City of Golden Shadow, Page 41

  "I'm a stranger." Paul was still struggling to catch his breath. "I am passing through. I care nothing about local troubles."

  "The urchin is an outsider, too," the knight said through the lion's snarling muzzle. "And he and his starvelings have caused nothing but problems since they arrived—thieving, lying, spreading nonsensical tales. Her Majesty will have no more of it."

  "That's a lie!" Gally was on the verge of tears. "Them are all lies!"

  "Kneel, or I will treat you as harshly as one of your capons, spit boy."

  Paul pulled Gally back; the knight spurred forward. There was nowhere for them to go—even if they could reach the trees behind them, it would only be a matter of time before he rode them down. Deadened, Paul slowly dropped to one knee.

  "What, what, then? Who goes there?" Another knight now cantered into the clearing from the side nearest the river, this one dressed all in shining white, his helmet shaped like a horse's head with a single horn protruding from its brow—an animal whose name Paul felt he should remember, but couldn't. A wide array of weapons, flasks, and other objects dangled from the knight's saddle, so that his horse clattered like a tinker's wagon every time it moved. "Avaunt!" he shouted. "Or is it 'aroint!'?"

  The red knight could not keep a note of surprise from his voice. "What are you doing here?"

  The figure in white armor paused as though the question were difficult. "Took a bit of a dodgy turn, I suppose. Unexpected. Suppose we'll have to have a battle now."

  "These are the queen's prisoners," declared Lion-helm, "and I cannot waste my time with you. I will allow you to retreat, but if I see you again once I have finished with these. . . ." he waggled his lance at Paul and the boy, "I will have to kill you."

  "Retreat? Oh, hardly possible—no, can't do it. She's not my queen, you see." The white knight paused as if trying to remember something important. He reached up and pulled off his helmet, exposing a damp halo of pale hair, and scratched vigorously at his scalp.

  Paul stared in astonishment "Jack? Jack Woodling?"

  The knight turned to stare at him, obviously puzzled. "Jack? I'm no Jack. See here," he turned to the red knight, "there's prisoners for you. I've had 'em myself. No respect, no understanding of the niceties."

  "It's not him," Gally said in a loud whisper.

  Paul shook his head. This was rapidly becoming farce. "But—but I've met you before! The other night, in the woods. Don't you remember?"

  The man in white armor stared at Paul. "In the woods? Fellow that looked like me?" He turned again to the red knight "I believe this chap's met my brother. Fancy. He's been missing for some time. Always was a rover." He swiveled again. "Did he seem well?"

  Lion-helm was neither interested nor amused. "Turn and depart, you lack wit White, or it will go badly with you." He drew his horse back a few restive paces, then couched his lance and pointed it at the newcomer.

  "No, that won't do." The white knight was growing perturbed. "Have to claim this square, do you see—Her Serene and Alabaster Highness' now, sort of thing." He pulled his helmet on again. "So I suppose it's a battle."

  "Idiot!" screamed the red knight. "You prisoners—you will stay there until I have finished!"

  The white knight had now lowered his lance and was cantering forward, banging and clanking as he went. "Prepare yourself!" he shouted, then undercut the effect by asking "Quite sure you're ready?"

  "Run!" Gally sprinted past the red knight, who turned his head to bellow at the boy, only to receive his enemy's lance in the middle of his breastplate. He flailed as he lost his balance, tumbled off his horse and fell heavily to the ground.

  As Paul dashed past, the lion knight was already clambering to his feet, pulling a huge and unpleasant looking mace from a strap on his saddle.

  "A good one—oh, very good, you must admit!" said the white knight. He did not seem to be preparing any defense as the red knight approached.

  "But he'll kill him!" Paul hesitated, then took a tentative step back into the clearing as the red knight swung his cudgel and smashed his opponent out of his saddle and onto the damp earth.

  Gally grabbed his sleeve and yanked him hard, almost pulling him off his feet. "Leave them to go at it! Come on, governor!" He darted down the hill again, this time retaining his grip on Paul's sleeve. Paul had no choice but to follow stumblingly after him. Within moments the clearing was hidden in the trees behind them, but they could hear grunting, cursing, and a ponderous clang of metal on metal for some time.

  "He rescued us!" Paul gasped, when they had stopped for a moment to rest. "We can't just leave him to the."

  "The knight? Who gives a toss?" Gally tossed his damp hair out of his face. "He's not one of us—if he snuffs it, he'll be back again. In the next match."

  "Back? Next match?"

  But the boy was running again. Paul staggered after him.

  The shadows were long and angular. Afternoon was fading quickly, the sun just resting on the spine of the hills. Paul grabbed at the boy for support when they stopped and almost dragged them both to the ground.

  "Can't. . . ." he panted. ". . . Rest. . . ."

  "Not for long." Gally seemed tired also, but far less so than Paul. "The river's just over the rise, but we've still got to follow it a ways before we reach the border."

  Paul set his hands on his knees, but could not unbend his waist and stand straight. "If . . . if those two are fighting . . . why . . . we . . . running. . . ?"

  "Because there were others—you saw them on the hill. Redbreasts. Foot soldiers. But they can move steady and quick when they want to, and they don't need to stop and wheeze their guts out." He slid to the ground. "Catch your breath, then we got to move fast-like."

  "What did you mean before? About the knight dying?"

  Gally rubbed his face, leaving streaks of dirt like primitive face paint. "Them all, they just go round and round. They fight and fight until one side wins, then it starts all over again. This is the third match since we came here, that I remember."

  "But don't people get killed?"

  " 'Course they do. But only till the end of the match, as they call it. Then everything starts up again. They don't even remember."

  "But you do, because you're not from here?"

  "Suppose." The boy frowned, then grew thoughtful. "Do you think maybe all the little'uns, Bay and the rest, will be back the next time? Do you think?"

  "Has it ever happened before? Have you . . . lost any of your little'uns that way, then had them come back?"

  Gally shook his head.

  "I don't know," Paul said at last. But he thought he did know. He doubted that whatever magic protected the natives of the Eight Squared extended to outsiders.

  When he could stand upright again, Gally led them on. After a short trek through thick forest they pushed through a spinney of twisted trees and found themselves looking down a long grassy slope to the river. Paul had no chance to savor the view. Gally led him down to within a few hundred yards of the water's edge, then turned them toward the ridge of hills. They walked as quickly as they could across the sparse, sandy meadows, the sun's orange glare in their eyes until they passed into the shadow of the hills.

  Paul stared out at the river and the dim breakfront of trees that ran along its farther bank. Just beside them the shadowed water seemed full of blue-gleaming depths; behind them, outside the shadows in which they stood, it seemed to smolder in the sunset light like a long ribbon of molten gold. Somehow, the river seemed at once both more and less real than the landscape it transected, as if a feature from one famous painting had been inserted into another.

  He slowed for a moment, suddenly aware of a cloud of partial memories that had gradually been making themselves more and more a part of his thoughts. Famous painting? What would that be? Where had he seen or heard of such a thing? He knew what it meant without quite being able to visualize anything that would correspond to the idea.

  "Hurry yourself, governor. We want to be in the caves by dark or
they'll find us."

  "Why don't we just swim across the river to the other side?"

  Gally turned to glare at him. "Are you barmy?"

  "Or we could make a raft if it's too far—there's lots of wood."

  "Why would we want to do that?"

  Paul, as usual, had moved into conceptual territory where the bits of knowledge floating up did not seem to match the world around him. "To . . . to escape. To get out of the Eight Squared."

  Gally stopped and planted his hands on his hips, scowling. "First off, I told you, you don't want to go on the river because you can be found. Second thing is, there ain't no other side."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just what I said—there ain't no other side. Even an eejit knows that. You don't get out of the Eight Squared that way—the river just goes past it."

  Paul could not understand the distinction. "But—but what's that?" He pointed at the distant bank.

  "It's . . . I don't know. A mirror, sort of. A picture, maybe. But there's nothing there. That's how we lost one of the big ones. She thought she could cross, even though she'd been told."

  "I don't understand. How can there be nothing out there when I can see something?"

  Gally turned and resumed walking. "You don't have to believe me, governor. Get yourself killed if you want. But you and me, we won't pop up again next match, I'm thinking."

  Paul stood staring at the far trees for some time, then hurried after him. When the boy saw he was following, he gave Paul a look of mixed relief and disgust, but then his eyes opened wide, staring at something even farther back. Paul turned.

  An object was speeding across the meadow toward them, still a long distance back and moving too fast to be clearly seen. A trail of thin smoke hung in the air where the grass smoldered in its wake.

  "Run!" shouted Gally.

  Despite his weariness, Paul did not need encouraging. They pelted toward the looming purple hills, whose skirts were now only a thousand paces away. A nearer jut of stone, which Paul had at first taken to be another rock formation, revealed itself to be the work of human hands as they sped across it. The single triangular spike, taller than a man, stood at the center of a broad circle of flat stone tiles incised with strange patterns. Running across the smooth hard face of what Paul guessed was an enormous sundial actually sped their pace, and for a moment Paul thought they might reach the cave safely. Small animals with contorted, curving muzzles scuttled out of their path and into the surrounding scrub.

  They were just stumbling across the sand and rocky scree that marked the hem of the hills when a red something rushed past them with the noise and force of a small freight train.

  Freight train? wondered Paul, even in his disordered panic. What. . . ?

  The thing pulled in front of them and skidded to a halt, throwing up a trailing barrage of hot gravel. Tiny stones pinged against Paul's chest and face.

  She was at least a head taller than he was and bright red from head to foot. Every bit of her was the same glossy shade, even her haughty face and her upswept hair. Her vast, flared gown seemed made of something heavier and stiffer than cloth. A few wisps of smoke still drifted from beneath the hem.

  "You! I am told you refused my offer of vassalage." Her voice was pump-engine loud, but chilly enough to freeze birds on the wing. "That is not the way to gain my favor."

  Gally was slumped beside him. Paul sucked in just enough breath to talk without squeaking. "We meant no offense, Your Highness. We only sought to. . . ."

  "Silence. You will speak when spoken to, but only when I tell you that you have been spoken to. Now you have been spoken to. You may speak."

  "We meant no offense, Your Highness."

  "You said that already, I am not sure I wish to have you as vassals, in any case—you are frightfully stupid creatures." She lifted her hand in the air and snapped her fingers, a noise as loud as a gunshot. From the trees far away along the ridge, three armored foot soldiers appeared and began skidding and tumbling down the hillside, hurrying to their lady's summons. "I suppose we shall simply have your heads off. Not the most original punishment, but I find that the old ways are the best, don't you?" She paused and glared at Paul. "Well, have you nothing to say?"

  "Let us go. We are leaving. We have no wish to interfere."

  "Did I say you had been spoken to?" She frowned, honestly pondering. "Ah, well, if I remember and it turns out you have spoken out of turn, I shall simply cut your head off twice."

  The soldiers had reached flat ground and were hurrying toward them. Paul considered trying to dodge past the queen and sprint for the beckoning darkness of a large cave in the rocks only a hundred paces away.

  "I see you," said the queen. "I know what you are thinking." There was not an iota of levity or human feeling in her voice—it was like being trapped by some horrible machine, "You may not plot escape without permission either. Not that it would do you any good." She nodded; an instant later she was ten paces to one side. Paul had seen only a brief scarlet blur. "You are much too slow to outrun me," she pointed out. "Although you have moved a little more swiftly than I would have guessed. It is most infuriating when pieces come into the Eight Squared and move just as they choose. If I knew who was responsible, heads would roll, I promise you." She momentarily blurred again, ending up less than a yard from Paul and the boy, staring down at them with evident distaste. "Heads will roll in any case. It is only a question of which and how many."

  The first of the soldiers trotted up, closely followed by his two companions. Before Paul could shake off his surprise at the queen's astonishing speed of movement, strong and ungentle hands pulled his arms behind his back.

  "It seems there was something else," the queen said abruptly. She raised one scarlet finger to her chin and tilted her head to the side, woodenly childlike. "Was I perhaps going to cut some other parts of you off instead of your heads?"

  Paul struggled uselessly. The two soldiers who held him were as painfully solid as the queen appeared to be. Gally was not even trying to fight free of the man-at-arms who held him. "We have done no harm!" Paul cried. "We are strangers here!"

  "Ah!" The queen smiled, pleased at her own cleverness.

  Even her teeth were the color of fresh blood. "You have reminded me—strangers." She lifted her fingers to her mouth and whistled, an ear-jabbing blast of sound that echoed from the hillstones. "I promised I would hand you over to someone. Then I will have the heads off whatever is left."

  Paul felt a sudden chill that moved through him like a damp wind from the night ocean. He swiveled, knowing what he would see.

  Two figures had appeared on the meadow behind them, both wearing hats and cloaks, their faces shadowed. They moved forward deliberately, with no apparent haste. As the smaller of them spread its arms in a horrible mock-display of surprise and pleasure, something glinted in the shadow beneath its hat brim.

  "There you are!" The voice made Paul want to scream and bite at his own flesh. "We had wondered how long it would be until we found you again. . . ."

  Gally moaned. Paul threw himself forward, trying to break free, but the queen's soldiers had him gripped fast.

  "We have such special things waiting for you, our dear old friend." The pair were closer now, but still not quite distinguishable, as though they carried some deeper darkness wrapped around them in a cloud. "Such special things. . . ."

  Even as Paul's knees gave way, and he sagged into the strong arms of his captors, he heard a strange sound. Either Gally's moaning had become almost as loud as the queen's whistle had been, or. . . .

  The rumbling grew stronger. Paul dragged his eyes from the terrible yet fascinating spectacle of his pursuers and looked toward the hills. He wondered if an avalanche were beginning—surely only the friction of stone on stone could make such a deep, grating noise. But there was no avalanche, only a vast, winged thing that growled as it emerged from the cavern in the hillside. Paul stared. The queen's mouth hung open.

  "Jabberwock!" c
hoked one of the soldiers—a hopeless, terrified sound.

  Once out of the confining cave the thing stood and spread its wings until the tips rose high enough to catch the sun's last rays in their veined membrane. The heavy-lidded eyes blinked. The head snaked forward on the end of an impossibly long neck, then the wings bellied and cracked as the creature took flight. Gally's captor toppled over onto his back, where he lay making a thin screeching noise.

  The beast went straight up until it hung in the bright sky above the hilltops, a black silhouette like a bat stretched across a lantern, then dropped into a dive. The soldiers holding Paul both let loose at the same moment and turned to run. The queen raised her arms and bellowed at the thing as it descended. Paul was staggered and then toppled by the gale as the creature spread its vast wings and banked upward, one of the terrible cloaked figures kicking in its birdlike grip.

  "Gally!" screamed Paul. There was dust everywhere, swirling funnels of it. Somewhere, through the grit and shadow and rush of wind, he could hear the outraged screams of the Red Queen. "Gally!"

  He found the boy huddled on the ground and snatched him up, then turned and began running toward the river. As they stumbled across the uneven terrain, the boy glanced up and saw their destination.

  "No! Don't!"

  Paul splashed into the shallows with the struggling child in his arms. As he waded out into the current, he heard a voice calling from the chaos behind them.

  "You are only making it worse! We will find you wherever you go, Paul Jonas!"

  He let the boy go, then began swimming toward the far bank. Gally was floundering beside him, so Paul caught the boy's collar and kicked hard against the water and the tangling reeds. Something swooped past overhead, the wind of its passage beating the water into whitecaps. A scarlet figure that shrieked like a boiling kettle dangled in its claws. The waves battered Paul and pushed him back toward the bank. He was growing weak and the other side of the river was still very far away.

  "Swim, boy," he gasped, letting Gally go. Together they struggled a little farther, but the current was sweeping them apart and also pushing them at a right angle to the bank, which seemed to grow no closer.