High Iron Page 11

  “Yes, well, perhaps you are right,” he said. “But we do not prize battles out in the open. We have built our halls strong for a reason, and we are glad to stay in them. In any case, all of that hinges on this woman here pulling this off,” he said, nodding toward the Duchess. “I do not want to get ahead of myself.”

  She had the new letter finished some time well after midnight. We set watch over the hungry prisoner, and slept. The Duchess extinguished the lamp and disappeared into the shadows.

  Chapter Seven

  In the morning we woke and soon were all examining the Duchess’s new letter, comparing it to the old one. We all were struck at how similar the two were; the characters, and even the paper. She had a supply of paper and parchment stashed away in that sprawling keep. Then she spent another hour replicating the seal and the stamp of the two crows; she did this with her own wax, and a knitting needle, and a thin knife.

  Maghran spoke to me:

  “It would be best if we could leave this silent messenger of ours here. Nothing good can come of his traveling with us. But I don’t know if she could watch a prisoner.”

  “I don’t think she could, Maghran.”

  “Are there any rooms in this place? Anywhere she could lock him up? She mentioned putting him in a chest, but that will not work for the long term.”

  “I don’t think there are any rooms, no. Perhaps a cellar we missed when we were looking for that ice room? But I doubt she could keep him alive, safely. And she should not kill him. Even if Caranniam loses their war, their noble families will likely endure, and harm would probably come to her eventually if she abused him.”

  “If anyone knows where he is,” Maghran said. “But I think you are correct. We are responsible for this man. There is no reason for him to become her burden.”

  Soon we were packed and ready to leave. We spoke to the Duchess before we stepped out. She appeared no worse for having spent so many hours awake.

  “We thought of asking you a favor, milady,” Maghran asked.

  “Keeping that prisoner of yours.”

  “That’s right. But we shall take him along.”

  “As you should. I could not guarantee that he would be contained here. I am alone.”

  “And so we shall leave you.”

  I was not glad to leave that keep and the quiet, heedless hospitality of the Duchess. I looked back at it one more time as we moved away, and so did all the others. Even the dwarves were impressed, I think, with her isolated and undisturbed hideaway; something they could appreciate.

  Our walk toward the dunter encampment would be two long days. We began by heading north-northeast through the woods. The dense Kurtenvold proper was soon behind us, but lands which were mostly wooded stretched farther and farther north as one headed east. We would cut through them for some distance, as a direct route to the encampment and also a way to avoid any dunters who might be ranging this far south. All was quiet in the woods; it was midmorning and any animals that would have been about in the early hours were holed up again. We picked our way between towering trees, on a floor of fallen leaves. After a short time we banked to our left, making our way due north.

  The Duchess had given us bags of wheat, and we also took game as we marched. We fed the prisoner enough to keep him alive. Most of the time he walked. For some stretches we would throw him over his horse, on his stomach, not wanting to give him the dignity even of riding sidesaddle with his legs bound.

  “At least we will still get to take away those fine clothes from this buffoon,” Maghran said. “I think you will cut a fine figure in red, Master Shearer.”

  During the second day the woods began to grow less dense, and there were clearings here and there. In one of them we came upon a sign of the roving dunters: a ransacked farmhouse. It was the first dwelling we had seen since leaving the Duchess, and the first regular house we had seen in days for that matter. Its door was wide open, and the interior was in disarray. Remains of a bed, and broken barrels, littered the yard. Two outbuildings were also deserted. A paddock behind one of them was empty. As we passed it we saw a dead cow, partially butchered.

  “Did the dunters kill it and not take it all?” Inman said. “Fools.”

  “The dunters may have done this, but I blame the men of Caranniam, and Varenlend,” Britta said. “Were it not for them, the dunters would have never left Red Gorge. There is no way they would have ventured out this far.”

  “So we know that we are nearly out of these woods, now, and the dunters are close,” Maghran said. “Let’s be aware of patrols. And if we happen to run into a war party, we should fire off a few shots, but drop that letter and get away.”

  We nodded at this sensible advice, made our way across the clearing, and prepared ourselves to be alert when we finally left these woods.

  And at that moment, at the clearing’s edge, a pair of amvizons screeched and launched themselves at us out of the brush.

  They looked like starved bears and attacked the way a starved bear might. They were as tall as the dwarves and came at us with wide-open jaws of knife-teeth. They were sleeker than ansarks but had a spring to them from their thick haunches. They killed with their jaws but could grapple with their front claws.

  One crashed into Inman, who threw up his arms and fell backward. The other aimed first for Maghran but then darted at Britta. She had her musket slung and reached for it, not to shoot but just to get the stock in the way. She stepped sideways and managed to hit the bear-dog in the snout with the butt of her gun. This did not slow the animal, but it did have to turn again to reach her. This gave Maghran a second to step in with his axe. He swung and missed, still not close enough. I pulled the long knife I carried, but of course Maghran with his axe would swing again first.

  Inman heaved himself backward on the ground and the first amvizon closed in. It snapped at his leg and caught his boot. He tried to kick himself free.

  Hrond had now leveled his musketoon. He fired. The blast from two paces away knocked Inman’s beast over.

  Jed stepped up on the far side of Britta and brought his staff down on the neck of that amvizon. This did no harm to the animal but again we had at least stopped it for a moment, and then Maghran was able to sink his axe into its right shoulder. It was a cleaving swing that cracked bone and ran deep. The bear-dog jolted, struggled with spasms for a moment, and then fell.

  Inman’s attacker stayed down, too. Hrond’s shot had opened up its side.

  Then we all flinched at yet another shriek, again from the brush. A third amvizon jumped up, but this one ran back into the woods. It was a young one.

  “The cub of these two,” Maghran said. “Tragic for them they felt they had to defend it. I would have stayed clear of it anyway.”

  “They must have been drawn by the butchered cow,” Britta said.

  Inman stood.

  “Thank you for that shot,” he said.

  “Your leg?” I asked him.

  “No damage. We make our boots to last.”

  “Let’s continue,” Maghran said. “The way will be clear of predators, now, after all this noise. Dunters are another matter. We shall see.”

  Then we heard a scream from behind us. It was muffled; or, more accurately, gagged. A raiding party of small forms were running away from us, south into the woods. They were kobolds, and they had our prisoner—their prisoner now—dangling hogtied from a beam they had shouldered.

  Chapter Eight

  Five of us immediately took off running after them. Jed stayed behind to tie up the horse but soon caught up.

  “We all took eyes off him?” Maghran shouted.

  “Of course,” Hrond answered. “Who would have watched him amid that?”

  The kobolds dashed between the trees, pulling away from us.

  When I thought of the little dog-men I always pictured them dirty, and worn. They were either servants of the dwarves, filthy from digging in mines, or else slaves of the dunters, even filthier and envious of their dwarf-owned cousins
. There may not have actually been any dog in them, of course, but many referred to them that way because of their fur, and ears, and their harsh speech which often came off like yelps and snarls.

  We would see the occasional runaway or free kobold in Emmervale, and they were uniformly haggard. But this little group we saw now were dressed in very serviceable clothes. Above their furry ears, which stuck straight out from their heads, they wore sturdy helmets which fit them well enough not to bounce off amid all the jostling. They wore real boots, all of them. There were perhaps eight, in total. Four carried the pole, and three or four others ran beside them and in front of them, and barked at their laboring comrades to make better speed. The ones off to the side continually looked back at us, to see if we were gaining. The ones carrying the pole kept their heads down and plowed ahead.

  We were weighted down, but so were they. The long pole to which they had tied the baron, even though they carried it on their shoulders, was not high enough off the ground to prevent his rump from dragging. They shouted as they ran, exhorting each other.

  We all followed close behind, and began to cut the gap. Britta, Jed and I were faster than the dwarves, especially Inman with his recent boot-mauling and also his long-barreled musket to carry. Within two hundred paces through the woods we had moved well ahead.

  Now one of the kobolds came to a dead halt, pulled out a pistol, and aimed at us.

  “Around!” I yelled at Jed and Britta, but I didn’t need to; they had already swerved. I had been half-expecting one of the raiders to make a stand like this, in order to gain time for his comrades, and I think Jed and Britta had, too.

  I ducked, moved to my left, and heard the boom from the pistol. I may have also heard the bullet rocket away through the leaves of the trees; at any rate, it did not strike any of us. Now Britta swerved back toward the brave kobold and, before it had a chance to pull a blade, literally ran him over. Britta kicked him aside like a longball. We followed her.

  We kept on. Jed and I now outpaced even Britta, who was carrying the musket and of course also had lead and powder. The two of us stayed close to the barking knot of dog-men and their quarry.

  A thicket of narrow trees appeared before us, and the kobold raiders made for it. They ran straight into a slight gap between the trunks. Again the baron was the worse for being dragged through. Jed and I crashed in after them.

  We found ourselves in a small clearing with a dozen other kobolds; or perhaps more, many more. It was a camp, or actually a tiny village. In the middle was a large fire. That was where the raiding party stopped, dropped their pole, and drew swords. The baron struggled on the ground and eventually managed to sit upright. He had slid his hands around the end of the pole. His wrists and ankles were still bound, however, and he was gagged.

  A relatively large kobold had been sitting by the fire, roasting something on a stick, and now he stood. He wore chain mail, unlike the others. I guessed he was their leader. He sized up the baron, and us.

  The group of them could have attacked Jed and me at once and probably dispatched us quickly, but fortunately the kobolds who had been in the village all seemed taken by surprise by the prisoner and our pursuit. As they looked at each other, and at the raiders, and the baron, Britta burst through the thicket and quickly knelt and aimed her musket at one of them.

  If the flint of her gun was still in the clamp, after all the jostling from her run, and likewise if the ball and wadding had not been knocked loose, I would have been surprised. Furthermore she was breathing so hard that I doubt she could have hit much under the best of circumstances. But nonetheless the kobolds were wary of her. It was a standoff, for a moment.

  I examined their little village. What had looked at first glance like piles of brush were sturdy little houses, carefully concealed with branches and saplings. They were made of stone, or rammed earth, and had sloped roofs. They had doors, short chimneys, and windows. There were a few pens with pigs. Beyond the central area, a stream ran through the clearing.

  “This is quite a little town they have for themselves,” Britta said.

  “And well-hidden,” I said. “They must have been in this place for some time.”

  “And unbeknownst to us.” In Emmervale we had never heard of such a warren, not really too far away from us.

  Again we heard noise behind, and now Hrond emerged from the trees. He surveyed us quickly, understood the standoff, and swung the musketoon around. I noticed that he aimed it at a kobold who stood next to our prisoner. Given our distance, and what with the width of the barrel of that musketoon, he would have blown as much shot into the Caranniam man as into the kobold had he pulled the trigger. I pictured the possible end to our crisis: the kobolds might panic, and one might swing a sword; then Britta’s musket would misfire as Hrond promptly blasted the prisoner. All quite heroic.

  But the kobolds saw Hrond now switch his aim to their chief, and they instantly shrieked, all together in a howling group.

  This, I thought, was an unnecessary risk and provocation on our part. I did not want to tangle with this proud little town of dog-men if we did not need to.

  “Hrond, aim elsewhere,” I told him. I don’t believe he heard me. And amid all that screaming and baying we did not notice the next entrant into the clearing: the kobold that Britta had kicked aside, earlier during the chase. He came sprinting in—brandishing a knife, and heading straight for Hrond.

  I had not seen this runner until he had passed me, but somehow Jed had. As I turned to my right to look at the kobold, and the knife, I noticed a blur coming from my left. This was Jed; I have no idea how he moved so quickly. He cut to his right and dived between the kobold and Hrond. He knocked over the kobold—the little dog-man’s second takedown in ten minutes.

  Jed rolled and then was up on his feet. The kobold tried to raise itself up but Jed stepped over and kicked the knife out of its hand. The blade flashed away through the air, end over end.

  Hrond had turned, at the noise behind him. He saw the collision, and then saw the kobold disarmed. He regarded Jed, and then quickly turned back around.

  Britta and I had also turned our eyes to the kobold, just as Jed and Hrond had. We turned back around to again look at the prisoner and the apparent chief, and now saw the entire group withdrawing into the houses. Four of them had grabbed the prisoner by his arms, and by his hair, and quickly slid him toward a doorway.

  Hrond again leveled his musketoon at them.

  “Hrond, don’t fire,” I said. “No sense shooting that man.”

  Britta stood, and Jed stepped forward.

  “We need to retrieve him,” he said.

  We moved toward the house. The kobolds had melted away into all the buildings in moments.

  And now Maghran crashed through the canopy, trotted into the clearing, and came up beside me. On the way he had to step past the disarmed kobold; it sat there in the grass, breathing heavily, gathering wits, as Maghran moved by him with barely a glance.

  “Where did they go?” he asked.

  “That house there,” I said. “With the prisoner. Come.”

  We advanced, the five of us, and saw no eyes in doorways, no musket barrels protruding from windows. It was suddenly quiet in the clearing.

  “It must be a tight fit in those homes,” Hrond said.

  “I would guess they have gone underground,” Maghran answered.

  We came to the doorway through which the Caranniam man had disappeared, and entered the little house. The door had been left open, and we peered in and saw that Maghran was right: stone steps descended into a tunnel. This house, at least, was nothing more than a roof over a tunnel entrance.

  Maghran, not breaking stride, rushed to the stairs and dropped down.

  “What about Inman?” I asked Hrond.

  “He’ll take care of himself. Too slow. He’ll be along.”

  “Hrond, you next,” Britta said. “This will be useless.” She meant her long musket; Hrond’s musketoon would fit more easily down the pas
sage. She followed him after he disappeared, and then Jed and I went.

  The steps descended perhaps thirty feet. The air went cool and damp as I hustled down. The stone floor at the bottom was barely illuminated by light from a shaft above. We were in a tunnel perhaps forty paces long, with a torch at the far end.

  I was surprised, but should not have been, to see that the tunnel was small, no more than five feet high. Ample head room for a kobold, but not for us. Britta would not be able to use her musket, and Jed would have to crouch down to the point where would be waddling.

  She handed him the gun.

  “Why don’t you go back up,” she said. “Watch out for that beaten one up there.”

  He looked down the tunnel, nodded, and held back as Britta and I followed the dwarves. We trotted after them as quickly as we could.

  At first glance I had taken the tunnel to be irregular, but now saw that the side walls had small alcoves carved into them. Within these were decorations, mostly shields. I was struck by this, and by the smooth floors, and the lighting which was dim but adequate.

  “Kobolds must have done this,” I said to Britta as we moved. “I’d have guessed they took this over from someone, but dwarves and men build larger tunnels.”

  “I wonder if it’s wise to chase after them down here.”

  But we continued down the halls, tailing the dwarves. Maghran and Hrond seemed much more fleet here than above ground. We followed them around one corner, then another. The passages sloped downward. We heard the chatter of the kobolds some distance ahead of us.

  “Maghran,” I called. “How far will we pursue them?”

  “No one is going to lose me underground,” he answered.

  Each new hall was illuminated by a torch on the wall; and now, in addition to the alcoves and shields, we passed fine mosaics and carvings. I noticed that some of the shields on display were accompanied by swords—swords of men, too large for these kobolds. I was surprised, yet again, to see this, because these weapons had value. All of the few free kobolds I had seen before passing through Emmervale were such paupers that I’m sure they would have sold such prizes for whatever cash had been offered. These raiders down here were prosperous enough to keep them.