Darklands (33 page)

Peace. Wonderful tranquility.

My aching, exhausted body relinquished its tension, and within a minute I slept.

*   *   *

IN SLEEP, I TRIED TO CALL MAB ON THE DREAM PHONE. I PICTURED her, as clearly as if she sat beside my bed. I brought up her colors. But the blue and silver rolled endlessly through my dreamscape. The mists didn’t part. My aunt didn’t step through.

I wasn’t surprised. For years after Dad’s death, I’d attempted to contact him in my dreams. He never answered. The boundary between the Ordinary and the Darklands didn’t let calls through. It kept the living and the dead separate, isolated from each other, each within their own realm.

Mab would be furious that I’d ignored her warning to stay out of the Darklands. Trapped in a hostile giant’s castle, I had to admit she was probably right. Still, I would have happily endured the sternest of lectures to hear her thoughts on how to get out of here, do what I needed to do, and get home.

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

I rolled out of bed and staggered to the door. Some half-faced servant of Rhudda stood outside. He nodded to me, then turned and descended the stairs.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I didn’t know how long I’d slept—I still couldn’t get used to how time passed in the Darklands—but now that I was vertical I felt refreshed. Soreness lingered in my arms and back, but I got out of bed and did some stretches to loosen up.

As I stretched, got dressed in my tunic, and headed to the archery range, I actually felt good. Not a peep from Butterfly. Maybe the demon had snuck away during the night in search of a new host.

Spectators filled the amphitheater, packing the tiers of seats so tightly the shades practically sat on top of each other. More hubris. I’m sure Rhudda thought it would make a better story for a huge audience to witness my defeat.

But I wasn’t going to think in terms of defeat. My father and I were going to leave this castle together, whole and unharmed. I’d decided on a plan. As soon as I’d nocked my first arrow, I’d use it to shoot Rhudda through the eye. Shades could die, too,
and an arrow shot from a longbow at close range should do the trick. Dad and I would escape in the confusion.

Except, I realized with a sinking heart, Rhudda had made escape impossible. He’d stationed his six crossbow archers around the amphitheater. There wasn’t a square inch of ground outside their range. If I shot Rhudda, two or three arrows would pierce my heart before his body hit the ground.

Damn. No wonder even Butterfly had abandoned me.

I was the first contestant on the field. I expected to find Dad there to assist me, but he was nowhere in sight. Another abandonment? I didn’t think my father would do that to me, but after assessing my dismal archery skills, he obviously figured his best chance was to suck up to Rhudda. I sighed, and picked up my bow.

There was a commotion near one of the entrances, and I saw why Dad hadn’t been waiting for me. Four of Rhudda’s mutilated servants pulled a wagon into the field. The top of the wagon was a cage of thick iron bars. Inside the cage stood my father.

Anger burned through my blood as they pulled the wagon in a circle around the perimeter of the field, displaying my father to the crowd. Dad gripped the bars but kept his gaze on the ground. Jeers and catcalls followed him. More than ever, I wanted to kill Rhudda. I wanted to put him in that cage and let his cloak of beards chew him down to the skeleton.

The servants stationed the wagon about twenty feet away from me. I waved to Dad, but he didn’t look up.

Trumpets blared, and Rhudda came onto the field. The crowd cheered. He stopped, raised both arms over his head, and turned in a slow circle, accepting their adulation. He bowed—once, twice, three times. Then he walked over to me, his hand extended.

I wanted to crush his fingers, force him to his knees, and then stomp on his head. But I accepted his hand and we shook. Up close, Rhudda didn’t look so hot. His bloodshot eyes were as red as a zombie’s, and his face drooped with tiredness.

Some functionary strode to the middle of the field and raised his hand. This guy had his entire face. When the crowd grew quiet, he read the contest’s rules: three arrows apiece, each shot assigned a score according to the ring it hit on the target. After we’d each taken three shots, the archer with the highest score would be the winner. A coin toss would determine who’d go first.

The coin chose me. I hefted my bow. A slight breeze blew
against my arm—good. Yesterday my shots had tended to fly too far to the left. The breeze would help correct that.

I took my stance, darting a look toward my father. He was watching me now, and he gave me a thumbs-up. I chose an arrow and nocked it in the bow. Aim, draw, check—take a deep breath—and loose the bowstring.

The arrow rose in a perfect arc. The breeze pushed it a little. It hit the target, and I grabbed the spyglass to see how I’d done. The arrow jutted from the red ring, inches above the bull’s-eye.

“Eight!” declared the scorekeeper.

“That’s my girl!” Dad called.

Eight was good. Eight was way better than I’d started out yesterday. But ten was the top score. I’d have to do better.

Scanty applause stuttered around the amphitheater, then dwindled to silence. Rhudda picked up his bow and lifted it over his head. Spectators jumped to their feet, screaming themselves hoarse.

Gee, I wonder who they expected to win.

Rhudda made a big show of selecting an arrow. His quiver held four to my three. Of his arrows, three had black fletching. The feathers of the fourth arrow were bloodred.

Shit. The red one must be his magic arrow. Rhudda expected to win, but he was also prepared to cheat.

Uneasiness stirred in my gut. “Settle down, Butterfly,” I hissed. “I need to concentrate.” The feeling drained away.

The giant nocked his arrow. The crowd was silent, every person leaning forward. Rhudda aimed, adjusted his stance, and aimed again. What a ham. But when he lowered his bow and roared for a servant to mop his brow, I began to wonder. Rhudda really looked bad. Could shades get sick—or hungover? I glanced at Dad, who gripped the bars of his cage. His mouth was a thin, grim line as he watched the giant.

Rhudda drew his bowstring with a trembling hand. He let the arrow fly. I trained the spyglass on the target to see where it would strike.

Red. Rhudda’s arrow had also hit the red, below and to the right of the bull’s-eye.

“Eight!” shouted the scorekeeper. The crowd burst into tumultuous applause. My shot had been better, but then I didn’t own the castle where they had to live. And all that mattered was the score. Right now, that score was tied.

Rhudda bowed, but I could hear him muttering curses as he
did. He shot me an evil glance that, if it had been an arrow, would have pierced my heart and poisoned me besides. But a look isn’t an arrow, and this contest wasn’t over yet.

I took my stance and nocked my second arrow. The first had hit above the bull’s-eye, so I adjusted my point of aim to compensate. I held my breath as I drew and released.

“Nine!” The score rang across the field before I could focus the spyglass.
There.
The arrow stood in the outer gold, close to the bull’s-eye, but not close enough for ten full points.

This time, the applause lasted a few seconds longer. The contest was getting interesting.

Rhudda bent over his quiver. He touched the arrow with red fletching, then picked one of the black-feathered arrows. He stood. Peibiaw wiped a handkerchief across the giant’s sweaty forehead; Rhudda shoved him away so hard the servant landed on his ass, handkerchief waving like a white flag.

Rhudda positioned his arrow, aimed, and shot.
Thwack!

The silence was so absolute, I thought I could hear the arrow vibrating in the target. I pointed the spyglass. Rhudda had hit the border between red and blue.

The scorekeeper’s head blocked my view as he bent over the target. I lowered the spyglass and waited for the score.

“Seven.” The word was hushed. The resonance had drained from the scorekeeper’s voice, replaced by dread. I didn’t envy the guy if his master lost.

And Rhudda might lose. The score was seventeen to fifteen; I was up by two points.

No applause. The audience didn’t know what to do. A murmur buzzed around the stands. Then a voice shouted, “Hail, Rhudda Gawr!” and others took up the cheer.

Rhudda didn’t react. He watched me like he was figuring out how to throw off my aim with his stare.

If only I could get that magic arrow. I’d score a ten, making my final score twenty-seven and putting victory out of the giant’s reach. But I was in full view of everyone in the amphitheater, not to mention the guards with crossbows. I couldn’t exactly walk over, pluck the red-feathered arrow from Rhudda’s quiver, and fit it into my own bow.

Still, if I could score a ten—or even another nine—I could win this.

I prepared my final shot. In my peripheral vision, I saw
Rhudda take several steps toward me. He turned his back to me and waved to the crowd.

Ignore him.
I focused on my point of aim and drew.

The moment I released the arrow, Rhudda spread his cape. In unison, its dozens of mouths blew out. It created enough of a breeze to nudge my arrow off its trajectory. The arrow landed in the blue.

“Six!” shouted the overjoyed scorekeeper. A few halfhearted claps sounded from the stands.

My final score was a mere twenty-three. Rhudda now needed only nine points to win.

“Unfair!” shouted a man’s voice from a top-level seat.

Rhudda pointed a meaty finger in the direction of the voice. An archer fired, and a man in a brown tunic fell back. He slumped against the stone wall, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest. A woman’s scream rose, then cut itself off. Rhudda stepped forward and raised his arms. Silence. He lowered his arms and clapped his hands together. Slowly, deliberately:
One, two, three.
He pointed in a wide circle to indicate the audience had better start clapping too, and right this minute. They did, but tepidly. He gestured angrily, and the applause increased. But it didn’t crescendo to its previous level.

Rhudda stalked to his equipment. He grabbed his bow and, smirking at me, yanked the red-feathered arrow from his quiver. He nocked the arrow and aimed. He shook his head and blinked. He lowered the bow and wiped a hand across his eyes. Then, in one single fluid motion, he raised his bow and took his shot.

The arrow sped toward the target. Then it turned and—that couldn’t be right. I raised the spyglass.

Rhudda’s magic arrow had hit the target dead center. A bull’s-eye. But not on his target. He’d hit mine.

The scorekeeper fainted.

The crowd went nuts.

“Treachery!” roared Rhudda. He plucked the last remaining arrow from his quiver and aimed his bow at me.

Pain tore through my belly. I thought I’d been hit, but when I looked there was no wound. Rhudda roared again. He was dancing like his feet were on fire, swatting the air around his head. The arrow had fallen from his bow; he stepped on it and broke it in two with a snap.

I ran over and tackled the giant, coming in low and hitting
his knees. He fell like a redwood and landed facedown. I scrambled to my feet. “To your right!” a voice shouted from the stands.

A sword lay on the ground where someone has tossed it onto the field. I snatched it up. Rhudda had rolled over onto his back. Both hands beat the air around his head.

“Stop!” I commanded. I put one foot on his chest and pressed the sword point against his throat. He quit batting the air and lay motionless.

An insect alighted on his nose, wings twitching. It was a black butterfly. One with sharp, oversized teeth.

“Nice work, Butterfly,” I said.

“Huh,” the demon answered. “
Somebody
had to get your sorry ass out of this mess. And if anyone deserves to feel the bite of guilt, it’s this clown.” He unhinged his jaw and chomped Rhudda’s nose. The giant yelped but didn’t move. Then Butterfly took to the air, landed on my tunic, and disappeared.

What a screw-up—you nearly got yourself killed.
The thought blasted through my brain of its own accord, and I knew Butterfly had settled back in.

I shoved all self-critical thoughts aside and turned my attention to the groaning giant pinned by my sword. Something was different. Rhudda glared at me with undisguised hatred—nothing new there. Then I realized what had changed. Silence. His cloak had stopped whispering. Each and every bearded mouth was still.

“Attention, please!” Someone—I think it was Nyniaw—had revived the scorekeeper. He stood, leaning on the servant, and called out something unintelligible in a weak voice. He coughed into his hand and tried again.

“The final score,” he said, his voice building in strength with each word, “is twenty-three points to Lady Victory, and”—he stopped and cleared his throat—“um, fifteen to Rhudda Gawr. The day goes to Lady Victory!” Applause, whistles, and shouts came from the stands. When they faded, the scorekeeper continued: “According to the agreed-upon terms of the challenge, Rhudda guarantees Lady Victory and Sir Evan safe conduct through his realm.” Someone let my father out of the cage. He jumped down from the wagon and ran across the field. I wanted to hug him, but I had both hands on the sword. He put an arm around my shoulders and squeezed.

“Nice shooting, Vic. I knew you could do it.”

“In addition, Rhudda grants the winner one item of her choice from his armory.”

I needed Rhudda’s magic arrow to give to the Night Hag. But was the red-fletched arrow the right one? It couldn’t be. The magic arrow never missed. This one had gone out of its way to hit the wrong target.

“I know which arrow you want,” said Dad, as though reading my mind. “I’ll get it for you.” He trotted down the length of the field, pulled the red-fletched arrow from the target, and held it aloft. The audience cheered as he carried it back to me. He waved it over Rhudda’s face.

“It’s ours now, Rhudda,” he said.

“No! You cheated! I know you did!”

“Why, because you tried to cheat, yourself? You lost, Rhudda. Admit it.”