The Hag's Contract

Twenty-Three

“Is it plague?” Harlmut asked softly.

That was just what they needed now—an outbreak of disease to kill Hawk and ruin their chance of freeing King Graben. The scullery maids who’d found old Mikkan’s body had fled the kitchens shrieking in terror. It reminded him of his childhood, when the Gray Death had swept through Grabentod, killing one of every three adults and two of every three children. He shuddered.

“No,” Mari said shortly. She and Candabraxis continued to examine the old guard’s body, now stretched out on a table in Candabraxis’s workroom.

“Then what?” he prompted.

“His blood is gone,” Candabraxis said, stepping back and wiping his hands on a clean white cloth. He met Harlmut’s gaze. “But that didn’t kill him.”

“Aye,” Mari said. “He was strangled, sure enough. See these bruise marks on his neck, Regent?”

Harlmut peered at them, then frowned. “Strangled, then his blood removed? How can that be? And why?”

“Magic,” Mari breathed. She glanced at Candabraxis, who nodded curtly.

“There’s no wound on the body to show such blood loss,” the wizard said. “If I didn’t know better, I would say the Hag has begun her revenge.”

“The Hag …” Harlmut felt his fear turn to anger. “Perhaps I should have expected retribution for stealing Hawk from her.”

Candabraxis shook his head. “But there must be another explanation. Yesterday I drew a protective rune around the castle. The magic worked perfectly. It should protect us from outside sorcery. None of the Hag’s minions would be able to pass through the castle gates.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Harlmut indicated the body.

“I don’t know,” Candabraxis said, frowning. “I must study the matter.”

“Do so,” Harlmut said. “Plague or magical attack … this cannot be allowed to happen again.”

Later, in the royal audience hall, Harlmut discussed details of the Hag’s camp with Captain Evann and Orin Hawk. A runner burst into the chamber.

Instantly, Harlmut leapt to his feet. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“Sir!” Gasping, the man drew up before him. “A ship—from Drachenward—coming now—”

Harlmut nodded. “I believe,” he said to Hawk, “an ambassador has arrived from your people. Captain Evann, if you’d be so good as to meet him at the docks?”

“Aye, sir,” Evann said with a grin. “That I will.”

His Eminence, Duke Leor of Drachenward, waddled slowly down the gangplank as though he owned Grabentod. That was the only way to enter an enemy state—with all due ceremony. He had little expectation of success here. Nobody in Drachenward’s court believed the mad claim that Grabentod had rescued Orin Hawk from the Hag. After all, Drachenward’s army had been trying for years without success.

Fifteen men-at-arms followed behind him. All wore dress uniforms, but Leor knew their true mission was to protect him. If this were some ruse designed to trap or kill him, they would make Grabentod pay dearly for it.

Leor’s chest gleamed silver and gold with his fifteen medals for military prowess. He had won them forty years ago, in his youth, in various campaigns against goblins, orogs, and neighboring states. At age forty, after his retirement to life in court, he had steadily gained both weight and influence. Now, weighing four hundred pounds, he had the king’s undivided attention. In fact, the king had personally dispatched him to lay these absurd claims to rest.

Leor’s black boots shone with a mirrorlike polish. Every bit of his uniform, from the imperial red pants and shirt to the gold epaulets on his shoulders and the high red-plumed helm, had been neatly pressed, creased, or brushed to optimum effect.

His steady gaze took in the small group of untidy men who had assembled to greet him on the dock. Rabble, all of them. He strode forward, looking to the one in front—a large, barrel-chested man with a short black beard and piercing gray eyes. That had to be their leader, he thought.

“I am Duke Leor,” he announced with a slight bow.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” the man said with a leering grin. “I am Captain Terrill Evann, one of the king’s men.”

“You aren’t the regent?” Leor demanded. Somehow it wasn’t surprising that they didn’t know proper diplomatic protocol.

“No,” Evann said. “Regent Harlmut asked me to meet you and escort you to Castle Graben. Rooms are being prepared for your stay.”

Leor glanced around. No coaches or carriages seemed in evidence. Did they expect him to walk through the streets like a commoner? Well, so be it—the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could get home. Already he hated this little kingdom of pirates.

“Very well,” he said, keeping his tone carefully noncommittal. No sense antagonizing them. If they didn’t know what they were doing, he would use that to his advantage later. “Please, lead the way, sir.”

Without a word, Evann turned and began to hike toward the castle above. Leor’s honor guard fell in around them.

Fifteen minutes later, puffing and near exhaustion, soaked in sweat despite the cold, Leor reached the castle gates. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, and he thought he’d be sick. He struggled to keep his composure. He wasn’t as young as he used to be. He should have asked for a coach. They would have provided one if he’d insisted. It would have been far more dignified than arriving huffing and blotchy-faced.

Evann escorted him to the audience hall, a dingy little room less than a third as large as he’d expected. A thin, pinch-faced man sat on the low throne, waiting for him. Four guards stood in attendance.

“We are pleased to welcome you to Grabentod,” the man said formally. “I bid you welcome to our land in the name of King Graben.”

“On behalf of Drachenward, I accept your welcome,” Leor said, studying the regent. Here, at least, was a man who knew some manners. “I am Duke Leor.”

Harlmut inclined his head slightly. “I am Harlmut, regent for King Graben.” He rose. “Please, let us retire for a more informal meeting. We have refreshments waiting.”

“Ah?” It defied protocol, but Leor wanted a drink very badly right now, and a chair would have been doubly welcome. “Of course,” he murmured. He motioned for two of his men to accompany him.

Harlmut showed them into a smaller room just off the audience chamber. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, and bright tapestries hung on the walls. He took all this in through the briefest of glances, because his eyes had fastened on the table in the center of the room.

There, spread out in a delightful series of artfully arranged platters, were delicacies he normally enjoyed only on the highest holidays in Drachenward. Anuirean summer wines and sweetmeats … truffles from Grevesmühl… oatcakes soaked in syrup from Aerenwe … and a dozen more such treats. He finally selected a small spiced cake and bit into it. Softer than any he’d tasted before, sweet as honey, with a strawberry paste at its center, it sent him into paroxysms of delight.

Perhaps, he allowed, these provincials from Grabentod were not as uncivilized as he’d feared. Seating himself at the table, he poured a goblet full of wine and sipped gently. He had no fear of poison; they would not have brought him all this way to poison him so quickly, not with so many of his guards present.

“Delectable,” he announced, smacking his lips. “An excellent year, served at the perfect temperature.”

Harlmut poured himself a goblet of wine and sipped.

“You say you’ve rescued one of our men from the Hag,” Leor said.

“True,” Harlmut said. “And we did it at great expense and loss of life, may I add.”

“But why, I wonder?” Leor said.

“We want our king back.”

“Müden has him, not Drachenward.”

“Also true. But Drachenward is not without influence.”

Leor made a deprecating gesture. “I think you overestimate our importance in Müden’s internal affairs.”

“And there is the matter of Hawk’s lineage.”

Leor’s brow furrowed. Lineage? What did that have to do with anything? Orin Hawk’s father, Oluvar, had been the sixth-born to the old king, but that hardly mattered since Oluvar’s eldest brother had ascended the throne. That placed Hawk far from Drachenward’s throne. Twenty men had better claims than he.

Then he remembered Hawk’s mother. She had come from Müden, he recalled … from the powerful Erbrecht family. Harlmut’s plan came clear to him then. It was Orin Hawk’s connection to the Erbrechts that would free King Graben, not his connection to the Drachenward throne.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I see what you mean.” He looked around. “However, I see no proof of Orin Hawk’s rescue. What say you to this?”

Harlmut rang a small bell on the table. A door in the back of the room opened, and a slender man with a short black beard and pronounced features stepped out. His gaze found Leor, and an instant later, he grinned happily.

“Your Eminence!” Hawk said.

“Baron Hawk,” Leor said, rising. Although it had been years since he’d last seen Orin Hawk, Leor recognized him instantly. There could be no mistake.

He spread his arms, and Hawk gave him a brief embrace, slapping him on the back.

“I hardly recognized you,” Hawk said. “You’ve changed a good deal since I last saw you, Leor.”

The duke patted his belly. “Success agrees with me.”

Harlmut cleared his throat. “If I may …” he said.

“Of course.” Leor took the opportunity to seat himself again, taking another strawberry-filled cake.

“I’ll wait outside, Eminence,” Hawk said. “I know I’m in good hands with you.” Nodding politely to Harlmut, he went back out the way he’d come.

“He looks well,” Leor said to Harlmut. He leaned back, looking at the regent with new respect. The man who could rescue Orin Hawk from the Hag had to be a formidable opponent, indeed, he thought. Perhaps it would soon be time to broach the subject of a new peace with Grabentod….

“Yes,” Harlmut said. “We are happy to have rendered this small service to Drachenward.”

“Bring me writing implements,” Leor said. “I must compose a letter to my king about this situation.”

Harlmut opened a drawer in the table and pulled out parchment, quill pen, inkwell, and sealing wax. Leor knew exactly what he wanted to say. Despite the barbarity of the land, they had done the near-impossible and freed Hawk. In regard to that service, he felt it their natural duty and obligation to intercede with the Erbrechts on King Graben’s behalf….

That night, Harlmut held another celebration for the court—this one in honor of Duke Leor and his entourage. Arriving fashionably late, Candabraxis found his normal seat to Harlmut’s right occupied by the duke. That suited him fine. Harlmut, he had found, possessed a knack for getting people to talk about themselves, and he wanted to know more about their guests.

As he slipped into his chair, the castle musicians struck up a lively tune, the one to which he’d taught Lady Delma the Grevesmühl Waltz. She rose at once and curtsied to Duke Leor.

“Your Eminence,” she said, fanning herself coyly, “I would be honored if you would escort me to the dance floor.”

Leor laughed. “I’m too old for dancing,” he said. “I leave that to younger men. Dance with young Hawk here,” he said, clapping Hawk on the shoulder.

“I would be honored,” Hawk said, rising. He circled the table and offered his arm, and she took it.

Candabraxis watched them sweep into the waltz. Lady Delma was whispering instructions to Hawk, and though his steps were a little more halting and awkward than Candabraxis would have expected from a nobleman, he seemed to please Lady Delma. Other dancers joined them on the floor until it seemed half the court was there.

“Your people do enjoy themselves in their king’s absence,” Leor observed a little dryly.

“Surely that’s human nature,” Candabraxis said.

Leor looked at him as if noticing his presence for the first time. “And you are …?” he asked bluntly.

“Ythril Candabraxis.” He smiled most charmingly.

“Our wizard,” Harlmut added.

Leor leaned back in his seat and regarded him with more interest. “Ah, I should have smelled magic in young Hawk’s rescue.”

“My contributions were inconsequential,” Candabraxis said. “The true hero is Captain Evann, who almost single-handedly fought his way through goblin-infested mountains, defeating many minions of the Hag, until he found Hawk and rescued him. But I’m sure you’ve heard that story enough times today.”

“Yes,” Leor said. He glanced back to Harlmut. “Tell me more of your plans. Have you considered the advantages of a real peace with Drachenward, instead of our present unfriendly truce?”

“I must admit I’ve long thought such an alliance would be mutually beneficial,” Harlmut said, “but such things must wait until King Graben returns. I am, after all, merely his regent. However, with your help, we should have him back by spring.”

“Indeed,” Leor said, “as long as the weather holds, I don’t see why he couldn’t be back here before the end of winter.”

Candabraxis smiled with satisfaction. His plan had worked admirably well. No one, not every Bowspear, would be able to stop King Graben’s return now.

Briefly, he wondered what had happened to Bowspear. If he were dead, there truly would be nothing left to interfere with Harlmut’s rule until the king’s return. Perhaps, Candabraxis thought, he should try to scry on him again. After this many days, and this much battle, Bowspear’s protective charm might have gotten separated from him.

Yes, Candabraxis decided, he’d try scrying on him again tonight.