Untitled (31 page)

And the strangest of all: the NIGHTMARE of House Monama was a large hair pin embedded with a dark stone that was said to be able to alter reality itself.

The CARG was always considered to be in the latter category, a brilliant, deadly weapon, but for years, it seemed destined to go the way of the GRAMPA and the VERDIS and the CRANIMER—a charming, odd fixture of the past.

Sadric, Lord of Blanchefort, had learned CARG lore from his father, Maserfeld, a burly, brutish, and somewhat barbaric man who had the unfortunate but well-earned reputation for being a raider and a brigand. Always raging that his son appeared to be a bit more of a dandy than he hoped for, Maserfeld relentlessly rammed the CARG lore down Sadric's dainty, powdered throat, hoping to wrench the man from out of the silken linens and fancy shoes. Despite himself, despite his apparent frailty, Sadric learned its lore and became the CARG's master.

Sadric went one step further. He eventually delighted his father by creating the strongest CARG ever built, the King CARG, the Masterpiece CARG. He created it not because he really wanted a CARG for himself, but because Maserfeld swore to disinherit him and give everything to Herdie, Lord of Grenville, Maserfeld's archrival if he didn't. It was better, he said, to heap his wealth and titles upon an enemy than to give it to a CARGless, good-for-nothing son.

Maserfeld's CARG was a singularly ugly weapon made crudely from iron and obsidian. He'd named it "Bathilda" and never cleaned it—refused for it to be cleaned; years of gore and punctured flesh had built up on its shaft like an awful varnish.

If Sadric was to have a CARG, it would be a fine, shining, beautiful weapon. It will be something that shall look lovely saddled at his waist at a party.

It took five years to forge. On a "mission," Sadric acquired the metals for it from exotic locations. He stole the core metal for it from the Borune Mountains located on the Xaphan Loviatar, which, he had heard, was known for its great strength and best of all, pleasing color. The taking of this metal was a slight for which Loviatar swore everlasting vengeance.

More metals were needed. Sneaking into a grand Grenville ball dressed as a dark, mysterious woman, he "acquired" the hard, unyielding tip and final seven segments from Herdie of Grenville's VUNKULA and threw it in for good measure—a slight that was said to have ratcheted-up the Blanchefort-Grenville feud in earnest, for Herdie had been "smitten" by this tall, beautiful "mystery woman." More followed.

Loviatar's metal, an elegant, heavy, coppery alloy, took years to heat and properly forge. The Sisterhood of Light, with whom Sadric was very friendly, prayed over the forging and blessed it, adding strange materials of their own design. Once made, Sadric's CARG was heavy, solid, sharp, and nearly indestructible. The Grand Abbess of Pithnar, a close friend of Sadric's, placed an enchantment on it so that he could lift it with ease—to anybody else trying to pick it up, it was a monstrously heavy seventy-seven pounds.

It was beautiful. It had an odd X-shaped hilt, as the shaft of the CARG was circular, Sadric reasoned it didn't have a top or bottom. He dedicated each arm of the X to a different season. For its horn, he was inspired one evening at a wine party and created the tip of his CARG as a twisting cork-screw.

Indeed, it was that beautiful coppery CARG that first attracted the attention of Lady Hermilane, the blue-haired fourth daughter of House Hannover, its glinting light and cork-screw catching her eye as she danced about the ballroom floor with Marist, Lord of Grenville, Herdie's son. Hermilane was one of the few ladies of standing who was a LosCapricos master in her own right—she being a master of the GEORGE WIND, a small, floating sword. Excusing herself, she went up to Sadric and inquired about his glinting CARG in earnest, forgetting all about the red-faced Lord Grenville. She, one day became Sadric's wife and bore his children—and all begun because she liked his weapon. More fire on the Blanchefort-Grenville hatred.

The King CARG had an additional quality that no CARG previously had—it could be thrown. Whirling perfectly balanced in a heavy arc, it relentlessly thudded into its target. Maserfeld roared with delight as Sadric demonstrated what it could do. You certainly couldn't throw Bathilda and expect to hit anything. It could even be thrown with a cutting stroke, a lop-sided, bouncing, cavorting arc that buried the shaft to its hilt.

It was said Maserfeld went to his grave smiling—his dainty, foolish son had created a kick-ass, flying, woman-enchanting CARG that will have their ancestors cheering and mug hoisting in the halls of the dead.

If Maserfeld had had his druthers, Sadric would have used this deadly CARG to lop off a few heads, bury it up the asses of a few cretins, and sack a few villages. Such, though, was not to be the case. Sadric never sacked any villages, never loped off any heads … none of that. He was no warrior, no killer.

He'd only ever used it in battle once, after the birth of his second daughter Poe, when those strange, savage people came from the darkness, from thin air, and tried to take her newly born and wailing from Hermilane's arms. In that instance, he used his CARG, in that instance he fought like a lion. And those savage people fell before it.

After that, his CARG became nothing more than a ceremonial show piece. He, at his many parties, loved to delight his guests by demonstrating the CARG's power. He showed them that it was a smooth, unbladed tube. He showed them how heavy it was. He then sliced off thin, straight cross-sections of a large petrified tree stump with the CARG, the cutting stroke making its usual high-pitched whistling sound. And his guests clapped and laughed.

When his son and heir, Davage, was born, Sadric thought not to teach him how to use the CARG at all. He wished his son to be more like him, a suave society man, a man who appreciated social functions and invitations and gossip, and he felt the CARG had no place there except as an obscure decoration and coat-of-arms motif.

As Maserfeld had wanted Sadric to follow in his bloody, brigand's footsteps, so Sadric wished the same from his son.

Such, however, was not to be the case.

Davage had a lot of old Maserfeld in him—a rugged toughness and adventurous spirit, sans the lout and the brigand—that Sadric could not squelch or deny no matter how much powder and wigs and cloth finery he threw at him. Davage yearned for action and adventure, and he got it in sometimes novel places. He learned to fist fight from his sister Pardock, of all people; she also had a bit of rowdy Maserfeld in her. It was said that Davage and Pardock often snuck in disguise to the village by the bay and brawl in the bars with the locals. It was one of their favorite things to do.

His mother taught him the GEORGE WIND lore, Hermilane being deadly with it. In later years, Davage often mused that some of the most savage and desperate sword fights he'd ever been involved in were with his mother.

But Davage wanted the CARG lore. He wanted it like nothing else.

Sadric told his son that, when he could lift it, he may be trained— Sadric thinking its great weight would put a close to the matter. Unfortunately, when Davage was fourteen, he lifted it off its display stand and presented to his father. And so, Sadric relented, and in the old Vith halls of Castle Blanchefort, he taught his son how to use the CARG. He hoped that he never had to raise it in a fight. He hoped it would remain a simple party favor.

Now, on the dirty amber plains of Ergos, it would be the strength of that CARG, the King CARG, the LosCapricos symbolic weapon of House Blanchefort that was once used to delight elegant party guests, that guarded Davage's life, Sadric's only son…

* * * * *

CCCCLLLAAANNNGGG
! from the CARG. AHHHHHHHH! from the Shadow tech.

CARG and black battle axe met in mid air, metal ringing and Shadow tech screaming, and both combatants were knocked off balance with the force of the blow. Panting, the Black Hat regarded Davage for a moment, astounded that this man was still alive, that his weapon had been equal to hers.

Davage Sighted; he saw her coming again.

The Black Hat plowed her battle axe through the ground in a vicious up stroke.

Davage met it and turned it aside.

She swung back around and over her head in a cleaving down stroke.

Dav met it again and turned it aside.

She stumbled with the force of the turn.

She was wide open. He could send his CARG right through her heart if he wanted.

He had it in his head that he wanted to save this Black Hat. He wanted to make another Syg—he wanted to wake the Elder within her, to watch her grow into a person, watch her learn to smile and laugh and appreciate the touch of another.

For Bethrael, lying unconscious beyond, he figured she wouldn't be too difficult to turn; she had seemed remarkably docile so far.

But this one, this tall Black Hat, she was savage and dangerous and eager to fight. Would he be taking too much of a chance with the lives of his crew if he brought her aboard? Will she blow herself sky high the first moment she got?

Should he kill her and be done with it?

She tried hooking his CARG with her battle axe, trying to rip it from his grasp.

He turned the CARG and sliced through her battle axe, the huge blade spinning off widely and turning to soot.

Before she could form a new axe, he put a brutal non-cutting shot into her ribs; he heard some of them snap. She doubled over.

He then butt-ended her in the face with the pommel of his CARG. She collapsed.

Seeing victory in sight, he lifted her head and tried to give her the Sight; perhaps that will calm her down.

Again, she covered her eyes and head butted him; her head was like stone.

The area swam. Davage tried to clear his head.

She balled her fists together and slammed him in the chin, sending him backwards.

Again, they stood a few feet apart, both trying to catch their breath. They'd been fighting for five minutes, and they were exhausted.

The Black Hat turned her head and gazed at the fallen form of Bethrael lying some feet away. Davage could feel the malice pouring out of her.

The Point. Davage saw the Point.

She was going to kill Bethrael. She was going to end her life and deny her the possibility of redemption out of pure meanness.

And even though she was a Black Hat "in training," so to speak, Davage had already accepted "Beth" into his family. He felt certain she will convert and be saved and become a happy, smiling Elder just like Syg. Maybe she'd pursue a career of some sort, fall in love with some lucky fellow, pass the baton, and have children. Perhaps she will become a lady of standing of some Great House. Maybe she will want to join the Fleet. Whatever, it didn't matter. All she need do was pick a star, and he and Syg will take her there. He wanted it for her—he wanted it badly.

And all that was about to be put to rest at the end of a Black Hat's Point.

She lifted her arm and extended her finger. In a few moments, Bethrael will be dead.

Davage sprang. In an instant he brought his CARG down on her wrist, and this time he didn't use a banging, bludgeoning blow. This time he sliced her hand off clean. He even jabbed it a bit, so it snagged a nerve and un-docked it, creating pain like nothing else: Maserfeld's Cut it was called, a cruel and torturous thing to do to an enemy that created excruciating agony until medical assistance could be administered.

It was something he had never done to any of his opponents— something he had never even considered doing.

She looked at him, indignant for a moment.

Something then came out of the stump and slopped to the ground, Davage thought it was a large gout of blood.

The Black Hat then began wailing in agony hideously. She clutched her stump, bouncing up and down, whirling around like a child, her dirty robes swishing on the ground. Vomit leaked out of the folds of her black sash. She picked up her hand and held it to her breast, cradling it. She moaned and slobbered in misery.

Davage felt pity for her at that moment. He regretted what he'd done. He thought about slicing off the end of her stump. That will remove the activated nerves and provide her with at least a bit of relief.

He saw something then. The bloody, dirty mass that had come out of her stump moved. It stood up somehow in a gory clump and jumped back onto the Black Hat's chest. Quick as Creation, it crawled across her chest, up her arm, and then back into the stump.

Instantly the Black Hat stopped screaming. She regained that hideous stance, that evil demeanor.

What had he seen? Was she somehow controlled?

There was nothing for it. He was going to save this tall Black Hat too.

Davage flew into her, kneeing her in the stomach; he felt her ribs floating a bit under him. He then smashed her in the face with a full strength punch.

Sitting on top of her, he ripped off her black face-covering sash.

Underneath was a pale, blonde-headed girl. Her face was long and sallow, her blonde hair, corn-colored, was braided and pulled back. She was covered in vomit. Her blue eyes were watery and doll-like. They reminded him of Syg's eyes, how they were during their first meeting—glassy … evil.

Davage saw those eyes in his nightmares every so often; he dreamed that she turned back into what she was. They were horrible dreams.

She closed her eyes, anticipating the Sight.

With his thumbs, Davage wrenched them open and blasted her with a full lit Sight.

Forced to look, she stared at him and sighed. Her expression changed.

Davage then reared back and head butted her square in the forehead. She gave a yelp and went out cold.

It was done, the fight was over. Davage had triumphed. He felt like picking her up and throwing her down again but stopped himself.

Saddling his CARG, he Sighted her to make sure she was out. Again, heart rate, blood pressure, and breathing all indicated she was unconscious.

Something dark moved past his Sight. Looking around, he caught something lurking inside her.

It was a small man-shaped black blob—like a blood-clot with arms and legs. It seemed to know that Davage was Sighting it. It waved and bounded out of his gaze.