7. Another Possibility
7
ANOTHER POSSIBILITY
The chained man didn’t move. He waited, as if expecting her to say more, but Ari was too busy hugging herself and keeping a nervous eye on the doors across the bailey. If one opened now and the inhabitants found an intruder… Well, this guy could be misleading her about the likely reaction, or he could be strictly honest.
There was no way of telling.
“Nothing much.” The words echoed slightly. What did he look like under the featureless helmet? Probably deadly pale from lack of sun. How did they feed their prisoners in that getup? Or did they bother? “You see the sword, there?”
He twitched, the helmet tipping to indicate direction.
“Yeah.” I can hardly miss it . Ari decided she had to believe there was an actual person inside all that metal, since the opposite assumption made a funny, squidgy feeling begin under her breastbone, as if she would vomit or pass out.
“All you must do,” he said, very quietly, “is bring it within reach.”
That doesn’t sound like a good idea. Or maybe it is, depending on who you are? Ari’s legs had decided they might as well stop impersonating pudding since she might need them for continued survival in the near future, and the rest of her was trying to decide whether running away now or later was the better option. “Then what happens?”
He considered the question for a few heartbeats. “I enter the Keep.”
Is that all? “Is that a bad thing?”
“It is… necessary. Do you not remember what happened?”
My dude, I just got here . Had he mistaken her for someone else—a native of this strange country, maybe? Did a lot of people show up covered in landslide? Of course, she was speaking his language, which was one more piece of evidence in the this is a hallucination category.
Or was it? Her head hurt; doubting your own eyes and ears was exhausting work. Ari glanced up, and her heart gave another nasty leap. Were there more lighted windows now? She hadn’t counted before, but there definitely seemed to be a few extra narrow glowing shapes, very medieval, their tops tapered to sharp points.
Metal chimed. The helmet tilted; she wished she knew what era it was from. Maybe that would be the detail to tell her whether this was a bad trip on lunatic asylum drugs or… something else.
“They may have noticed a change and relayed the information to their master,” he said. Urgency rode the words. “Bring me the sword, or hide. They must not find you here, not while I am still chained.”
Really . That shed an entirely different light on affairs, so to speak. “What happens if they do?” Ari found herself edging past him, balancing nervously on cobbles. The rounded stones felt entirely real and individual, her hiking boots’ soles gripping differently on each one.
Why was she believing this guy? The useless urge to help an animal in a trap even if it ended with getting bit, or was it simple dream-logic? What else did you do when you came across something like this?
“Nothing pleasant.” He no longer sounded flat or robotic, but terribly grim. “And I would not remind you, if indeed you have forgotten.”
Maybe she only imagined she understood his language, and they were both gabbling at each other with increasing incomprehension? That was a horrible thought, too. Ari peered at the sword, and swallowed a disbelieving laugh. Oh, come on. I’m no Arthur, my friend .
A good portion of the long, heavy blade seemed buried in a chunk of craggy igneous rock, like a needle in a horsehair pincushion. The hilt was restrained, beautifully functional, the quillons wicked talon-curves.
I’ve gone around the bend. Just as crazy as Mike always said . Well, that made things easier, didn’t it? If this was insanity, it was a damn sight better than her usual reality.
Ari had to stand on tiptoe, reaching for the sword’s hilt.
“I would ask you to hurry,” the chained-up guy whispered, and she understood. The sound of weirdly modulated voices and footsteps was growing far more irrefutable, and there were also definitely more lighted windows above. Golden reflections filtered down to the bailey, light aggregating bit by bit.
I’ve had a helluva night, sir, and this is just icing on the cake. Briefly, she wondered what time it was—and what would happen if she pulled on the sword and it refused to budge.
Probably, in his words, nothing pleasant .
Her fingertips hovered uncertainly. A sharp clatter floated from above—it sounded like dishes breaking, or a drunken fist through a window.
Ari flinched. She hopped, awkwardly, and her hand closed around cold metal.
She expected to lose grip, fingers torn away as she landed, but the sword tilted as she pulled, its rocky prison giving a slight viscous protest. Her boots hit cobbles again and she staggered backward, unprepared for landing.
The sword followed, accompanied by a grinding rasp. Shining metal slid free of stone like a hot blade through resistant styrofoam; maybe it was just stage-dressing, resin made to look like rock? The tip nearly banged cobbles, so she hopped back again, attempting to avoid slicing her toes.
The blade was heavy, but she didn’t want to drag point or edge. Now that she had hold of the thing, the bright length looked wicked sharp, and one of the quillons touched her wrist, a cat-claw caress. Metal clash-slid behind her—the chained man moving but she couldn’t spare a glance in that direction, too occupied with managing an unwieldy weapon as long as her leg.
“Careful.” A curt, imperative word in that strange rolling language. “I will have to make another, if it harms?—”
I am doing the best I can, sir . “Hold on,” she managed, and was amazed at her own temerity. Men hated repeating themselves and being interrupted; she was storing up no end of trouble for Future Ari.
But he went quiet, probably deciding it was best not to pass up even this halfass help at the moment. Ari hefted the sword, turning so she could attempt keeping both him and the doorways along the rear wall in view. Her head swiveled, checking each direction as if gauging traffic on a busy street while already late for work.
The idea of just tossing the whole shebang in his general direction and hurriedly retreating was incredibly attractive, but that would make a lot of noise. If it was sharp enough to cut rock—assuming that chunk of craggy stuff wasn’t some other odd substance—it would make short work of at least some of his chains, right? Or at least, he seemed to think so.
Good enough . Ari took a tentative step closer to the mound of metal. She was almost in reach.
He shifted. Two gauntleted hands rose, arms straining against webbed chains—how did he breathe under all that weight? Maybe the armor kept him from being crushed by the wrapping? Ari hesitated, studying the helmet’s high crest, the blank sheerness over nose and mouth, the dark eye-slit.
What if the thing under it wasn’t human but some kind of horror-movie monster? Sure, he sounded fine. She had also married a nice guy who held doors for her but turned out to be a cruelly violent piece of shit, which meant her ability to make good choices was clearly questionable. Again, she considered that maybe this guy was locked up for a good goddamn reason.
Still, it seemed needlessly cruel to imprison anyone under these conditions. She wouldn’t wish being trapped under chains on Wanda Lee, or even Mike himself.
You don’t have to wish it. Her palms tingled, feeling the jolts again. You know what you did .
“There is another possibility,” he said, quietly. “You might strike me down, my lady. ’Tis sharp enough.”
Oh, crap . Was that what her hesitation looked like? “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” The lie stung her tongue; she’d hurt Mike Hardison plenty, and Wanda Lee would be devastated even if her son was a brutal, lying asshole. Earl might even shed a tear; certainly his boy was the only thing that remote, faintly supercilious expression on his face ever altered for.
“I know.” How could such a hollow, faceless voice sound so certain? “You never have, my kindness. We differ in that, as in nearly all else.”
Kindness? Maybe he was mistaking her for someone he knew. She was, after all, covered with dirt; she could’ve been anyone. Ari took the last two steps in a rush, arms straight out, the sword a bright vertical bar dangling from her grasp. There was much more light now, not just from the multiplying golden windows but also the sky’s vault, covered with grey mist instead of stars.
When had that happened?
One gauntlet closed around her right wrist, a cold iron cuff. The other found the sword’s hilt, and as the fingers closed with a muffled clink a hollow sigh echoed from the helmet’s depths.
Oh, Jesus and gin . Ari tried to step back as the weight in her hands lessened, but the ironclad fingers turned tight, trapping her. Not painfully, but that could be because she froze, the instinct of three long years warning her struggle was useless and would only cause more damage in the end.
“Finally.” The chained man’s laugh was just as bitter, but lasted far longer.
Ari hunched her shoulders, trapped on tiptoe, and waited for the worst.