The Monster's Legacy

  The Monster's Legacy

  Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The author wishes to express her deep appreciation to Ms. Becky Peters, mistress of antique embroidery of the middle ages, without whose expert advice she might have gone woefully astray in several details.

  1

  Summer had come early to Var-The-Outer this year, bursting out with new life to banish all the sluggishness of winter from the hunting keep. It urged one out into the wide fields, even into the forested hills rising to the often mist-cloaked mountains beyond.

  Sarita's gloved hands paused in that most delicate of tasks, winding finely beaten silver foil about a silken thread core. She could hear all the clamor below and at last could stand it no longer. Carefully setting aside the double-spooled frame, she went to the

  window.

  When she leaned forward to peer through the narrow slit, she could see the riders gathering below. She told herself she was only trying to catch a glimpse of her own handiwork, the first piece she had finished that Dame Argalas had grudgingly admitted was worthy to be passed on to their patroness, the Countess Wanda.

  Yes, that lady was wearing the fine green cloak with its overlay of silver patterning, so delicate it might be compared to the spiderwebs stretched on the field grass at early morning. Her own design, Sarita thought with a rise of pride, and her own stitchery— all her very own.

  To be sure, she was within the last half season of her apprenticeship and near eight years of learning lay behind. So if she was any sort of a workwoman, she should be able to show a goodly measure of skill.

  The countess was laughing; for the first time since their coming to this far holding a flush of color showed on her cheeks. She had been long recovering from a winter fever, drained and spent, lying abed most of the day. She had even lacked strength for little Lord Valoris, now a sturdy child of more than two years. He had been large even at his birthing and had grown —as his nurse Halda declared often —like a weed ever since.

  The earl had rejoiced in his son—though he did not see him often. And he was not unmindful of his lady (as Sarita well knew some lords could be), being greatly concerned when she did not throw off her persistent cough.

  Full half the year she had kept to the bower. The wisewoman paid frequent visits with new potions, urging the countess to more exercise to restore her vigor. But their lady had complained of feeling ever tired, and the noise which arose from the huge bailey kept her awake; she could not breathe the thick air when winter kept them close to the hearth fires.

  Once here in the outlands she had improved and took notice of Valoris. And lately she had called for Dame Argalas with questions concerning the work of the embroideresses-in-progress.

  The next year would see the accession of the young High King to his full power. There would be a formal crowning in Raganfors. As one of the coregents, Earl Florian and his household would be much in view of all the city during the pageants, jousts, and ceremonies lasting for several weeks.

  Accordingly there must be new banners, new trappings for all the jousting steeds, new ceremonial capes and robes —all certainly the finest possible. Two years earlier, Dame Argalas and her eldest and most accomplished apprentice had come to Castle Vars to set about the art of embellishing such examples of the earl's power and wealth.

  Since by guild rules an embroiderer could only work by daylight, it had taken many weary hours and there were more to come. Still, Dame Argalas could take pride in what had already been accomplished.

  She brought several samples of finished work to be shown to the countess. The countess had taken a liking to a certain pattern used on what was meant to be a minor robe and inquired concerning it. Sarita smiled, remembering Dame Argalas had not fancied that, but she was an honest woman and just and had brought forth Sarita, whose design it had been. So the countess had ordered a riding cloak for herself to be made by Sarita with a design the girl devised, though she had had to do it in spare moments, since her mistress had already set a schedule of tasks.

  They had moved to Var-The-Outer—a small holding originally meant as a minor hunting lodge enlarged, by the countess' orders after her wedding, to be a place one could put off the formality of the great keep and be at peace.

  And now there was a green cloak about the shoulders of the slender countess as she rode forth to oversee the lands for the first time. Her guards made a brave showing in their green-and-brown surcoats, the hunter-rangers all in green, their bows and quivers shouldered.

  Sarita drew a longing breath —to be one of that party even for only part of a day! She suddenly wanted so much to be beyond all walls that she surprised herself. Hands holding reins, or gathering flowers in the meadows, were much better put to work embroidering if she was to escape one of the dame's icy scoldings.

  She dropped down from the windowsill, where she had been standing on tiptoe, reluctantly returning to her stool and the infinitely delicate task of threadmaking, smoothing her thin gloves over her fingers —for the touch of skin against those threads could well dim them. It was tedious work and she would rather have been at the big embroidery frame at the other end of the chamber, stitching the pattern recently drawn there.

  Dame Argalas was doubly talented in that she not only knew the most minute variations of stitchery, but she could also lay out patterns, a craft she had taught Sarita in its more simple phases. Usually the pattern-marked fabrics had to be bought from some artist, not left to the imagination of the one working out the design. But that was why Earl Florian had chosen the dame in the first place.

  Through the half-open door, Sarita could now hear the scolding of Nurse Halda. Lord Valoris must have once more slipped his leash (which he too often did). He was a serious child, ever seeking new things.

  There was a wail. The little lord had been either recaptured or deprived of some possession he had claimed for his own. Sarita had had little contact with so young a child before. She had been an only daughter, raised in guild fosterage, apprenticed at eight to

  Dame Argalas. Certainly there had been no meddlesome children in that household —in fact, Sarita had been the youngest by several years.

  She always feared now that Valoris might get loose in this workroom. Though she wore her tools at her waist, her scissors and the horn box of different grades of needles, as well as her punch awl, small, sticky, and often dirty hands could bring disaster to the work in progress. Yet one could not be cross with the child.

  He was a beguiling mixture of his lady mother and the earl — the wide violet-blue eyes of the Countess Wanda, above a soft-fleshed but well-molded jaw which could set stubbornly on occasion. His always-tumbled hair was as golden as the long braid of the countess, but he would, Sarita was sure, grow to be as tall as his father.

  And he was of a sunny nature, his pouting or whining rarely lasting long. He could be turned from a rage by showing him something curious. To tumble with the earl's prized hounds was his greatest joy, but one Halda deplored and kept him from as much as possible.

  Sarita determinedly set to her task. Dame Argalas might not be there to offer barbed comment (she had journeyed with the earl to Raganfors these ten days past to see about the special dyings of certain cloths), but the girl had pride and she wanted her days stint to be fully accomplished —with p
erhaps a bit more. Still, when the breeze from the window ventured timidly in, she wished ... for a time in the meadow without.

  Rhys Fogarson drew a deep breath or two. Even the smell of horse—very strong—and the varied odors born of the clothing and the bodies of those about him could not damp that freshness for him. Those in the fore were raising dust on the trail now. It had been several ten-days since there had been any rain and this was a well-traveled path which, two days ahead, joined the great highway.

  This was his first time to ride as a full-passed ranger and he knew those in his company who would seize at once on any awkwardness of bearing or uncalled-for speech. The newest ranger must always efface himself in public.

  But he could sing inside and he did. The morn was so fine, their company made a splendid sight, and, as all who had seen or known of her, he was glad that the countess had taken to horse once more, eager to ride. She had been so long a prisoner to her illness that some of the doubters had come to believe she would never venture out again at all.

  His mount could easily keep to this ambling pace, but certainly was not bred for hard or swift riding. To one of his position, the dregs of the stable were considered proper. To ride at all seemed strange —he was far more used to travel by foot, slipping through woodlands where a horse might not easily find any road at all.

  This was not to be a hunt today—more an outing for the countess. Though, if they managed to start an osbuck once they were on the hill track, there was no reason not to avail themselves of the opportunity for getting fresh meat. Hans Holdfast had even added a pack pony to their party in hopes of just such luck.

  But it was Gregor Knapper who moved up beside Rhys now, that ever-taunting grin crooking his lips.

  "Prepared for the Loden, youngling?'' His eyes flitted from Rhys' bow and quiver to the short hunter's sword in his belt sheath. "I'll wager that the creature would be shaking in all his scales —like enough to shake them off his body—could he just see the mighty hunter Rhys on the trail."

  Rhys had learned patience with such as Gregor long ago. He knew he was slight of body, younger than his years in the eyes of a man like Gregor, who won last Harvest Days' wrestling matches. Best let the fellow mouth his jibes and not give him a chance to see that he was in any way striking home.

  Which he was not. The Loden? That was a spook story for children—a mountain legend so well worn by years of telling and retelling that it could no longer ruffle any wayfarer. If there ever had been such a creature —and he did not deny that some odd things had been known to exist in the mountains in the days before men had pushed very far into their somber heights —it was long since gone.

  He raised a grin.

  "Would my lord earl give a good bounty for such?" he asked. "Fill a purse tight enough and he'll have half the valley out sniffing trails. What about you, Gregor? You gave Jock his three falls in wrestling, can you do the same for the Loden, perhaps?"

  Gregor spat as if the dust from the road tickled his throat and filled his mouth.

  "There may be worse than the Loden up there." He nodded toward the heights beyond.

  Rhys straightened a little in the saddle. "Wolfheads? There's been no sign of such this half year or more."

  "Yes, and you can swear to that with your sniffing woods ranging, youngling. But the earl, he has himself a good collection of unfriends here and there, and it might move one or two of them someday to stir up a broth of trouble — "

  "Ha, Gregor!" That summons had come from one of the guard and the man urged his horse forward in answer. Rhys was left to share the rearguard, if one might call it such, with Forken, who was leading the donkey and moaning a little to himself now and then, having paid too good attention last night to the ale. He was not an inspiring trail companion, and Rhys' interest turned instead to the scene immediately around him. They were coming out of the lane where it ran through the upper meadows, in which sheep and goats were already grazing, into the fringe of the woods which ran on up to the tangled great forests above.

  However, hereabouts the wood was tamed. Fallen tree branches had been rigorously gathered for firewood during the winter—the earl allowed all the farmers fair shares in such a gleaning. He was a good lord and his people fared well.

  There were spring flowers showing pink and white and blue-violet among the leaves. Here and there a squirrel sat on a branch overhead, chattering impudently at them as they passed beneath his perch.

  On they traveled at a sober pace, twice stopping so that the countess could see some spread of flowers, and once so that she was able to drink water from a spring and remark that it was nearly as sweet as wine, so clear it ran.

  Now the wood thickened. Rhys moved uneasily in his saddle. He was too used to being afoot, ranging out into the trees and brush which fenced the trail. Something—he shook his head off as if to warn off some buzzing fly—something was amiss.

  All his life he had had queer starts, but had known from an early age that they must not be spoken of among his fellows. A man could have some skill of weapon or strength of body, but a strange pricking of an inner talent was not accepted.

  He wanted to urge his mount ahead, even to call out to Captain Karvan of the guard. The further they rode, the more the uneasiness gripped him. At last he could stand it no longer. He unslung his bow and strung it.

  "What'd see?" Froken's bleary eyes turned in his direction. "Master Loren ain't given any order f hunt."

  "Just testing," Rhys made quick answer. He could not shoot well from the saddle after all, even if a quadbear was to rear up before him.

  Only it was no quadbear and there were others who could shoot, truly and deadly, from among the greenery. Rhys jerked and dropped his bow as a shaft skewered his upper arm. At the same time, his horse gave a shrill cry of pain and stamped on into those ahead with a second shaft, near feather deep, in its side. It stumbled and went to its knees, and Rhys had just time to swing off, stumbling forward, fumbling for the hilt of his ranger's sword.

  The narrow wooded road was all wild confusion. Mounts were down kicking and men lay still or screamed. There was a swirl of riders around the countess, her guards closed tightly about her—but to no purpose. There was no one in sight to fight, only the arrows which continued to pick them off.

  As he made his way toward that embattled knot, Rhys wondered about the attack. No battle cries sounded except those of Vars. Who had sprung this vicious ambush and why?

  He caught his foot in a tangle of rein from one of the downed horses and fell forward, his head cracking against the saddle of another felled beast. There was a flash of pain so intense it whirled him away as he collapsed to the ground. A moment later, one of the defenders of the countess fell across his inert body, great gouts of blood covering them both.

  2

  Sarita, having carefully wound the last curling thread end on the spool, sat for a moment, wriggling her fingers to loosen the cramp caused by such concentrated fine work. It must be past nooning—time for her to go down to the buttery for her ration of bread, cheese, and mild ale. She was hungry, she realized suddenly.

  There were no longer any sounds from the nursery, which shared this level of the tower. Perhaps Halda had taken her charge out for an airing.

  Sarita got up —and froze. From outside the window came a wild clamor. Over her head thundered the great alarm bell, which she had never heard put to use before. The violence of its clanging seem to shake the very walls about her. Eerie shouts from below the window drew her.

  She could see the great gate from there, and it had been pushed ajar. Not for the return of the party that had ridden forth this morning, but for a rabble of running, screaming women hauling children by the hand or carrying babies, and men with pitchforks or threshing flails in their hands, the few weapons of the field workers.

  They stormed into the courtyard, and Sarita saw three of the guards strain to shut the gate behind them before the great bar dropped into place. Var-The-Outer was no great castle, fortif
ied as one of the keeps nearer the rich bottom lands. There had been no raids of wolfheads heard of here for years —except some skirmishes in winter—well beyond the walls between the ill-armed outlaws and guards or rangers. Certainly no such band of half-starved and ill— weaponed men had started this rout!

  She strained to see the small village. There was smoke —and distant screams so thin and far away that her ears barely caught the sound.

  There called now, after the alarm bell had given its last thunderous clang, the whistle of the guard sergeants. But half their number had ridden out that morning. . . . The women and children from the village had been pushed and shoved into cover—they must now be in the great hall, while those able to bear arms —some of the grooms and even the cook's boy (he flourished an iron spit nearly as tall as himself) —came out and were shouted and cuffed into forming a defense line of sorts.

  Those bowmen left were already on the heights. Sarita had heard the race of feet on the stairs outside her own chamber as some must have gone to the crown of the tower.

  Yet, save for that dark curl of smoke from the village, nothing moved in the open near the keep. Sarita's hands crooked again. Weapon work was beyond any learning she had. But—

  She drew away from the window to stare about her at the two standing frames with half-finished work stretched across them, at the bare walls and the herb and rush-strewn floor underfoot. The keep was well set and Earl Florian had over the years seen to its constant maintenance. How could outlaws think of storming it?

  Were they wolfheads? Rumors she had only half heard came to mind. Earl Florian had been the principal regent for the young High King. He had held straightly to the laws, endeavoring to turn over to his young master a strong and rich kingdom when the day came. And so —being the man he was —he had made enemies. There were several lords who had been prevented from private wars with their neighbors. He had stood up to the town guilds and saw to a fair taxing system.