Fallowblade (38 page)

‘No doubt, Lady Sword, you heard us sing out our battle cry when we stooped to slay,’ said Zauberin, bowing ostentatiously.

‘A jeering cry it seemed to me,’ Asr
ă
thiel replied steadily, refusing to be intimidated by references to battlefield carnage, so fresh and harrowing in her mind.

‘
Paag dty uillin!
’ the knight repeated. ‘Indeed it is a jeering cry as you guess, Sioctíne, and we say it to your brethren as they die. It means “kiss your elbow”, which a human being can only do if dismembered or decapitated. Notably,
uillin
also signifies “angle”, so the phrase carries a cruder meaning of “kiss your—”’

‘Enough,’ said Zaravaz, holding up his hand in a warning gesture. He added something in the goblin language, after which Zauberin bowed to his liege, murmured, ‘Your pardon,’ in Asr
ă
thiel’s direction, and moved away. The damsel knew him for a truly hostile enemy.

She recognised the next knight, Zwist, from the battlefield. He was wearing an ornamental cuirass and vambraces of black and silver armour, over resilient gear of swarthy eukaryotic material, sheared and stitched by kobold slaves. His velvet cap was decorated with flamboyant plumes.

‘Second Lieutenant Zwist, at your service, Lady,’ said the tall warrior, bowing over her hand.

‘I recall you tried to kill me recently,’ she said sweetly.

‘Ah, I was but bandying blows,’ he replied with disarming amiability.

‘I thought Zerstör was Second Lieutenant.’

‘Conall Gearnach slew him yestereve.’

Yestereve! It seemed years ago. Or was ‘yestereve’ just a broad term goblins used to indicate the past? She wondered whether the knights grieved for their fallen comrade. Evidently not. Yet again, she felt perplexed by their moral attitudes.

The black bell-sleeves of one named Third Lieutenant Zaillian were slashed to show the silver lining, yet he looked not at all the dandy. His belt was a chain of heavy silver links, and about his neck he wore a string of curved thorns, or fake claws. Like his comrades, he had on boots that flared from the top of the knee, reaching almost to mid-thigh. Other officers presented themselves in order of rank: Zuleide and Zamakh, Zinke, Zähe and Tenth Lieutenant Zangezur.

All the while Asr
ă
thiel sensed Zaravaz observing her, and indeed she was watching him, though feigning indifference. When his deputies had dispersed she turned ostentatiously to the goblin king, as if suddenly reminded of his presence.

‘Zerstör was slain by Fallowblade,’ she said. ‘The golden sword is powerful indeed, despite having been wrought by mere humankind.’ Her statement was something of a challenge, of this she was aware. His proximity made her so restless that she felt inclined to goad him a little, as a form of retribution.

Her dinner companion said, continuing to look at her while toying with a half-empty chalice that stood on the table, ‘You are hard to beat when you are wielding him, I admit.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, daring to push the challenge a step further, ‘I might defeat even
you
, with Fallowblade. Do you think it would be possible for me to slay you in battle?’

Zaravaz studied her amusedly. ‘I doubt it.’ Then, glancing down at the chalice he added with an intriguing smile, ‘Although I have no doubt at all that you would gift me with the
little
death, were we to tangle.’

‘What is “the little death”?’ she enquired, but he merely called for more wine. His hair and garments moved as if lifted by a breeze, even when the air was still, such was the play of eldritch forces about him.

Deep notes of music commenced to resonate from the walls. Upon a balcony, seventeen kobolds were plucking the strings of a giant earth-harp whose vertical cords, thirty-five yards long, passed through scissions in floor and ceiling, their bases rooted in the level below, their tips fastened in the storey above.

‘I have a boon to ask of you,’ said Asr
ă
thiel as the melody, low and harmonious, pervaded the hall.

‘Ask,’ said Zaravaz, resting an elbow on the table and idly flicking cherries into a bowl. ‘I cannot guarantee it will be granted.’

‘I would fain send a message to my kindred, assuring them that I am safe and well.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You have my consent. Hulda shall arrange it.’

‘I am grateful. And a second petition.’

‘Entreat me.’

‘The trows of this citadel have a human servant named Fedlamid macDall. Will you give him freedom?’

‘I care not whether he stays or goes. There is one who cares greatly—that is Queen Saibh, who dwells in Cathair Rua. He was once her servant. Perhaps more.’

‘Since you care not, prithee tell the trows to release him.’

‘If it pleases you, I shall do it. Hold still!’ Zaravaz emphasised his unexpected instruction with a raised index finger. Asr
ă
thiel complied, though baffled. He extended his arm and lightly plucked a stray owl’s feather from her hair, where it had lodged and become entangled. After showing it to her, he cast it away.

‘Gramercie,’ she murmured, wondering why the hall was all at once so stiflingly hot. Presently she took courage and said, ‘And another request.’

‘Another! You presume on my good nature.’ Zaravaz smiled enigmatically.

‘The other man who dwells here, Fionnbar Aonarán, whom the trows call “Toadstone”. Why do you keep him?’

‘We do not. He has served his purpose but lingers of his own device. He was useful, once. For months before their release my
graihyn
in the golden tombs had been detecting his slow approach, hearing it through thicknesses of rock. His noises had disturbed them from their prolonged ennui, so they commenced calling to him. He answered. Having made him their prisoner, they used him to effect their escape. If he is here still it is because he chooses to tarry, or has not found a way to leave.’

‘I hardly think he would choose to remain amongst you. Your knights tormented him, I believe. In any case, I wish I might never again encounter him.’

‘Have you met him? Has he vexed you?’

‘Both.’

‘I shall give him over to my kobolds to play with as they wish. Skagi keeps a very pliant whip for just such a purpose. Her name is Lady Thrash, and with her barbed cords she does make men sing.’

‘You are cruel! He is a detestable man but I abhor the torment of any helpless creature.’

‘Then we concur, for my lieutenants and I prefer to meet adversaries in clean battle, and they bearing weapons, or at the chase, and they running free. We are not interested in flogging unarmed men in fetters. That is more the kobold way.’

‘Do not give him to the kobolds.’

‘Now, Daughter of Rowan Green, will you make us quarrel on this matter? I would let my
flaieen
pursue their interests.’

Noting her expression of dismay, he relented. ‘But if you insist, the wretch shall be thrown out of the citadel. Behold how I indulge you!’

‘Indulge me again,’ she said, realising it was a flirtatious remark but unable to stop herself.

Zaravaz sat up and left off his leisurely employment with the cherries.

‘What else would you have of me,’ he said softly, ‘now that you have rid my halls of human men?’

After a moment she said, ‘Will you give me my own freedom?’

‘You are free.’

‘Freedom to leave Sølvetårn.’

A bleak dreariness, like the tolling of a heavy bell, seemed to blast through the hall. The music paused, a hush settled on the crowd, and the goblin knights looked up, paying heed to their king.

Zaravaz said silkily, ‘Sweet damsel, naturally you have my leave to depart at any time. Never have I sought to hold you against your will. Only bear in mind the terms of our withdrawal from the four kingdoms. Should you sunder your part of the contract and return to your kindred, the covenant will be rendered invalid. We shall ride down from the mountains and sweep through your realms like scythes through a cornfield, cutting down every man, woman and child.’

Inwardly, Asr
ă
thiel railed against the barbarity of goblinkind. Zaravaz waited, while she strove to conceal her vexation. She was unsuccessful. ‘You would slay innocent children?’ she burst out. ‘Then I name you wicked beyond redemption.’

‘Perhaps you are naive enough to think your mortal kindred are too virtuous to do the same, or perhaps you wish to enjoy your rosy delusions. Women, children, the sick, the aged, the helpless—those would merely find themselves enveloped in mists which caused them to fall asleep; there would be no pain, they would know naught about it. ’Twould be a better fate than many of your own kind have been wont to apportion, who batter wives and brats, or expose unwanted infants to die on open hillsides. There is nothing we would stoop to, that humanity would not stoop lower.’

At the mention of death in the mists a gut-wrenching vision of the Councillors of Ellenhall falling asleep amidst the smoke of the druid’s fires formed for an instant in Asr
ă
thiel’s mind. Nevertheless she had to concede that this, at least, showed a glimmer of mercy on the part of the goblins.

‘It has apparently escaped you,’ said Zaravaz, ‘the history of the men my
graihyn
have so far slain. All your dead northern villagers were wagoners, butchers, fishers, hunters, fur trappers, tanners, saddlers, farriers, young bullies whose delight it was to catch blackbirds in the hedges, innkeepers who served up hot mutton pasties, and similar exploiters.’

‘As
you
see it,’ the damsel interjected.

‘All those we killed in battle were armed and set against the horde.’

Angry sarcasm rose to the damsel’s lips. ‘You are excessively meticulous.’

‘We are thorough into the bargain,’ said the goblin king. ‘If you depart, we will destroy every human being. None shall be hidden from us; we shall seek them all out. The choice is yours.’

Presently Asr
ă
thiel said, ‘That is quite a ransom. So be it. I remain your hostage.’

Frustrated at her feeling of helplessness in the face of such overwhelming odds, infuriated that the goblins would be prepared to go to such excessive lengths, hating their ruthlessness, the damsel was yet inebriated by sheer fascination with the extraordinary company she found herself keeping; her senses confounded by eldritch beauty and mystery, the intimation of pent-up power, the keen edge of peril, the feeling of being precariously balanced on the brink of madness or ecstasy. So discrepant were her passions that she scarcely knew what she was thinking, but tried to conceal her confusion with a mask of calm self-possession and indifference. She drank from her cup in the hope that the wine might soothe her, or at least furnish some numbness.

The music started up again, and the hall reawakened with conversation and activity. The damsel brooded a moment. Under the hubbub she asked, ‘How long will you keep me with you?’

‘Indefinitely.’

‘Will you let me go back after you’ve had enough of me?’

Zaravaz looked away, evidently distracted by the skylarking of some of his knights. He observed them for a moment, laughing at their daring escapades. When he returned his attention to his guest he said, ‘Frowning does not become you.’

Taking a deep breath, Asr
ă
thiel fought a sudden urge to wrench a handful of his marvellous hair and blemish his insufferable arrogance with discomfort. It was pointless to pursue questions he chose to disregard.

‘You have two other hostages,’ she said. ‘I have not entirely rid your halls of human men.’

‘Even so.’ The goblin king’s tone was light, perhaps over-casual.

To gain a moment to marshal her thoughts the damsel again drank deeply from her cup. ‘Last night I asked you to grant them clemency. Since then I have had some leisure to dwell upon the beggar’s eyewitness description of the demise of my beloved kindred at the hands of Uabhar, and to recall the complicity of Virosus. Do you know the history?’

‘I do. Trows are newsmongers.’

‘My wrath is kindled when I picture my innocent friends lying drugged by the druid’s fumes while Uabhar’s executioner hacked them to pieces. I tell you now, I care not what your minions do with Uabhar and Virosus. I do not relish the torment of any living thing but neither would I lift a finger or utter one word to assist those two.’

‘It seems even you, gentle damsel, can be flint-hearted. I shall ponder upon the matter. Perhaps, after my kobolds have finished examining them, they might be hung in chains upon the face of the highest peak, fastened to fetters driven into the rock, there to perish, and their bones to rattle in the winds.’

Asr
ă
thiel shuddered, and swallowed more wine. The strong draught served to deaden her vexation and her shocked senses, but also to make her blurt queries with scant regard to prudence. Abruptly she asked, ‘Why do you not treat me as callously as you treat the other hostages?’

‘Why, because you are pretty.’

She spluttered, almost choked, recovered. ‘Is that all?’

‘What would you like me to say?’ Zaravaz smiled in a provoking way. He had been mellow, indulgent. Next instant, capriciously, his mood darkened. ‘Is your vanity such that you would entreat me to catalogue your qualities?’ he said, and now there was some iron in his tone. ‘Would that gratify you?’ The damsel followed his gaze, which might have lingered a moment upon the fastenings of her gown. ‘Shall I examine you with the same close attention to detail my mispickels are devoting to your friends, though with more gentleness, and for the purpose of listing each charming aspect of your design?’