The Monster War: A Tale of the Kings' Blades (10 page)

H
OW MANY HOURS HAD HE BEEN LYING IN THE wagon? His feet were as numb as his hands now, but the waves of pain around the gag in his mouth were worse than ever.

The wagon had left the road, and that was bad—very, very bad. That was disaster. He had laid the best trail he could, as he had been instructed, but it had turned out to be the
wrong
trail. At Three Roads he had bribed four separate boys to look out for men wearing cat’s-eye swords and tell them about the mysterious Mistress Murther and Doctor Skuldigger, a man with a Grimshank connection.
Do not forget to mention Thrusk
! he had warned them all.

And that had been a terrible mistake. The wagon was rocking over hillocks, it was splashing through streams and ponds. It was not on the public road at all. It was not going to Firnesse, so when Snake and his men learned that they had been hoodwinked, they would go looking in the wrong direction entirely.

That was exactly the sort of foul-up Sir Vincent had predicted.

About halfway on that other journey, the one from Ironhall to Valglorious, and about the time Stalwart realized that Snake was serious when he said they were going to ride right across the country that day, they picked up another of the Old Blades, Sir Chefney. He had been a fencer of renown and Deputy Commander back when Montpurse was leader. There was something utterly unreal in riding stirrup to stirrup with such men and casually saying, “Tell me about the times you won the King’s Cup, brother.”

Brother
!

Chefney laughed. “Just twice—353 and 357. What was different those years was that Durendal wasn’t competing. I came second to him a couple of times, but I could never beat him. Never did, not once, even in practice. Then Jarvis came on the scene and turned me into a has-been. I hear you’re pretty fast yourself, brother.”

Brother
!

After twelve hours in the saddle, Wart staggered into the great hall at Valglorious and the arms of Sir Vincent. The old man’s beard was pure white now, but his back was still straight and his eyes were bright as a child’s. Indeed they glistened and Wart could hardly see them for his own tears. Brushing aside the congratulations, he fell on his knees and took Vincent’s hand to kiss.

“It is your doing, sir! If I have achieved anything, it was because I had to be worthy of your trust.”

“Get up, you young rascal!” the knight said gruffly. “And no more of this ‘sir’ talk. You’re my brother in the Order now.”

“Never!” Wart said. “If you will not allow ‘sir,’ then I shall call you ‘father’ and nothing less.”

“Listen to that!” Snake said. “I can’t wait to hear how he talks when he starts chasing girls. Are you going to feed us, brother, or lay our bones in the ossuary?”

“Food’s coming,” Vincent said. “I don’t know any man who can eat like you and stay so thin. If you were my horse I would worm you. But first I want to see what Ironhall has made of this minstrel trash I picked up. Come along, all of you.”

“Good idea,” Snake said blithely. “Work out some of the knots.”

It was unbelievable. It was inhuman! Twelve hours in the saddle and they expected a man to fence? Of course they did. He was a Blade now.

The great hall, to which Vincent now led his guests, could have been used for horse racing or indoor archery. Lit that evening only by flickering candles, its walls soared up into mysterious darkness. There would be ample space, but light was going to be a problem. Even with blunt épées, fencing practice was never totally without danger. By the time they reached the senior class at Ironhall, future Blades scorned the use of padded garments or even face masks. Swordsmanship was not a game to them, and a few bangs with a steel bar taught the importance of a good defense like nothing else could. But Ironhall had an octogram and skilled enchanters ready to treat injuries right away. Valglorious almost certainly did not, so what Stalwart’s new brothers were proposing seemed utterly crazy. He wondered if it was his fencing they wanted to test or his courage. Poking out a friend’s eye would be a poor start to his career in the Guard.

Jerkins and doublets were shed. Wart faced off against Sir Vincent. His instinct was to let the old man win, of course, but he knew that such courtesy would be no kindness in this case. Furthermore, to deceive any man about his fencing ranked as mortal sin in the Blades’ code, and these men would not be taken in. He began cautiously, parrying every stroke and making little effort to riposte until he could judge the light. The swords clattered and clanged. Then he flashed in with Rainbow, one of his favorite routines. It was easy.

“A hit!”

Vincent laughed. “It was indeed. Try that again.”

Clink, clatter—Cockroach! “Another!”
There! This is what you made of me
!

“I’m dead!” the old man agreed. “I think my judgment has been vindicated.” He looked to Chefney. “Show us how your wind is standing up to the years, brother?”

“Not worth a glob of pond slime,” Chefney retorted. “Snake, you found this whippersnapper. You cut him down to size for us.”

“Obviously I must teach him respect for his betters,” said Snake, removing his doublet. He accepted the épée, raised it briefly in salute, and then went for Wart like a wildcat.

Back and forth the two of them danced on the flagstones, and their blades rang to the rafters. Now Boy Wonder had a real battle on his hands, because Snake was only two years past his release from the Guard, still very much in his prime. He had never won the King’s Cup, but he had always been a respected fencer and he could call on many times Stalwart’s experience. Every routine had its counter, and Snake knew them all—Violet…Willow…Steeple…Butterfly…. Lunge and parry, engagement and envelopment and
froissement
…

How about
Woodpecker
, then?

Snake yelped in surprise as Stalwart’s blade tapped the side of his throat. “Do that again!”

Clatter…
Vulture
?

“
Ouch
!”

“Sorry,” Stalwart said. “A little harder than I intended.”

“Again!” Snake roared, sounding seriously annoyed now.

He was outclassed, though. Four times his new protégé scored, and at last he conceded defeat, puffing mightily.

Wart had beaten Snake himself! Wow! What would they say back in Ironhall if they knew that?

“Give me!” Chefney said, reaching for the blade. “Show
me
how you do it, brother.”

To go up against the great Chefney would have seemed like insanity a mere ten minutes ago, but now Stalwart’s dander was up. He fizzed with excitement. “At you, then!”

Clitter, clatter…Oops…“A hit!” Stalwart admitted. “Again!”

Another hit…

And another…He tried Vulture again, and even Castanet, but nothing worked. After the fifth point he lowered his foil, resisting the temptation to hurl it to the floor. He had forgotten what humiliation felt like. Five to nothing and in about two minutes! The old man was not even breathing hard, and he must be three times Stalwart’s age.
Has-been
indeed! Boy Wonder could feel his face burning with shame.

“What’s he doing wrong, Chef?” Snake asked. “What did I miss?”

Chefney did not answer him. He spoke instead to Stalwart as the two of them were resuming their doublets. “Where did you get all that complicated rubbish?”

“From Sir Quinn,” Stalwart admitted. The recently appointed Master of Rapiers had a collection of highly unusual routines he called Fancy Stuff, which he claimed had won duels against skilled opponents in the past. He warned that they must only be used as a last resort, and he taught them only to the best, those who had already mastered the standard Ironhall style. They had worked against Snake well enough.

Snake was not Chefney.

“Forget the flimflammery!” Chefney said sourly. “Stick with what works. If you can’t beat an outsider with Ironhall basics, then nothing is going to save you.”

“Yes, brother,” Stalwart said as humbly as he could, donning his cloak. “I’ll remember.”
No more Fancy Stuff
!

“Good. Do that and you’ll be a serious contender for the Cup inside three years.”

“I
will
?” Stalwart asked, suspecting mockery.

“Certainly. Your speed’s incredible—lightning in a bottle—and your footwork’s the best I’ve seen since Durendal. You’d have wiped me clean just now if you hadn’t tried to be so fandangle clever.” The expert turned away, leaving Stalwart gaping. “Where’s that meal you promised, Vincent?”

Snake grinned. “I’m going to start putting money on him now.”

“You won’t get any takers here,” Sir Vincent said proudly, thumping Stalwart’s shoulder. “Never met a wolf looked so like a rabbit.”

So losing didn’t matter after all. It was a gloriously unbelievable ending to an unbelievable day. Unfortunately the deadly Sir Stalwart spoiled it all by falling asleep at the table with his head among the dishes. He did not wake even when Snake and Chefney carried him upstairs and put him to bed.

Sir Vincent was a knight in the Order, castellan of Valglorious, regent of the Duchy of Eastfare, member of the White Star, a baronet in his own right, one of the most honored men in the realm. He was too old to join the Old Blades and fight in the Monster War, even had he not had a dukedom to run. Although he had politely refrained from asking questions when three brother Blades dropped in on him, he knew that theirs was not just a sentimental visit. They wanted something.

The next morning he called them to account. And since this meeting was business and not social, he held it with all four of them standing in the great hall, in front of the gigantic fireplace. There was no one else present. He was dressed more formally than he had been the previous evening; a four-pointed diamond star glinted on his jerkin. Snake, to Wart’s great amusement, was flaunting an identical bauble. It had not been in evidence a few minutes earlier, during breakfast.

The thin man outlined the problem of the unknown assassins. Chefney explained how a White Sister was to be offered as bait and how she would be watched during the two or three days she would be made to wait in Tyton. “If no approach is made to her there, then the Companionship will provide transportation to her home, which is near Newhurst. Rather than sending her by stage, though, we thought we would make her seem more vulnerable.”

“Let Wart outline this part,” Snake said.

So Wart took over the tale, showing that he understood the role he was to play and the various contingency plans Snake and Chefney had devised. He threw in a couple of suggestions of his own, which won thoughtful nods from his superiors.

“And if the evildoers still ignore her,” Snake concluded, “we shall have her watched for two or three weeks after she arrives in Newhurst. But that may be too late. The King may well be dead by then.”

Vincent’s face had been growing darker and darker. Now he said, “And what do you want from me?”

Snake nodded to Wart to answer that one, too.

“Well, sir, mostly we need a reasonable excuse for me to be driving a wagon south from Oakendown by a fairly roundabout route, so the conspirators have time to organize the grab, if that’s what they decide to do. We hope you will loan us the horse and wagon and let me pose as one of your hands. Your knowledge of the area, of course…a really rusty, hacked-up sword if you can find one, and…” He wilted under the old man’s glare. “And your blessing on our venture, father.”

“You
cut
that
out
!” the old castellan snapped. “I am not your father, and if I were I would forbid this nonsense absolutely.” He turned his anger on Snake. “No blessing from me! I think the entire scheme is disgraceful and unworkable. The trick you propose playing on the girl is utterly base, unworthy of our Order. The danger to both her and the boy is unconscionable. He’ll end in a ditch with his throat cut. I cannot imagine how you can be so unscrupulous as even to consider such a monstrous fraud.”

His visitors exchanged glum glances.

“Because we’re desperate,” Snake said. “Four attempts in the last month? Leader is going out of his mind. We honestly believe they, whoever
they
are, will succeed next time or the one after.”

Vincent bent his head and began to pace back and forth before the great stone mantel. After a moment he stopped and scowled at Snake. “You’re telling me the Companionship has agreed to this?”

“With distaste, obviously, but they would rather stage a kidnapping under controlled conditions than lose any more Sisters completely. Mother Superior selected the—hmm—the victim herself and has been cooperating with Brother Chefney in the planning.”

What Snake had told Wart the previous day was that Mother Superior’s audience with the King had been extremely noisy, with much royal shouting. The Blades on duty outside the door had reported that she came out in tears. But she was cooperating now.

Vincent grunted and went back to his pacing. Then he reached a decision. “No. I will not be associated with such deceit. I bid you good chance, brothers, and safe journey.”

He was not the sort to be talked into changing his mind once he had made it up. Snake shrugged hopelessly and looked at Chefney to see if he had any suggestions, but it was Wart who spoke up.

“It shocked me, too, sir, until I thought about it. I haven’t met a White Sister yet, but I’m told they’re honorable, dedicated women. I agree that it’s unkind to involve one without her consent, but her sisters in the Companionship are probably being tortured into cooperating and one of them has a child with her. If this Sister Emerald is at all typical, she should support our efforts wholeheartedly. She won’t be in as much danger as I will, because she will be the prize. And if it is me you are worried about, remember that I am the only man in the Guard who has a hope of pulling this off. It has to be me. Binding leaves a scar and it also marks a man so the Sisters can detect him. Anyone but me will be slaughtered on the spot. Me, I’m just a kid. Who could suspect me of being dangerous? Only yesterday, father, I swore to set my life as nothing to—”