Castle Perilous (8 page)

“Do you have any clothes?” Linda asked the man.

“I'm afraid I have nothing but military apparel, which would hardly befit a gracious lady such as yourself.”

“Oh. Do you know where I could — ”

“I think you'd be wanting to see the seamstress, my lady.”

“Oh, good. And where — ”

“I'm afraid her shop is a long way from here. It's on the other side of the keep, on the twentieth floor of the Queen's Tower.”

“Oh.”

Gene came back to the counter. “I want a sword,” he said. “And a knife.”

“A sword . . . and a knife.”

“Uh, yeah.”

The man sighed. “Would you have any idea as to the type of sword or knife you'd be wanting?”

“Well . . .”

“There are many varieties, you know. All lengths and sizes, all used for various and sundry purposes.”

“Well, I sort of want a general . . . you know, sword.”

“A sword befitting a general?”

“No, no. Your average all-purpose, general-utility thing.”

The man frowned. “Hmmm.”

“Something about yea long.”

“Ah, a longsword. Two-edged, then?”

“Uhhh . . . yeah. Two-edged.”

“Two-handed or one-handed haft?”

Gene shrugged. “Whatever. Two-handed.”

“Cross hilt or decorative?”

“Um.” Gene crossed his arms and rubbed his chin.

“I might not have the decorative in a two-hand-hafted longsword, come to think of it. One moment, sir, and I will look.”

The man went back to a row of free-standing shelves, returned with a huge sword and laid it on the counter. “Will this do, sir?”

“Holy heck.” Gene picked the thing up, grasping the haft with both hands. The sword was heavy and unwieldy, almost impossibly so, and about half again as long as it needed to be. He glanced at the elaborately wrought hilt and laid it back on the counter. “You have anything a little easier to handle?”

“Many things. Perhaps a shortsword would better suit you.”

“Yeah. What do you have?”

“Many kinds.”

“Uh-huh.” Gene shrugged. “Like . . . what?”

“Well, there are two-edged shortswords and one-edged shortswords. There are swords of various curvatures and of various blade widths. There are swords used for hacking, and there are those more suitable for thrusting at one's enemy. And, of course, there are swords suitable for both. There are blades of various tempers and degrees of strength. There are broadswords and sabers, court swords and backswords. We have rapiers and épées, we have falchions and scimitars. There are swords with cup hilts, cross hilts, decorative hilts, basket hilts, and hilts molded to the individual hand.”

“Uh — ”

“There are ceremonial swords, calvary swords, infantry swords, swords for infighting, and swords to keep a distance. Now, as far as knives — ”

“Hold it.”

“ — there are many different kinds. We have various styles of dirk and dagger, stiletto and poniard — ”

“Hold it! Look, all I want is a sword about that long.”

“Are you sure a sword is what you want, sir? It may be you'd be better off with an ax or mace.”

“No, a sword.”

“A morning star? Perhaps a good, heavy club.”

“A sword.”

The armorer took a deep breath, folded his hands and smiled pleasantly. “And what kind of sword would you be wanting, sir?”

Gene's shoulders slumped. “Morning star?” he said weakly.

“A spiked ball affixed to a short chain which is in turn attached to a handle.”

“Oh, yeah. No, I don't think so.”

“A lance, then? Or a pike?”

“Umm . . .”

“A halberd, perhaps? Or a broadax?”

“Well — ”

“Could you use a spear?”

“Spear?”

“I would, however, have to know if you intend to use it for throwing or for thrusting.”

“Not a spear, for crying out loud. I want something that I can fight with. Something that'll do some damage.”

“Do some damage.” The armorer thought it over. “Perhaps an ax, then. Would you like to see one?”

“I guess.”

“Broadax, poleax, or taper ax?”

“Oh, boy.”

“Do you want something that will unseam a man from nave to chaps, or simply wound him mortally?”

“I — ”

“This . . .” The armorer turned and walked off, then returned bearing a large ax with a long wooden handle. “ . . . is a broadax.”

“Look, could you show me a couple of different swords?”

“Certainly, sir. What kinds would you like to see?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake.”

Snowclaw, who had been browsing the room, stepped up to the counter. He picked up the broadax, looked it over once, raised it with both hands and crashed it into the countertop directly in front of the armorer, who shrieked and danced back just in the nick of time. The ax cleaved the counter in two, continuing down to split the boards underneath almost to the floor.

Snowclaw wrenched the ax out and examined the blade, running his thumb delicately over it. He looked at the armorer sharply. “This'll do for me. How about taking care of my friends, and we'll be on our way.”

Face paling, the armorer nodded. “Yes, sir. Anything you say.”

“And get some clothes for the lady, here.”

“Immediately, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Do it.”

“I will fetch the seamstress. She will be glad to come.”

“Fine. And if you don't come back, I'll come looking.”

The armorer swallowed. “I shall return at once, sir.”

 

 

 

Outer Curtain Wall — Southeast Tower

 

from an embrasured window Melydia looked out at the long line of belfries lumbering toward the inner curtain wall. The assault was going well, but she knew Incarnadine had yet to act. She was prepared for anything he might do. She had been preparing for years.

She watched as siege engines hurled boulders, some as big as a house, over the inner curtain wall, there to crash into the forebuildings and other structures of the ward. A few stones fell short, bounding off the wall or smashing into the crenelated battlements, to the dismay of the few defenders who manned them. The engines were working well. They would not have worked at all were it not for Melydia's magical assistance. Each engine was under a spell that enabled it to violate those natural mechanical laws which ordinarily would have precluded handling such massive projectiles. By rights, a trebuchet's throwing arm should crack like a toothpick under the weight of stones that size. Even if the strain could be borne, mundane engines simply lacked the power to throw these projectiles, or any projectiles, over a thirty-story wall. Only magical ones could do the trick.

The spell was a difficult and subtle one, but it worked.

She heard the clack of hard-leather soles coming up the spiral staircase behind her. She turned to see Vorn mounting the landing.

“There you are, my lady. I had wondered . . .”

She smiled and turned back to the window. Vorn came up beside her and gazed out.

“The lookouts report nothing brewing,” Vorn told her. “Of course, that means little. Incarnadine is sure to play his hand now.”

She nodded. “He will.”

They watched. The moving towers, now very close to the battlements of the high inner wall, were almost completely manned. Archers, occupying the topmost platforms, were still keeping the walls clear of defenders. Incarnadine's castle guards weren't showing their heads. The Guardsmen had chosen not to engage the invaders at close quarters along the wall; they were outnumbered and they knew it. There were fifteen belfries and five thousand men to flow from them and spill over into Castle Perilous proper. No, the mopping up would proceed from tower to tower all the way around the perimeter until the entire inner curtain wall was secured — slow, dirty work, but it must be done. And it would be done.

“Have you slept?” Vorn asked. When Melydia gave her head a shake, he said, “You must be exhausted.”

“After taking on six thousand soldiers in one night? Why would I be?”

Vorn was taken somewhat aback. A voluntary grunt of laughter escaped him, though he did not smile.

Melydia did. “You are shocked by my coarse humor,” she said.

Vorn's mouth softened. “A bit. Forgive me.”

“No, it was inappropriate. I must beg pardon.”

“I shouldn't have been shocked. Though you are a lady, you ought not to be judged by the usual proprieties applying to women of quality. You can't be. They are much too limiting. You are an individual of power, and . . .”

She turned slightly, one eye peeking around the edge of her blue headdress. “And?”

“I admire that.” He smiled.

“In a woman?”

“In you.”

Her hand, wrist hung with folds of her white cloak, came up to caress his beard. He seized it and kissed her palm.

“Melydia,” he said.

“In the midst of a battle, Vorn?”

“In the middle of Hell, if the occasion warrants.”

She made to withdraw her hand, and he reluctantly let it go.

“Notwithstanding your jest,” he said, “you must be weary beyond measure. To have cast six thousand spells in one night — ”

“Fourteen hours without stop. I could barely raise my hand.”

“Fourteen — ” Vorn was awed. “Indeed, I did not know. I grew weary and retired shortly after you started.” He considered it. “Even so, it does not seem sufficient time.”

“It wasn't. It gave me but seconds to effect each one. An ancillary spell was needed, one to facilitate my working unnaturally fast — and another to prevent me from collapsing. That spell yet sustains me, though it grows weaker by the minute.”

He clucked. “Must each soldier have been done individually? Is there not such a thing as a blanket spell?”

“Yes, but a blanket thrown over six thousand covers not many.”

“I see.” Vorn's eyebrows drew together in a worried frown. “But will it work? Could any spell be sufficient to fend off Incarnadine's evil? It is said he is no mere mortal.”

“He may be mortal. That is, he may one day die. But he has lived some three hundred years.”

“I have heard that, too, though I scarce believe it.”

“You may believe it. All the Haplodites have been long-lived.”

Arms akimbo, Vorn turned, paced away from the window and stopped. He brooded for a moment, then wheeled slowly around, his gaze on the floor. “Against magic so powerful . . .” he began.

“We have fought and have nearly prevailed.” She went to him, took his hands and pressed them to her breast. “Have you had cause to doubt me up till now?”

“No.”

“Come.”

She led him across the semicircular room to the staircase. They mounted it, she leading him by the hand. They went up six turns until they came to a hatchway at the top. Vorn threw the hatch aside and they climbed out onto the turret. Stepping over the dead body of a Guardsman overlooked by the clean-up detail, they went to the battlement.

“Look,” she said, her hand sweeping across the scene. “Walls thirty stories high, a keep whose upper floors are sometimes hid in cloud. Walls within walls, towers that touch the sky, black adamantine stone immune to the elements — a fortress of magic and power unimaginable — and you, Vorn, are about to prevail against it. History has never known such a siege. Future generations will scarce credit it. You will be legend.” Her voice rose over the din of shouting soldiers, the whoosh of the catapults, the crack of a thousand crossbows and the ping and clatter of bolts striking stone. Come here.”

She lead him to the south side of the turret.

“We are a thousand feet above the plain.”

Vorn looked out across the dark lands of the Pale. Gray-black mountains hove in the distance, ringing a valley of dirt and dust. Here and there rude farm huts dotted the terrain, and miserable, near-barren fields made haphazard patterns.

So poor a land, Vorn thought. But it was a fleeting thought.

“Was ever a fortress more inaccessible, more invulnerable? You levitated an army a thousand feet straight up.”

“There was no other way,” Vorn said. “Else they would have picked us off one by one as we marched up the trail.”

“You did it by the power of your will.”

The power of my will . . .
 

The thought crowded into his mind, nudging doubt aside.

“You did it, Vorn. Not me.”

His chest swelled, then fell slowly, a doubting cast returning to his eyes.

“But you . . .”

“I love you.”

He looked into her face. Framed in the folds of her headdress, it was partly hidden now as the wind fetched the cloth across her nose and mouth. Her eyes contained a hundred emotions he could not fathom.

“Melydia,” was all he could say.

“Do you believe me?”

He looked out again at the dust into which he had poured his army's blood.

For what? came a small voice, barely heard. For what?

“Do you believe me?”

His gaze was drawn to hers.

“Yes.”

They embraced as a stronger wind blew his cloak around them.

Presently they became aware of a hush that had fallen over the battle. They parted and returned to the north side of the turret.

Melydia pointed. “Behold.”

Airborne objects approached from the northwest. Their flight was swift, and in formation — like migrating birds.

“What this time?” Vorn said. “What manner of hellish thing?”

“We will know soon.”

“Aye, we will. Too soon.”

“Are you afraid?”

He cast a dark look at her. “You think that deserving of an answer?”

“No, my love. Forgive me. I know you fear nothing.”