and his monster come from?” asked Bradamant.

“He has a castle, made entirely of steel, somewhere high in the Pyrenees, up that way. Countless knights have passed by here, on their way to lay siege to that castle. None have ever returned.”

“What happened to them?”

“Captured or killed. Fed to the hippogryph. Who knows? Who cares?”

Bradamant was sure with a certain conviction that she would be able to succeed where all these others had failed. She knew that in proficiency with arms there were few men who were her better; with the additional advantage of the magic ring, once she procured it, there could be no question that she would be successful in rescuing Rashid.

“Let me have one man,” she demanded of the innkeeper, “who knows the way and I’ll undertake the destruction of this magician and his steel castle.”

The innkeeper merely looked at the slender, tawny-haired youth with mixed contempt and pity.

“I know the way,” offered Brunello. He was, of course, going to the castle anyway and thought that the girl didn’t know this. He had been thinking that he had seldom seen more nicely-made armor than that which this brash female was wearing. He’d be able to dispose of it and the shield and sword for a nifty profit, once, of course, he had shown her that he had some parts uglier than his face. He owed himself that pleasure and her that humiliation. “I’ll come with you,” he continued, then added with a leer, “And I have some things that’ll make you glad I came along.”

As blatant as was this crude
double entendre
, she wrongly assumed that he was talking about the ring, but did not show her pleasure at this mistaken confirmation.

“All right,” she said, “I’ll accept your offer.” Meaning, of course, that she’d accept his offer of the ring once the encouraging point of her sword was at the hollow of his throat.

The innkeeper, who was also steward of the village, provided her with a horse. She was surprised to see such a fine animal in such a place—it would be equally suited for either riding or battle—and said so to the innkeeper, who explained that a knight had left it as collateral for an unpaid bill but had never returned to redeem the animal. No doubt he had been another victim of the evil magician. She paid for it gladly, with the thought that perhaps she might be able to someday gladly restore it to its proper owner.

A small river tumbled from the hills, passed as quickly as it could through the village and, having had to do so, fell despairingly into the sea. Following this watercourse upstream, Brunello led her through a narrow defile and directly into the surrounding mountains. They rode silently in mutual dislike and mistrust.

The trail passed through dense forests and onto ever-higher and steeper mountain slopes. More than half the day passed before they came to a dizzying pass from which Bradamant could see the distant hazy shores of both Frankland and Cordova. From this height Brunello led her down a narrow track into a deep, circular, bowl-like valley. Bradamant immediately recognized it from Pinabel’s description. Just as he had said, from its center rose a rocky pinnacle which supported a silvery cluster of turrets, like a collection of tin cans. Bradamant saw the futility of even considering a direct attack on the steel castle if one could not fly.

“That,” said Brunello unnecessarily, his first words to her since leaving the village, “is where the magician Atalante holds his prisoners.”

Even from her distant vantage, Bradamant could see that the castle was as smooth, featureless and perfectly formed as a crystal of galena or iron pyrite. There was not a sign of an opening in the pinnacle, let alone a path or stairway. It was as inaccessible as the eyrie of some fabulous aerial beast, which of course it was.

“What do you know about this hippogryph?” she asked.

“The most important thing to know about it is that it’s no product of Atalante’s magic. It’s quite real and he can ride it like a saddle-horse. Everything else you might see may be a figment of his art, but make no mistake about the monster.”

The time had arrived, Bradamant knew, to seize the ring and kill Brunello, but she was beginning to have qualms. It went against every chivalrous instinct to spill the blood of an unarmed man (Brunello’s dagger being of course of no more account to her than his unkempt fingernails), to say nothing of a man she held as utterly valueless and contemptible. It would be too base a deed, like squashing a toad for the sake of the cruelty; she was certain—and grew more so every moment—that she would be able to obtain the ring without killing him.

Fortunately for her and unfortunately for Brunello his contempt for her as a woman proved to be his undoing. In spite of her bearing and demeanor, in spite of her apparent familiarity with her weapons and the ease with which she handled her warhorse, his conceit refused to allow him to attribute to a maiden any genuine prowess at arms. To him, she was nothing more than a child play-acting at being a knight. Even though she was fully armored and equipped with lance, sword and shield against his single dagger, his pride allowed no fear of her whatsoever, with the result that—even as cowardly as he was—he did not hesitate to turn his back to her. That he had done so once too often was suggested by a sharp blow to the base of his skull, precisely at the occipital protuberance. When he regained consciousness he discovered, to his shame and fury, that he was now tightly bound to a stout tree.

Bradamant was neither moved nor concerned by Brunello’s curses, which gained an imaginative and shockingly blasphemous vehemency when he saw that she had his magic ring on her finger. She concluded that such shocking language only proved that her original low opinion of the brute had been justified. The curses changed to wheedling pleas when he saw that she meant to abandon him, but she paid these no more attention than she had the curses.

She had indeed forgotten Brunello as thoroughly as she had King Sacripant before her horse had even begun to pick its way down the boulder-strewn slope—her mind was too busy anticipating the imminent release of Rashid.