The Sword of Straw (31 page)

“There it is,” she said, indicating the plinth. Nathan didn’t point out that he’d seen it all before.

She fiddled with the larger key while he tried to direct the light onto the clasp of the chest. The oil lamp was unhelpful, its all-around glow too diffuse for direction, blurring detail instead of highlighting it, while the shadows of Nell’s fingers obliterated precisely the section she was trying to see. Nathan thought he could have done with a pocket flashlight as well as a Kalashnikov. Eventually she managed it—he heard the scrape of the key turning, lifted the lamp so they could see into the chest.

The sword lay there, once more locked into its scabbard. Nathan sensed the presence of the sleeping spirit as something imminent, subtly menacing, a cloud on the horizon of a clear sky.

Nell, unconsciously echoing Agnis, said: “Should we see—anything?”

“Not if we want to live.”

They stared down at it for a long minute—the scabbard with its unseen contents, heirloom of centuries, seat of the family curse—silent with a kind of awe, thinking of its doom-laden history, its potential for death. Nathan swung around so the lamplight reached the wall; he saw the splatter stains, ten years old, where the Black Knight’s blood had jetted from his severed head. They appeared unnaturally recent, still vividly red. The princess gave a gasp of horror, and pointed to the floor where they had walked, smeared with more ugly stains.

“They look fresh,” she said.

“Magic,” Nathan suggested. “If the wound doesn’t heal, maybe the bloodstains don’t fade. Perhaps Agnis’s hair never grew again.”

The princess was trembling. “I wish we didn’t have to do this.”

“At least we’re doing it for a good reason. Not because we want to fight some stupid duel, or are plotting to take over the country. Here, hold this.” He passed her the lamp.

She took it, startled but unresisting. “What—?”

“I’ll need both hands to carry the sword.”

“
You’re
not going to—”

“Yes I am. I’m the mysterious stranger.”

“It belongs to my family—it’s my responsibility—I’m—”

“And don’t say
I’m the princess
. You say that much too often. It’s getting to be a bore.”

“You obnoxious—ill-mannered—
peasant
!” Nell’s fears were dissipating in the melting pot of indignation and rage. “You have no idea—”

Nathan kissed her, very quickly, partly because some instinct told him it was the right move, mostly because he wanted to. “This is
my
job,” he said.

Anger vanished instantly, allowing fear to return. “I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I.”

He reached into the chest before he had more time to worry about it, seized the scabbard with a firmness that belied his nerves, and picked it up. It wasn’t quite as heavy as he had expected; he realized that if you held it by the hilt, it was the sheer length that would make it awkward. But it was his sense of the spirit within that jolted him—the nearness of it, the tension in the blade, the evil that only half slumbered under his hand. For a second he almost dropped the sword.

“What is it?” On a reflex, the princess moved to support it.

“
Don’t.
Don’t touch it—not even the scabbard. It’s—”

“Why not?”

“The spirit in there—I can feel it. It’s sleeping—if spirits sleep—but it’s going to wake up. Soon.”

“We can’t do this. It’s too dangerous.”

Her protest steadied him. “Yes, we can. We must.”

I
N THE
king’s bedchamber Frimbolus had exposed the wound, cleaned it, and applied some of Bartlemy’s salve. “It does feel a little easier,” the king was saying. “Less tight and sore.” Some of the pain lines faded from his face.

Then he saw Nathan with the sword.

“You got it,” said Frimbolus, for once out of expostulations.

The king’s pallid cheek had become a shade paler. Mrs. Prendergoose backed away a step, her gaze fixed on Nathan’s burden like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake.

“Nell,” she said, “you must leave now.
Leave.
” Her tone was insistent, husky with terror.

“It would be wise,” said Frimbolus.

“I have to unlock the scabbard.” The princess took out the smaller key. Nathan lifted the sword like an offering, holding it by the shaft. Nobody argued with the princess anymore—none of them spoke at all. It was so quiet you could hear the sound of a very small key sliding into a very small lock, and the tiny click as it turned. The leather guard came loose; Nathan, grasping the sheath in one hand, peeled it away from the hilt. He could see it clearly now, closer by far than in his dream. He had always assumed the pommel was plain, without gemstone or ornament, but now he made out a design incised into the metal, the lines as thin as scratches, all but invisible. It looked similar to the pattern around the rim of the Grail. He bent nearer, forgetting caution, and Frimbolus’s soft admonition broke the silence.

“Remember: don’t touch it.”

Nathan straightened, and approached the bed. He could feel the spirit stirring now—a dark, seething essence straining at both scabbard and sword. It felt a little like holding a bottle of champagne that has just been violently shaken and will explode at the slightest nudge. He looked down at the deadly wound, flesh torn from flesh, still red and raw inside but rucked along the edge with the scabs of unsuccessful healing. Here and there, daubs of Bartlemy’s lotion had gathered like milky tears. It went deep into the groin, vanishing under the king’s nightshirt.

“What do I do?” he whispered. It was one of those moments when you have to whisper—a loud word might split the air. “Just…lay the hilt on the wound? Is there a spell—something I should say?”

“I haven’t a clue,” said Frimbolus brightly. “This was your idea.”

Nathan glanced up at him, seeking inspiration—saw the king’s haunted stare, fear and hope in his eyes—saw Nell’s anxious face—Mrs. Prendergoose, flabby with terror, her cheeks white as her linen, her mouth a hole without a scream. He wondered fleetingly why, out of all of them, she was the one whose reaction was most extreme. And then—maybe it was the proximity of the sword, infecting him with its alien power—suddenly everything was very clear. He stepped back, not touching the king—not yet—and when he spoke, his voice was sharp and commanding.

“Nell, pull off that wimple.”

“What?”

“Your nurse—pull off her wimple.”

Mrs. Prendergoose was clutching the headdress without which, presumably, she had never been seen. Nell ran to her, plucked her dress. “Nathan…”

“Pull it off.”

Nell reached up, doubtfully, even as Mrs. Prendergoose flinched back. The linen unraveled—her hair came loose—hair once black, now streaked with gray—sheared off at the neck in a sword-straight line. “Agnis,” said Nathan.

“Prendergoose!” Frimbolus’s shout was loud with fury, more than half at himself. “Why didn’t I see? You must have be-charmed us all—reshaped your very features—but I should have seen, I should have known. When Agnis Embernet first came to the court there was gossip—rumors of occult ceremonies—black magic—cantrips to bewitch the king. I distrusted Agnis—I detested Thyrma—I should have
known
—”

The king had turned his gaze from Nathan to the woman who had been his daughter’s nurse. “Agnis…It can’t be…Agnis?”

The face of Mrs. Prendergoose began to change, muscles tightening, cheeks lifting, eyes and mouth slipping back into place—tiny changes that reassembled her features into those of Agnis Embernet. An older Agnis, the sullen pout become vicious, the earthiness toughened into grit.

“When I first saw Agnis I thought she looked like someone,” Nathan said. “I just couldn’t remember who. But—”

“You took everything from me.” The woman ignored Nathan, Quayne, the princess, staring only at the king. “My brother’s life—all our plans—all our dreams. The sword was supposed to go for
you
—then I would have married you, nursed you out of this world, and Wilderslee would have been ours. We could have ruled twenty kingdoms like this, been the greatest king and queen in the history of this age…Instead, my brother was slain—you sent me away—I had nothing left.
Nothing.
I swore then I would destroy you—you and your petty realm—wipe you off the face of the earth—and I have. I have! Look at you—a helpless invalid in a moldering palace above a city deserted by everyone—”

“Deserted?” The king latched on to the word, his expression fuddled with bewilderment and pain.

“Oh yes! They wouldn’t tell you—they wanted to protect you—but your subjects have gone. There’s only a handful left—grass grows in the streets—the houses are full of ghosts. You’re king of a graveyard—a graveyard where even the corpses have moved out. A king without subjects, a deluded fool ruling in a void. May you rot!”

“It was you calling the Urdemons,” Nell said, the hurt clear in her face. “It was, wasn’t it? All the time I thought it was me—and it was you. I believed you cared for me, I thought…” She was fighting the tears, unable to go on.

Agnis looked at her as if there were a kink in her hatred, a knot that couldn’t be unraveled. “I told you to leave, didn’t I?
Didn’t I?
You were a sweet little girl—I never wanted to harm you. If you hadn’t been so stubborn, if you’d gone to your cousins…but it’s too late now. You stayed—I have no choice—you’ll die with the rest of them.”

“Nonsense!” said Frimbolus with rare coherence. “No one’s going to die. The demons are mere illusion—”

“There’s only one,” Nathan said, “but it isn’t an illusion.”

“Clever of you.” Agnis’s mouth made the shape of a smile, but there was no joy in it, only a kind of gloating. “It had slept in the depths of a bog for five thousand years, but I woke it up. I spread the marsh for it to dwell in and its Urulation sounded over the city, driving the people away. It took those forms it could remember—I tried to teach it new ones, but it hasn’t much imagination. Like all elementals it’s drawn to acts of magic—and the aura of the sword. I haven’t let it feed often; it doesn’t need to, save for pleasure. But I’ve learned how to make it stronger, hungrier, more solid—to meld my substance with its spirit—to make one being, one Urdemon with the mind and power of a witch, sharing its appetite, filling its belly. I don’t know how you got away last time, but it won’t happen again. I wanted the suffering to go on a little longer, I was enjoying it so much, but now—now I shall feed on you all, and swell and swell to the size of a behemoth, and doze in the marshes to keep Wilderslee a desert forever.”

There was a short, stunned silence.
In a minute,
Nathan thought,
she’ll give an evil cackle. But she isn’t funny; she’s real. And the demon’s real. And I can wake up, but the others can’t…

“Mad,” Frimbolus said abruptly. “Barking. Absolutely barking.”

He grabbed her by the arm, but she shook him off, backing toward the open window. “You can’t stop me!” Contempt seethed in her voice. “You’re a scientist, not a magician. And Nell—all she can do is make mud pies and untangle her hair. The boy can’t draw the sword—no one can draw the sword.” For an instant, as her gaze flickered toward it, the specter of an old terror blanched her cheek. But only for an instant. “This is my revenge—and it’s almost complete!
Venya urdaiman—venya daiman-glaure! Fiassé! Fiassé! Enfirmi!
”

The daylight darkened behind her. The sound of the Urulation was the howling of winds and wolves, the screeching of ravening harpies. The king reached for his daughter, clasping her hand—Frimbolus drew closer—Nathan moved around the bed, gripping the scabbard, with some vague notion of protecting them, though he didn’t know how. Outside the window, something like a cloud was thickening rapidly, growing blacker, growing denser, pouring into the room like smoke. In the smoke shapes formed and dissolved…baleful eyes, jagged fangs, an ogre’s face, a scaly paw, things with claws and horns and tusks. The shadow shapes swirled around Agnis as she stood in the attitude of a voodoo priestess, arms outstretched, head thrown back, her throat bulging with effort as the words hissed from between her lips.
“Uvalmi! Invardé! Enfirmi!”

The darkness condensed into a ribbon of vapor that streamed into her mouth. Her neck arched to an impossible extent, bending her into a bow—her muscles billowed to improbable size—limbs writhed—her whole body seemed to flow together into one amorphous lump. Nathan was briefly grateful they couldn’t see what was happening to her face. The room was filled with the rotting odors of the swamp—slime oozed across the floor. Then the quivering mass of unformed flesh erupted upward into the familiar slug-creature, smaller than the one in the marsh but far too big for the room. This time it had remembered to provide itself with teeth—a jagged collection that appeared to be all incisors, some almost the length of Nathan’s arm. The green saliva not only frothed, it steamed, huge drops burning holes in what was left of the carpet.

Frimbolus said: “Definitely…not…an illusion.”

The princess said, “Papa,” but she looked at Nathan.

Nathan looked at the sword.

The Traitor’s Sword. The Sword of Straw. It was all he had. He felt the spirit waking in the blade, wrestling against the spells that bound it there. The monster that faced him was nothing to the power trapped under his hand…

Now was the time to make a choice—the choice—the only choice.

He thought at lightspeed:
I’m not the one. I’m not a knight or a hero, I’m not pure in heart, I don’t do miracle cures. The blood of the Grandir doesn’t flow in my veins.

He thought:
It’ll kill me but maybe Nell will be spared…

The slug-monster lunged toward them, squelching across the floor, its blind head eclipsed by a gape full of teeth.

Nathan’s hand closed on the hilt.

The sword came out of its sheath with a sound like a silken scream. The blade was edged with blue fire, but under the sheen shadows moved, and two red gleams slid down the shaft. Nathan swung the sword or the sword swung him—he wasn’t sure which—slashing across the Urdemon’s mouth, shaving the points off a row of teeth with less effort than cutting grass. The poisonous saliva bubbled along the blade and evaporated instantly into nothing, as if it could not endure the metal’s temper. Nathan slashed and slashed again, half terrified, half exultant, slicing great chunks out of the vast wormy body, until what was left collapsed in a shuddering heap of blood and gluten and pus. Then the whole mess gave a great heave—shrank inward—and a wisp of darkness trailed through the window, its lonely Urulation dying away in the direction of the marsh.