In The Prince's Secret Service - 3. The Rescue of Thom

Cadfael announced that it was no longer necessary for him to see the ancient fortress for himself, and that he would depart for Arcadia with Durber’s next caravan. While the caravan was being assembled, Patrick and Alan worked at Durber’s office-warehouse, to establish the legitimacy of their relationship. Patrick made a copy of Durber’s map to the fortress. It appeared that it would require a hard two-day ride through hilly country. There were farms along the way, but Durber would not commit to recommending any of them. “They’re a parochial lot, the people in Fortmain and the country around. It’s taken me two decades just to be accepted as a merchant. I have customers and acquaintances, but no friends. No, you’re better sleeping rough. Here by the entrance…” he pointed on the map “…is a stream. No problem with water. You’ll need oats for the horses. Stake them in the copse, here, and walk the rest of the way. They’ll be safe, there. See…there are no farms for miles, and this is well off the trail. There’s no game in these woods, except some wild turkey, and the farmers have enough of them near enough they don’t need go far afield for it.”

In order to throw off pursuit, Patrick and Alan rode out the east gate, and not the southern gate. They had to skirt the town before heading south, adding a half-day to their trip, but they considered the extra time to be worth it. Durber’s assessment of the land, and his map, proved accurate. This season of the year, there was little for any farmer to do out of doors; the farmsteads they saw were tightly shuttered. Wisps of smoke rose from the chimneys. The only people they saw were those making a quick dash to dump a thunder mug into a privy or toting wood from the woodpile. The boys were careful not to be seen. Each night they built a small fire, well shielded from view. Patrick set magical wards, and they were both able to sleep, huddled together in a pile of blankets.

At noon on the third day, the boys reached the entrance to the fortress. It was as Durber had described. A slab of rock appeared to have slipped from higher on the hill and now leaned against scree at the bottom of the hill. Trees, many of which were conifers still bearing dark green needles, grew thickly up to the hill. They hid the rock from view. Behind the rock was a hole that might once have been larger, but looked just large enough for the boys to wriggle through, pulling packs behind them. The nearby stream was frozen, but they easily broke the skim of ice to reach water for the horses and themselves.

“How does this place feel to you?” Alan asked, as he removed saddle and bridle from Dasher and then Windchaser.

Patrick gathered power and carefully sent out a series of tiny pulses of magic. They expanded in a ring around him and then echoed back. The lines that reached him from the woods south of the hill were pure and unaltered. There was a hint of something alive…Ah, he thought, A turkey. I’m starting to recognize them. From inside the hill he heard a booming echo, as if the hill were hollow. Well of course it is…or largely so if it’s really the fortress that Durber thinks. He said he’d not gone beyond a small room just inside the entrance. There were several small knots in the magic that returned from inside the hill. Patrick saw a pale purple glow, and smelled something akin to swamp gas as he examined the knots.

“There’s nothing for miles outside the hill, except a turkey or two. The inside of the hill is hollow, but I can’t tell if the hollow connects with the hole under the rock. There are some—well, slightly unpleasant is the best way I can say it—, unpleasant things inside the hill, but nothing that seems to be alive or very dangerous.”

Alan had watered the horses, spread oats on the ground for them to eat, and tied them to a long lead that he anchored between two trees. “They’ll be able to reach feed and water, without tangling themselves up,” he explained. “I guess I’m ready to start exploring!”

Alan poked Patrick’s quarterstaff into the hole and waved it around, encountering nothing. When Alan returned the quarterstaff, Patrick focused magic, and the metal ring set in the quarterstaff flared, and then settled down to a blue glow. “I’ll lead,” he said, “with the light.”

“I would rather lead with a sword, and your light behind me,” Alan replied.

Patrick paused. A flash of anger was quickly suppressed. He was not accustomed to being challenged. Then he realized that Alan was right. “Of course,” he said, “but please be careful.”

Alan nodded, lay on his belly, and scooted into the hole using his knees and elbows. He held his sword in his right hand. Patrick followed instantly, holding the quarterstaff. When he popped into the little room behind the rock, he pulled the rope to which was attached their packs, and brought them into the cave.

Alan was already standing. The room was too high for either boy to reach the ceiling. It was rectangular, and extended about 40 feet into the hillside. On the far left was a doorway that might once have held a wooden door. The floor was thick with debris: leaves, twigs, rocks, and other things less easily identifiable. The ceiling, walls, and floor on the outer side appeared to have been crushed. Elsewhere, the surfaces were smoothly dressed stone. It was difficult to tell if this were once a real entrance, or if the rock slide had created an entrance.

“I was taught when stalking game, to stop and listen often,” Alan whispered. “I think we should do the same, here.” Patrick nodded, and released the rope so that the packs settled to the ground. The boys heard naught but silence. They did feel a slight breeze blowing from the hole at their back toward the doorway to their left.

“Shall I continue to lead?” Alan asked as he shouldered his pack and tightened the straps.

“Yes, and I’ll be right behind you with the light,” Patrick answered.

With his sword at the ready in his right hand, Alan approached the doorway. Behind him, Patrick raised the mage-lit quarterstaff and moved it slowly from side to side, casting light into the opening. “What do you see?” he whispered, excitedly.

“Passageway as far as I can see…maybe 40 feet. More leaves on the floor. Beyond that? I can’t tell.” Alan replied as he stepped forward warily.

As Alan stepped through the doorway, a dark body launched itself from the floor to his left and emitted a high-pitched, ululating scream. Alan simultaneously struck it with his left forearm while pivoting on his left foot to bring his sword to bear. With his quarterstaff raised high, Patrick stepped through the doorway behind his friend.

As Patrick looked for a target, Alan began to laugh. “It’s a turkey!” he gasped.

Patrick leaned against the wall, his knees weak with nervous relief.

 

The boys followed the passage, which led west, about 40 feet. “Looks like this one just keeps going…should we follow it or take this one to the north?” Alan asked.

“Straight for a while, I think,” Patrick replied.

After another 40 feet, a doorway on the right that opened into a room that extended about 20 feet north, and at least 40 feet to the east. The room appeared to be empty save for some leaves and the bones of a small animal. Continuing to the west, the boys encountered a large pile of rubble created when the ceiling had collapsed. At their approach, a stone about the size of a fist fell from the ceiling and rolled down the rubble pile, coming to a rest at Patrick’s feet. “I don’t think we want to go any further in this direction,” the tall Elf said, “at least, not today.”

Alan agreed, and they retraced their steps and were able to enter and examine several rooms and another stretch of corridor before another rubble pile blocked their way.

“Except for the turkey, this adventure certainly didn’t amount to anything,” Alan said as they sat around a small fire. The fire was well shielded, and he’d waited until after dark to light it so that its smoke would not become a beacon. They’d had supper, and Patrick wrote in his journal while Alan checked the horses and fed them.

“Here’s what I’ve written for our report to Cadfael,” Patrick said.

We were able to explore about 250 feet of hallway and seven rooms beyond the entrance chamber that D has already described to you. While it is likely that the fortress extends further under the mountain, collapsed ceilings and piles of rubble presently block further exploration until we can find a way past.

There is evidence that the rooms were once occupied. The evidence includes graffiti such as “Edron was here,” and “Centurion Flint is a _____.” Soldiers were likely not literate enough to leave graffiti, suggesting the presence of clerics or mages. All floors are littered with leaves, twigs, and occasionally the skeletons of small animals and birds. Among the rubbish in one room were rectangular piles of duff, about 6 feet long and 3 feet wide. A suggested might be the remains of wooden bunk beds. One room was likely a privy. There are holes in the floor about the right size for a drain. We brushed aside the debris and found worn spots that correspond to where the feet of a person squatting over the hole would rest. Our first impression is that at least some of the rooms may have been used as barracks.

“What do you think?” Patrick asked. “Should I tell him about the turkey?”

Alan had unrolled their bedroll and was undressing, preparing for sleep. “Put away that book and come to bed, and I’ll tell you what I think about that turkey!”

 

The next morning Patrick reviewed the sketches he’d made. “There’s something odd about the arrangement of rooms,” Patrick mused. There should be other rooms…here,” he pointed.

“Why do you think that?” Alan asked.

“Something I read once,” Patrick replied. “About the symmetry of the buildings of the last age and how that symmetry continues in the buildings of Elvenhold. Elves fought in the last Great War, but none of the great battles were on Elven lands, so many buildings are…” Patrick stopped. “You can open your eyes…I know that you’re not asleep.”

 

Patrick led Alan to a place in the north-branching passageway. “There’s a door and a room there…and directly across the passage is this: It used to be a door, but has been filled in and plastered over…see?” Patrick hit the wall with the butt end of his quarterstaff, and plaster the color and texture of the natural wall fell off to reveal heavily mortared, large stones behind it.

“Now…skip one room and go to the next…the same thing,” he said and again demonstrated by knocking plaster from the wall.

“Back to the middle. We’re across from a door, and there should be a door here, but there’s not a door and there’s no plaster. I think it’s a hidden door.”

Carefully and slowly, careful to create as little disturbance in the field as possible, Patrick gathered magic and focused it into a beam that he directed to the wall of the fortress where he suspected a door should be. Even Alan could see the wall sparkle occasionally as Patrick swept the beam back and forth. “There,” Patrick exclaimed, “a line…”

He moved the beam along the line until it turned, turned, turned, and turned again, defining a rectangle the size of a door before returning to the original spot.

“Okay, there’s a door there…how do we get it open,” Alan asked.

Patrick thought for a moment, and said, “There’s an old story about a band of adventurers who found a mage-Locked door with a runic legend that read, I open only to Calidan. Well, Calidan was the name of a great mage of the times, so they thought that only he could open the door. However, since it was his treasure they were trying to steal, they didn’t think he’d open it for them. Then, one of the adventurers asked, ‘What if it should be read this way: I open only toCalidan!’

“His friends laughed, but he stood in front of the door, spread his arms, and said, ‘Calidan,’ and the door opened.”

Alan stood before the hidden door, spread his arms, and boomed, “Calidan!”

“Nothing happened,” he said. “Any other ideas.”

Patrick laughed, and said, “Yes…do you remember the graffiti we found in one room?”

Alan nodded.

“One of them read, Magus Severnus will burn us.” Patrick stood, gathered magic and carefully focused it at the door as he said, “Severnus!”

The door opened with an audible sigh. A musty smell greeted the boys’ noses.

“Phew,” Alan said. “The air in that room is dead. This door hasn’t been opened for a long time.” He started to draw his sword, and realized how unlikely it would be that he’d need it. He did, however, jam a large stone between the bottom of the door and the slightly lower floor of the room, so that the door could not easily close behind them.

As Patrick had anticipated, the room was the same size as the one across the hallway. Near the middle, however, was a stone block, a table of sorts, about waist high, about ten feet long and about four feet wide. It could have been a mage or cleric’s workbench.

Patrick sniffed. “Do you smell swamp gas?”

Alan paused. “No, do you?”

“Yes,” Patrick responded. “But if you don’t smell it, then it’s magical. One of those unpleasant things I detected…and it’s lying on the table…rather, the catafalque!”

The glow of the ring on Patrick’s staff had illuminated something on the great stone table…the long-dead body of something Human-shaped. Patrick raised the mage-lit quarterstaff, better to see.

“It was a Human, a large Human,” he said, “based on the size. It was not an Elf; the bones are too thick. It wasn’t a Lizoid; the skin isn’t scaly. It’s likely too large to have been a Dwarf. There’s not much else left…it shrunk so when the moisture evaporated…I can’t tell much more.”

Patrick paused as he focused his senses on the body. “There’s an object near its middle. Ah, a dagger. See? The sheath—if there was one—has rotted away, and the dagger has partly sunk into the body. It’s the dagger that’s giving off the unpleasantness.”

“Is it magical?” Alan asked, excited at the prospect.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Patrick responded. “It was, however, used to kill many, many times. Perhaps even to murder. Those acts left a—well, a stain in the metal that even aeons have not erased.”

The boys searched the room, but found nothing else. “Sealed in this room, this body could have been dead since the Great War,” Patrick said. “I see no reason to disturb it any further.”

 

Patrick’s reading of the next morning’s weather, and their lack of progress beyond the hidden room, prompted the boys to depart for Fortmain as soon as it was light enough to travel safely. They’d left the fortress none too soon, and the storm Patrick had predicted struck when they were just an hour south of Fortmain.

“At least the storm will conceal our return,” Alan shouted to Patrick over the lash of the wind. “Only idiots would be out in this weather!”

The Elf chuckled with good humor.

Arriving at Fortmain, they found the large, main gates had been closed. They were forced to lead the horses through the postern gate. Dasher was a tight fit, but the guards were adamant.

They’d agreed, earlier, to seek rooms at the Wooden Troll, and the Publican was glad for their custom. There were few over-night guests except during market, and the daily two shillings thruppence he got from the boys was welcome.

 

The storm had abated, but it was still snowing when the boys set out the next morning for Durber’s warehouse. He was there, and had a fire going in his office. “Glad for some company, boys,” he said as he stuck a poker into a pitcher of wine mixed with apple juice before handing out mugs of the hot, spicy mix. “No business going on today. No one here but me. How was your trip?”

In between sips on their mugs of the mulled wine, Patrick and Alan described their trip and what they’d found. Patrick read the letter he’d written to Cadfael. In addition to what he’d already read to Alan, he’d added,

The expected symmetry of design was missing on one section of passageway. On closer examination, we found two doors that had been closed with brick and mortar and then concealed with plaster. We also found one that had been concealed by magic. We did not have tools to break into the brick and plaster doors, but were able to open the mage-locked door.

Inside the room, on a stone catafalque, was the desiccated body of a large Human (perhaps a Troll) that had likely been there for at least several hundred, perhaps several thousand years. The body was naked and there was nothing else in the room. We did not disturb the body or look under it. The only artifact we found was a dagger of no particular worth or merit. We left the dagger.

We plan to revisit the fortress, look for additional hidden doors, break down some of the mortared doors, and perhaps remove rubble in order to penetrate further down the hallways.

Durber was most impressed with the report and map that Patrick handed him. “I’ll dispatch this as soon as the next caravan leaves,” he said. “More wine?”

 

The storm was over and the weather promised to hold clear and cold for at least a week when the boys again set out for the fortress. Alan had reminded Patrick of the spell he’d used to pull Cadfael and Alan from the ice floe, and asked if it could be reversed, to push. When Patrick replied that it could, Alan asked, “Why not use it to push open one of the bricked-in doors, or to sweep away a rubble pile?”

“The main reason,” Patrick had replied, “is noise. Using magic creates noise that another magic user can hear. When I outlined the hidden door, I used just a little magic…a whisper compared to the shout that breaking down a door would require. The noise could draw unwanted attention. Another reason is that using magic might damage any magical item that might be nearby.

“There’s also the problem of reaction. When I pulled you and Cadfael from the water, I anchored one end of a magical rope to a tree on the shore, and the other one to you. If I’d just hooked a magic rope on you and pulled, I’d have slid across the ice and been pulled into the water rather than being able to pull you out. In order to break down a door, I’d need something behind me to push on, or I’d go flying backwards. And I’m not comfortable pushing against walls in an underground fortress. I might bring down the ceiling.

“No, I’m afraid that we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”

“I guess,” Alan said in an I don’t understand but I do trust Patrick to know what he’s talking about tone of voice. “There’s another problem. I don’t want to take the horses; they can’t stay out in this cold. We’re going to have to walk.”

 

It was late evening when the boys arrived at the fortress. By the time they’d broken the ice on the stream to refill water bags, and set up a campsite, it was too late to consider entering the fortress. Alan built a small, smokeless fire—more for comfort than to heat their supper.

 

“Should we leave the bedroll here?” Patrick asked the next morning as they finished breakfast and prepared to enter the fortress.

“Actually, we may want to sleep in the fortress…we found no rats or insects, and we’d likely be warmer. If you don’t want to…” Alan paused as he watched the emotions play on Patrick’s face.

“As a rule, Elves don’t do well in closed places…we’re too accustomed to the out-of-doors. I see your logic, though, and believe I could do it. In fact, I suspect that I’m going to have to, eventually.”

 

Durber had obtained picks and a shovel for them, but there’d been no way of concealing them as they walked out of town except by removing the wooden handles and wrapping them in the bedroll. Once in the first room of the fortress, Alan fitted the wooden handles in place, hammering in wedges to hold them in place. He applied boy magic instinctively as he worked, making the fittings tighter than could be done by hand, alone. Handing a pick to Patrick, he took the other pick and shovel, and led the way to the second of the two bricked-up doors. The boys set their packs out of the way, and began the laborious task of breaking through the door.

“Why they felt it necessary to make this the same thickness as the walls, I don’t know,” Alan said as he shoveled another pile of debris out of the way. When he’d finished, the boys stopped for water, and to listen. Patrick listened magically, as well, sending out faint pulses and carefully examining the echoes.

“I think we’re still alone,” he reported.

Alan nodded. “I guess that means we can make some more noise,” he said cheerfully.

Patrick looked with mage sight at the stones in the door as they worked, and guided their efforts until with a thud and clatter three of the blocks fell from place. Once they were pushed aside, there was room for even Alan’s broad shoulders to pass through the opening into the hidden room.

What they saw was disappointing. A room, like the others, and empty. There was, however, a door on the north wall, and after examining every corner of the room, they went to that door.

“Another room…and empty. There is a door, however…” Alan paused, turned around, pointed, and said. “If we’re lucky, it will put us in the hallway past the collapsed part…we may have found a way into the rest of the fortress!”

Alan was right. They could re-enter the hallway a little way past the collapsed ceiling. The hallway went north about 30 feet before turning and running west further than their light reached.

“Shall we?” Alan said.

“We shall,” Patrick answered, and the two boys strolled along a hallway that seemed to go on forever. The hallway was interrupted frequently by doors; however, all the rooms to which they led were empty.

“Wait a moment,” Patrick whispered. “There’s something…ahead…”

“Your eyes are incredible,” Alan replied, “I see nothing.”

“Not see,” Patrick said, “rather, sense. Remember the first time we came here, I said there were some knots in the magical field? I sense one, ahead of us.”

Alan drew his sword. “Hold the light steady, over my left shoulder, please,” he asked.

“I will,” Patrick replied as he took his mage-lit quarterstaff in his left hand, “But I’m not sure you’ll need the sword. I don’t think it’s alive.”

“There, against the wall, on the floor,” Patrick said. “Please, don’t touch it.”

Alan sheathed his sword, and stood aside as Patrick passed, lowering the lit end of his quarterstaff toward the floor. The light from the quarterstaff flickered briefly, but then glowed steadily.

“It’s an amulet of some sort,” Patrick said. “It pulls the magical field around it, as a true amulet would. But it also twists the lines…it’s definitely Evil, but only a little so. It can’t have been here for very long, otherwise it would have lost its magic, I think.”

“Can you touch it? Is it safe, I mean?” Alan asked.

Patrick examined the amulet, which he found to be a scarab, made of a smooth stone which Alan guessed to be jade. “The stone looks a lot like the stone of a lion that father has,” he said.

“The lines incised on its wing case are odd,” Patrick said. “They don’t look like a real beetle; and, they make my eyes hurt if I try to follow them. I think it would be best if I not look at it, or try to carry it. It could interfere with a spell if I had it on my person.”

They agreed that Alan would carry the amulet, but that he would put it aside whenever they stopped for food or rest. “It shouldn’t affect you,” Patrick said.

 

“Alan, it’s at least vespers…likely later. I think we should stop, eat, and sleep for a while…we’ll have to keep watch, although I will set wards…” Patrick yawned as he spoke.

Alan lit a horologe. The boys alternated sleep and watch until the horologe burned out. They were not as rested as they might have liked, but adrenalin and youth were adequate surrogates for sleep.

After the boys had walked for what Alan estimated to be another ten miles, the walls of the corridor changed from finished stone to rough, native stone. At the same time, Alan waved his hand in front of his nose.

“What in the world are you doing,” Patrick asked.

“Smell…” Alan said, continuing to fan air toward his nose.

Patrick sniffed, sniffed again, and said, “Horseshit.”

“Yes,” Alan said. “Horseshit, and rotten hay, and…human stink, as well. It’s not ancient, either.

 

“There…a light,” Alan whispered. In front of them, at about eye-level in the natural cavern they’d reached by following the stink of horses and men, was an opening through which could be seen the flickering light of a fire. There was a pile of rubble in front of the hole. Carefully the boys approached the opening.

Patrick and Alan raised their heads to peer over the rubble. The hole opened high in the wall of another large, natural chamber. The curve of the chamber and the location of the only torch would have made the hole invisible from the floor of the chamber. The smell of dung and horse sweat that they had been following suggested that someone was using the cavern as a stable. Excellent, Alan thought. Maybe we can get out without having to retrace our steps.

The single torch, set in a bracket in the wall, provided enough illumination for them to see piles of hay, ropes strung through waist-high rings on the wall that were likely used to tie up horses, and what appeared to be a pile of rags in one corner.

“Is that an arm sticking out from that rag pile?” Patrick whispered.

“Yes, and a foot, see?” Alan responded. “And that’s a chain…no, it’s just a rope. There’s someone under that rag pile, and they’re tied to the wall. If we free them, perhaps they can help us find a safe way out of here.”

Patrick sent out a pulse of magic and examined the echo. “It’s a Human, metabolism slow…probably asleep. Yes, we should free him...How shall we proceed?”

Alan mused over the elements of a plan. “I can safely jump from this height; can you? Should we anchor a rope in case we have to retreat? No, I could lift you and you could send a rope down. Drop the packs first? No. I’ll jump then you toss the packs to me. You jump. I’ll go to the captive while you gather the packs. I’m going to rely on dagger, only, for the moment. A sword might make too much noise.” Patrick nodded as Alan ticked off each point.

 

Alan landed with a soft thud, and looked to the corner of the room. Good, we haven’t wakened him, yet. He turned, and Patrick threw the packs down. When Alan backed away, Patrick jumped. Alan was a bit surprised at his friend’s agility…he seemed to float down, and landed on the balls of his feet, perfectly balanced, and without making a sound.

While Patrick watched the entrance, Alan began to lift rags, one at a time, from the sleeping figure. “It’s a boy,” he whispered. “Filthy, ribs showing, naked under this pile of rags…” Alan broke off and quickly clapped his hand over the boy’s mouth. “And he’s awake!”

The boy struggled, trying to bite Alan’s hand and scratching at him with cracked, filthy nails. “Quiet, boy! We’re here to rescue you! Ouch! Stop it!” Alan dealt with the boy the only way he could without hurting him. He fell on the boy, pinning him to the floor. “Quiet…it’s all right…easy lad…we’re going to rescue you…” Alan drummed the words into the boy’s ears over and over until the message seemed to get through. The boy relaxed.

“I’m going to take my hand from your mouth, and let you go. Please don’t cry out. We’re still in danger.”

The boy nodded, and Alan did as he had said. The boy sat up, and peered at Alan. A light seemed to flicker in his eyes, perhaps the light of hope.

“Who are you?” he whispered. “Were did you come from?”

“Alan. My friend over there is Patrick. We live in Fortmain. We came here to explore. Who are you? Can you lead us out of this cave so we don’t have to go back the long way?”

“Thomas, also of Fortmain…called Thom. Yes…I know the way out, but we have to be careful. The men are away now, but they will come back, soon. Can you cut the rope?” The boy pointed to the rope that was tied around his ankle.

Alan was puzzled. The knot looks like it could be untied, easily. Why hadn’t the boy freed himself? Using his dagger, Alan cut the knot, freeing the boy’s leg. Grabbing a horse blanket from a nearby pile, he sliced a hole in the center for the boy’s head. Using a section of the rope that had bound the boy as a belt, Alan quickly had the boy dressed in a makeshift poncho.

“Patrick,” Alan whispered, “We’re ready to go…I’ll lead. Thom, you stay close behind me; tell me which way to go. Patrick will be behind you. Ready?”

 

The trio reached an entrance to the cavern. The large opening was screened by trees, but there was a well-worn path leading from the woods to the cavern entrance. It was early morning by the sun, and a blustery wind blew icy fingers through the trees. In the distance, the sound of horses’ hooves echoed from the surrounding hills. “The men…the men are coming. We must hide!” Thom urged.

Alan took the boy’s hand and pulled him toward the tree line. Patrick followed. As they reached the trees, the three threw themselves to the ground and wriggled through the underbrush. Within minutes, they heard the horsemen pounding into the small clearing in front of the cavern entrance. In a few more minutes, they were far enough away to be able to stand and begin running. Alan led them over rocky ground so that tracking them would be difficult. They alternated running and walking until mid morning, when Alan called a halt.

Thom leaned against a tree, gasping and clutching his side. Patrick offered the boy a pemmican bar and some water. The boy gulped the water, and nearly inhaled the food. “Easy, Thom, there’s more. Slow, now,” Alan spoke softly as he stroked the boy’s arm. “How are your feet? Tough enough for this?”

Thom lifted his feet, one at a time, and examined them. They seemed to be taking the abuse well.

“Alan, do you know where we are?” Patrick asked, privately while Thom ate more pemmican and some hard bread, a little more slowly.

“Somewhere south of Fortmain, and probably with a swamp between us and the city. I think we should go east. We should encounter the Royal Road in three days, or four. We’ll need food…Thom, especially. I’ll have to hunt.”

Patrick sighed. It was awfully hard to be a vegetarian on an adventure with Alan!

 

Early on the third day, Alan held up his hand to signal a halt. “Smell that? Wood smoke,” he said.

“Not likely the brigands…we’re too far south, aren’t we?” Patrick asked.

“Yes. Probably a farm. Wonder if we can stay the night,” Alan said.

The smell of wood smoke came and went as the breeze shifted, but Alan’s outdoor skills led them true. By mid-afternoon, they were standing in a copse of trees overlooking a farm. The fields had been turned, and some were sown. A haze of innocent green overlying one field would likely be winter wheat. Smoke rose from chimneys on two buildings. One building was obviously the main house; the other could have been a smithy. As they watched, a figure walked from the main house to a barn, carrying a bucket or basket—someone going to gather eggs, perhaps.

“Peaceful enough. Prosperous enough. Any Evil?” Alan asked Patrick.

Patrick gestured as if he were gently throwing something invisible, then pronounced, “No Evil. More Good than Evil. I think the risk is acceptable.”

At Thom’s puzzled look Patrick explained, “I weave magic. It’s as if I make a ball of it, and throw it at the house. When it bounces back, I look at it to see if it’s dirty. If it’s dirty, it bounced off of something bad. If it’s bright, then it bounced off of something good. If it’s not changed, then it what it bounced off of was neither good nor bad.”

“What about the amulet?” Alan asked. “Should we hide it?”

“Good thinking,” Patrick said. “Can you put it somewhere you will be sure to find again?”

Alan nodded. “These rocks…hmm, and that hill.” He looked in all directions, fixing landmarks in his mind before sliding the amulet in a crevice between two rocks.

The three boys approached the farm and stood about 50 yards from the main building, waiting to be seen and examined. After a few minutes, several figures stepped onto the porch. There were four men and six tweens. All were armed; most held hunting bows. One of the men walked toward the trio, and gestured them to come closer. “Within easy bowshot,” Alan whispered from the side of his mouth. “Thom, walk behind me.”

They walked toward the man, hands empty and to their sides, stopping when they were within a few feet of the man.

“I am Patrick,” the Elf spoke, “This is my companion, Alan and the boy, Thom. We recently rescued Thom from brigands, and are returning him to his home in Fortmain. We would exchange labor for food and shelter.”

“Why, bless your hearts, boys. It’d be a much worse day than this when the Stoltz farmstead wouldn’t offer hospitality to travelers. We ask no labor, but you must swear us no harm. Both of you…and the boy.” The man’s smile faded as he looked each of them in the eye. “Do you so swear?”

“I do,” answered Patrick, feeling a tug from the Magical Field as he did so. The man’s a mage, or there’s one in the crowd on the porch. Probably felt my probe, earlier. They may have known we were in the woods before we knew they were here.

“I do,” answered Alan. “Thom, you must swear, too.”

“I swear,” Thom said, moving from behind Alan to stand next to him, the boy’s hand seeking that of the tween.

“Land sakes, what is that boy wearing on his feet?” the man asked.

“The best we could come up with, I’m afraid,” Alan answered. “Untanned deerskin, laced with strips of the same. We didn’t have time to shop for boots when we escaped the brigands.”

The farmer chuckled. “Come in the house…no, come in the bathhouse, first, boys. I’m sure one of my sons has an outgrown pair of boots that will fit you, Thom. I’m Stoltz, by the way. You’ll meet the rest of the family in due course.”

As Stoltz led the boys to the bathhouse, the crowd on the porch dispersed. By some process of communication and selection that the boys could not discern, two of the farm boys ran to join them. Stoltz instructed, “Tommy, you’re about this boy’s size. Get a set of your clothes and those boots that were Benjamin’s. Robert, take them to the bathhouse and see that they have what they need. Bring them to the kitchen when they’ve finished.”

As Robert set about gathering towels and soap, the boys introduced themselves to him.

“Thom, they’ve said you could have clothes and boots. Let me have that blanket and those…well, whatever we call them on your feet.” Alan coaxed the boy who was reluctant to part with what he was wearing, however meager and filthy it was.

Thom seemed to be unable or unwilling to bathe himself, so Patrick and Alan took turns soaping his hair and body and rinsing it, using boy magic to dig dirt from around the roots of his hair, under his finger- and toe-nails, and from the pores of his skin. Thom stood like a statue through the process. When all three were clean, Alan led Thom to the soak tub and gently eased the boy into the hot water. Thom gasped at the sensation, but still showed no initiative. While Alan and Thom soaked, Patrick treated his and Alan’s clothing to a magic-assisted washing and drying.

As Alan relaxed in the soak tub, he felt Thom’s hand reach out to grasp his penis and manipulate it. Alan started, and looked at the boy. The expression on Thom’s face horrified the tween…Thom looked as if he were smelling, tasting, breathing the most fetid, nasty, disgusting, rotten mess ever rejected by a carrion crow.

“Thom, what are you doing? Why…” Alan began.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what the men wanted…” Thom paused. “That’s why you took me away and brought me here, isn’t it? Because you want me to…” The boy’s voice broke. He removed his hand from Alan’s penis and turned away.

Patrick, who had not observed any of this, slipped into the hot water of the soak tub. He saw on Alan’s face an expression he’d not seen before: bewilderment mixed with anger. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Later…” Alan said. “Come on, Thom. Let’s get some clothes on you.” He lifted himself from the water and gestured for the boy to follow.

 

“So far, the brigands either haven’t discovered us, or don’t think we’re worth their while,” Stoltz said. “They operate mostly to the north and west, and apparently find enough to loot in and around Fortmain. We have kin in Fortmain…send letters back and forth nearly every tenday. Have kin on farms west of the city, too. Don’t hear from them as often, once or twice a year. They’re fortifying their farms. Couple of families have moved in together, abandoning one farmstead in order to strengthen the other. Makes tending the fields harder…but they’re coping.”

The entire family had gathered in the kitchen to welcome the boys to the supper table. Even though they were still eating the products of the previous year’s harvest, there was a bounty on the table, and the farmer’s wife, and daughter encouraged their visitors to eat heartily, even as they kept their own family’s plates piled high.

Stoltz continued. “So, how did you happen to be where you could rescue Thom,” he asked, smiling at Thom, who sat quietly, eating mechanically and avoiding catching anyone’s eye.

“Well,” Alan began, “we had discovered a cave that we thought…hoped…would lead into a cavern in which we might find treasure. It led into the mountain, all right, but there wasn’t much there until we…sort of got lost. We were following the breeze looking for a way out when we stumbled on a part of the caverns that the brigands were using. Thom was a prisoner there. They were out on a raid, and we were able to get him untied and away before they returned. Just before they returned.”

As the eyes of the younger members of the audience lit up at the thought of danger, Alan changed his style of speech and went into what Patrick knew as his storytelling mode. Alan described—and embellished a little—their hiding in the brush from the returning brigands, creeping through the woods, wading a stream, hunting for the deer that had provided food and shoes for Thom, and the discovery of the farmstead.

Sounds pretty good the way he tells it, Patrick thought to himself. Almost like a read adventure. And these farm boys really seemed to enjoy it. Guess they don’t get out, often. Thom didn’t seem to like it. Why not? It doesn’t reflect badly on him; in fact, Alan makes him out to be quite a trooper for walking barefoot all that way before he had shoes of any kind. What’s wrong with the boy, and what was the problem in the bath?

After the meal was complete, Stoltz invited Patrick and Alan to join him for a thimble of brandywine. As they sat by a small fire in Stoltz’s library (A library…this far from civilization! Patrick thought.) with the pungent liquor in their hands, Stoltz spoke. “You boys have probably figured out that I can tell if someone’s Good or Evil, and if they’re telling the truth or not. It’s something I was born with. You two puzzle me. You’re Good, all right. Through and through. But you’re not entirely truthful, and that bothers me. The story of Thom’s rescue. After you rescued him, that was all true. And well told, Alan. You have quite a talent as a storyteller. But before that…maybe not my business, but I’d be a lot happier having you under my roof if I knew the truth of that story.”

Alan and Patrick exchanged looks. Alan nodded when Patrick arched his eyebrows in question.

“Master Stoltz,” Patrick began, “will you take an oath in the Light not to reveal what I am about to tell you? I assure you, it will not cause you to violate any lawful and rightful oath you may have taken in the past.”

Stoltz looked startled. He paused for a moment, and then answered. “I swear by the Light that I shall not reveal what you will tell me under those conditions.”

“Master Stoltz, and you can tell the truth of this, Alan and I have a commission from the government of Arcadia to gather and report information on any threat from Evil forces. The cavern we were exploring may be an old fortress, abandoned after the Great Wars. We were mapping it, and looking for any relics of the war. We’ve only begun to explore it. We didn’t really get lost…we could smell horse dung on the breeze, and were investigating it when we found Thom. Our commission and the information about the fortress are the secret we ask you not to reveal.”

Patrick paused while Stoltz digested this information. “I think we’d all better have another drink,” the man said, amicably, as he reached for the decanter. “This could be a long night.”

After the boys’ drinks were refreshed, Stoltz continued. “I would not have thought that the prince would have an intelligence corps, but after what has been happening in the past few years, I’m glad to hear of it. I have family, as I told you, in Fortmain and on farms to the west of that city. I also have family to the south, on farms and in the city of Albion. It seems that things are worse, there.” He pulled a stack of paper from a drawer.

“This one’s from my wife’s uncle in Albion,” he said, “Hmmm…here it is… ‘One of the holts south of here was completely destroyed; all the buildings burned and everyone killed. The publican down the street lost five cousins, so it touched us, even though no one was a relative of ours. The publican said that they found Troll sign (“whatever that means,” Stoltz added, parenthetically) and believe that Trolls were involved in the raid.’”

“Here’s another, from my younger brother, whose farm is a day down the road, ‘A caravan came through on the way to Fortmain. They’d been attacked by brigands about two days south of here. Although they fought off the attack, it was at great cost. They’ve left three of their wounded here to be cared for. I don’t think they will live, however.’ ”

Stoltz waved the stack of letters. “They’ve all been like that, the past few years, and it’s gotten worse as time goes by.”

“There is information in those letters that should reach the prince…and my own King” Patrick said. Stoltz started, as if he only then realized that Patrick was an Elf, and owed allegiance to King Oberon.

Patrick continued, “I would like to ask you two things—still under oath. First, would you allow me to copy the information in those letters…the activities of Evil, only, of course…so that I might send it to Arcadia. Second, would you consent to forwarding information of this nature that you receive in the future to an address in Arcadia that I will give you?”

Stoltz sat, stunned. Then he spoke. “Are you inviting me to join you in rebuilding the quondam spy network that must have existed during the Great War?”

Alan at last spoke, “What’s a quondam?”

“In Old Elvish it means ‘that which once was.’ Any student of history would tell you that there must have been an extensive spy network during the Great War. Even though mages would scry the movements of armies, and far-see events at a large scale, there had to be other sources of information. Individual spies in cities, towns, and villages; on farms and along caravan routes; a communication network of places to send reports. Libraries where reports could be read and filed and summaries prepared for the leaders, both political and military. Yes, this and more had to exist during the Great War.”

“In answer to your question,” Patrick said, “yes, we’re asking you to join that organization. Mind you, we have no idea how big it is. Our contact…in whom we have complete faith…has instructed us not to reveal his identity, nor will we reveal yours to him. The fewer people who know one another…”

“…the less chance of betrayal, eh?” Stoltz filled in the gap left when Patrick stumbled over his words. “I understand, lad. You honor me with your trust. Yes, of course. You may copy whatever in the letters you think is important. You obviously know to leave out names or details that would identify the original writer. And, I will undertake to send future information to the place or places you designate. I can also, on pretext of my concern for them, encourage my family to send such information as they hear it. Let us all hope that this will help save us from another Great War.”

 

Thom was asleep, breathing softly on a bed in one corner of the room when Patrick and Alan returned. As quietly as possible, so as not to wake him, they undressed and slipped under a blanket on another bed, this one just large enough for two. As they held each other, sharing warmth made greater by the brandy and the past few days celibacy, Patrick whispered to Alan, “What was it in the soak tub? Thom hasn’t said a word since.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Alan replied. “It was as if he wanted to share boy magic…he started fondling me. But when I looked at him, it was as if he had stuck his hand into a pile of shit. He looked sick, disgusted. And he told me that he thought we’d rescued him for the same reason that the men had held him captive. I think…I think that they raped him. I think that he thinks we will rape him. Oh…oh…I…I don’t know what to think.”

As quiet as their voices were, they wakened Thom, for in the moonlight that came through the window, they saw him stir, stand, and walk to their bed. The moonlight bathed the boy’s naked body.

“I’m sorry I displeased you earlier,” the boy said, “please let me make it right.” He pulled the blanket back with one hand, while he reached for Patrick’s penis with the other. Before either Patrick or Alan could react, Thom had knelt by the bed, and was bending his head to take Alan’s penis in his mouth.

“No, Thom,” Patrick began.

“This isn’t right,” Alan continued, as he gently lifted the boy’s head. “You’ll sleep with us, but only sleep. No sex. No boy magic. Come to bed, now.”

Patrick and Alan gently put the boy between them, pulled the blanket up, and held him tightly as his body shook with sobs.

 

 

At breakfast, Stoltz announced to his family that the trio of visitors would be staying at least another day while he wrote letters to family members in Fortmain, letters that Patrick would then carry for him. While he was doing this, Patrick would be examining some of the books that had caught his attention. Immediately after breakfast, he and Patrick retired to his library, where they began the task of parsing and summarizing the stack of letters, emerging only for a brief lunch, until they finished an hour after nones.

Alan meanwhile took Thom to the woodpile and spent the day splitting wood, with a little help from Thom who somewhat grudgingly stacked what Alan had split. Alan took off his tunic, and as the Stoltz boys went about their chores they found frequent excuses to hang around the woodpile, admiring Alan’s physique.

During a break, one of the tweens brought Alan and Thom water. After Alan drank, the boy asked, “Would you share boy magic with me, tonight?”

Alan returned the dipper from which he’d drunk and replied, “That’s a sweet invitation, Benjamin, and on another day I’d like that very much. But not tonight, thank you.”

The tween smiled, “May I have a kiss toward another day, then?”

Alan pulled the boy toward him, embraced him, and exchanged a fine kiss. “To another day.”

 

The entire crew of Stoltz boys joined them in the bathhouse that afternoon. Thom seemed a little less catatonic than he had been the day before and even joined in some of the horseplay among the boys, but retreated when it began to have sexual overtones. Patrick and Alan exchanged worried looks which they managed to conceal from both Thom and the Stoltz boys.

After dinner, Patrick and Alan retired early, planning an early morning departure for Fortmain. In addition to letters, they were to deliver six horses to one of Stoltz’s many relatives, to be marketed in Fortmain. With luck and good weather, they could make it to Fortmain in two days.

Thom undressed and was about to slip into the small bed in the corner when Alan gently asked, “Will you not sleep with us, Thom?”

“Can I refuse?” Thom asked, “Can I refuse like you refused that boy this afternoon? And will you refuse me, like you refused him?”

Alan answered, “Of course you can refuse. But I hope that you do not. Come, Thom, come sleep with us, hold us and let us hold you and keep you warm. It will be cold, tonight.”

“But no sex?” Thom asked.

“No, Thom. Not tonight; perhaps some other day,” Alan answered.

“May I have a kiss toward another day, then?” Thom asked, bitterly as he walked toward the larger bed.

Alan took the boy’s hand and pulled him gently into the bed. “Yes, Thom, a kiss toward another day,” he said, gently kissing the boy.

That night, as the one before, Patrick and Alan held Thom while the boy cried himself to sleep.

 

They departed the farm immediately after breakfast. Patrick and Thom rode slowly toward the Royal Road; Alan made a side-trip to retrieve the scarab. He continued to carry it; Patrick had examined it again, and assured Alan that it would not endanger him.

As they approached Fortmain, Patrick took Alan aside. “I don’t want to carry the scarab into Fortmain. If it passed close enough to a cleric, or a mage with any talent at all…even someone with powerful Innate Magic…it might be detected. There could be questions I don’t want to have to answer,” Patrick said. “Can you conceal it, again? At least 100 yards away from the road.”

Alan nodded, and while Patrick and Thom walked the horses, he rode into the woods.

The weather had been good and the road dry. The three boys, riding the horses in relays, had reached Fortmain in just under two days. Stoltz’s relative accepted the horses and tack, as well as the letters Stoltz had written to family members.

Patrick was anxious to put the summary letter he and Stoltz had written into the hands of Durber. Durber would forward the letter to Arcadia, to Cadfael. Cadfael had established two ways for Patrick to send him information. If the information were associated with trade, such as reports of caravan raids, brigand activity, and so forth, it was to be sent to a merchant in Arcadia by open post. Even if such a letter were read by others, it would only reinforce Patrick’s open association with the trader, but not reveal the secret association. If Patrick had information that should not be read by another, it was to be sealed magically, and given to Durber if possible, or sent to another, different person in Arcadia. Because there was so much information in this letter, Patrick felt that it should go by the more secure, secret route.

He was also anxious to reunite Thom with his father…they had learned early that Thom’s father was the publican at the Wooden Troll, the inn that was the meeting place for Royal Intelligence and the one in which they stayed when in Fortmain—the one, in fact, where their horses were boarded.

Carrying their packs, Patrick and Alan entered the door of the Wooden Troll. “Hello, Master Albert,” Patrick greeted the publican. “Is our room still available?”

Albert turned at the familiar voice, and then stood, stunned, his mouth agape, as he spotted his son emerging from between Alan and Patrick.

“Hello, father,” Thom said softly, “remember me?”

When the man failed to respond, Thom continued, “Looks like you’ve cleaned the place up since I left…who’d you get to do the work for you?”

“I did it, boy. Your room was behind the kitchen. Some of your stuff’s still there. Get it and get out. You don’t live here anymore.”

“Why do you say that, Master Albert? What sort of man are you to treat your son like that?” Alan surprised even himself as he spoke.

“The boy is a lazy good-for-nothing who ate more than he earned. He had five guineas to deliver to the tax collector when he left here two years ago. I nearly lost this place when that tax wasn’t paid. Then the Guild Council came down on me for putting the boy in danger when they found out he’d been taken by brigands…as if it were my fault. He’s been nothing but trouble from the day he was born…the day he killed his mother.” The man’s voice was flat. There was no anger. It was if all the emotion had long been drained from him. “Get your stuff, and get out.”

“Then we shall leave, too, and Thom shall stay with us,” Patrick announced.

“No, no…I’m sorry. Please, don’t take the boy away. Don’t leave. I spoke in haste. You surprised me. It’s not fair.” The publican groveled.

Patrick and Alan exchanged looks. Patrick shrugged his shoulders to say, the decision is yours.

“We will stay, and Thom with us…in our room…” Alan turned to Thom and said gently, “If you will…we would be your friends…if you will.”

Thom nodded. His eyes were full of tears.

Patrick added, “We will continue to pay the same rate as before…no extra for Thom. Thom will be treated as a guest. Are we agreed?”

Humbled, the publican nodded his agreement.

 

That night, before preparing for bed, Patrick asked Thom and Alan to sit at the table in their room.

“I’ve something that needs to be said. Until now, we haven’t really had a chance…or haven’t made the chance, although we should have.

“Thom, Alan and I didn’t rescue you from the brigands because we wanted to have sex with you. We rescued you because it is wrong to hold someone in bondage. Slavery is an evil thing. Forcing someone to have sex is an evil thing, too. That’s what they did, didn’t they?”

The boy’s face was ashen and his voice was hollow. “Yes,” he said.

“I’m sorry that you have to think about this, Thom, but you must. Alan and I don’t want you to offer sex because you think that we would rape you if you don’t submit willingly. That would be as evil as what the brigands did to you.

“Alan and I don’t want to have sex with you because you think that would repay us for rescuing you. We did not rescue you because we expected payment…and sex is not a coin we would accept, in any case.

“Alan and I want to be your friends, and to support you while you heal. We didn’t know it when we entered the cavern where you were being held, but we took on an obligation, then, and we will see that obligation through.

“We will not reject you, and we will not force you. We will support you, encourage you, and listen to you. That’s all we can do.

“We ask only this of you: that you trust us; that you give us a chance to prove to you that we are honorable, that we are of the Light, and not of the Darkness in which you lived for two years.”

 

Patrick’s letter to Cadfael described their entry into the other part of the fortress, the finding of the scarab, and the rescue of Thom. With regard to the scarab, Patrick wrote,

The scarab is hidden about two miles outside Fortmain, as I was reluctant to bring an actively-magical item into the town where it might be detected. I have been befriended by an elderly mage, the librarian at the local College of Magic. I believe he can be trusted, and propose to discuss the scarab with him, saying only that I found it beside my path. He will likely see the half-truth, but will also likely not question it. I think he believes Alan and I are smugglers, and that he enjoys the vicarious excitement our friendship brings him.