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  “You will not, sir, if the baron digs any deeper into the crypt,” whispered Swan.

  “If she bewitches you,” called Leng, “we’ll have to lock you in with her.”

  Sir Kergan backed away. Then he turned and strode out of the cell, jostling Leng. “If you ever threaten me again, you Muscovite swine, I’ll gut you like a hog.”

  “Shut the door,” said Leng.

  The jailor strained, pushing it closed it with a thud and a click.

  “Stop the baron!” called Swan. “Don’t let him dig up the evil. We’re all doomed if he does. If you don’t believe me, Sir Kergan, examine the creatures in these cells that you think are hounds. Look at them closely and remember that once they were men.”

  “Silence, witch!” shouted Leng. “By the Moon Lady you will not cast your spells on us.” He spoke to the others. “The mystic is sly. She casts enchantments upon your sight. Beware of whatever you see while in the dungeon and remember that it was your cousin who ordered her here.”

  Then Leng, the two knights and the jailor hurried down the corridor, the sounds growing fainter and the torchlight dimmer. Soon it was dark again, and the distant stone door shut with a final grate of noise. Only then did the cockroaches scurry back into her cell, and Swan wondered how long until she too was possessed by evil and turned in a hideous creature like Kerold the Carpenter.

  CHAPTER TWO

  No crickets chirped in this darkening swamp. No frogs croaked from stagnant pools choked with lily pads and slime. With the coming of dusk, no bats screeched nor winged around the crooked dwarf trees. No swamp-bears roared, no mosquitoes whined, not a fly buzzed or flew into sight. Not even the once-abundant salamanders splashed in the puddles sprinkled throughout this sea of weedy grass. The swamp seemed dead, as if it had lost interest in this world and passed beyond to the next.

  Then sounds came, sounds muted and strange for this time and place: a saddle creaked, a stallion whickered and armor clanked. The noise came from behind a dead willow tree and showed itself a moment later. A heavy war-horse plodded, making slurping sounds as he lifted iron-shod hooves out of the mire. Red silks adorned the stallion’s sides, while a strong leather saddle provided seating for a knight in armor. Visor down, lance held upright and with a green pennon waving, the knight appeared lost.

  Behind him toiled an old man on a mule. The mule-rider wheezed, wore an eye-patch and seemed broken down and useless, although he wore a red and green jacket and a jaunty red and green cap. The old man’s fingers were gnarled and his face a leathery patchwork of scars and bruises. There was nothing old and useless, however, about the heavy crossbow in his hands. The notched steel string touched a squat, ugly-looking bolt that sat in the groove.

  Scowling, the old man kicked his heels against the mule’s flanks, until his small mount trotted beside the knight. “Do you remember the witch-storms?” he growled upward. “The ones the Novgorod sorcerers threw at us in the land of Muscovy?”

  The knight drew rein, and without lifting his visor, he regarded his squire, Hugo.

  “Remember the silence before those storms?” The old man spoke out of the left side of his mouth. Over the years, the right side had grown stiff. “Remember the way nothing seemed alive until those storms hit?”

  The knight remained as silent as the swamp. He hated memories of Muscovy, often drank late into the night to drown the memories into oblivion where they belonged.

  “There’s sorcery here,” muttered Hugo. “You mark my words.”

  The knight slotted his lance in leather saddle-rings. He grasped his helmet and twisted, lifting the red-plumed helm from his head. His sweaty dark hair lay thick on his scalp, and he had a tough, weather-beaten face. It had been hit, slashed and the facial bones broken many times. The big nose lay askew and the skin around his eyes was scarred. He wore a close-cropped beard to hide even worse scars on his lower face.

  “Mark your words,” said Sir Gavin.

  “Can’t you feel the taint?”

  Gavin squinted into the distance, not wanting to feel anything. A maze of thorny hedges and boggy ground spread before him. He twisted in the saddle and saw more of the same behind. Then a bat squealed, startling him. It flapped out of the willow tree. With surprising quickness, Hugo tracked it with his crossbow, but refrained from shooting. Gavin eyed the old tree, unable to spot what had spooked the little creature.

  “Let’s turn back,” Hugo said.

  “No. I’m sick of mud.”

  With a wave of a gnarled, knuckled hand, Hugo indicated the sea of mud before them.

  “Maybe it clears up ahead,” Gavin said.

  Hugo snorted. He never expected good fortune.

  “We know how far back it stretches behind us,” Gavin said.

  “True. But at least we know that several leagues later it ends.”

  Gavin considered that. Maybe the shortcut through the swamp had been a mistake. Should he have stayed with the noble fops? Their lordly manners had become too grating for him, their idle chatter too reminiscent of—a faint sound drifted near. It came from the direction they traveled. Gavin cocked his head.

  Hugo lowered his.

  “Sounds like yelling,” Gavin said.

  “You can’t tell that.”

  “Angry yelling,” Gavin said, “black rage.”

  “Bah.”

  Gavin picked up his hunting horn, the one dangling by a silken cord around his neck. He fiddled with it, hesitating.

  “You mark my words,” muttered Hugo.

  The appeal to prudence failed, possibly because the endless mud had turned Gavin stubborn. He blew a piercing note, one audible for miles around. Then he urged his war-horse forward, letting the horn swing against his mail.

  Complaining, the words a familiar patter, Hugo followed, the mule working hard to keep up with the stallion.

  They skirted shallow, muddy pools and struggled through mire. Then the ground hardened and they entered an area of thorn brush and stunted hangman trees. Gavin ducked branches, although a few leaves slapped his face. Hugo rode hunched over, one hand on his saddle’s cantle, the other arm guarding his precious crossbow.

  Hugo looked up, his leathery, one-eyed face registering surprise. “I hear it. You were right. It is yelling.”

  The yelling grew as they wound past taller thickets.

  “Are you certain this is wise?” asked Hugo.

  Gavin had been asking himself that. No, it probably wasn’t wise, but he didn’t want to spend another night outdoors, not in this swamp. He also wanted to dry his undergarments by a fire and have Hugo re-oil his weapons.

  “Someone’s in trouble,” he said, his scarred face taking on a stubborn cast.

  “If we’re rash we could be the ones in trouble,” Hugo said.

  Gavin shrugged, confident that little on this wet island could match a knight on his war-horse. Besides, better to surprise a possible foe than be surprised by him.

  “This is unwise,” grumbled Hugo.

  Gavin appeared not to hear. He also knew that when Hugo became grumpy his shooting improved.

  A dense thicket towered ahead. Beyond it thundered a voice: “Don’t think playing the fool will save you!”

  Gavin reined to a halt as his heartbeat quickened. Battle, he hated it, he loved it. Only a fool rushed into a fight; fighting cut though pomp, it cut through airy words and brought everyone down to the level of sinew, reflex and hard courage. As quietly as possible, he dismounted, stepping into mud as his oiled mail make a slithering metallic clink. Leading his stallion by the reins, he crept to the thicket. Hugo also dismounted, cradling his crossbow and limping. Old Hugo favored his lame right foot.

  They carefully parted branches and peered into a clearing. An outlaw’s court appeared to be in session. Like a pack of wolves, the jury, a dozen ruffians, circled the judge and his victim. The ruffians were middling-sized men with gaunt faces and crude leather clothing spattered with mud. Each wore an animal-skin cap. Curved knives and cudgels hu
ng from their belts, along with leather sacks. They leered and waited hungrily for the sentence. The judge bore no resemblance to them. He was massive, bigger than Gavin, with a bear-cloak draped over his shoulders. As if he were in a king’s hall, he let the cloak trail in the mud. He had fierce eyes, a loud voice and a crown of white hair. With heavily ringed hands, he bore a great axe with a five-foot haft of ash. He shouted at a cowering youth. The lad was dressed as the men minus an animal-skin cap. The youth’s right boot was torn and his ankle bleeding. Behind him lay three shaggy dogs, nervous and whiny, their tails lashing.

  The youth dared raise his head and mutter a plea. The hounds perked up at his voice. The judge, the great brute of a noble, opened wide his eyes. He roared, “I’ll show you mercy!” With a buffet, he struck the boy to the ground. The hounds cowered. The ruffians cheered, elbowing each other.

  Eyes blazing, the brute turned on them. They cowered too then, the smiles and leers freezing on their cruel faces. The brute roared orders as he handed his great axe to the nearest man. The ruffians sprang to obey. One whipped out an oily rag and polished the axe-head. Others rushed about and picked up twigs and branches. Another, with flint and tinder, struck sparks against a resin-coated torch. The brute roared again. Twigs and branches flew into a pile. The smoking torch touched it. The wet twigs smoldered and soon crackled with flames. A toothless ruffian with rheumy eyes squatted by the fire as he thrust a knife into it.

  “I want it white hot!” shouted the brute.

  The old ruffian bent over the fire. He huffed and puffed as smoke billowed into his face.

  “What do you think they’re planning?” whispered Hugo.

  Gavin, his eyes hard, motioned his squire to silence. As a page and then a squire, he had learned to hate nobles lording it over their underlings. The cruel time in Muscovy had only honed that hate.

  The brute paced, trailing his bear cloak behind him. The ruffians watched fearfully, although when they looked at the fallen youth their eyes shone with cruel intent.

  The sooty-faced old ruffian jumped up with the dagger glowing red.

  “Keep it in the fire, you fool!” roared the brute.

  The old ruffian thrust the blade back into the fire…and yelped. In his zeal, he had shoved in his hand. The others laughed until the brute glowered. They fell silent, some choking on the suddenness of it.

  The brute gestured imperiously. Two of them sprang to the fallen youth. As they yanked him upright, the youth howled, shook them off and brandished a dagger. The dogs leaped up, their hackles raised. A third ruffian stepped behind the youth and swung his cudgel against the boy’s back. A fourth man, grinning maliciously, clubbed the knife-hand. The youth cried out, staggering, twisting for his fallen weapon. The brute stepped behind him and with a single, stunning blow knocked the defenseless youth to the ground. The brute finished off the rebellion—if that’s what it had been—with three savage kicks to the ribs.

  Gavin swore an awful oath. He had seen enough.

  “He could be a thief,” whispered Hugo.

  Two ruffians thumped a log onto the soggy ground. Another handed the brute his great axe. Others dragged the nearly unconscious youth forward, placing his knife-hand on the chopping block.

  Gavin let go of his branch, his arms a-tingle. Maiming penalties—his stomach hardened with resolve. Did it take all these swine to beat up one lone youth? In two bounds, he vaulted onto his war-horse and yanked free his lance.

  “We don’t know all the facts,” Hugo pleaded.

  “Don’t let that axe touch him,” Gavin said with flat finality.

  Hugo muttered under his breath as he pushed his crossbow through the thorny branches. In the clearing, the brute raised his great axe over his head. The crossbow shivered. With a clang—stubby bolt striking polished axe-head—the huge weapon flew out of the brute’s grasp.

  Gavin spurred his stallion. The war-horse smashed through the thicket, sharp braches clawing at mail armor.

  They appeared as if by magic, huge stallion bearing a knight with his massive lance. The iron-shod hooves clopped, the knight laughed. The terrifying spectacle of the mailed man bearing down on them—the startled ruffians stared only a moment. Then they yelled, scattering like mice. In their haste, some dropped their knives, their clubs. A few sobbed, tripped and sprawled onto the mud, throwing wild glances over their shoulders.

  With the blood pounding in his ears, Gavin reined in beside the fallen boy. “Up, up!” he shouted.

  Braver than his men, the brute snatched his great axe where it had landed. He roared at his ruffians. The loud voice forced heads to swivel back toward their master.

  By clutching onto Gavin’s left stirrup—Gavin leaned down to help—the groaning, swollen-eyed youth dragged himself up. Of the hounds, there was no sign. With a cluck of his tongue, Gavin walked his war-horse backward. The youth staggered with him, biting his lips, probably so he wouldn’t cry out. Gavin liked him because of it. He kept a wary eye on the bear-cloaked brute speaking urgently to his men. Hugo reined in beside him on the mule as he dropped a bolt into the crossbow’s groove.

  “That’s Baron Barthek’s man!” shouted the brute, pointing at the youth with his great axe. The ruffians crowded behind him. A few held clubs, some their long curved knifes, one or two hefted stones.

  Gavin ingested the news, nodded. “I’m saving the baron’s man from outlaws.”

  The brute thumped his massive chest. It was clad in waxy leather armor. “I’m the baron’s cousin, you fool, Sir Kergan of Forador Castle.”

  “Let me shoot him,” muttered Hugo. “Let’s be done with it.”

  “Hand over the criminal,” said Kergan, daring to step forward.

  “No criminal,” whispered the youth. “I…I saved a girl’s life. For that they’re chopping off my hand.”

  Gavin examined the youth with his blond hair plastered to a simple-looking, exhausted face. He saw honesty and decided to trust the boy’s story, whatever it might be.

  “Old Beron charged…” The youth grew pale and clutched the stirrup. “Beron charged peasants pulling honey out of a tree. He…he tried to claw a little girl. I ran up to save her. Old Beron slashed open my boot. I-I drew my knife and cut him.”

  “Old Beron is a bear?” asked Gavin.

  “I wasn’t poaching,” said the youth.

  Gavin knew the terrible punishments for poaching. He hated such laws and the arrogance of the nobles that lay behind them.

  “Sir Knight,” bellowed Kergan, “send me my dog boy!”

  “I would know his crime,” Gavin said.

  “Knave! I am the seneschal of Castle Forador. Hand over the dog boy or face my wrath!” Spittle flew from Kergan’s mouth as he shook the great axe.

  Gavin re-gripped his lance, thinking fast. “Surely you follow the codes of Hosar.”

  The brute roared, “That has no bearing—”

  “Good seneschal,” Gavin said, “knights are to protect the weak. Thus it is clear—”

  “Fan out!” Kergan snarled to his men.

  Still hiding behind their huge master, the ruffians glanced at one another. Kergan spun around and glared at them. They took tentative steps from behind his back.

  Gavin said, “One more step and my squire will put a bolt into your heart.”

  Hugo squinted his one good eye at them, with his crossbow aimed first at one man, then another.

  The ruffians blanched and halted, not daring to look up at their lord.

  “Sir Kergan?” asked the man-at-arms beside him. At least he appeared to be a man-at-arms, for he had a sword instead of a dagger and wore a helmet instead of a hunting cap.

  Kergan’s shaggy white eyebrows thundered together as he eyed the crossbow. “You claim to follow…to follow…”

  “Hosar,” Gavin said.

  “Yet your squire aims that un-knightly weapon at me. Crossbows are only to be used against the wretches of Muscovy and Novgorod.”

  “So it was used,” Gavin said.
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  “What?” the man-at-arms asked.

  Gavin sighed, not wanting to talk about it. Why did it always come down to this? “Hugo and I went crusading to the land of Novgorod and beyond. We fought with the Sword Brothers there.”

  Shocked silence filled the glade. The man-at-arms stirred. “Milord, these are honorable men.”

  Kergan spat at the mud.

  Gavin leaned on his saddle horn, deciding this noble ass needed fleecing instead of killing. To mock the man would likely hurt more deeply. He cleared his throat. “I have a way out of our impasse, sir. For you also must be an honorable man. Why otherwise does your baron keep you as his right-hand fighter? Tomorrow, choose a champion or face me on the jousting yard. The winner decides the dog boy’s fate.”

  Glowering, Kergan shook his head.

  “Come now, sir,” Gavin said. “Your hair is white, true enough. Yet you’re a giant compared to your men. Surely you don’t fear to face me man-to-man.”

  Haughty pride expanded Kergan’s chest. “I am the seneschal of Castle Forador. My word is law in Forador Fief.”

  “But I claim a higher law,” Gavin said, having argued a thousand times upon points of honor. His unique pastime demanded it, and his wits in this arena had become almost as sharp as his fighting skills. “A trial by duel will settle this.”

  The man-at-arms dared whisper into Kergan’s ear.

  “Do you wish to duel to the death?” Kergan asked.

  “There is no need for that,” Gavin said. “Let us duel tomorrow until one of us cries quit or is unconscious.”

  Kergan appeared thoughtful as he sized up Gavin.

  “Beware,” whispered the dog boy. “Sir Kergan plans treachery.”

  “Yes!” shouted Kergan. “Tomorrow you’ll face a champion on the jousting yard.”

  “You swear this by Hosar?” asked Gavin.

  “Knave!” shouted Kergan, his thick features flushing once more. “No one questions me!”

  “I question nothing, sir. But an oath, in this situation, only seems wise.”

  Sir Kergan breathed heavily and his men cringed.

  “Is he a berserker?” muttered Hugo.