Here be Monsters

CHAPTER 1

Allouette’s groan penetrated Gregory’s trance in an instant, and the images of his mental constructs fell to shards. He didn’t even give them a thought—he was already at her side, chafing her hands to restore contact with the real world, speaking in a low but intense voice. “My love! My love, come back! From wherever you roam, return to safety!”

Allouette’s gaze shot up to his face, terror twisting her features. Then she recognized her fiancé and the sight of his face waked her from the trance. She leaned against him but was still stiff as timber.

“There now, it was all a dream, only your own imaginings, only nightmares of the past twisted into new and horrible forms,” he soothed. “No matter how horrible, it is not real.”

She stayed stiff a moment longer, then went limp, collapsing into his arms and sobbing bitterly. Gregory held her and stroked her back and shoulders, marveling at his impossibly good fortune in having so wonderful a creature in his arms. He glowed with a feeling of power and purpose because he was able to comfort her.

At last the sobbing slackened and he tilted her chin up enough so that he could wipe at her tears with the hem of his sleeve. “Poor love, you must have seen horrors indeed! Was it a glimpse of genes gone awry, twisted into an angry knot? Or of a tumorous brain yielding distorted—”

“It was an invasion!” Her fingers bit into his arm. “Tribes of monsters, horrid and scaly, revolting and tentacled, brandishing weapons of strange design but sharp enough to hew our people in half! Behind them rode armies of humans on mounts obscene and savage, warriors driving the monsters onward to conquer our land! Nay, not simply to conquer, or even to rape and loot and pillage, but to slay and slaughter each and every one of our people!” She broke into sobs again.

Even as she spoke it, her mind leaked fragments of the nightmare—giant slug-like creatures with vaguely human faces twisted with obscene glee as they slashed with swords held in four arms, creatures that looked like bears become human riding on great horned lizards and slashing about them with battle axes, giant insects with human faces and razor-edged wings. . . Gregory knelt, frozen in shock, his hand stroking her back automatically as his brain reeled with the vision. At last he said gently, “It was a nightmare, nothing more, some deeply buried—”

“It was not! It was a sending!” Allouette glared up at him. “Ask me not how I know, but I do! They have blazoned this vision before them to weaken us with horror, to render us unable to resist them!”

Gregory knelt frozen a moment longer, then spoke with iron resolve. “If it is indeed a sending, then I too must perceive it.”

“No!” Allouette stiffened in panic, then clasped his face between her hands. “Not you, my good and gentle love! ’Tis bad enough that I have had to see this nightmare—I, who have been accustomed to bloodshed from childhood and to murder since I was grown! If it has wracked me so, what will it do to you?”

“I am somewhat more durable than I seem,” Gregory assured her, “but if there is truly a threat to the land, one sentry alone will not suffice to raise the alarm. I shall have to see what you have seen. Accompany me if you will, ward me and strengthen me, but I must witness it.” With no further ado, he gazed off into space, eyes losing focus as he concentrated on the terrible vision he had glimpsed, followed it back into her mind, and opened himself to it, hearing her voice from a distance crying, “Gregory, no!” but following the thought back along a line that reached from her to . . .

To a foggy landscape, a blasted heath with skeletons of trees barely seen through the mist, which gathered into a gray whorl that churned and roiled and opened like a whirlpool, a funnel that spewed distorted nightmare forms hooting and howling with glee as they charged out, waving blades of unearthly design, bloodthirsty and ravenous, seeking human prey.

The vision rippled, and Gregory saw the monsters charging down upon a human village too quickly for anyone to lift even a scythe in defense, saw what those whirling unearthly blades did to the peasants, saw what the warriors who followed the monsters did to the few villagers who remained alive, hooting and calling in mocking tones, “Gregory! Come and join! Come back for slaughter! Come back. . . come back . . .”

Then the vision thinned, separating from his mind, becoming only an obscene picture of turmoil and bloodshed apart from him, away from him as though in a frame, and it was Allouette’s voice that called, “Gregory, come back!”

He followed her voice, followed the pattern of her thoughts, feeling as though he were swimming up through dank and fetid water, away from skeleton-haunted wrecks of ships wrapped in dying weeds, toward light and air and freedom. Then he was clear, back in their sun-filled meditation room, and drew a long shivering gasp, clutching something, anything, so long as it was real and part of the living world.

Looking down, he saw it was Allouette’s hand.

“Speak, love,” she said, her words caressing, soothing. “Was it so bad as to shake even a wizard of your renown?”

Gregory nodded, took another gulp of air, and said, “Worse than anything I’ve ever seen—and I have witnessed some horrors, when my family and I have needed to save the common folk from oppressors.”

“Worse even than you saw in my mind,” she whispered.

Again, he nodded. “Tribes of monsters and armies of ruthless humans advancing not only to conquer Gramarye, but also to slay all who live here. They came spewing out of . . . of a sort of whirlpool, only it whirled in fog, not in water—and what they did to the villagers they found . . .” He shuddered. “Pray Heaven no such thing ever really comes upon us!”

“But it is real, and you and I both know it.”

Startled, Gregory turned to meet Allouette’s eyes and found them sympathetic, but also grave—and very determined. “We must hunt them down, Gregory,” she said softly. “We must track them and send every single one back into their whirlpool, or forever despise ourselves for not saving people whom we could have spared this agony.”

Gregory sat still for a moment, bowing his head and letting her words sink in. At last he gave a single nod and said, “You have it—we must. But let us rest a day first, to rid ourselves of this frightful vision and fortify our souls against worse to come.”

“It shall not take us so harshly again.” Still holding his hand, Allouette pressed it more firmly. “It was the surprise as much as the brutality that shocked us.”

“We shall be inured,” Gregory agreed. “Come, now—let us consider what sorts of phenomena we are likely to meet, and how to encounter them.”

They spent the rest of the day in research and planning, and the night in lovemaking, as much for reassurance as for pleasure. Gregory had promised Allouette that they would have a grand wedding when they both felt ready. She had retorted that he was promising it to himself, for she had no need of it—but secretly in her heart, she didn’t really consider herself good enough to become his wife. It never occurred to her that Gregory was certain he wasn’t good enough for her, and was planning their wedding for the future—at a time when, in his own mind, he had proved himself worthy of her love.

Nonetheless, neither had any doubt about their commitment to the other.

Waking the next morning, Gregory looked up over a steaming cup of tea and said, “Yesterday we held a council of war, did we not?”

“If two people can be said to be an army,” said the former Chief Agent of Gramarye’s anarchists, “we did, yes.”

“I had thought as much,” Gregory said with a grim nod. “Ere we leave, then, I shall tell a warrior where we go, and why.”

Allouette stiffened, for the warrior in question could only be Gregory’s older brother Geoffrey, whom she had tried to seduce away from his fiancée Quicksilver—and the fact that they had not yet been engaged, or that Allouette had failed, did not lessen her feelings of remorse one jot.

Gregory’s gaze had lost focus, and though he sent his thoughts to his brother in the family encryption mode, Allouette had long ago learned to decipher it and heard them as easily as though he spoke directly to her.

Gregory, old son! Geoffrey cried with delight. What moves?

Monsters, brother, Gregory returned. We go to hunt them.

Monsters? Again? Geoffrey said with overtones of boredom. What manner, and where are they?

Not in this world, Gregory answered, and as to the manner, look and see—but brace yourself to hold down your gorge.

So bad as that? Geoffrey’s tone was much more interested. Well, show me, then.

Gregory did.

Exasperated, Geoffrey Gallowglass strode down the hall of the royal castle. The guards at the door of the heir’s suite eyed him askance and didn’t bother challenging him—one simply said, “If you will wait a moment, my lord, we will announce you,” even as the other was knocking, waiting for the response, then entering to announce, “Lord Geoffrey to see Your Highness.”

Prince Alain looked up with a smile, laying down his quill. “Well, bid him enter, of course!” As Geoffrey came in, Alain rose from his desk, saying, “What moves today, my friend? A wolfhunt, or . . .” Then Geoffrey’s expression registered and he said, “What moves indeed!”

“My addlepated little brother,” Geoffrey answered, “and his devious betrothed . . . well, all right, wife. They have seen nightmares in their trances and are off to scour the land to make certain their dreams will not come true.”

Alain tensed; anything affecting the welfare of the land and the people affected him. “What manner of nightmare was this?”

“A cascade of monsters pouring from a whirlpool of fog,” Geoffrey answered, “and a bloodthirsty horde of people riding distorted mounts behind them, hell-bent to ravish and slay all the folk of Gramarye.”

Alain paled. “Could there be any truth in so horrible a vision?”

“I cannot believe that,” Geoffrey said, “but I dare not take the chance. If there are monsters loose, I shall not let my little brother face them alone—nay, nor even with his bride beside him.”

Neither of them had to say that they did not yet entirely trust Allouette.

“If you ride, I ride,” Alain said with determination, “you to ward your brother, I to ward my people.”

Geoffrey scowled. “We dare not risk the heir to the throne.”

“That old song again?” Alain sighed. “It was worn thin when first my mother began to sing it—and now you? Have you sewn patches on it?”

“Still, as your vassal, I must protect you,” Geoffrey said stubbornly, “not lead you into danger.”

“And as your suzerain, it is my duty to protect you,” Alain retorted, “you, and all my people.”

“But what if . . .” Geoffrey bit off the question before it was too late.

Too late it was; Alain grinned in answer. “If I were slain? Who would rule? Come, you know the answer! There is an heir and a spare.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, the spare should know where I go and the reason for it. Do you bide here while I speak to him.”

Neither even mentioned the king and queen, who would have forbidden the foray on the spot—but Geoffrey reminded Alain, “There is someone else to whom you should speak of this.”

“I shall tell her indeed.” Alain braced himself visibly. “Somehow I think there may be more danger in your sister than in your brother’s monsters. Wish me well, comrade.”

Diarmid was a slender young man some four years younger than his brother, almost as tall, almost as blond, even more serious—but there the resemblance ended. Diarmid was lean where Alain was stocky, wiry where Alain was muscular, quiet and reserved where Alain was open and direct.

“Ever the knight-errant, brother?” Diarmid actually smiled. “Well, good hunting to you.”

“Thank you for kind wishes.” Alain returned the smile, then turned serious again. “You know, Diarmid, that if I should fail to return, you would be heir apparent.”

The younger prince shuddered. “Heaven forbid! That I should have to forgo my books and spend empty hours in entertaining ambassadors and enduring the debating of lawyers! Take good care of yourself, brother, for I long to be back on my estates in Loguire, where folk speak to the point and do not waste my time in bandying words.”

“Ever the scholar,” Alain said, amused. “We must watch you closely, brother, or you shall be off to build a cottage in the shadow of Gregory’s tower and spend your days in study.”

Diarmid’s face turned gaunt with hunger. “Do not tempt me, brother.”

Alain was taken aback by his intensity and resolved never to mention the ivory tower again. He changed the subject. “I cannot understand how you can administer the whole of a dukedom, and administer it well, in only six hours a day!”

Diarmid shrugged. “It is only a matter of delegating authority—and of choosing good people in whom to entrust it.”

“You may yet prove more fit to govern than—”

“Do not say it, my liege-to-be,” Diarmid interrupted, “for the plain and simple fact of my efficiency in governance is that I do not really care tremendously for the people or the land.”

“Diarmid!” Alain cried, shocked.

Diarmid shrugged. “I do what I do out of duty, brother, not fascination. You, on the other hand, care for the common folk so deeply that you will spend hours agonizing over a ten-minute matter to be sure your decision is as right as it can be.” He shook his head, smiling with amusement. “I do not truly understand it—and have no doubt that you will be a far better ruler than I.”

“I thank you, brother.” Alain clapped him on the shoulder. “Soothe our parents for my absence, will you?”

“As well as I can,” Diarmid promised. “Give me the note you have writ for them.”

Alain handed him the scroll, then left, squaring his shoulders and bracing himself to confront Cordelia.

Diarmid looked after him with a pensive frown. If the horrid visions had been enough to rock Gregory from his studies, they must have been vile indeed—and there was a chance, no matter how slight, that Alain might find himself in greater danger than he knew. Diarmid made up his mind on the instant, for blood is thicker than ink. He would miss his books, but he couldn’t take the chance that Alain might be slain. He would follow him in case he needed to be pried loose from trouble. After all, he had only one brother.

Then, too, he really did not want to have to become king.

Prince Diarmid had been easy to tell; he took it in stride, used to his brother’s gallivanting in Geoffrey’s wake and quietly certain that the issue was more a matter of young men adventuring than of any real danger to the realm. Cordelia was another matter.

“Now? A month before our wedding? Have you a crack in your skull, that your brains could leak out and let you think of such a thing?”

Alain caught his breath at the vivacity of her, the way she seemed to glow with anger, her face only inches from his . . . He forced his mind away from that train of thought and said firmly, “If my people are endangered, I must go.”

“Aye, if! But what chance is there of that ‘if’ being true—and how great is the chance of your leaving me standing alone at the altar while you and my scapegrace brother go jaunting about the countryside?”

“I doubt highly that we will be gone more than a week,” Alain told her, then remembered what Geoffrey had told him about courtship and let his feelings show. He dropped his voice a few notes. “Besides, I am near to losing my wits with being so close to you, and so close to being your husband, and able to do nothing about it.”

Cordelia thawed on the instant. “There are always kisses,” she breathed, swaying even closer.

Alain took the hint, and the kiss—it lasted a long time, but as it ended, a groan escaped his lips.

Cordelia was instantly on fire again. “Are my kisses so distasteful as that?”

“No,” Alain gasped, “but they ignite a pain within me that shall not be quenched for a month and a day.”

“A day?” Cordelia stared at him, almost affronted. “Why the day?”

“Because I suspect you shall be exhausted at the end of your wedding day.”

Cordelia’s eyes lit with a different sort of fire. She pressed her cheek against his chest with a husky laugh. “Have more confidence in me than that, my love. I have more energy than you think.”

Alain’s moan was halfway to a mew.

Instantly Cordelia was three feet away from him, eyes downcast, the very picture of the chaste and demure maiden. “I shall not taunt you, then. Nay, it is wrong of me to tease you.” She looked up, meeting his eyes again. “And wrong of me to withhold you from your duties. Go assure yourself that all is well with your people, and that Gregory’s . . . betrothed . . . is only beset by megrims.”

“Take heart, my love,” Alain said softly. “If you do not yet trust Allouette, be sure that I do not either.”

“It had crossed my mind that she was enticing you both away at a most inopportune time,” Cordelia admitted, “but it is an unworthy suspicion. Go, my love. Chase phantasms for a fortnight—but do not dare be a single day longer, or you shall face a far more terrible monster than ever my brother could dream!”

Quicksilver was practicing jousting, riding at the quintain with a blunted lance. She knocked it spinning, turned her horse to trot back for another pass—and saw her true love riding toward her with bulging saddlebags and simmering anger in his eyes. Her heart dropped and she kicked her horse to a canter, rushing to meet him. “Geoffrey! What troubles you?”

“My idiot brother,” he said, fuming. “He and Allouette have endured a waking nightmare, seeing monsters come ravening out of some fantastic whirlpool of fog to despoil all of Gramarye. Now they have ridden to discover its whereabouts and have left me with a warning to be on guard.”

“Gone on a quest?” Quicksilver cried. “But it is only a month until Cordelia’s wedding!”

“All the more reason, says Gregory, to rid the land of whatever menace seeks to disrupt their nuptials,” Geoffrey said grimly.

Quicksilver caught his undertone and frowned. “You suspect something.”

Geoffrey went still, then nodded sheepishly. “It is wrong, I know, but it did occur to me that this might be some stratagem of Allouette’s to avoid having to face the whole family at the wedding.”

Quicksilver frowned, reviewing what she knew of Allouette and assessing it in a flash.

“Surely we shall have riddled out this muddle in a fortnight! And if we fail to, fear not, sweet one.” Geoffrey leaned forward and kissed her, then assured her, “I shall haul Alain home in good time for the wedding if I have to knock him senseless to do it—not that he is showing overmuch sense as it is. Farewell!”

With that, he turned and rode through the gatehouse, leaving Quicksilver staring behind him, trying to decide whether to laugh or to shout in anger. She bit her lip in uncertainty, not willing to admit a lingering fear that Geoffrey might have wearied of her. Nonetheless, the feeling nudged at her, and to quell it, she kicked her horse to a canter, pulled him up at the door of the keep, tossed the reins to a groom, and strode up the steps to rally Cordelia.

Rally? She came into Cordelia’s room to find her in a sturdy traveling gown, packing her saddlebags. “How now, sister-to-be! What will your prince say if he finds you on his trail?”

“Naught, for I shall make certain he does not find me,” Cordelia said, thin-lipped, “until he has need of me.”

“Sound enough,” said Quicksilver, “but what if he does not?”

Cordelia shrugged. “Then he will be none the worse.” She looked up. “This is no surprise to you. Has Geoffrey, then, already bade you au revoir?”

“He has,” Quicksilver said grimly, “and in so swift a fashion that I could scarcely protest—especially if the common folk are in danger.” She was herself the daughter of a squire and had grown up learning to care deeply about the land and the people. The common folk had repaid her by joining her outlaw band when the only choices left her were to go to her lord’s bed as she was bidden, or to rebel.

“Well, Alain is certainly not going into danger without me to ward him,” Cordelia avowed, “whether he knows it or not.”

“Indeed,” the reformed outlaw captain agreed. “Why should we stay at home and wring our hands?” She pursed her lips. “Nonetheless, it might be wiser to let the boys go ahead of us.”

“Yes,” Cordelia sighed. “They will take it ill if they see us trailing after them.”

“They would be affronted to know we doubt their abilities to deal with whatsoever danger they may find,” Quicksilver pointed out. “Then, too, if they fall into disaster, they may welcome others who follow to aid them in fighting off the enemy.”

“Not if those ‘others’ are their fiancées, I suppose,” Cordelia said sourly. “I will chance that, though, rather than chance their dying.”

It never occurred to either of the ladies that they might run into a predicament that the four of them together might not be able to solve.

“But with only a month till your wedding!” Quicksilver protested. “Will not the ceremony fall apart if you do not keep the arrangements in train?”

“It will fall apart even more if my fiancé does not come back,” Cordelia said sharply. “If I wish to be sure of a wedding, I must see to it that my groom stays alive!” She leaned closer and confided, “And truthfully, I am nearly driven to distraction by all this fuss about the church and the food and the gown and the guests! My wedding will proceed just as well for a week gone, and I shall be far more likely to emerge sane and cheerful.”

“But your lady mother—”

“My mother was once a bride, too, and I have no doubt she will cheer my leaving.” Cordelia gazed off into space a moment.

Quicksilver knew she was telepathically discussing the issue with her mother. It still gave her the megrims, to see mind reading used so casually.

Cordelia nodded briskly and finished folding a spare bodice. “She applauds my going and will keep all the preparations in progress while I am gone.” She looked up at Quicksilver, eyebrows raised. “You will accompany me, will you not?”

Quicksilver felt her lips curving into a smile. She chuckled and said, “Of course. What else is a sister-in-law for?”

So the Gallowglass Heirs set off on a quest, Gregory and Allouette forging ahead, blithely unaware that Alain and Geoffrey were half a day behind them, and Cordelia and Quicksilver half a day behind them.

None of them could know that Diarmid followed with half a dozen hand-picked men-at-arms, all very loyal to him—so loyal that none of them had breathed a word as to where they were going to anyone except their knight, and had told him only that the Duke of Loguire had summoned them. The knight would therefore not be able to tell the king and queen that both their sons were playing the knight-errant.

Of course, Diarmid was quite sure that they would learn that little detail—when he failed to appear at breakfast the next day, and his valet found Alain’s note. In fact, he was counting on their parents’ reaction. It gave him a certain sense of security to know that his father would be a day’s march behind him with a small army.