Foundling ft-1 Read online

  Europe took her chance and struck out with speed, jabbing ferociously into the schrewd's belly with her fuse. She spun about, as fast as the eye, with coat skirts flying, to strike again at its rump. There were no bright flashes, just a loud Zzack! with the first hit, and a ringing Zzizk! with the second.

  The ettin yelped and staggered, and dropped the barrel. As this hit the ground, many apples in various states of decay and a rind of cheese bounced out. In truth the brute had not really expected much at all! It flailed its arms wildly, and whether by design or accident caught Europe up in a giant fist. This was its big mistake-the fellow had surely never encountered fulgars before. It made as if to hurl Europe into the trees, but instead, with a look of profound confusion and horror, stood suddenly transfixed. By some invisible force, and most certainly against its will, the ettin bent its arm. This unwilling action brought Europe, whose own arms were outstretched and groping, closer to its head. All the time Rossamund could read in its eyes But why? But why?

  "No!" Rossamund cried. He leaped off the landaulet, avoiding the grasp of Licurius as the leer wrestled with the near-panicked horse.

  By now the schrewd held Europe up in front of its face and she quickly gripped its forehead like a snake might strike a bare ankle, sending a mighty charge of electricity straight into the monster's skull. The schrewd could not even bellow its agony as smoke began to rise from its head. It simply swayed and took one step backward toward the ravine; then another, and another, and another.

  "No… no… no," was all Rossamund could find to say. Tears began to flow as he stumbled, as helpless as the schrewd, unable to do anything to intervene.The foundling dropped to his knees in horror.

  Almost inevitably the ettin tottered on the brink. It paused there for one terrible moment, its usually squinty eyes almost popping out of their sockets in terror, before toppling headlong into the gorge. As it fell, it released its grip on Europe, who pushed off from its hand and vaulted back nimbly to the ravine's edge. She landed lightly, ready to fight on.

  In control of its voice once more, the Misbegotten Schrewd let forth a heart-wrenching wail-a cry of deep sorrow and great agony-which echoed all around the gorge, and then ended all too abruptly.

  Huddled on the ground, Rossamund wept.

  He became aware through his tears that Europe was standing over him. She bent down and stroked his hair briefly, almost as Verline might have done when he had been sick or sorrowing. Then she said softly, "You broke your word, little man."

  There was a sharp pain and a flash of sparks in Rossamund's head.

  His body jerked violently.

  Then there was nothing for the longest time.

  8

  VIGILANCE AND VIGORANTS

  Sedorner (noun) official name for a monster-lover, often used as an insult. To be heard even trying to understand monsters from a sympathetic point of view can bring the charge upon one. Different communities and realms deal with sedorners with their own severity, but it is not uncommon for those found guilty to be exposed on a Catherine wheel or even hanged on a gallows.

  To come back to awareness after you have been unconscious, especially if you have been unconscious for a long time, is an exceedingly odd experience. The first sensations Rossamund became aware of were his hearing and a great ache in his brain. Amid the sharp throbbing was a rushing whoosh that spun about in his head, rising till he almost understood its purpose, then descending back to nothing.

  Rising again.

  Descending again.

  After who knows how long, he came to realize it was the sighing of wind in treetops; the voice of birds calling thin, lonely music; and the tap, tap, tap of a small scratching very close by. Smells returned: pine needles, wood-smoke and some worse stink. The sense of touch followed these other clarities as he felt his own weight pressing on something hard yet strangely yielding. He became aware that he had a hand, and that his hand was holding something that felt rough yet also soft-his scarf. He tried to move his hand and found that he could not. He was numb at every joint, frozen in every muscle. He could not even open his eyes.

  It was then that memory returned. Rossamund forgot all the sensations he had just rediscovered, and was filled instead with the recollection of all that had just passed, the destruction of the poor Misbegotten Schrewd. He should not have cared. He should have rejoiced: one more triumph of everyday folk over the ancient oppression of the monsters. Yet somehow the foundling could not see much to cheer in it. Some poor ignorant slain just for being in the way.

  Instead, a great sorrow set in his heart. What would Master Fransitart think of this? Rossamund had met his first nicker and come out of the experience a monster-lover. Unable to move or see, he lay filled with grief for some brutish giant he did not know and should not like.

  A new sound broke in, right by his head. "I… hiss… hold that something must be done." It was the wheezing of that terrible leer Licurius. He was right by Rossamund, far too close for the foundling's ease. The boy's stomach churned in pure fright.

  "I… I have done enough, don't you think? It was just a little spark to quiet him… but look now!"

  This was Europe's voice-Europe, the mighty fulgar.

  Europe, the slayer of innocents.

  Europe, the electrocuter of children.

  How powerfully uncertain he was of her now. So this is what she meant by a glorious "life of violence"!

  "… Wheeze… What good is he? Just some squirming snot nobody wants.You spied how he cried for that beggar, shed real tears like a toddling lassss for some tottering great waste of a nicker.You did a'rightly with him, I say-we've got nought spare for a rotten little… hiss… sedorner like his-same-self there… hiisssss!"

  Rossamund's soul froze. A sedorner? A monster-lover! That was one of the worst things to be called. Worse yet, they were quite clearly talking about him. What were they going to do to him?

  Europe sighed a long, almost sad sigh. "Stay in the carriage and everything was good, that was all it needed… What is it with males and listening? I wonder how this would read in the panegyric of my life, that I shock bantling brats."

  "All the more reason to repair the wreckage. We should slit his belly and spill his umbles right here and leave done with it… gasp…" The leer's voice rasped right by Rossamund's ear. "Or take his corpse and blame it on that ettin! A clear reputation is as good as a clear conscience, like you always say."

  "Hush it, Box-face! You push too much! This circumstance does not warrant such brutal work. My word, leer! You are starting to scare me with your talk of slitting and spilling. It has gone from worse to worse these past months-is it possible your black old heart gets blacker still?"

  The leer hissed, long and cruelly. The landaulet shook for a moment, as if there was a struggle. Was Licurius daring to tangle with the fulgar?

  Europe gave a yelp. "Enough, now!"

  Rossamund lay aware, terrified yet blind and paralyzed. With the shaking of the carriage, this terror rose unwanted from his gut to his throat and, though he tried to suppress it, it came out as a bubbling, whimpering cough.

  Everything seemed to go even more still. Then, "Aah." Europe sounded relieved. "It appears he has returned to us. Good, good."

  "… Wheeze… Don't be blubbering to me, then, Sparky," Licurius said, concluding their previous business with faintly wrathful tones, "when thisss'un places well-found blame on your pretty pate."

  "Enough! Enough!" The lahzar's voice wavered briefly. "Cease your insolence and boil the water. You know I am sorely in need…"

  With his little outburst, Rossamund found some capacity of movement return. He wrenched his eyes open in an instant and, as his neck still proved stubbornly immobile, rolled them around wildly, to know his fate.

  He was lying under a blanket on one of the seats of the landaulet staring up at the clear sky pricked with early evening's first stars, through high, scruffy boughs-they were still in the forest. It was bitterly, breath-steamingly cold. He began to shiv
er. Europe was in her usual place on the opposite couch. Her hair was down and that big book she scribbled in was upon her lap. By her sat the lantern, already lit. She was looking at him with an expression he could not fathom, neither hostile nor tender. He blinked over and over at her, limbs twitching as he tried to get some use out of them.

  "Good evening, little man," the lahzar said slowly, her arms folded, her right hand up and covering her mouth and chin. "Don't wriggle so.You will be able to move soon enough," she chided, as Rossamund's wriggling turned into writhing. He did not heed her, but struggled and strained to get his body to respond. Now that they knew he was alive-that he was awake-he did not want to remain vulnerable one moment longer!

  Europe leaned over and placed a hand upon his shoulder. At this he yowled mightily. Europe herself shied, genuinely startled.

  Licurius came over to see about the commotion. "What a noisy little toad!" he growled, gripping the foundling hard about his throat. "Hush it, basket… wheeze… or you'll die here and now!" All sound was pressed from Rossamund as the leer clenched tighter and tighter, the boy's cry changing to a panicked gurgle.

  "Let go of him, Licurius! This instant!" Europe glared at her factotum.

  The leer ignored her completely. "Come on, little girl, squeal like you did when I had yer by the ankles…!"

  His arms jerking uselessly, Rossamund tried desperately to squash the man's hand between his chin and throat.

  "How dare you, leer! You serve my ends, not I yours!" The fulgar half stood, her hair beginning to bristle with static, the book sliding from her lap to the floor of the landaulet with a thump. "Let go your hold and step back! We have not the time for this and I have not the patience!"

  For a moment longer Licurius seemed set on ignoring his mistress, then suddenly loosened his grip and turned to peer over his left shoulder. He stepped away, then hesitated, hissing, "That's not right…" He plainly sniffed at the air, the sound of it coming clearly from the many holes in the sthenicon.

  Rossamund squirmed away as best he could, to the other side of the carriage, tears coming from eyes and nose.

  "You wear thin, laggard," Europe hissed in turn. "What is it now?"

  The leer did not answer but stood for many strained minutes: sniffing, listening, sniffing yet more. Europe began to growl, ever so softly, impatient with his silence.

  "There's something amiss on the wind, m'lady. Somethin' unsettling… away down there." He gestured into the trees.

  The fulgar sat back rubbing her face as if she was vexed by a headache. "Well, you go and see what it might be," she sighed, "and I'll finish the treacle myself, shall I? Now go on with you then!"

  The leer hesitated again. He gathered his cloak about himself and stalked off, passing quickly through a black gap between rough trunks.

  Rossamund could not hear anything but the pound, pound, pound of his pulse in his ears, nor, more particularly, smell anything that he might call "amiss" or "unsettling." He was relieved beyond expression simply to be released from the murderous intentions of that wicked man. Though he breathed heavily, he became still.

  In the quiet the fulgar watched the forest. "He'll be gone a goodly while, I'm sure, so we have some time to get you all back to how you should be." Her voice was tired. "Do you have any restoratives or vigorants? I would give you some of mine, child, but that they are made particularly for my… peculiar constitution… and I doubt whether that crusty old leer would let you at any of his." She wiggled her arching eyebrows at him as if they were together in some conspiracy.

  Wanting to keep her in this current friendly mood, Rossamund managed a weak grimace and, with numbness lessening and movement returning, nodded once.

  "And where might they be?"

  Rossamund grimaced as he tried for the first time to speak. "S… S… Saa… Satchel…!" With great effort he tried to sit up. Europe reached over to help him. He shrank from her touch and slid back down the slippery seat. She saw his discomfort and, taking her hands off him with a false-sounding "There you go," took up his satchel and sat back. A powerful exhaustion settled over Rossamund as he finally succeeded in sitting up, and he watched as the fulgar fossicked about in his belongings. After a moment she pulled something from the satchel. She held out her hand. There were the sacks of bothersalts, amazingly dry and potent again, after their dunking in the Humour had made them into pointless slop.

  What remarkable things Craumpalin's chemistry can do.

  "Useful." Europe cocked her head. "But not what we require."

  She went back to rummaging, at one point pulling out the mash that had been his traveling papers and folding money, still damp and starting to smell. "There's a mystery," she said, placing the sodden lump on the seat beside her. A few moments more and she produced what she sought: small, familiar, milky bottles with the deep blue? and Craumpalin's mark of C-R-p-N.

  "Ah-ha! I'd recognize these anywhere." She held one out. "Evander water-'good for all.' Somebody likes you, little man, to be prescribing this. Both vigorant and restorative in one happy draft. Glorious day! Open up and don't mind the taste."

  Rossamund knew what they were and blessed the old dispensurist in his heart-as he had already, many times-for his generosity.

  She broke the red wax seal and reached over to administer the restorative. If it had not come from his own belongings, had he not recognized his own bottles, he would never have let the fulgar so much as wave the stuff in his direction. Even so, he was still uneasy. As his lips came to the bottle, the smell of its contents rushed up his nose. Strong and sharp, it took away the heaviness and brightened his thoughts. Contrary to its smell, however, it tasted remarkably bland. If Rossamund was ever to eat chalk, he would have said that evander water tasted like that, a liquid with the flavor of powder. He was dosed with the whole bottle, about three swallows, and quickly began to improve-muscles loosened, vision cleared, the pain in his head lessened markedly. He arched his back and stretched his arms out and up with a groan, twisting his neck back and forth. Finding Europe watching him, he ducked his head self-consciously and offered a muttered thank-you to the lahzar.

  The fulgar waved a hand. "Tish tosh!"

  He saw the little container of whortleberries and, with a cautious eye on the fulgar, took one. She watched him impassively and did not intervene. He ate eagerly. Now he felt much better: able to move once more, though still a little stiffly; no pain; able to see, able to flee-but to where? This forest was surely just as dangerous, and the leer would find him anyway.

  "Well, now." Europe seemed fidgety. "I absolutely must do the brewing. Stay! I'll be back presently. Tomorrow we'll be coming to a wayhouse, so you can have that to look forward to.You'll be much… happier there, I'm sure."

  Rossamund did not doubt her.

  As the fulgar climbed down from the landaulet bearing her black occult box, a noise came, distant yet distinct, from the direction of Licurius' exploration. Looking toward the sound with a frown, Europe stepped to the ground. "That can't bode good," she observed.

  The sound came again-a series of sounds really. To Rossamund it was like someone thrashing about in the undergrowth. He opened his mouth to ask, but Europe silenced him with the palm of a hand. Though she held it there only for a moment, Rossamund noticed five small lumps upon her bare palm, raised and discolored like moles. He had no idea what they were.

  The fulgar took something out of the black box and put it in her mouth, just as she had before the last fight. She grimaced in much the same way too as she chewed, putting the box back in the landaulet and adjusting the lantern, making it brighter. All the while she stared in the direction of the noises.

  Was there going to be another fight?

  Rossamund craned his neck, wide-eyed once more at an approaching, invisible threat. They were in a clearing just off the side of a road that crested this hill. All about were closely growing pines with only the narrowest space in between each trunk. The thrashing came closer through those small gaps.

&nbs
p; Europe stirred up the fire, put on another log: she was trying to make more light. Far from wanting to hide from any danger, unlike Rossamund she wanted to see what was to come, confident of mastering any event. Pacing between the landaulet and the flames, she buckled up the frock coat, never taking her gaze off the wall of trunks.

  There was a flash and a loud fizzing close by-some way to the right of where the leer had departed. Bright and blue, the trees obscuring it shown as black, stark poles. Rossamund almost fell over in fright and shrank down into the seat, peering over its edge. More thrashing about, the crashing of a heavy thing pushing through thin boughs. Smaller whippings. Closer, closer. Something appeared on the edge of the light.

  It was Licurius!

  The leer's tricorn was gone, his cloak badly torn, ripped almost from his frame, his sthenicon half wrenched from his face, yet he still clutched a pistol. Shocked, Europe took a step toward him. Bloodied and torn, he staggered into the clearing and, with a shuddering wheeze, rasped in the loudest, hoarsest whisper he possessed, "M'lady, we are attacked!"

  The dark erupted in shrieks and yells, one of them Rossamund's own as he gave cry to his fear. The landaulet jerked violently, throwing Rossamund from the seat to the floor as the horse started in fright at this assault and tried to bolt. Hobbled and hitched, it could not get far at all. After only a couple of yards, the carriage halted suddenly with a strangled whinny from the horse, tumbling the boy within about once more. He scrambled along the floor and peeked over the side.

  Shadows dashed and darted on the fringes of the camp. Things with big heads and little bodies were pouring out from between the trees with triumphant yammering-hard to see despite the fire and lamplight. They overwhelmed Licurius as he turned to defend himself. Down he went, firing his pistol as he fell, pressed under a multitude of gnashing, nipping bogles. Europe cried wordlessly, yet before she could intervene, she too was set upon by many small terrors. They tore at her viciously, trying to pull her down too, shrieking "Murderer! Murderer!" in shrill unison. She swatted each one as it came, throwing several off at a time with that powerful Zzack! that declared the fulgar was about her gruesome work. She stepped and pranced with venomous speed, spinning, striking, her eyes wide and wild, her hair standing on end, frock coat hems flying dramatically-as they were clearly meant to do-showing many-layered white petticoats beneath. It was a great spectacle of flickering sparks to see the fulgar fighting in the night. Every nasty, gripping horror that got a hold was soon sent flying, almost every strike she made giving a brisk crack! and a brilliant flash like little lightning. Several times one of the beastly little things was sent hurtling to its end with a great arc of electricity strobing in blinding green between it and the fulgar. In each brief glare the whole night scene would be quickly lit like a glimpse of day. None could best her. Even if they did get a good hold, the needlelike teeth and cruel claws of these grinning fiends proved almost useless against her stout proofing.