Terry W. Ervin (37 page)

“What’re you doing in Sint Malo?” asked Marxel, fingering his mustache.

I didn’t need to tell them everything, especially Marxel. “I’m hoping to meet with one called Belinda the Cursed. I was told she frequented the Fertile Serpent, but soldiers just shut it down.”

Marxel smiled, still playing with his mustache. “You want her blood too?”

“No,” I said, confused and wondering what he meant by wanting her blood. “The purpose of the meeting isn’t something I can freely discuss.” I looked from Marxel to Fenwick. “Can you help arrange a meeting with her?”

The two men stared at each other across the table.

If I was going to ask a favor, may as well go all the way. “Tonight if possible.”

Marxel put a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. A half minute later a military patrol marched past. It sounded to be the same size as the one that raided the Fertile Serpent.

Fenwick began tapping his fingers on the table.

“Might want to leave the city tonight?” asked Marxel.

The Sun-Fox licked his lips and nodded. “Might be prudent. I’ve likely gathered all the information I can.”

“I assume you have a way out.”

Fenwick reached for another piece of cornbread. “I do.”

“The less we know,” said Marxel, looking at me, “the better for all involved.” He leaned forward, twisting his mustache between forefinger and thumb. “A meeting with the perpetual hag.” His voice trailed off.

“Should be possible,” said Fenwick. “Thursdays she dines late at the Fertile Serpent.”

Marxel shook his head. “She’ll be in a foul mood, Corradin disrupting her business schedule and all.”

“When isn’t she in a bad mood?” Fenwick walked over to a bucket, scooped up some water in a ladle and drank. “Can you do it for my friend, Flank Hawk? I don’t want to risk swinging, or worse.”

“With the Long-Tooths? Hanging would be too quick.” Marxel scratched his throat in thought. “What do you have to offer Belinda the Cursed?”

“Offer her?” I asked.

“To make it worth her while?”

I thought a moment. Money didn’t seem to be the answer, even if I had enough. “I am here on behalf of Reveron, Royal Prince of Keesee. I cannot say more than that.”

Fenwick and Marxel locked gazes for a second.

“I owe this mercenary,” said Fenwick, “and indirectly Brother Reveron for his presence.”

Marxel shrugged. “It’s his skin. I’ll arrange it.”

The two men shook hands, then Fenwick offered me his hand. We shook. “Thank you and good luck with your meeting. When you see him, thank your prince on my behalf.”

“I will,” I said, knowing my chances of speaking with Prince Reveron again were very slim. “And thank you both for aiding the prince.”

Fenwick moved toward the door, but Marxel grabbed his shoulder and held up a finger, signaling for him to wait. He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration for a moment. “Cobbler Miggs,” Marxel said, “watches the street from his window.”

“Thanks,” said Fenwick, resting a hand on his sword’s hilt. “I’ll go the other way. Tell Marina good-bye for me.”

“I will.” Marxel lifted the bar. “Don’t try to see her. She’ll understand. Be sure to be out of the city by dawn.” He patted his friend on the shoulder. “Spread word of the new alliance.”

2,873 Years before the Reign of King Tobias of Keesee

The dictator, General Mzali, stepped out of the converted military helicopter. It wasn’t as plush as those of western leaders and dignitaries, but then again the plague he’d set into motion would soon more than balance the scales. He’d already forgotten the dead informant who’d delivered the news.

With his trusted lieutenant, General Mzali strode toward the chain-link fence topped with razor wire that surrounded the port facility. He ignored the .50 caliber machineguns mounted in sandbag emplacements along with the armed soldiers saluting him as he walked through the checkpoint and into the dock area. The cavernous warehouse sheltering one of the dictator’s most prized investments was only a brisk two minute walk. Although accustomed to the heat of the midday sun, annoyance crept into the general’s thoughts when a subordinate ran up to his lieutenant and begged permission to relay important news.

The dictator nodded, causing his lieutenant to drop his hand away from the 9mm Beretta, before listening to the wild-eyed soldier. General Mzali ignored the verbal exchange, instead breathing in the salty air carried on the Mediterranean breeze.

“General, sir,” said the lieutenant with a smile. “It is a great day. It appears a disgruntled power launched a ballistic missile attack against the United States. The dictator’s broadening smile encouraged his lieutenant to continue. “And it is reported that mushroom clouds from smuggled nuclear devices have detonated both on the American east and west coasts.”

General Mzali nodded, somewhat astonished that his Middle East partner had succeeded. He pulled a prepared handwritten order from a vest pocket. “Take this to the bunker commander,” he said, handing it to the soldier. “It directs him to activate the auxiliary ventilation and cooling system.” From a hip pocket he handed him two keys on a gold chain. “He will require these to turn on the system. Remain there until I return from my tour.”

Not long after midnight I found myself sitting in the backroom of an herb shop whose boarded up front was in the midst of renovation. At least I knew where I was; three streets north of the large square tower with three blue marks on its walls.

I sat at a small square table beneath an oil lamp in dire need of cleaning. Around it dangled bundles of herb stalks and leaves tied to netting stretched across the ceiling. The lamp shed enough light to illuminate shelves lined with vials, flasks, and a few tattered books. I squinted but couldn’t read any of the labels from where I sat, but getting up and examining the contents of the storage area didn’t seem wise.

Marxel sat with me, silent, which seemed out of character. Did he regret arranging my meeting with Belinda the Cursed? I breathed in the floral mixed with bitter, almost alpine smell. “This room would certainly help someone with a stuffed-up nose,” I said, breaking the silence.

Marxel nodded in agreement, but no more.

I tried a more general topic. “I didn’t see any temples in the few parts of the city I’ve seen.”

Marxel nodded again. “You won’t find any.”

“Really? This is a coastal city. Not even one to Uplersh?”

Marxel shifted position in his chair. “They say when Lord Corradin wrested control of Sint Malo five centuries ago he invited in a force of Crusaders, including one of their bishops. They blessed the altars in all the shrines and temples.” He shrugged. “Or desecrated. Depends on your point of view.”

“Lord Corradin was once allied with the Crusaders?”

“No, I don’t think so. More like the Crusaders believe it’s better for people to worship no god rather than worship a false one.” He began once again to twist his mustache. “Again, depends on your perspective.”

He leaned closer, resting his forearms on the table’s rough edge. “You seem kind of young to have earned the prince’s confidence. I mean,” he added quickly, “if you’re a mercenary, you’re not exactly one of his loyal soldiers, trained and sworn to allegiance and all.”

“A respected fellow mercenary vouched for me,” I said. “And after that I stood by the prince in pitched battle against a bone golem.”

Marxel leaned back with a skeptical eye brow raised. “I’ve heard tell of them. Their hellcry can slay a man. And you stood to one?”

I smiled, knowing I still hardly believed it myself. “I wet my armor, but I stood to it, defending the prince. A company of Crusaders brought it down, after a greater wizard’s earth elemental softened it up.”

“Well, if what you’re saying is true, standing to a bone golem, then a meeting with Belinda the Cursed mightn’t be so bad.”

That last statement returned worries of meeting with Belinda the Cursed to the forefront of my thoughts. I didn’t know who, or what she was. Nor did I know what I had to trade. “You said something about her blood. What did you mean by that?”

Marxel put a finger to his lips, urging silence. After looking around and listening for a few seconds, he whispered, “Some say she was born old. They say a drop of her blood can turn a maiden to a crone. A rag filled with her spit can turn raven hair, white.” He looked around once more. “A man who dares sleep with her…”

When he didn’t finish his last statement, I said, “Not to worry, I’m not here for any of those things.”

We both jumped, startled when the front door creaked open. I rubbed sweat from my palms on my thighs, confident at least that the moisture wouldn’t show on my armor. We both stood as footsteps, and the tap of what I guessed to be a staff, crossed the shop’s plank floor toward the storage room.

The latch lifted, allowing the door to creak open. In hobbled Belinda the Cursed, wiry gray hair and bent body supported by a white rune-carved staff. She looked first at me with intense eyes couched under bushy white brows. They struck me as remarkably clear and blue, even in the dim light. She pointed at Marxel with a crooked finger. Its long, blood-red nail caught and reflected the meager light. “You,” she said to him. “Go for a walk.”

I’d expected her words to be weak, or at least raspy. Her voice reminded me of Imperial Seer Lochelle’s, deep and authoritative. The dark robes draping the cursed woman’s body were unable to conceal an intangible strength. “Close the doors on your way out. And take your cat.”

Marxel acknowledged her with a single nod before slipping out, pulling the storeroom door closed behind him.

She moved with measured steps to a seat across the table from me. I waited for her to sit before I did.

I was there on behalf of a prince of the Kingdom of Keesee. As such, I forced myself to meet her gaze. Her cobalt eyes appeared to capture the lamp’s light, magnifying it before reflecting a fraction back out.

Leaning her staff against the table, she uttered a single word. “Speak.”

I pulled out the prince’s map, giving me time to gather my thoughts. I unfurled it only to have the edges roll up.

The crone slapped her right hand down on the table, pinning one end of the map with a ring-adorned hand marred by age spots. I held the other side down, taking a breath, preparing to explain.

“Where did you obtain this map?” she demanded.

I met her intense gaze. “From Prince Reveron.”

She slid her hand off the map, allowing it to curl back up. I reached into my boot for Guzzy’s dirk and placed it along one edge so I could trace where I needed to go. “I am on a mission for Prince Reveron. It requires me to cross the Western Ocean.”

“And why have you sought me out?”

“I do so at Prince Reveron’s direction.”

“Prince Reveron is a serpent rider, is he not? Why has he chosen you, a mercenary, instead of a serpent cavalryman to carry out his mission? Is it that inconsequential?” She sat up straight. “Or does the war go so badly that Keesee grows weak, and desperate?”

“The enemy,” I said, “is learning that the forces of Keesee are made of sterner stuff than those of the Faxtinian Coalition. Her defenders are far more bold and capable.”

“What do you know, young mercenary?”

I reached into my coin pouch and produced the prince’s ring. “I know that Prince Reveron tasked me to meet with a greater elf and barter in his name.” I placed the ring on the map where Prince Reveron indicated the greater elf was to be found. Locating the elf would become a foremost concern once I secured a method to cross the ocean.

“A fool’s errand.” She cackled. “What do you know of elves?”

I knew little of greater elves, other than stories and legends. But, at this point, my lack of knowledge wasn’t her concern. Road Toad had met Belinda the Cursed. I knew what his response would be. “Who are you naming a fool?” I asked without emotion. “Me, or the Prince I serve?” If I made it out of Sint Malo, I’d talk with Roos. If we could get to the Reunited Kingdom, he might help secure one of their smoke-belching vessels to cross the ocean.

Belinda the Cursed sneered. “Does it matter, Mercenary?”

I stood, placing my hand on the hilt of my sword. “It does.”

A cruel smile spread across her lips. “You dare threaten me?” Belinda the Cursed’s hand slid to grip her staff.

The old woman was more than she appeared. Experience told me to attack now, without warning. Kick the table into her and use the distraction to free my sword. Was the prince’s honor worth dying for? Was my honor worth my life? “I am urging you to reconsider some ill-chosen words.”

Restrained power, like that of Grand Wizard Seelain, emanated from the woman facing me. “I see the fear in your eyes, Mercenary.” She stood up straight. “My words were not ill-chosen.”

“Fear is a soldier’s tool,” I said, balancing on the balls of my feet. “Not to be confused with awe or terror.” Judging by Marxel’s reaction, Belinda the Cursed had a reputation to uphold. Even if I walked out of this room, chances of me leaving the city were slim. “Either you are interested in what is to be gained by assisting my mission, or you’re wary that I am more than a simple mercenary.” I bore my gaze back into hers. “I’ve stood to far worse than you.” I pointed to my face. “Look into my eyes and know it’s true.”