The next moment, Harald materialized behind the lizard and stabbed it with his elven blades; with a roar of fury, the monster faced about, turning the deadly light towards his attacker, but the wood elf was already in motion, and even though he seemed momentarily to falter as he was covered in the violet glow, Harald cleared the wall of the castle and leapt down to the ship.
“Follow him!” shouted Erik, and vaulted out of the castle. They would all die here otherwise; unprepared, they were no match for the basilisk.
Cindella slid down the rail of stairs that led away from the wooden castle and restored her momentum with a roll onto the main deck. When he could look up, Erik was amazed to see how close their enemy had come. The crenelated forward castle of Duke Raymond’s ship loomed over them. Clearly visible between the wooden defenses were two sorcerers who could have been twins, pale-faced, dressed in similar lime-green robes. Their hands were raised, and from them came lines of thick white thread. The sorcerers were systematically spraying the decks of the
White Falcon
with the product of their spell, covering the ship at an alarmingly swift rate.
The nature of their weaving became immediately apparent as, despite her nimble motion towards the mainmast, Cindella was unavoidably engulfed in the material that was spewing from the sorcerers’ hands. It was thick webbing, gray and sticky, impossible to tear free from. Now Cindella was responding to Erik’s directions as though she was wading through glue. Everyone on the ship was struggling, some looking to him for orders.
High in the sky, the little gnome, Othinious Majaminous, was on his carpet, disappearing rapidly westward, a silhouette against the faint scarlet glow on the horizon. Nearby, the bear, looking rather bewildered, was disentangling a paw from the webs. Finally free after great exertion, the bear examined his claws curiously, giving them an experimental and tentative lick before pulling an expression of distaste. The sorcerers were continuing to pour webs onto the
White Falcon
, coating it again and again in smothering layers.
The battle was over.
At home, Erik slumped; Cindella was held fast. He wondered if he should unclip, to try to escape capture, but that was a risky measure of last resort. Instead, he waited, thoughts in turmoil. Poor B.E., and Svein Redbeard. Two dragonslayers killed already, petrified. Possibly more of them were dead by now; he could not even turn his head to check. The world would be in shock when the news spread. He should have taunted the basilisk; that way B.E.’s magic swords might have done him some good—even if it had meant the death of Cindella.
What had gone wrong? Everything. He could not believe that they had so innocently followed the advice of Count Illystivostich; the vampyre had intended to betray them from the very beginning, that was completely clear now. But why? With a jolt of realization that the vampyre’s actions might be related to his quest, Erik struggled as hard as he could against the glue to unbutton Cindella’s tunic and withdraw a small bone scroll case. Again, for the thousandth and last time, he looked at the treasure map, this time trying to remember every little detail. Then Cindella tore off little pieces and began to chew them. Fortunately Epic, sophisticated as the interface was, did not have taste connectors. Digesting the document was slow but palatable. As an afterthought he took off the Ring of True Seeing and put it in the hollow of his cheek.
After at least an hour of bitter, restless contemplation, Cindella was disturbed by the sticky gray threads around her being hacked away by cutlasses. The jubilant sailors performing this task trussed her tight in ropes before hauling her free. Erik could almost feel the pain in his own joints as she was torn loose from the last of the gluey substance. It was hard to see much; the sky was deep blue, early stars spinning above him as Cindella was swung across to their captors’ ship. A rush of yellow and reds was visible towards the horizon. Moments later, the source of the color was revealed. The last view Cindella had before being thrust through a doorway was of the
White Falcon
receding from them, a crown of jagged flames resting upon her disintegrating decks.
Cindella was stripped of all her equipment. Rough hands tore away belts, pouches, rings, and boots. Then, bound tight, she was thrown into a dank, briny-smelling hold. The crude manner in which she had been hauled about had taken its toll. Checking Cindella’s health, Erik was concerned that half her life was gone. Still, at least he had kept the ring. He spat it onto the floor and rolled around until he could reach it and slip it on. The room was just as foul in the light of the ring as it had been in the swinging illumination of the oil lamp. Only now Erik could see the twenty or so glistening pairs of hungry eyes from the rats that lurked in the dark intersections of wall and floor.
Anxious to know what had happened to the others, and what his fate would be, Erik had to wait impatiently, not daring to unclip.
At last, a flood of lamplight shone on the damp walls of the room as the rough door was opened. A shadow, which resolved itself as Anonemuss, arms trussed behind him, was pushed stumbling forward.
“You’re still alive, at least. Did you see any of the others?” Erik asked eager for news.
“Shut up, kid.”
So Erik held his tongue, watching his companion. Anonemuss sat, occasionally shaking his head in disbelief and sighing.
The door opened again. Injeborg and Sigrid were thrown down beside them. They had barely time to cry out in recognition, when a powerful command filled the room.
“Silence.”
A bright, sickening light was shone on the prisoners from the doorway. Behind it stood two shadows, one redolent with a maliciousness that matched the voice that had stilled them.
“Duke Raymond, allow me to introduce my traveling companions: Anonemuss, Cindella, Injeborg, and Sigrid.” The vampyre was mocking now, and Erik’s anger at the traitor made it seem incredible that they had once shared a seductive and trusting intimacy.
“Well done, Count Illystivostich. Unfortunate about the others. I could have used their gold.”
“You will find there is ample left between them.”
“Oh, indeed.” Duke Raymond rubbed his hands. “I wonder, sir, is it a coincidence that the three women dragonslayers survived? Do women adventurers have a particularly fortunate constitution, or do your own tastes alter the spinning of fate’s dice?”
The vampyre chuckled, a sinister laugh, stiletto-sharp, scraping over Cindella’s throat.
“Skip the witty banter. What do you want from us?” Anonemuss was brusque with barely suppressed anger.
“Oh, I don’t think we can do that,” Duke Raymond replied with a laugh. “What is the satisfaction of being a villain if you cannot gloat over your fallen enemies?”
Chapter 22
A CRUEL DISMISSAL
Barely able to
contain his delight, Ragnok kept his gaze on the table in front of him, on the notepad on which he occasionally made a meaningless mark. But every now and then he could not resist the briefest of glances to his left, to see how Svein was reacting.
It was Halfdan the Black who was leading the attack, and he did so with evident relish. “Svein has no Epic character of any standing; therefore he cannot be on this committee. It’s straightforward.” Halfdan’s shaky voice took on a slightly gleeful note.
“It’s not as simple as that, and you know it,” Bekka spoke up angrily. “We can give Svein the wealth to equip another character who would very quickly become powerful enough to play a full role on Central Allocations.”
There was a pause at this.
As far as Ragnok could judge matters, neither Halfdan nor Thorkell would hesitate in throwing Svein off the committee. On the other hand, Bekka would always resist the proposal, which meant two votes for him to stay, as Svein still retained the right to vote, despite the loss of his character. The other members of the committee—Wolf, Brynhild, Hleid, and Godmund—were probably undecided.
Hleid was not chairing the meeting with her usual directness, and after the silence had lingered uncomfortably, she sighed. “This is a difficult situation. Of course we owe Svein a lot, and personally speaking, I am concerned that we will be all the weaker for the loss of his advice and experience with the library system; on the other hand, how will the world perceive matters if we rush a new character up the ranks? Just imagine what trouble that
New Leviathan
could make of it.”
Godmund nodded at this, and Ragnok’s heart leapt. If Godmund spoke against Svein, it would all be over.
Evidently Svein understood that equally well, for he quickly indicated to Hleid that he wanted to speak, even though his words did not seem that well prepared.
“I don’t deny it will look bad, but against that weigh the value of my contribution to this committee. How will you manage affairs in the South without me? And the library system—it requires quite a level of expertise. Then there is the University, the classes.”
The fact that Svein was speaking allowed Ragnok to examine him closely without having to hide his stare. The man was clearly suffering; he was pale, almost green, as if he had not been sleeping; his eyes were rheumy and now, as the failure of his own argument became evident in the faces of the other committee members, those eyes blinked back rising tears.
At last, guessing already which way the vote would go, Ragnok spoke. “No one is indispensable. If we need another on the committee from the South, there are rising students. The same with the libraries. It’s just not worth it.”
Svein looked shocked, and crumpled visibly. “You . . . also?”
Ragnok flashed a smile of triumph, but managed to check himself from further expressions of his true feelings. He wanted to stand over Svein, gloating. To tell him that for years and years he had played the game to Svein’s rules while all the time hating the arrogant librarian. At every step, he had pretended gratitude. How kind of Svein to show him the tactics, the equipment, the magic that he had learned the use of. How kind of the librarian to give him every dirty job that came the way of the committee, earning the deep hatred of the world’s people, a hatred in which Ragnok reveled. It had been Svein who above all had been shielded from public dislike by his apprentice. Svein had thought himself untouchable, but now an accident of the game had thrown him to the ground, and instead of helping him up, Ragnok spat on him.
“I call a vote,” crowed Halfdan, “for the removal of Svein the Librarian from Central Allocations.”
“And my alternative is that we reequip him in honor of his past achievements. The world will understand that. In fact, they will be surprised if we fail him.” Bekka made a last try to sway them.
“Very well, the options are clear. All those for Svein remaining on this committee, please show.”
Only Bekka, Wolf, and, of course, Svein himself raised their hands.
“Those against?”
Halfdan led the way, reaching triumphantly upwards with his slightly shaking right arm; Thorkell, Godmund, and Ragnok joined him. That left Brynhild and Hleid as abstainers, but it didn’t matter, Svein was gone!
“I’m sorry, Svein. I will have to ask you to leave.” Hleid looked visibly shocked.
It must have been a long, slow walk to the door. Ragnok followed every step. Svein did not depart with his head held high. Rather he seemed dazed and uncomprehending, his shoulders slumped.
Chapter 23
LANDSCAPE PAINTING
B.E. and Sigrid
were at the beach, sitting on the “gulping rock”—so called because of the sound that the waves made as they slapped into the spaces beneath its great bulk. From some distance, Erik hailed them, and, somewhat disconcertingly, Sigrid got up and climbed down the far side of the rock, to reappear walking determinedly away from him.
“Don’t mind her.” B.E. patted the rock beside him, to indicate that Erik should sit. “She’s angry. It will pass.”
“I’m sorry,” Erik said as he settled beside his older friend.
“It’s not your fault. I made the call on bringing the vampyre, remember?”
“If I survive this, I’ll split my money with your new character,” Erik offered.
“That’s kind, Erik, but perhaps it’s just as well.” B.E. looked away uncomfortable, pretending to study a distant island.
“How do you mean?”
“Didn’t you notice? All that fame and wealth—it was not good for me. I was changing. And I didn’t like what I was becoming.”
Mystified, Erik said nothing and they listened for a while to the waves hitting and sucking at their perch.
“There’s a girl at school, for example,” B.E. suddenly began again. “Judna—she wanted to talk to me at the dance. I ignored her. I knew I was destined to be a celebrity in Mikelgard, and Hope suddenly seemed very small and unimportant. I was going to leave it behind and enjoy my fame in Mikelgard, drive a fast saller around the city, meet lots of beautiful girls. But at the same time as enjoying the prospect, I hated myself for my new arrogance. See? And actually I think I would have been unhappy in the city, no matter how famous I was.”
“I see.” It had never occurred to Erik to leave Hope, other than perhaps temporarily joining his parents in exile. Or perhaps to be with Injeborg—though neither of them had spoken of the future and whether they were going to be together.
“So I don’t mind that it is over, for me at least. My only real regret is that I didn’t get to see Thunder and Lightning in action.” B.E. turned with an apologetic smile. “And, of course, that we didn’t get your dad back.”
“You can start again. If we don’t all die as prisoners, there should be enough money to reequip ourselves, perhaps not on as great a scale, but enough to keep trying.” Erik paused, thinking of his friend starting a new character as if the dragonslaying had never happened. “After all, you won’t be able to go back to killing kobolds after everything we’ve been through.”