Chapter 4

“Quiet! Both of you,” the Boozer demanded. “No one here knows of the Marquis’ death, yet. We’ll do our business and be gone by daylight.”

Hardly had old Abaddon pulled to a stop before three heavily armored gatemen surrounded the magician’s wagon. “What’s yer business here at this hour of the night, hawker?” the sergeant of the gatewatch demanded.

“I must see the Al Cazar,” the Boozer answered, very solemnly. “I have something of great value he will wish to see.”

One of the gatewatch held his torch higher to get a better look at the visitor, then jerked it back down, wishing he’d not seen the horrible apparition the torch presented. “That’s what you hawkers all say,” the sergeant mocked. “You be gettin’ down from there and we’ll see what this here ‘something’ is.”

The Boozer was not about to play his only card on a lowly gate guard. “I am sent here as a personal emissary of Duke Harold’s,” he boasted. “If you value your commission, sergeant, I suggest you go and wake the Al Cazar.”

The Duke’s name had the desired effect, as the heavy gates of Tendalfief swung open slowly, allowing the magician’s wagon to enter. The fort stood as silent as a graveyard, its magnificent stone edifices rising at a steep angle to the level of the rocky hill upon which the great keep had been built. Tendalfief had long been the only stone fortress in the whole of northeastern Anglia and was frequently the sight of bloody engagements between the Duke’s men and the wild highland clans of Scotia.

The hollow “rrhuuump” of the gates closing behind him caused the Boozer to wish he’d never made the vow to Merlin’s ghost. That was especially true now that he had the blood of an innocent man staining his sacred vow. He mused to himself, once the Al Cazar knows of the Stone, it won’t take long for word of it to reach Blackgloom and the Seed. Then will I know if my plan has succeeded.

Daynin had listened curiously to the conversation between the gatewatch and the Boozer. Something about it bothered him, but he couldn’t quite decide what. Then it struck him. “Boozer,” he whispered, as the magician wheeled the wagon into the stables area of the keep, “you talked differently with the gatewatch than you have before.”

The Boozer laughed and then said, “Aye, you got the grip, that’s for sure. Don’t much fly between them ears, says I. Solid as a rock you are, boy. Sure, I talks different with them what’s got the authority, boy, because they make the rules. The rules say that if ye be smarter or better educated than the next man, he’s got to bow down to you. That blaggard of a gatewatch would’ve kept us waiting all night, if I’d let him. But you see how fast he moved when I talked down to him. That’s the lay of things, boy, and you best be learnin’ that rule right now.”

“What happens if the Duke’s men come looking for us?” the boy asked.

“They’ll be lookin’ toward Hafdeway, I expect, since that’s the clue I gave ‘em in the tavern. But it won’t matter, ‘cause nobody could’ve got here faster than we did, and we’ll be out of here by first light with any luck at all. You just tend to the wench and keep her quiet. Let me do the talkin’ and there’ll be no trouble.”

Climbing down from the wagon, the Boozer thought to himself, this boy was a wise choice, after all. It’s obvious he has the grit for the task ahead of us. I don’t know what will become of him after that, but I’ll do the best I can by him. I swear that to you, Merlin, and to the magician’s guild. That is, if I’m still alive on the morrow to make good on any of my pledges.

Hours later a light, cold rain had begun to fall outside, pattering quietly on the wagon’s oilskin cover. Daynin wetted a cloth in the rain, and placed it gently on Sabritha’s neck. Her skin felt warm to his touch. He began to worry that she was seriously hurt or that she might not recover from her wound.

“You’ve the manner of a blind ox when it comes to healing,” Sabritha blurted out, rather unexpectedly.

Daynin recoiled from the surprise onslaught. “I-I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I didn’t know you—I thought you felt hot. I just wanted to . . .”

“To what? Touch my skin? You’re not the first to want that, plowboy. But most are willing to pay, and pay handsomely. What are you willing to pay, huh?” she jabbed.

“Nothing!” he shouted, involuntarily pulling his hands away to prove his innocence. “I was just trying to help. I would never—I mean, I wouldn’t do that to you—I couldn’t . . .”

“You never have! That’s what you really mean, isn’t it?” she parried.

Daynin seemed confused. He replied, “Never have what?”

“Been the Duke’s minstrel, of course,” she laughed, then continued, “been with a woman, you rock-headed son of a bean planter.”

Daynin feigned confusion. He shuffled his position in the wagon, making a pretense of looking out for the Boozer, and allowing himself an escape from the conversation. “Boozer’s been gone a long time. I hope this Al Cazar can tell us what we need to know, so we can get out of here.”

Sabritha sat upright, leaning her back against the Stone. “What is it that’s so full of importance the old man had to bring us here anyway?”

“That,” Daynin said, flatly, pointing at the Stone.

“A headstone? He’s risking our necks for a headstone?”

“No. It’s—it’s something special. We’ve come here to find out how special. Boozer thinks the Al Cazar may even want to buy it.”

Sabritha ran her hand along the edge of the Stone, feeling the runes around the rim. “Never seen a headstone with runes like these. Is it magic?”

“We’ll soon find out,” Daynin answered. “The Boozer’s coming with some men. Now keep quiet, and say nothing about last night.”

“Whatever you say, your worship,” she said mockingly.

“Open the wagon!” the order came.

Two men-at-arms threw open the back of the wagon, and stopped, as if frozen in time. Sabritha’s presence surprised and instantly delighted them both. “Hold!” one of them bellowed. “We’ve got a wench bestored here, and a sightly one at that!”

“Step aside!” the Al Cazar ordered. He leaned into the back of the wagon, apparently more curious to see the woman than the Stone. “You failed to tell me you brought us a treat, old man. We may indeed have some bargaining to do, after all.”

“Good morn, your lordship,” Sabritha purred.

Daynin’s anger flared once again. This time his tongue did the work, rather than a dirk. “Quiet, wench!” he snapped. “The Al Cazar is an important man. He has no need of your diseased services. Now move aside, so the Stone can be got.”

“Diseased is it?” the Al Cazar repeated, stepping back quickly.

“Aye, m’lord,” the Boozer joined in. “Something she picked up in the north, I’m afraid. You know how nasty those highlanders are.”

The Al Cazar stepped back further, his interest in the woman obviously diluted with a twinge of fear. “Get the Stone,” he ordered.

“Get back, wench!” the man-at-arms ordered, fear evident in his tone as well.

An elderly mage stepped forward with a large leather-bound manuscript while others unwrapped the Stone. He waved for a torch to be brought closer, and opened the book to a pre-marked spot. He studied the writing in the book for several seconds, then compared it to what the Stone contained. He ran his hands across the face of the Stone, carefully tracing the etched runes with his fingernails. He stopped, turned the page in his book and repeated the process twice more.

“M’lord,” he whispered, “I believe it to be genuine. It appears to be the Scythian Stone.” The mage turned to the Boozer and asked, “Where did you find this?”

“In a highlander’s field, just as the legend says,” he replied.

“Bring the Stone inside,” the Al Cazar ordered. “We’ll examine it further in good light.”

The Boozer stepped between the mage and the Stone. “A moment, if you will, m’lord,” he said firmly. “We’ve a bit of hagglin’ to do afore the Stone leaves the wagon.”

“Haggling!” the Al Cazar exclaimed. “Name your price, old man, and be quick about it. Throw the woman in the deal and it’s a Duke’s ransom you’ll be getting.”

“It’s not just silver I be needing, your lordship. ‘Tis a pardon by your hand for any and all crimes committed here in Anglia that I would wish for me and my mates. We’ve, uhh, had a minor scrape or two with the Duke on occasion, and you bein’ the high sheriff, why, I figure you could grant us your pardon. ‘Course, I realize your word don’t carry the weight of the Duke, but, ‘tis better’n a sharp stick in the eye, as you might say.”

The Al Cazar thumped his mailed hand into the Boozer’s chest, boasting, “The law’s the law, merchant. And I make the laws in Anglia, not the Duke. But your pardon’ll only be good for past crimes, understood?”

“Clear as a fall day, m’lord. Now, as to the price. Five thousand talens should about cover it, I expect. And the woman’s no part of this deal.”

“Five thousand talens!” the Al Cazar roared. “Why not five times five thousand, you witch-faced trammel? There’s not that much silver in the whole of Anglia. Maybe a year or two in the dungeon will lower your demands, eh? Or a week on the rack, perhaps?”

“Your lordship knows the power of this Stone,” the Boozer said, quietly. “You said yourself it’s worth a Duke’s ransom . . .”

“Duke’s be hanged if there’s one I’d give more’n a thousand for, and that’s if he be blood kin, old man. You’ll take seven hundred and be on your way, or you’ll be my guest till the rats feed off ya.”

The Boozer turned to flip the cloth covering back over the Stone and said, “A bargain made fair by the details, your lordship,” his voice flat and unemotional. “When can your mage draw up the pardons?”

“By first light, and we’ll need the names,” the mage replied.

“Done!” the Boozer agreed.

Daynin couldn’t believe his ears. Seven hundred silver pieces split three ways, as the Boozer had agreed to include a share for his grandfather, was more than the boy had ever hoped to earn in his life. And now he would have it all in one lump sum. A vivid image of the highlands lit in the back of his mind. A brief image of something much closer that he could now afford, also made his head swim.

“If you don’t mind, your lordship, I’ll be keepin’ the Stone in the wagon until morning,” the Boozer said. “Not that I don’t trust you, you see, it’s just that the Stone is quite heavy, and I wouldn’t want any risk to come to it.”

“First light, old man,” the Al Cazar warned. “I’ll have an extra guard posted at the front gate, just in case.”

The Boozer climbed into the wagon and waited until all the men of Tendalfief had departed. He pulled Daynin very close and whispered, “We got to beat it out of here, boy. We got to make a break, or we’re goners for sure. This Al Cazar’s no man of his word, and besides, I think he’s hot for the woman. I want you to open this keg and grease up the wheels on the wagon, so’s we can make a run for it. I’m gonna spy us a way out.”

“But—I don’t understand!” Daynin protested. “I thought the deal was made. Why do we have to run for it?”

“Gut feelin’, lad. He means to slit our throats for that Stone.”

Sabritha agreed, though her council seemed unheeded. “The old man’s right, Daynin. The Al Cazar would sooner part with his mother than seven hundred talens.”

“What do you know about that kind of plum?” Daynin scoffed.

“Never mind that, now,” the Boozer interrupted. “Get out there and grease those wheels, so’s we can make a run for it. I’ll be back in a while.”

The magician removed a small bag from under the wagon seat and disappeared into the gloomy darkness. A black cloak and his diminutive size made him all but invisible in the light rain and haze of the fortress.

Daynin finished greasing the wheels and took a large handful of grain to feed Abaddon. Having accomplished all he could to ready the wagon, he climbed back in and settled down to wait. In minutes, he was fast asleep.

In the wee hours of morning a heavy rain beat down hard on the wagon’s cover, drowning out the sound of a dark shadow as it crept closer and closer. The shadow reached its long bony fingers through the open canvas front, feeling for the soft human flesh it knew to be inside. Slowly, the tip of its fingers crawled unseen onto the boy’s neck. Another instant, and the shadow’s prey would be struggling for its last breath.

“Ahhhhrghh!” Daynin screamed. “No!” he gurgled, desperately trying to gain some air through his throat.

“Shut up and go back to sleep!” Sabritha scolded.

Daynin sat up and felt for his neck. His eyes were so wide that Sabritha could see them in the dark. “The Marquis! He was here!” Daynin moaned. “He—he was—he had no skin. He tried to kill me.”

“Bad dream, that’s all. Now go back to sleep.”

“I may never sleep again,” Daynin whispered, his throat aching from the phantom’s attack.

Outside, he could hear a loud commotion stirring toward the main gate. The clatter of horse hooves on stone mixed with garbled voices, though not loud, seemed definitely out of the ordinary for that time of the morning. Daynin peered out from under the canvas, instantly recognizing the distinctive yellow and red standard of the Duke fluttering across the courtyard. “Sabritha! The Duke’s men—they’ve found us!” he whispered, almost choking on the words.