Saving Thanehaven Page 2

  Noble ponders this strategy. He’s sorely tempted.

  “Come on,” Rufus wheedles. “You’re meant to be a hero, aren’t you? Heroes take risks.” When Noble doesn’t answer, Rufus tries another tack. “Not that it’s much of a risk. Your chances are better with me than they are with your friend the carnivorous sidearm. Especially in a marsh full of mouths.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I mean, I’d like to know who dreamed this one up. A marsh full of mouths? It’s seriously sick.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Noble demands. “Why did you come here?”

  Rufus shrugs again. “Let’s just say I’m a freedom lover,” he replies. “Power to the people, and all that stuff. You’re living in a repressive system.”

  “And you don’t like that?”

  “Do you?”

  Noble thinks about it. He realizes that he’s never followed his own inclinations. He’s rarely had an inclination, until now. Sometimes he’s wanted a halberd—and has ended up with a mace instead. Sometimes he would have preferred to avoid a dark doorway or a suspicious-looking shadow, but Smite’s raging appetite has always impelled him forward.

  “No,” he confesses at last, “I don’t like it much.”

  “Then let’s make peace, not war!” Rufus cries cheerfully. “It’ll be heaps of fun! The only thing is, you’ll have to get rid of your friend.” He cocks his thumb at Smite. “This won’t work if you bring her along. And you’ve still got your knife, remember—which you probably won’t need.”

  Noble looks down at his weapon. She’s covered in blood, and white-hot with rage. Her teeth are embedded in his wrist. She’s glaring at him with her beady little eyes as she squirms and coils and lashes about like a serpent.

  “I’d like you to stop this,” he tells her.

  But she refuses to stop. So he yanks her free and throws her away.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The road to the fortress is wide, flat, and dead straight. It’s also in excellent shape, with no weeds or potholes. The cobblestones are so white that Noble wonders if they’ve ever been touched. On each side of the road, bronze gargoyles are perched atop a series of black stone plinths. The plinths are separated by a thick hedge of thornbushes.

  Noble doesn’t like the look of this hedge. It’s clearly been planted to disembowel anyone who tries to push through it. The dazzling white cobblestones also worry him, because they offer no more protection than a salt pan or an ice floe. As for the gargoyles, they seem to be chained to their plinths. And why would Lord Harrowmage do something like that unless they posed some sort of risk?

  “It could be a security measure, to stop them from being stolen,” Rufus says quietly, surveying the creatures from a safe distance. “But if you ask me, it’s because they’re not statues at all.”

  Noble grunts. He has a nasty suspicion that Rufus is right. The chains are long enough to allow some freedom of movement—enough, at least, to launch an attack. Noble can see exactly what will happen if he tries to pass between the first pair of gargoyles. One of them will pounce on him, distracting his attention from its partner across the road. Gargoyle number two will then launch itself at his back, propelling him toward the next pair of gargoyles, which will jump off their plinths to maul him.…

  Without a sword or mace, defeating those gargoyles is going to be very, very difficult. Noble finds himself missing Smite. He’s been feeling so odd since he threw her away. It’s as if he’s lost a limb.

  “Don’t worry,” Rufus whispers. “I can deal with these guys, even if they are alive.”

  He and Noble are crouched in a shallow ditch, peering through a screen of thorns. The road begins where the dry sea ends, so there’s a lot of windblown salt scattered around. Perhaps that’s why all the nearby undergrowth looks so sparse and sickly. Even the ground is more gray than purple, as if the salt is slowly killing it.

  Could the giant mouths be staying shut because they don’t like salt? Or is Noble still alive because he’s taken off his boots?

  According to Rufus, Morwood has been cleverly designed to kill Noble. But there could be a flaw in what Rufus describes as the software. It’s possible that the giant mouths haven’t been programmed to recognize Noble with bare feet. “In other words,” Rufus says as they set off, “you may not trigger the usual subroutines if there’s something different about you.” It seems to have been good advice, because no holes have appeared since Noble threw his boots away.

  Rufus is still wearing shoes, though. “I’m not the target, so I don’t have to worry about being gobbled up,” he tells Noble. “I don’t even belong here.” It’s an argument that he uses again as he prepares to approach the gargoyles. “Chill out,” he says. “I’ll be fine. They won’t know what to do with me. I’m not a part of their program paradigm.”

  “Maybe I should come with you.”

  “Nah. Not yet. Just wait,” says Rufus. Then he stands up and lopes toward the nearest gargoyle, raising his voice to address it in a friendly, cheerful tone. “Hey! How’s it going?” he cries. “My name’s Rufus, and I’m here to set you free!”

  The gargoyles are all sitting like dogs, with their back legs neatly folded. Even from his sheltered vantage point, Noble can see a variety of tails and crests and ears and snouts. Some of the gargoyles resemble toads, with their wide mouths, bulging eyes, and warty skin. Some have goatish horns and beards. Some are squat and thickly muscled; while others are so skinny that their scales cling like wet fabric to every rib and joint. Yet despite these differences, each gargoyle is exactly the same size and color. Each has four legs, two wings, one head, sharp claws, and many teeth.

  They also have yellow eyes. Noble sees this when dozens and dozens of eyelids flick open at the sound of Rufus’s greeting. Although there are no other movements, it’s as if the gargoyles have snapped to attention.

  “You sure look uncomfortable,” Rufus continues, gazing down the avenue of gargoyles. “How would you like to get rid of those chains and collars? You must be so sick of them. I bet you’d all be having a much better time if you could fly around and do whatever you want.”

  Noble gasps. He can’t believe what he just heard. Is Rufus seriously offering to release the gargoyles?

  Even the gargoyles seem surprised. Every scaly head within earshot swings toward Rufus.

  “If I had a pair of bolt cutters, I’d snip through your chains right now,” Rufus adds. “The trouble is, I don’t have bolt cutters and I’m not very strong. So I was thinking I might ask Lord Harrowmage to release you. He’s probably got a key tucked away somewhere.”

  The nearest gargoyle opens its mouth and croaks, “Why do you want to set us free?”

  Rufus shrugs. “I won’t if you’d rather stay chained up,” he says. “But I figure it must be hard having wings when you can’t even use them.”

  A kind of rustle disturbs the ranks of chained gargoyles. Noble senses that a message is quietly passing from plinth to plinth. Then another gargoyle speaks up.

  “Lord Harrowmage will never let us go,” it declares in a creaky voice. “We’re here to guard his fortress.”

  “Yeah, okay—but do you want to guard his fortress? Are you happy sitting here like this, day after day, staring at one another?” When there’s no reply, Rufus answers his own question. “Of course not. You wouldn’t be chained up if you were happy. You’d be off chasing pigeons around a castle roof, or something.”

  Some of the gargoyles sigh. One gurgles, “Not me. I’m a swamp gargoyle. I like mud, not roofs.”

  “Oh, yeah? I didn’t know there were different gargoyle habitats.” Rufus sounds genuinely interested. “So what’s your name, then?”

  “My name?” says the swamp gargoyle.

  “Yeah. You’ve got a name, haven’t you? Mine’s Rufus.”

  The swamp gargoyle looks mystified.

  “Come on,” Rufus presses. “You must have a name. What do your friends call you?” He glances around at the other gargoyles. “What do you guys call hi
m?”

  “Nothing,” answers a gargoyle with a beaky snout. “We call him nothing.”

  “Well, he’s not nothing. And neither are you.” Rufus puts his hands on his hips. “See, this is what I’m talking about. Everyone deserves to have a name. Everyone’s entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If Lord Harrowmage wants you to guard his fortress, he should at least give you something in return. It’s only fair.”

  There’s a low muttering as the gargoyles converse together. Finally, the swamp gargoyle turns back to Rufus and asks, “What kind of thing should he give us?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want?”

  “Mud,” says the swamp gargoyle.

  “A name,” rasps the beaky gargoyle.

  “Freedom,” brays a gargoyle with huge, curly horns and pig tusks.

  “Right on.” Rufus lifts his clenched fist in a brief salute. “I hear you. And guess what? Lord Harrowmage can give you all those things. But first, I’ve got to talk to him.”

  The gargoyles hesitate. At last one of them says, “Why?”

  “So you can talk to him.” Rufus is obviously hoping that this will satisfy the gargoyles, but they still seem confused. “Okay, look,” he argues patiently. “Does Lord Harrowmage often come out here to chat with you?”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “He never leaves his fortress,” the swamp gargoyle volunteers.

  “Exactly! And if he won’t come out, you’ll have to go in. But you can’t go anywhere while you’re chained up. Which is why I have to speak to Lord Harrowmage myself.” Rufus spreads his hands. “Let me through, and I’ll set you free, okay? It’s that simple.”

  Watching the gargoyles from his salt-dusted hollow, Noble wonders if Rufus really wants to see hundreds of gargoyles let loose upon the land. Noble doesn’t trust those gargoyles. They’re dumb beasts with big fangs and razor-sharp claws. Yet Rufus seems to think they won’t run amok.

  Unless, of course, he’s lying.

  “You want us to grant you passage?” the beaky gargoyle asks Rufus. “So you can tell Lord Harrowmage to unchain us?”

  “Yes.” Rufus nods.

  “But why would he do that?” inquires another, cannier gargoyle. “If he’s chained us up, why would he want to let us go?”

  “Because he won’t need guards anymore. Once I’ve talked to him, the fighting will stop, and everyone can enjoy themselves.” Suddenly, Rufus spins around and beckons to Noble. “My friend and I have come here to discuss peace terms. That’s why there are going to be so many changes. Hey, Noble! Stand up!”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Noble rises to his feet. The instant he reveals himself, the gargoyles unfold their wings as if they’re raising their hackles.

  “The Slayer!” a gargoyle hisses from somewhere down the line. “The Slayer is our foe!”

  “Not anymore, he’s not,” Rufus promises. “He’s sick of fighting. He’s come here to surrender.”

  Noble swallows. But he holds his tongue.

  “I mean, just look at the poor guy.” Rufus waves a careless hand. “He’s lost his boots. He’s not even armed.”

  “He has a knife,” the canny gargoyle points out.

  “You’re right. He does.” After a moment’s thought, Rufus offers a solution. “What if I ask him to throw it away? Would that make you trust him?”

  Noble is becoming more and more disturbed by this ploy—if it is a ploy. He realizes, however, that it’s too late to back out now. He has no boots, no Smite, no plans for a strategic withdrawal. Following Rufus is his only option.

  “It’ll be an act of good faith,” Rufus is saying. “Come on, guys. I’m not going in without Noble. And if I don’t go in, you don’t get your freedom. It’s that simple.” As the gargoyles begin to consult one another in a low, thick, disconcerted buzz, he leans toward Noble and whispers, “You won’t need that knife, I guarantee. This is much easier than I expected.”

  “You’re really going to unchain them?”

  “Of course! Why not?” Sensing Noble’s lack of enthusiasm, Rufus adds quietly, “I’m not making this up, you know. I believe in a better world for everyone. Including the nameless goons doing all the scut work.”

  Suddenly, a deep, hoarse voice breaks into their conversation. The curly-horned gargoyle at the head of the line has turned to address Noble.

  “If you cast off your knife and swear on the Tombs of the Seven Scryers that you won’t harm anyone or anything within the bounds of this fiefdom, then we will give you wayleave,” the gargoyle solemnly announces.

  With a sigh, Noble jerks his knife from its scabbard. He tosses it onto the ground and places his right hand on his breast. “I swear on the Tombs of the Seven Scryers,” he intones, “that I will not harm anyone or anything within the bounds of this fiefdom.”

  “Ditto,” says Rufus airily. “I mean—same here.”

  “Then you may pass.” When the curly-horned gargoyle dips its head and folds its wings, every other gargoyle follows suit. A ripple of movement travels down the road.

  Rufus and Noble exchange glances.

  “I’ll go first,” Rufus suggests. “Just in case.”

  “All right.”

  “Not that I’m worried. This is going to be a cinch.”

  Together they set off, hurrying between the ranks of silent gargoyles. Noble keeps checking over his shoulder, making sure that no one’s about to launch an assault from the rear. The gargoyles, however, don’t move a muscle. And there’s no one else in sight.

  “I’m glad this road is flat,” says Rufus. “Since I figure we’re in for a long walk.”

  “Yes,” Noble agrees. He doesn’t say anything else for a while, because he’s concentrating on the gargoyles.

  At last, however, Rufus begins to exhibit signs of boredom. First, he whistles a little tune. Then he squints at the road ahead, shading his eyes with both hands. Then he breaks the oppressive silence with a question.

  “So what are you planning to do with your life, now that you actually have one? Will you go back home, or marry the princess, or what?”

  Noble blinks.

  “You’ll have to start thinking about the future,” Rufus goes on. “You’ve always lived in the present, and that’s no good anymore. The future is where you’re heading. It’s like that fortress up there—even though you can’t see beyond the curtain walls, you have to imagine what’s inside.”

  But Noble isn’t ready to tackle the fortress just yet. He’s still struggling with an earlier suggestion.

  “I can’t marry the princess,” he splutters. “How can I, when I haven’t conquered the fortress?”

  “Oh, please.” Rufus gives a snort of derision. “Whatever happened to dinner and a movie?”

  “What?” Noble is utterly at sea. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. All I’m saying is, you should consider your options. Do you want to start a family? Or head up the troops? Or keep on drifting?” Suddenly, Rufus stops in his tracks. “Oh, wow,” he mutters. “That’s gotta be the fortress. Or is it some kind of cliff?”

  Noble can’t be certain. Only as they draw closer does it become clear that the pale band stretching across the horizon is a lofty wall. At first, Noble is confused by the glossy, uneven surface of this wall. Soon, however, he realizes that it’s made of gigantic teeth—thousands of them—packed together more tightly than his own. Some of the teeth are molars the size of barns. Some are long, pointed fangs bundled up like firewood. The raised drawbridge is studded with razor-sharp incisors. Way up in the sky, the crenellated battlements look like a string of gap-toothed lower jaws.

  “Weird,” says Rufus. “Mind you, they say that teeth are the hardest part of the human body.”

  “Yes, but I don’t think those are human teeth,” Noble rejoins drily. His gaze drops from the gleaming wall down to the crimson river that encircles the island on which the fortress is built. This river is much too deep and tumu
ltuous to ford. “We’ll never get a boat across there,” he announces, edging toward the sheer drop above the churning rapids. Rufus stares at him.

  “A boat?” Rufus echoes. “Who said anything about a boat?”

  Noble frowns. The drawbridge is up, and there’s no one on the opposite bank to catch a rope. So he can’t see any alternative to rowing.

  Unless they swim, or fly.

  “We can’t ride on gargoyles,” he points out. “Not until we unchain them.”

  Rufus grins. “Are you kidding me?” he retorts. “I wouldn’t let you sit on a gargoyle, you’d break its back! You’re enormous!”

  “Then how are we going to get in?” Standing on snow-white cobbles at the edge of a precipice makes Noble feel very exposed. He doesn’t like it. He wants to move. “Is there a rear entrance?”

  “I don’t know.” Rufus turns to the nearest gargoyle. “Is there a rear entrance?”

  The gargoyle nods. “Through the Labyrinth of Lost Hope,” it answers.

  Rufus laughs. “That would be for door-to-door salesmen,” he says. “I think we should avoid that one.”

  “Then what are we going to do?” Noble demands. He can’t understand why Rufus finds their situation so funny. At any moment, someone might open fire on them from the battlements. “We can’t swim. We can’t fly. We’d be mad to launch a boat and mad to enter the labyrinth.”

  “Seems simple enough to me,” Rufus interrupts. “We’ll use the drawbridge.” Then he raises his voice to shout across the churning watercourse. “Hey! Hello! Is anyone home?” he bellows. “We’ve come to visit Lord Harrowmage!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  There’s no response. Silence reigns.

  “I’m here to do a survey!” Rufus yells. “I have some questions to ask the householder! I come in peace!”

  Still no one replies. After a brief pause, Noble raises his empty hands and clears his throat. “I am unarmed and unshod!” he booms. “I wish to negotiate a truce in good faith and without bias! Not a soul will suffer any harm if I am admitted into the presence of Lord Harrowmage!”

  “Nice one,” Rufus says, grinning. At that very instant, a mighty gust of wind slams into them both. It’s come out of nowhere—without warning—pushing them backward as it becomes a minitornado, sucking up a whole column of fluid from the river and sprouting half a dozen watery arms.