"I know about your prisoner, Liskin," the Baron said. "Don't worry: you'll have your reward."
"The name's Roble," I snapped, my embarrassment vanishing in annoyance. (It was just like Liskin to cop the credit for my "prisoner," after abandoning us both in the woods.) "Someone's been feeding you false reports. Sir. And I don't know what you guys have against Morlock, here, but there's something more important going on in the woods."
"Nothing is more important than the capture of one of our enemies from the old time," the Baron said gloatingly. "But I suppose you will deny your identity, enemy?" he said, speaking directly to Morlock.
Morlock shrugged indifferently, much as he had when Besk asked his name. From the old time: how old was Morlock? Did they really hate him personally, or was it someone he was descended from?
"Why is he still armed?" the Baron demanded. "You-Riskin-Loble- whatever your name is. Take his sword. Take his backpack. Take anything he has on his person."
"Including his tin whistle?" I said sarcastically, but my heart was falling. I didn't like where this was going. The Baron had goons to lock people up and search them; that's not what the Riders are for, and I was annoyed the Baron was talking to me like one of his jailors. But I couldn't just stand here while they made plans to carve Morlock up, either. He'd saved my life when he could have let me die.
I didn't figure I owed any loyalty to the Baron. The people who lived in Four Castles came first, I figured, especially the people I cared about, then people I owed something to (like Morlock). The Baron of Caroc wasn't on either list.
No, what bothered me was what would happen when I refused. He'd just call in his goons and I might end up in a cell right next to Morlock. That wouldn't do anyone any good. But I didn't like the idea of knuckling under, either.
Just when the situation was bad, Morlock made it worse by drawing his sword. A gasp went around the crowded audience chamber.
It's a crime to draw a weapon in the presence of any of the Barons, of course, except in their defense. But that wasn't what shocked the crowd; at least I don't think so. It was the blade itself. They were all staring at it with their mouths open.
I admit it was weird. I hadn't had a chance to look at the blade before, when Morlock was fighting the Bargainers. The blade was like a long pointed slab of black basalt with veins of white crystal running through it. It seemed as if the white parts began to move, like white flames flickering against a black background. Morlock almost seemed to flicker a little bit, too, and his gray eyes actually seemed to glow. He closed his eyes and I could see the light of his irises shining eerily through the thin skin of his eyelids. His movements were sluggish, almost sleepy.
It reminded me of how he had been when I first saw him. He was going into the rapture state, I suddenly realized. Why?
…the sort of magic Coranians have always been good at …he'd said, right before the Silent Word struck us both down. He'd meant the kind of magic that preserved physical life by devouring someone else's …no, their tal. It was just what the Enemy did. I'd wondered then if the Enemy might once have been a Coranian, though I didn't have a chance to ask the question.
Did Morlock think the Enemy might be here-not in the woods but in Four Castles? Could he use his altered vision in the rapture state to find out?
The Baron was shouting for someone to take his sword. I didn't move to obey; if Morlock was doing what I thought he was, I wanted to know the answer at least as much as he did.
Eventually, though, three soldiers wearing the Baron's surcoat approached. The light in Morlock's eyes died; the light in the sword faded. I was wondering whether to intervene when he opened his eyes and peaceably surrendered the sword, hilt-first, to one of the guards (who seemed reluctant to touch it). He shrugged off his backpack and handed it to the second guard (who grabbed it with two hands and grunted a little; it seemed to be pretty heavy). He nodded politely to the third guard. Then he kicked him in the crotch, knocked him down, and ran past him.
I was as startled as anyone. (I'd figured Morlock was going to surrender and plead for the Baron's mercy. Not a shrewd move, necessarily, but one where I could lend my assistance without ending up in the slammer.) Before I knew it the crooked man was up on the dais, struggling with the Baron, with both of his hands on the Baron's left arm. Morlock wrenched the arm suddenly; there was an indescribable sound, like a moist crackle, and he had torn the arm from the Baron's body.
But there was no blood. And something dark dangled and writhed at the Baron's side, where his arm had been, like muscles with no bone or skin.
The guards had dumped Morlock's sword and backpack and (except for the one still rolling around on the floor with pain) were going to the Baron's rescue. But this stopped them. Like everyone else they stood gaping at the scene playing out on the dais.
Morlock stripped the severed arm of its sleeve and rapped it against the back of the throne. It was hard, chitinous, like a shell. He presented the torn end to those standing agape in the hall; we could see that it was hollow. The Baron of Caroc wasn't human-just a sort of land-crab that looked human….
"Is your enemy the Boneless One who lives in the woods?" Morlock asked. "What of a boneless one who walks among you-misdirects your efforts-eats your lives?"
He took the Baron (who was striking at him with one remaining clawlike hand) by the armless shoulder. He tore the shoulder in two different directions, and the Baron's torso came apart. Morlock tipped him forward and something oozed out of the gaping tear in the chest, like the soft boneless body of an overcooked snail. It fell on the dais steps and slid down a few, leaving a gleaming trail of slime behind it.
It had human eyes, though. And its shapeless mouth screamed in the Baron's voice as Morlock stepped forward to crush it.
The crowd's horror burst into panic. I wasn't the first person to rush for the door, but I wasn't the last one, either. Pretty soon we were all charging toward the wide doors of the audience hall, forcing our way out, yelling our heads off. The crowd spun me around as I went through the door, and I caught a glimpse of Morlock, calmly shouldering his backpack, his sword back in his hand, the Baron a red smear on the dais steps behind him. He met my eye and saluted me gravely with the sword. Then the crowd pushed me out through the door and I lost sight of him.
The morning was warm; I was tired; my armor was heavy. It took me a long time to get from the Castle to the Riders Lodge, where I shed my armor with the help of one of the duty squires. I kept the sword, because I'd bought it with my own money, and I didn't expect to be back.
I went from the Riders Lodge to my house. It was mine, technically, but Naeli's older sons, Stador and Bann (already journeymen in their trades), were actually living there these days. Business is thin for any young man starting out, so I was paying for most of their groceries as well. Thend, the youngest, lived with Besk as his apprentice.
Stador and Bann, thank the Strange Gods (or whoever really runs the universe), were at home instead of work.
"We heard you were dead," Stador explained, embracing me, "and then that you weren't-"
"I need you to go to Besk's, right now," I interrupted. "Take whatever you would if you were never coming back. Because you're not. We're leaving Four Castles."
"Why?" Stador wanted to know.
It was a reasonable question, but what was a reasonable answer? A stray I brought back from the woods killed the Baron of Caroc. The Baron of Caroc had no bones. The Whisperer in the Woods knows one of the Silent Words. None of it sounded reasonable to me.
"Your mother," I said slowly, "if she were alive, would certainly wish it. Is that enough? Will you wait for the rest?"
"Sure," they said agreeably, and each of them got a small bundle of stuff.