Ironcrown Moon

  Before leaving the castle, he had begged its master mason to lend him a certain tool, saying vaguely that the thing might help in extracting the criminal from his hiding place. But if the opportunity arose, Snudge planned an entirely different use for the sledgehammer wrapped in sacking, which was now lashed to the back of his saddle.

  Being only human, Beynor dozed off.

  His more vigilant inner self—or something—caused him to wake with a cry of dismay and a great start that set the briskly moving dinghy to wallowing.

  What is wrong with you, groundling? the Supreme Warrior inquired in a peevish tone, from somewhere under the river. Did your execrably unappetizing meal disagree with you and bring on an evil dream?

  “Something like that,” Beynor muttered. The monsters had no notion what he’d been up to. His ability to invade dreams was a secret he didn’t intend to share.

  How long had he been asleep? Long enough for Scarth’s binge to have worn off a little? He sent the thread of his oversight aloft on the wind, ranging west-southwest to the desolate highland region between Elktor and the Great North Road, to the tiny hut crouching in its rocky hollow, well out of sight of the only track. The mules stood their patient vigil amidst dripping junipers. Inside the croft, the surviving renegade Brother had shifted his position slightly and started to snore. Behind their closed lids, his eyes were moving just a bit. The spell of couverture was still extinct, but that was to be expected.

  Before attempting another dream-invasion, Beynor decided to cast about with his windsight to determine if any search parties were abroad. It was unlikely. The local lord, famed as he was for happy-go-lucky stupidity, would hardly send his men out scouring the moors in the middle of a rainy night…

  Beynor bit back a disbelieving curse when he saw the double line of torches moving eastward along the rough track. It couldn’t be happening! The heavily armed knights and the warriors wearing Elktor livery had to be riding out for some entirely different reason; perhaps they’d been summoned to reinforce the troops at Beorbrook Hold.

  He focused closely on the men at the head of the column. How strange! The apparent leader was a slight figure dressed in a rain-cloak, beneath which were the robes of a Zeth Brother. He rode beside a saddled horse that lacked a rider, and yet the adept turned his head now and again toward the empty saddle, as though someone invisible were there.

  Someone who could not be scried… such as Deveron Austrey.

  In a panic, Beynor wasted no time surveying the troop further. He screamed into Scarth’s unconscious mind with all the power he could muster.

  Scarth! Scarth Saltbeck! Wake up, you fool! They’re coming for you—the king’s men! You have less than half an hour before they find you. Gather up the sigils and the books. Put on your cloak and boots. Hurry! Don’t bother with anything else except your sword. Saddle the strongest mule. Go north across open country to the mountains. And if you value your life, put up the cover spell before you ride out! Do you hear me, Scarth? Scarth…

  He’d only just begun to dream the new dream.

  He was in the opulent throne room of the Conjure-Queen, approaching her with a confident stride. He wore the black garb of a high-ranking Didionite wizard, flowing robes of rich silken brocade trimmed with sable, and a matching skullcap. The queen’s counselors, clustered about her dais, whispered to each other behind their hands, wondering who this magnificent stranger might be, not knowing he was there by royal invitation!

  Warlock-knights of the Royal Guard presented their flaming swords in salute as he went down on one knee before Ullanoth of Moss. Smiling, he lifted the lid of the simple little honeywood box he carried. “I’ve brought the stones, Great Queen,” he said, going straight to the point, “just as I said I would.”

  The courtiers murmured at his temerity, but Queen Ullanoth rose to her feet, her lovely narrow face alight with avid anticipation and her eyes like green stars. She beckoned for him to approach. He did, holding out the open box so she could see its contents for herself.

  The young queen reached out a slender hand. On one finger was a moonstone ring, identical to the one he had brought to her except for the glow of power that suffused it. Hanging on thin chains about her neck were two more living sigils—one small and drop-shaped, the other an open triangle an inch or so wide, having a short handle.

  “May I examine these stones of yours, wizard?” she asked him with regal courtesy.

  “Certainly, Your Majesty.”

  She took the icicle-shaped stone from his box, regarded it in silence for a moment, lifted her head to meet his gaze—

  And screamed at him: Scarth! Scarth Saltbeck! Wake up, you fool! They’re coming for you—the king’s men! You have less than half an hour before they find you.

  He staggered back, dropping the box. “What are you saying?” he gasped.

  Gather up the sigils and the books. Put on your cloak and boots. Hurry! Don’t bother with anything else except your sword. Saddle the strongest mule. Go north across open country, to the mountains. And if you value your life, put up the cover spell before you ride out!…

  She vanished, along with all of her court.

  Scarth was back in the rude moorland hut, lying on the floor, half-covered by a rough blanket. A faint red glow came from the embers of the dying fire, but he could see nothing clearly. His head throbbed with agony and the Conjure-Queen’s warning seemed to echo inside his skull like the clanging of Zeth Abbey’s gigantic bronzen bell.

  A dream. It had been another intensely vivid dream.

  “Felmar?” he called out, in a voice roughened by phlegm. “Felmar?”

  When there was no answer he crawled to the hearth, tossed on a few sticks, and puffed at the coals until the wood caught and there was enough light to see by. He sat up and called his companion’s name again, turning about and squinting into the shadows. But he was alone in the hut. Felmar’s saddle, his improvised pallet, and all of his things lay as Scarth remembered them. Moonstone sigils, for some odd reason, were scattered everywhere, and the leather sacks that had held them were tossed aside. Even stranger was the abundant sandlike material strewn over the canvas floor-covering. The two old books were nearly buried in it, as was the cloth packet that had held the four important sigils. What did it mean?

  Moving with trancelike slowness, he crept toward the door. Maybe Felmar had gone outside to answer a call of nature and got lost. Stupid idiot. But what did it matter, when he himself felt so tired and ill? The mystery of his companion’s disappearance seemed unimportant, as did the curious mess on the floor. To hell with Felmar. Sleep was all that mattered. Sleep, and his dream of the lovely Queen of Moss—

  Scarth! Scarth Saltbeck! Wake up, you fool! They’re coming for you—the king’s men! You have less than half an hour before they find you.

  Shocked into wakefulness again, he found himself on his hands and knees before the croft’s open doorway, straining to see what might be outside.

  “Felmar!” he yelled. “Where are you?” The only reply was a soft grumble from one of the mules. He turned about, picked up a pinch of the stuff on the floor and rubbed it between his fingers. Ashes. They felt nothing like the residue of burned wood but were grainy and foul-smelling, like sea-coal cinders. Mixed with the ash were sharper fragments that almost resembled charred bone…

  Terror smote him like a blow to the gut. Somehow, he knew what had happened—if not why. Vomit rose in his gullet and he was barely able to crawl out the door into the grey drizzle before he spewed the contents of his stomach.

  He moaned his friend’s name one last time, knowing that there would be no answer. Then he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, staggered to his feet, and reentered the croft to gather the things Queen Ullanoth had commanded him to take. His hands trembled violently, his vision was still impaired, and he was half-crazed with fear. The need to flee this awful place without delay overwhelmed every other thought in his pain-racked brain.

  All those sigils scattered about…
>
  Let them be! Take only the four important ones!

  Where were they? He found the ring, the rod, the stone icicle—but the tiny stone carving of a door wasn’t there. He scooped up the three and put them in his jerkin pocket.

  Why take both books? Only one is needed. Hurry!

  He stuffed the tome pertaining to the Great Stones inside his shirt and next to his skin, where it would stay dry, then buckled on his sword with fumbling fingers and fastened his cloak.

  Hurry!

  The rain had almost stopped by the time he clumsily saddled the mule, and the sky was brighter in the east. He put a foot into the stirrup, swung up after three ineffectual tries, then drew a deep breath and pronounced the incantation for the spell of couverture. To his surprise, it worked.

  Hurry, damn you! To the mountains!

  “To the mountains,” he mumbled. They weren’t far away, and there were other large rock formations even closer, where he might be able to find a good hiding place.

  He turned the mule’s head, kicked its ribs, and set off.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Snudge had been windwatching the sleeping thief intermittently since he and the warriors rode out from the castle, even though his talent was greatly fatigued. The empty brandy flask lying on the floor of the hut showed plainly enough why the heretofore impenetrable cover spell had failed in its protection. But the two empty wash-leather bags on the floor—plus the even more ominous presence of the missing Brother’s gear and mule—filled him with foreboding.

  Then Scarth awoke. The man’s inexplicable terror, nausea, and frantic preparations to ride out caused Snudge to bark out an oath of vexation.

  “What’s wrong, sir?” Mattis shouted over the noise of pounding hoofbeats.

  “Use windspeech,” Snudge bespoke him. “Our thief is preparing to flee. Scry him out yourself, if you can. He’s frightened out of his mind for some reason, but not saying much, so I can’t read his lips and find out what’s going on… Damn it to hell! He’s put up the cover spell again.”

  “I don’t see him, sir,” Mattis admitted. “There’s only the stone hut and a mule.”

  “There were two mules a moment ago,” Snudge said tightly. “Look carefully at the ground around the place. Let’s see if either of us can scry a trail of hoof-marks in the mud.”

  Close scrutiny was all but impossible while jouncing along on horseback. As the troop came closer to the croft, Snudge was finally able to determine that there were no fresh prints ahead of them, on the track to Beorbrook. So their prey had taken off cross-country, probably in the direction of the mountains.

  “We won’t be able to track him over the open moors until we reach the hut,” Snudge said. “The ground’s too stony and cluttered with heather and brush for close scrying. On the other hand, he’s not going to be able to go very fast. Do exactly as I say when we arrive at the hut. Don’t forget that you are the only windvoice in our company.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  They reached the faint side-path leading to the croft in another quarter hour. Snudge held his hand high as a signal for the troop to stop, then pointed out the new direction. The men followed single file over the rougher ground, at a cautious walk. When they rode into the hollow and caught sight of the tiny dwelling in the murk, Snudge once again called for a halt and motioned for the six knights to come close for a conference.

  “Gentlemen, my windvoice and I are going to ride forward and call on Scarth Saltbeck to surrender. Fan out your warriors and follow us. Keep back about ten ells and be alert if he tries to run. Remember: We want this man alive.”

  One of the knights said, “Is he likely to attack us with sorcery?”

  “It’s not likely. Mattis is very weary from having performed an arduous windsearch earlier, and he’s temporarily unable to scry through the stone wall of the hut. But when he oversaw our villain half an hour ago, he was lying dead drunk inside. Inebriation quenches talent completely. Ready? Here we go…”

  They closed in on the empty hovel. Snudge dismounted, drew his sword, and made the surrender demand. When there was no response, he ducked inside the croft, swiftly surveyed the interior, and gave a sigh of relief as he saw the sigils strewn on the floor and one of the books partially buried in some kind of sand or ash.

  He emerged, looking crestfallen, and called out, “Bad news, lads! Our bird has flown.”

  There were disappointed groans and curses from the entire troop.

  “All right, here’s what we do. I’m going to search this hut. He’s left a lot of stuff behind that might provide valuable clues. Meanwhile, Vra-Mattis will scry the ground ‘round about here until he finds the bastard’s tracks. He’ll lead the new pursuit. Follow him and keep your eyes well peeled. I have to warn you that our villain may be hiding beneath a cover spell. This kind of magic doesn’t really make a person invisible to the naked eye—but it does try to fool you into not noticing the one who’s covered. If you think you might’ve glimpsed a man on a mule and your mind tells you it was only fancy, don’t believe it! Point him out to your mates and ride straight at him. If you can get within five feet, he’ll become clearly visible.”

  “Swive me,” one of the men-at-arms muttered. “Tricky business, running down magickers. Gimme plain old sheep-stealers and bandits any day.”

  Mattis had been sitting his saddle with eyes squeezed shut while Snudge addressed the troop, casting about with his windsight. “Here they are!” the novice cried. “Tracks made by the fugitive!” He urged his horse up the far side of the hollow and the rest of the warriors streamed after, shouting eagerly.

  Snudge waited until the last one had disappeared before sheathing his sword and tying his horse to a juniper branch. He retrieved the sledgehammer and searched until he found a flattish rock the size of a cottage loaf. Leaving them just outside the croft, he entered the low door. Two men had certainly been here. One had ridden away while the other had disappeared, leaving all his gear, his saddle, a fine sword, and his mount behind. Carefully, he shook out the blankets and other equipment and piled them in a far corner, away from the canvas groundcloth where the sigils and ashes were scattered. The two wash-leather bags had obviously held the moonstones. He squatted and began collecting them, shaking off the clinging grit as best he could.

  What was that filthy stuff? It had a faint noisome odor that was somehow familiar. He filled both bags with sigils, dusted off the book, and sat back on his heels, pondering. He’d seen ash like this before.

  It came to him. The dank lower chamber of Mallmouth Bridge’s bascule machinery. The treacherous armiger Mero Elwick in a rage of frustration, knowing he could never use Concealer himself and vowing that Snudge wouldn’t have it, either. A tremendous blow with a broadsword that left the sigil unharmed, while Mero himself was incinerated in a flash of defensive sorcery.

  Something like that had happened to the missing thief.

  “Yes,” said a low-pitched voice from the hut’s doorway.

  “Who’s there?” Snudge cried. Drawing his sword, he crouched back against the opposite wall. A small cloaked person was standing there, visible only in silhouette.

  “Come out, sir knight,” he said, “and bring the sigils and the book with you.”

  “Aroint thee, whoreson!” Snudge cried, reaching with his left hand to touch Concealer and turn himself invisible—

  He froze stock-still, paralyzed in every muscle save those of his face. He spat out a curse.

  “Be silent, Deveron Austrey. Or may I call you Snudge?” The figure stepped back and became discernible in the dawnlight, a little man whose head would have come barely to Snudge’s shoulder, dressed in a suit of well-cured skin and wearing a cloak of mingled dark colors in a pattern that mimicked tree bark. His skin was sun-browned and his large eyes were a startling green. “Be calm. I mean no harm—not to you, especially, since you’re of the blood. I command you to put away your sword and come out. Bring the Trove of Darasilo.”

  Compelled to
obey, Snudge emerged in furious silence, placed the bags and the book on the ground, and glared at the stranger.

  “My name is Odall,” he said, “and I’ve been sent by the Source. Do you remember Red Ansel’s Source? The one he spoke of when you and he sat in a small boat on Gala Bay, and you summoned the Light and quickened the Concealer sigil you wear next to your heart?”

  Snudge felt his scalp tingle and his throat grow tight.

  “Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” Snudge whispered. He began to inch towards Odall.

  “The Source has decided that you’re needed in the New Conflict. Ansel himself doesn’t know, and we Green Men aren’t allowed to tell him about you for a while yet. Don’t you mention this meeting of ours to him or anyone else, either.”

  “You’re… a Green Man?”

  “Yes. There’s more of us about than you’d think, but mostly we stick to the wild places where humans seldom go. If we’re taken unawares by one of you giants, we haven’t much of a chance.”

  Snudge tried to keep his voice steady. “What do you want with me?”

  “I came to stop you from smashing the sigils in the trove.”

  “The things are evil! They destroy people’s souls and bodies. I know that for a fact.” He continued to edge almost imperceptibly toward the little man.

  Odall grinned. “Nevertheless, you’re willing to use your Concealer sigil in what you think is a good cause. You’d use it to help your master, Conrig Win-cantor—and oddly enough, that’s as it should be. Conrig will never know it, but he’s been enlisted to help in the New Conflict, too.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Snudge said sullenly.

  “It’s not necessary that you should.” The cheerful demeanor of the Green Man vanished like a snuffed candleflame, and Snudge realized that he was once again quite incapable of movement. “Do you recall the words you used to bring Concealer to life?”