The Charnel Prince Page 7

  “The old women . . . ,” Ehawk began; then his voice trailed off.

  “It’s all right, Ehawk,” the praifec said reassuringly. “Speak what you will.”

  “It’s one of the prophecies. They said that when the Etthoroam wakes, he will claim all in the forest for his own.”

  “Etthoroam,” Stephen said. “I’ve seen that name. It’s what your people name the Briar King.”

  Ehawk nodded.

  “Aspar,” Winna murmured. “Colbaely is in the King’s Forest. My father. My family.”

  “Colbaely is far from the country of the Duth ag Paé,” Aspar said.

  “How does that matter, if what this boy says is true?”

  “She has a point,” Stephen said.

  “They are not confined to the depths,” the praifec said. “We’ve had reports of fighting in towns all along the edge of the King’s Forest, at least in the east.”

  “Your Grace, you must pardon me,” Aspar said.

  “For what crime?”

  “Pardon me to leave. I’m the king’s holter. The forest is in my charge. I have to see this for myself.”

  “Yes, to that second point I agree. As to the first—you are no longer the king’s holter.”

  “What?”

  “I petitioned His Majesty to have you placed under my command. I need you, Aspar White. No one knows the forest as you do. You’ve faced the Briar King and lived—not once, but twice.”

  “But he’s been a holter all his life!” Stephen exploded. “Your Grace, you can’t just—!”

  The praifec’s voice was suddenly not soft. “I most certainly can, Brother Darige. I can and I have. And in point of fact, your friend is still a holter—the Church’s holter. What greater honor could he hope for?”

  “But—,” Stephen began again.

  “If it’s all the same, Stephen,” Aspar said quietly, “I can speak for myself.”

  “Please do,” the praifec urged.

  He looked the praifec straight in the eye. “I don’t know much about courts or kings or praifecs,” he admitted. “I’m told I have few manners, and those I have are bad ones. But it seems to me, Your Grace, that you might have asked me before telling me.”

  Hespero stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Very well. You have a point. I suppose I was letting my anxiety for the people of Crotheny and the greater world muddy my concern for the personal wishes of one man. I can always ask the king to change his decree—so I’ll ask you now.”

  “What exactly is it Your Grace is requesting?”

  “I want you to go to the King’s Forest and discover what is really happening there. I want you to find the Briar King, and I want you to kill him.”

  A moment’s silence followed the praifec’s words. He sat there, watching them as if he had just asked that they go hunting and return with some fresh deer meat.

  “Kill him,” Aspar said carefully, after a moment.

  “Indeed. You killed the greffyn, did you not?”

  “And it nearly killed Aspar,” Winna interjected. “It would have killed him, except that the Briar King somehow healed him.”

  “You’re sure of that?” the praifec said. “Do you discount the saints and their work so easily? They do keep an eye on human affairs, after all.”

  “The point is, Your Grace,” Stephen said, “that we do not know precisely what happened that day, what the Briar King is, or what he truly portends. We don’t know that the Briar King should be slain, and we do not know if he can be slain.”

  “He can be slain, and he must be slain,” Hespero said. “This can slay him.” He lifted a long, narrow leather case from behind his desk. It looked old, and Aspar saw some sort of faded writing stamped on it.

  “This is one of the most ancient relics of the Church,” the praifec said. “It has been waiting for this day, and for someone to wield it. The Fratrex Prismo cast the auguries, and the saints have revealed their will.”

  He opened one end of the case and gingerly withdrew an arrow. Its head glittered, almost too brightly to be looked at.

  “When the saints destroyed the Old Gods,” Hespero said, “they made this and gave it to the first of the Church fathers. It will kill anything that has flesh—beast canny or uncanny, or ancient, pagan spirit. It may be used seven times. It has already been used five.”

  He replaced the arrow in the case and folded his hands before him.

  “The madness Ehawk witnessed is the doing of the Briar King. The auguries say it will spread, like ripples in a pool, until all the lands of men are engulfed by it. Therefore, by command of the most holy senaz of the Church and the Fratrex Prismo himself, I am ordered to see that this shaft finds the heart of the Briar King. That, Aspar White, is the charge and the duty I am asking you to take up.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE SARNWOOD WITCH

  WE CAN’T TAKE THEM all,” Anshar said grimly as he drew back the string of his bow. There was nothing to hit—the wolves were nothing more than shadows in the trees, and he was certain every shaft he had fired thus far had missed its mark. The Sarnwood was too dense, too tangled with vines and creepers for a bow to have much worth.

  “Well, no,” the one-eyed Sefry to his left said coolly. “I don’t imagine we can. But we didn’t come here to fight wolves.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Fend,” Brother Pavel said, pushing wet brown bangs from his gaunt face. “We haven’t a choice.”

  Fend sighed. “They aren’t attacking, are they?”

  “They tore Refan to shreds,” Brother Pavel observed.

  “Refan left the path,” Fend said. “We won’t be so foolish, will we?”

  “You really think we’re safe if we stay on the path?” Anshar asked, looking down dubiously at the narrow trail they all three stood on. There seemed no real boundary between it and the howling wild of the forest, just a muddy mingling of earth and leaves.

  “I didn’t say we were safe,” Fend amended with a grim sort of humor. “Only that the wolves won’t get us.”

  “You’ve been wrong before,” Brother Pavel pointed out.

  “Me?” Fend wondered. “Wrong?”

  “At Cal Azroth, for instance,” Pavel persisted.

  Fend stopped suddenly, focusing his single eye upon the monk. “In what way was I wrong?” the Sefry asked.

  “You were wrong about the holter,” Pavel accused. “You said he wasn’t a threat.”

  “Me, claim Aspar White wasn’t a threat? The one man who ever gave me a real wound in single combat? The man who took my eye? I don’t think I ever claimed, in anyone’s dreams, that Aspar White wasn’t a threat. I believe that might have been your friend Desmond Spendlove, who swore he would stop the holter ere he reached Cal Azroth.”

  “He ruined our plans,” Pavel grumbled.

  Well, let’s see,” Fend said. “I’m confused by your word ruined. We killed the two princesses, didn’t we?”

  “Yes, but the queen—”

  “Escaped, I grant you that. But it wasn’t because I was wrong about anything—it was because we were outfought.”

  “If we had stayed—”

  “If we had stayed, we’d both be dead, and our cause would have two fewer champions,” Fend said. “Do you think you know the mind of our master better than I, Brother?”

  Pavel kept his brow clenched, but finally he nodded. “No,” he admitted.

  “No. And see? While we’ve been arguing, where are the wolves?”

  “Still out there,” Anshar answered, “but not coming any closer.”

  “No. Because she wants to know what we’ve come for. As long as she’s curious about us—as long as we obey her rules and stay on the path—we’ll be fine.” He clapped Pavel on the back. “Now will you stop worrying?”

  Brother Pavel managed a fretful smile.

  Anshar had heard about the business at Cal Azroth, but he hadn’t been there. Most of the monks involved in that conflict had been from d’Ef. He’d taken his training at
the monastery of Anstaizha, far to the north in his native Hansa. He’d been sent south only a few ninedays ago, told by his fratrex to lend whatever aid he could to the strange Sefry and Brother Pavel.

  He’d been told specifically that the Sefry, though not a churchman, was to be obeyed at all times.

  So he had followed Fend here, to the place where all the most frightening children’s stories of his youth were supposed to have taken place—to the Sarnwood—in search of none other than the Sarnwood Witch herself.

  The trail took them deeper, into a cleft between two hills which soon became a gorge rising in sheer walls on either side. He’d been raised in the country and was familiar with trees, and at the outskirts of the Sarnwood, he’d been able to name most of them. Now he knew almost none of them. Some were scaled and looked as if they were made of smaller snakes joined to larger ones. Others soared incredibly high before spreading spidery foliage. Yet others were less strange in appearance, but just as unidentifiable.

  At last they came to a spring-fed pool of clear water whose banks were thick with moss and pale—almost white—ferns. The trees here were black and scaled, with drooping leaves that resembled sawtoothed blades. Empty gazes stared down at him from the human skulls nestled in the crooks of the branches. Anshar felt himself trying to back away, and he crushed the instinct with his will.

  He smelled something musky and bitter.

  “This is it,” Fend murmured. “This is the place.”

  “What do we do now?” Anshar asked.

  Fend drew a wicked-looking knife. “Come here, both of you,” he said. “She’ll want blood.”

  Obediently, Anshar stepped to the Sefry’s side. Pavel did, too, but Anshar thought he saw hesitation there.

  Meanwhile, Fend drew his blade across his palm. Blood welled from the line, and Anshar was half-surprised to see it was red as that of any human.

  He glanced at the two of them. “Well?” he said. “She’ll want more than this.”

  Anshar nodded and drew his own blade, and so did Brother Pavel. Anshar was cutting his palm when he caught a peculiar motion from the corner of his eye.

  Brother Pavel still stood there, his knife across his palm, but he was jerking oddly. Fend was facing him, holding his hand to Pavel’s head, as if to hold him up . . .

  No. Fend had just thrust a knife through Brother Pavel’s left eye. Now he removed it and wiped it on Pavel’s habit. The monk continued to stand there, twitching, the remaining eye fixed on his half-cut palm.

  “A lot more blood,” Fend amplified. He gave Pavel a push, and the monk toppled facefirst into the pool. Then the Sefry looked up at Anshar. He felt a chill, but stood his ground.

  “You aren’t worried you might be next?” Fend asked.

  “No,” Anshar said. “If my fratrex sent me here as a sacrifice, a sacrifice I’ll be.”

  Fend’s lips twisted in a grudging smile. “You Churchmen,” he said. “You have such belief, such loyalty.”

  “You don’t serve the Church?” Anshar asked, surprised.

  Fend just snorted and shook his head. Then he sang something in a peculiar language Anshar had never heard.

  Something moved in the trees. He didn’t actually see the motion, but he felt and heard it. He had the impression of vast, scaly coils dragging themselves through the forest and contracting around the pool like a great Waurm of legend. Soon, he knew, it would poke its head through the tree trunks and open its vast, toothy mouth.

  But what did step from the trees was very different from what his impressions had led him to imagine.

  Her skin was whiter than milk or moonlight, and her hair floated about her like black smoke. He tried to avert his eyes because she was naked, and he knew he shouldn’t gaze upon her, but he couldn’t help it.

  She was so slim, so exquisitely delicate, that he first thought she was a child. But then his eyes were drawn to the small cups of her breasts and the pale blue nipples that tipped them. To his surprise he saw she had four more, smaller nipples arranged down her belly, like on a cat, and he suddenly understood that she was Sefry.

  She smiled, and to his shame, he felt a surge of lust equaled only by his terror. She lifted a hand toward them, palm up, beckoning, and he took a step forward.

  Fend stopped him with a hand on his chest.

  “She’s not calling you,” he said, pointing to the pool.

  Pavel suddenly gathered his arms and legs beneath him and pushed himself clumsily to his feet. He turned to face them.

  “Why have you come, Fend?” Pavel croaked.

  “I’ve come to speak to the Sarnwood Witch,” Fend replied.

  “You’ve found her,” Pavel said.

  “Really? I’d always heard that the Witch was a terrible ogress, a giant, a thoroughly ugly creature.”

  “I have many appearances,” Pavel’s corpse said. “And there are many foolish stories told of me besides.” The woman cocked her head. “You killed the Dare princesses,” she said. “I smell it on you. But there were three daughters. Why didn’t you kill the third?”

  Fend chuckled. “I thought my sacrifice entitled me to have my questions answered.”

  “Your sacrifice only ensures that I won’t slay you without hearing what you have to say. From here on out, you’ll have to stay in my good graces if you want anything more than that.”

  “Ah,” Fend said. “Very well. The third daughter—I believe her name was Anne—was not present at Cal Azroth. Unknown to us, she was sent away.”

  “Yes,” the corpse said. “I see. Others found her in Vitellia, but they failed to kill her.”

  “So she’s still alive?” Fend asked.

  “Was that one of your questions?”

  “Yes, but it sounds as if it’s someone else’s problem now.”

  “Earth and sky are being bent to find her,” Pavel said. “She must die.”

  “Yes, well, I know that,” Fend replied. “But if, as you say she has been found—”

  “And lost again.”

  “Can you tell me where she is?”

  “No.”

  “There, then,” Fend said. “The others lost her—they can find her again.”

  “You had the queen in your grasp and did not kill her,” Pavel said.

  “Yes, yes,” Fend replied. “It seems someone is always reminding me of that. An old friend of mine showed up and put something of a damper on the whole business. But as I understand it, the queen is not as important as Anne.”

  “She is important—and have no fear, she will die. Your failure there will cost you little. And you are correct in one thing—the daughter is everything, so far as your master is concerned.”

  For the first time, Fend seemed surprised. “I wouldn’t call him a master—you know whom I serve?”

  “He came to me once, long ago, and now I smell him on you.” The woman lifted her chin, as did Pavel, in grotesque parody.

  “Is the war begun?” the corpse asked.

  “How is it you know so much concerning certain matters and nothing concerning others?”

  “I know much of the large, but little of the small,” Pavel said, and chuckled at the word play. Behind him, the woman just stood there, but Anshar could see her eyes now, a startling violet color.

  “I can see the sweep of the river, but not eddies and currents, not the ships upon it or the leaves following it seaward. Your words supply me with that. You say one thing, and I see those things connected to it—and thus I learn the small things. Now. Has the war begun yet?”

  “Not yet,” he replied, “but soon, I’m told. A few more pieces are moving into place. Not really my focus, that.”

  “What is your focus, Fend? What did you really come here to discover?”

  “They say you are the mother of monsters, O Sarnwood Witch. Is it true?”

  “The very earth is pregnant with monsters. What do you seek?”

  Fend’s smile spread, and Anshar felt an involuntary chill. When Fend answered her, he felt anoth
er, deeper one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE EYES OF ASH

  IT WAS ONLY MOMENTS before smoke started boiling up through the stairwell and the crackling of flame rose over all other noises. The floor began to heat, and Leoff realized that if the malend were an oven, he was just where the bread ought to be.

  He went to the window, wondering if the fall would break his leg, but jerked his head back when he saw two figures watching the malend burn, their faces ruddy in the light spilling from the door.

  The brief glimpse he got wasn’t reassuring. One of them was nearly a giant, and Leoff could see the glint of steel in both their hands. They hadn’t searched the malend—they were letting the fire do it for them.

  “Poor Gilmer,” he murmured. They had probably killed the little man in his sleep.

  Which would probably be an easier fate than what lay in store for Leoff. It was already getting difficult to breathe. The flame was climbing for him, but the smoke would surely find him first.

  He couldn’t go down; he couldn’t go out the window. That left only up, if he wanted to live even another few moments.

  He found the ladder and climbed it to the next level. It was already smoky there, too, but not nearly so much as the level he had just left.

  And it was dark, very dark. He could hear the gears working again, and something squeaking nearby. He must be in the machinery of the thing now.

  He found the final ladder and went up it with trembling care. He had an image of getting a hand—or worse, his head—caught in an unseen cog.

  The final floor wasn’t very smoky at all. He faintly made out a window and went to it hopefully. But they were still down there, and now the drop was ridiculous.

  Trying to calm himself, Leoff felt around in the dark, and nearly shrieked when he touched something moving. He caught himself as he realized it was a vertical beam, turning—probably the central shaft that drove the pump.

  Except that the shaft he’d seen on the first floor wasn’t rotating; it was moving up and down. The motion must be translated somehow on the floor just below.

  That still didn’t seem right. The axis of the—what had Gilmer called it? The big veined spokes? Saglwic. Their axis would have to be horizontal, so that motion must be translated to this shaft.