Douglas Hill - Blade of the Poisoner

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PART ONE

Gathering of Talents

Death in the Wellwood

Jarral Gullen slid noiselessly forward through the brush. Gripping his spear

firmly, he fixed his gaze on his quarry, feeding unaware in the sunlit glade.

One more silent step forward... then one more....

But an unseen briar, snagging his bare ankle, brought JarraPs game abruptly to

a halt. "Ow!" he said, stumbling sideways. Three twigs snapped under his feet

and a sapling threshed as he fell against it. His prey, a small, tufty-tailed

rodent, swept up a tree with a volley of chittering abuse as JarraPs spear

clattered harmlessly against a lower branch.

Jarral stepped out of the thicket, glanced up at the foliage where the little

animal had disappeared, then gazed round at the great trees of the Wellwood,

the forest that gave his village its name. The trees and shrubs still

displayed the freshness of their early summer greening. Even the glade's

carpeting of coarse grass was glowing with new green, dotted here and there

with tiny wildflowers bright as jewels.

Jarral ambled across the glade to retrieve his weapon—a thin, slightly crooked

stick that was a spear only in his imagination. Idly he used it to prod

4BLADE OF THE POISONER

a small anthill, then squatted to watch the insects scurry. He was just twelve

years old, an ordinary boy from the tiny forest village. He was of average

height and weight for his age, with plain brown hair and brown eyes and a

plain, cheerful face, simply dressed in shirt, short trousers, and sturdy

shoes.

He glanced around the glade again. The day was wearing on towards

mid-afternoon, and the overcast sky had begun to darken slightly as heavier

clouds moved above the forest, bringing the murky threat of a thunderstorm.

That did not trouble Jarral, for the weather was very often gloomy, with

frequent swirls of storm clouds and mutters of thunder. In that land, sunlit

days tended to be rare. But with the humid heaviness of the air, Jarral

decided that what he wanted was a cool drink from the great spring-fed well on

the fringe of the forest, around which clustered the villagers' cottages.

He set off at an easy jog toward the well. After his drink he supposed he

should go and see if his cousins had any chores for him. He did not feel at

all like doing chores, but he knew that his life would be a little more

pleasant if he offered to do so, now and then.

The cousins—a quiet, elderly man and wife— had actually been cousins to

JarraPs parents, who had died when he was an infant. The cousins had taken the

boy in and had looked after him as well as they could. They were a stolid pair

with no children of their own. They filled their days with what seemed to be

endless, plodding labor that was rarely lightened by affection or amusement.

Because of them, and because there were no other children of JarraPs age in

the tiny village, he had got quite used to his

Death in the WeUwood 5

own company and to the games of his own invention, in which he played the

parts of warriors and heroes.

So, as he jogged through the shadow-patterns of the Wellwood and heard

strange, faint noises in the distance, his imagination began at once to dream

up a game, or a story, that might fit around those noises.

Then he stopped. A breeze had brought some of the sounds more clearly to his

ears. They came from the direction of the village, now less than a mile away.

The half-invented game faded from his mind as uneasiness wrapped around him

with a sudden chill.

The noises sounded like screams—the ragged screams of people gripped by

unimaginable agony and terror.

He began to move forward again, tense and nervous, straining to hear more.

Ahead, the land sloped steeply upwards towards a long, flat fidge that

extended far into the distant forest depths. On much of the ridge an expanse

of evergreens grew, leaving the ground free from dense brush. Jarral started

up the slope, peering worriedly at the trees ahead. Then again he halted with

a jolt, his heart leaping in a rush of panic.

Something had moved out from behind a tree near the top of the ridge.

Something, or someone, huge and looming...

Then recognition filled JarraPs eyes. He half-raised a hand. "Archer!" he

called, his voice cracking with relief.

The figure moved smoothly down the slope towards him, still huge but no longer

threatening.

6BLADE OF THE POISONER

Archer was a giant—twice Jarral's twelve-year-old height, half as tall again

as the tallest man in the village. Archer was sun-browned and powerfully

built, with arm muscles like cables from drawing the mighty bow that was slung

across the broad shoulders.

But Archer also had a kindly face, bright grey eyes, dark brown curls, and a

female shape within her jerkin and breeches of doeskin and her low, soft

boots.

Archer had been visiting the village now and then for some years. She was a

wandering hunter, with a huge bow that few men could draw—and with an uncanny

skill that no man could match. During her visits she had always been

especially kind to Jarral, claiming a fellowship since she had been raised an

orphan, too, in her homeland far to the east. She had become one of Jarral's

dearest friends. He had even begun to dream that one day she might take him

with her on her travels.

His dream was about to come true—though not in a way that Jarral could ever

have imagined, or wished for.

His grin of greeting faded when he saw the look on Archer's usually cheerful

face. A pain-filled darkness shadowed her broad brow, and anger flashed from

her eyes and leaped in the clenched muscles of her jaw. For a moment Jarral

thought that he had done something wrong. But then he saw that the giant

woman's anger was not aimed at him. The village, he thought fearfully. She has

come from the village.

'Archer, what's happening?" he asked.

Archer shook her head. "Horrible things, Jarral. Things I can hardly make

myself speak about." Her

Death in the Wellwood 7

grey eyes searched his, in a gaze that mingled sorrow and fury and deep

distress. "You are young, Jarral, but you must be brave. What I must tell you

will be the worst thing that you have known in your life."

Jarral stared, wide-eyed with fear.

Archer's mouth twisted. "The village has been destroyed, Jarral. Everyone is

dead—except you. The cottages, the gardens, the barns and fields—all has been

crushed and burned. There is nothing left."

The clouds above the forest rumbled with deep thunder as Archer spoke. Jarral

had begun to shiver, seeing mental images of his cousins, his friends, the

village as he knew it. Tears filled his eyes and a terrible coldness spread

through him. Again his voice cracked slightly as he spoke. "Who... who did it?

Why would anyone do that?"

Archer shook her head again. "1 do not know why. But 1 know that the Prince

Mephtik did it. Or ordered it to be done by his soldiers and his...

creatures."

"Prince Mephtik?" Jarral had heard the name only once or twice before.

Villagers mentioned it in nervous murmurs, if at all, and Jarral had known

that it was a subject to be avoided.

"Mephtik, called the Poisoner," Archer said. "The ruler of all these lands,

this whole eastern domain."

Jarral's trembling grew worse as tears blurred his vision. "Why would a prince

destroy the village and... and kill everyone? What did we do?"

Archer laid a strong brown hand on his shoulder. "I do not know, Jarral. He is

the Poisoner, a man of terrible cruelty and evil. He does many monstrous

things that seem to have no meaning."

8BLADE OF THE POISONER

Jarral's tears finally spilled over. "What's going to happen to me?" he

wailed.

"You will come with me," Archer said gently.

Jarral sobbed, then leaned forward against the towering figure. Archer put an

arm around his shoulders, kindly and comforting, as Jarral wept out his loss

and bewilderment and fear. But in a moment, as the thunder growled again,

Archer gripped his shoulders and stepped back.

"We cannot mourn properly now," she said. "The Poisoner's servants are still

in the Wellwood. We must get away, swiftly."

"Can we go and... look at the village?" Jarral asked.

"No," Archer said quickly. "There is nothing left to see, except horror.

Remember it as you last saw it...."

Her voice broke off as she stiffened, then dropped into a low crouch, dragging

Jarral down beside her. "Be still!" she hissed.

Panic clutched at Jarral again. "What—what—?" he stammered.

"Soldiers," Archer said. "There."

Jarral's gaze followed her pointing finger, but even straining his eyes he

could see no one. He was not surprised, for he had long known about Archer's

astonishing keenness of eye over vast distances. But a second later he could

just glimpse a movement, much farther along the ridge-top. It was a vague

shape that looked like a horse and rider. And the rider seemed to be clad in a

weird, mottled green.

"Do the soldiers wear green?" Jarral asked.

As Archer nodded, an eerie sound came to their ears. Not distant thunder, this

time, but a strange

Death in the Wellwood 9

combination of a breathy hiss and a rapid, rustling patter, like the paws of

two or three dogs galloping through the forest.

The sound turned Archer pale beneath her tan. She unslung her bow and drew

from her quiver an arrow nearly as long as Jarral was tall. She gripped both

so tensely that her arm muscles leaped and knotted.

"There is something besides soldiers on that ridge, Jarral," she murmured. "So

now we must run, as fast as we can. You must keep going, deep into the forest,

without looking back, without stopping. No matter what I do, or what you hear,

keep running until you can run no more—and then walk or crawl if you must. But

do not stop. Do you understand?"

Jarral was rigid with fright. On the distant ridge he saw another flicker of

the mottled green of a soldier's uniform, then another. And beyond them,

briefly visible in an open area, he seemed to see a weirdly shaped shadow,

dark and low-slung, moving in what was surely an impossible way....

A sob escaped his lips as he whirled and fled into the depths of the Wellwood,

terror flinging him forward at a headlong speed, with Archer in a long-legged

gallop just behind him.

The Tainted Blade

Terror gathered around Jarral like a haze. It was as if he were flying along a

narrow, leaf-walled tunnel. He saw only the twigs and thorns that clutched at

him as he plunged through leafy tangles—only the fallen logs or patches of bog

that threatened to trip him up as he sped along the barely visible forest

trail.

But his mind was half-aware of the eeriness around him—the ghastly silence

among the trees. Even the thunder had faded, though dark clouds still shed

murkiness onto the forest. It seemed as if every creature of the Wellwood,

even the trees themselves, had been silenced by the presence of unnatural

horror.

Then he stumbled and almost collapsed under a fresh assault of panic. He had

realized he was alone. The steadying bulk of Archer was no longer behind him.

Then he might have disobeyed the bow-woman's order—might have stopped running,

turned to look back. But before he could do so, he heard a series of noises in

the distance.

One was the sound of galloping hooves, seeming 10

The Tainted Blade

very loud in that eerie stillness. As Jarral's pace faltered, he heard, from

fairly close by, the deep, musical twang of Archer's bowstring. It was

followed, from farther away, by a high-pitched human shriek. There was an

abrupt halt to the galloping hooves.

Then Archer was suddenly with him again, running with long strides, not at all

out of breath. "Do not slow down, Jarral!" she cried. "The danger is great!"

So Jarral resumed his desperate flight, ignoring the twinges in his leg

muscles and the ache in his chest. Again the haze settled around him, blotting

out everything but the tunnel-like trail ahead. And again, a few minutes

later, Archer faded back, letting Jarral dash on alone.

" This time, instead of hooves in the distance, he heard that other

combination of sounds: the weird hissing and pattering. The memory of that

dimly glimpsed shadow on the ridge sent a shock-wave of icy terror along his

spine, which poured new energy into his tiring legs. Once again Archer's

bowstring sang its baritone note. But the sound of pursuit did not stop. The

fearsome hiss and patter kept on—only seeming slowly to swing aside and fade

away.

Could Archer have missed? The thought nearly drove Jarral to his knees, for

she had never done so in all the times he had seen her shoot. Then Archer was

at his side again, running tirelessly,, but with a grim and troubled

expression, indicating that Jarral's thoughts had been correct.

But at least the arrow must have driven the unknown horror off their trail,

for they ran on now surrounded only by the ominous stillness. By that

BLADE OF THE POISONER

time, Jarral's legs were like lifeless wood and his lungs were aflame. But

still Archer urged him on, still his panic drove him like a whip. Eyes blurred

with near-exhaustion as well as fear, he did not see the barrier across the

trail. Not until Archer, with a cry, clamped a great hand on the back of his

shirt and flung him sideways into a leafy bush.

There he lay for a moment, breathing in huge sobbing gulps, before crawling

slowly out of the bush. And fresh terror closed round his throat and body like

huge cold fingers.

The barrier was like a large net, with a loosely woven pattern made from

silvery cords that gleamed as if covered in wetness. The pattern extended

across the trail from one tall tree to another, reaching upwards higher than

Archer's head.

It took Jarral several seconds to recognize the barrier, though he had seen

others like it many times. The others had been... far smaller.

The barrier was a web. An enormous, sticky spider's web.

Jarral struggled to his feet, backing away, white-faced, from the monstrous

web. Within two paces he collided with Archer, behind him, who seemed to be

standing very still. Slowly Jarral turned—and froze.

He was looking at a squad of soldiers, all in the uniforms of unpleasantly

mottled green, like a reptile's hide. From the backs of their necks armored

collars rose, looking as solid as metal, curving up and over their heads to

form helmets, like ugly serpentine hoods. The soldiers all held heavy

crossbows, aimed • unwaveringly at Archer. And behind them... Jarral's

The Tainted Blade

knees went watery at the glimpse of the shape in the shadows.

Its bulbous body, like a bristly dark sack, was the size of a large dog—and

was supported by eight long, springy, jointed legs. Several eyes glittered

redly from the head, while below those eyes, curved jaws like huge fangs

slowly opened and closed.

For a long moment they all stood motionless, the soldiers staring cold-eyed at

their captives. Then the soldiers moved smartly aside as past them stalked a

tall, narrow man with long white hair and a short black beard. His hair was

held back by an emerald' studded coronet of silver, and more emeralds and

silver decorated the dark green leather of his long tunic. From a broad silver

belt around his waist hung a silver sheath out of which jutted the hilt of a

short sword—a hilt that seemed to be carved from a single huge emerald.

The man's close-set eyes surveyed Archer and Jarral disdainfully. Then he

smiled, showing sharp and unpleasantly stained teeth.

'An excellent hunt." His voice was slightly high-pitched, with a discordant

edge that made Jarral's skin crawl. "How amusing to see again that frightened

beasts will flee blindly into traps."

Archer ignored him, staring watchfully at the group of soldiers. The man's

smile faded and his dark brows fell in a glower.

"She has not been disarmed," he snapped.

"No, Highness," said one of the soldiers quickly. His helmet and sleeve held

badges that looked like insignia of command. "Your pardon, Highness." He

stepped forward, gesturing with his crossbow at

BLADE OF THE POISONER

Archer. "Throw down your bow, and the knife at your belt!"

For a long moment Archer did not move. Her gaze seemed to grow even more

piercing, so that the officer blinked and almost quailed. But then he raised

the crossbow, finger taut on the release. Archer glanced at Jarral, grimaced

as if in apology, then flung her weapons to the ground.

The white-haired man was still glowering. "Nor has she been bound," he

snarled.

"Your pardon, Highness," said the officer again, nervously. But before he

could move, the white-haired man raised a narrow hand.

"It seems I must do these things myself," he said peevishly. Turning, he made

a complex series of gestures, a pattern in the air. And Jarral was unable to

hold back a yelp of fear.

The eight-legged horror had surged forward out of the shadows, in a pattering

scuttle of terrifying speed. As it approached, it flung out from its body a

length of the same glistening cord that formed the web. The cord hissed

through the air to wrap itself around Archer's upper body before the giant

woman could begin to avoid it.

Archer strained every great muscle, but the cord did not yield. Jarral saw

that it was as sticky as any true spider's web, clinging tightly to Archer's

jerkin and skin. Then the monster retreated at another signal from the

white-haired man, who was smiling with satisfaction.

"Excellent," he said. "A most gratifying day. AH shall be rewarded."

"Thank you, Highness," said the officer, bowing

The Tainted Blade

his head with a vivid expression of relief, which was reflected on the faces

of his men.

"Now, giantess," the white-haired man went on. "Explain your presence here."

Archer took a deep breath. "We are but innocent wayfarers, Prince Mephtik,"

she said. The name jolted Jarral, even though he had guessed by then who their

captor must be.

Mephtik gave a snarling laugh. "Innocent you probably never were—and certainly

not now that you have slain one of my men. Your arrows fly too far, and too

true, for those of a mere wayfarer." The ugly laugh became a cackle. "I'm

quite sure I know what you and the whelp are—and I will soon have it confirmed

by my Master."

Jarral had no idea what he meant. But something in Mephtik's voice, and an

answering deep flicker of tension in Archer's eyes, brought out an icy sweat

on Jarral's skin.

"The boy, I believe," Mephtik was saying, "is a survivor from that wretched

village. And you, giantess, are almost certainly an agent of that fool of a

wizard who dreams of opposing my Master."

"Whatever I may be, Prince," Archer said calmly, "the boy is of no importance.

Do with me what you choose, but release him."

"Do you give me orders?" Mephtik raised a mocking eyebrow, then snickered.

"No, no, I shall do with both as I choose. A person of your size and strength,

giantess, will provide a valuable subject on whom I can test some of my newer

venoms." He laughed again evilly. "I can guarantee you many weeks of unbridled

torment before I finally put an end to you."

BLADE OF THE POISONER

Then Jarral flinched as Mephtik turned cold eyes towards him.

"As for the whelp, he is merely a piece of unfinished business. But it would

be a pity to finish it too soon. His pathetic village was erased far too

quickly to provide much amusement." His grin was demonic. "Perhaps the boy

should be honored—through being shown the way to death by my favorite

plaything."

His narrow hand reached down, drawing the short, emerald'hilted sword from its

sheath. Jarral stared at it, paralyzed, like a bird hypnotized by a snake. The

sword's silvery blade was stained, all along its gleaming length. And the

stain was another shade of Mephtik's favorite color—a livid, sickly green.

Bound as she was, Archer flung herself in front of Jarral. "Mephtik, you

cannot!" she shouted. "He is a child! Use your vile Blade on me if it must be

used!"

"I have told you of my plans for you, outlaw," Mephtik said coldly. At his

gesture, soldiers dragged Archer roughly aside. Two others gripped Jarral,

immovably. As Mephtik raised the stained sword, grinning when Jarral tried to

cringe away, one of the soldiers pulled open the front of Jarral's shirt,

baring his chest.

"Let me tell you about my toy," Mephtik said to Jarral. A redness had appeared

in the Prince's cheeks, a cruel glitter in his eyes. "It is a gift to me from

my Master—a weapon of great and special power. A magical sword, boy. People

call it—the Tainted Blade."

He swept the sword-tip past Jarral's face and cackled as the boy cowered back.

"But I prefer another name," he went on. "I call

The Tainted Blade

it the Blade of Lingering Death. Lingering, boy—note that. A mere scratch from

this Blade will be fatal. But not at once. In fact, not until the next full

turning of the moon. And then the person with the scratch falls dead as if

stabbed to the heart. Do you understand? No ill effects at all, until the moon

completes its changes—and then instant death!"

Again he brandished the Blade—again he laughed his cruel laugh.

"But during that time, before the moon changes..." he went on. "Think of it!

In every moment of every day, the wounded person sees his death drawing

closer, reaching for him. In every moment, for all those days, he feels terror

and despair, waiting for the moon to complete its changes. He is dying, in his

mind, all that time. Dying in every moment of every day...."

Mephtik's voice had become shrill, and a small fleck of foam had appeared at

one corner of his mouth. With an effort, he gathered himself and stared at

Jarral with burning eyes.

"Here is your honor, boy," he snarled. "Last night the moon was full. Four

weeks hence another full moon will rise, though you will not see it. By then

you will be in my throne room, to provide my entertainment, but you will not

enjoy it. For that full moonrise will be the last moment of your life." He

tittered evilly. "Take my mark, boy—and begin your month of dying!"

The Tainted Blade reached out toward Jarral's bare chest. But then it halted.

Mephtik, startled, seemed to strain every lean muscle of his arm to force the

sword to move. But it did not budge. Then the Poisoner's eyes widened and

sweat burst from his

18 BLADE OF THE POISONER

brow. The Blade had begun to swing away from Jarral. Shakily but steadily, its

deadly point rose, then began to curve backward.

Within a moment, despite the Poisoner's frantic efforts, the lethal Blade in

his hand was pointing toward his own throat.

Staring wildly around, Mephtik saw Archer. Still bound by the spider's cord,

she seemed to be under incredible tension—every muscle of jaw, neck, and

shoulder taut and bulging. And her luminous grey eyes were fixed on the Blade

in the Poisoner's hand, as it inched toward his throat.

"It's a Talent!" Mephtik screeched. "Stop her! Stop her.'"

The soldiers seemed frozen with shock, gaping at the moving Blade. But then an

officer lunged forward, swinging his crossbow like a club. Archer crumpled to

the ground, sudden blood staining her brown curb. And the unseen force that

had gripped the Blade vanished, so that the weapon jerked violently in

Mephtik's hand.

Then the Poisoner gathered himself, glaring furiously at Jarral. "So you see

there is no escape, for you or her," he snarled. "Now begins your death— which

will end finally when next the moon is full."

Again he reached out with the Tainted Blade, this time with nothing to impede

him. The sickly green tip of the Blade touched Jarral's chest, cold as a shard

of ice. A thin line of red appeared on his skin as the Blade-tip moved.

Slowly, skillfully, Mephtik drew the Blade up and down, up and down again.

The surgically neat cut—just skin-deep—traced on Jarral's chest, in his blood,

a perfect letter M.

But Jarral was unaware of the shape of the cut.

The Tainted Blade

The mounting series of horrors that had assailed him finally proved

overwhelming. Mephtik's words and the first icy touch of the Tainted Blade had

flashed through his entire being in a crushing wave of shock. Before his wound

had fully begun to bleed, he had sagged in the grip of his captors, his mind

spiralling down into a welcome, pain-free darkness.

Many Blades

Earlier, many days and nights before Jarral was to feel the icy touch of the

Tainted Blade—and many days' march to the west of the Wellwood—a crowd had

gathered in one street of a mighty city. The city was Xicanti, the capital

where Prince Mephtik had his Stronghold. But the street where the crowd had

gathered lay in another part of the city, a poor and decrepit area. And the

crowd itself was ill-clad and uncouth—as rough as the bare wooden planks that

formed the platform around which they clustered.

Night was well advanced in the city, so the platform was lit by the flame of

torches, shedding their orange gleam on the eyes and sweaty faces of the crowd

as they grinned or yelled. On the platform, a troupe of traveling entertainers

had been performing for about an hour, receiving plenty of noisy appreciation.

But the person onstage at that moment had almost managed to silence the crowd.

He was a man slightly below average height, with a shock of short dark hair,

wearing only a dark loincloth and knee-high boots. His lean body was pale and

hairless,

Many Blades

slabbed with muscle as hard and sharply defined as a sculpture.

He was a juggler, but this was no ordinary juggling of balls or hoops or light

clubs. A brightly lettered sign at one side of the stage announced:

CARVER——MAM OF MANY BLADES. And SCVCral of thoSC

blades were spinning in the air above him.

What had almost silenced the crowd was that all those blades were slim,

needle-pointed poniards and stilettos. Each one was whirling through two neat

turns above the juggler's head before he caught it by the hilt to spin it up

again. The action looked easy, almost casual, although the man's eyes seemed

narrowed with concentration, glittering almost wolfishly through slitted lids.

The only part of the crowd that was not holding its breath while the blades

spun was a foursome of bulky, half-drunk men, wearing uniforms of mottled

green with armored collars rising like serpentine hoods. Those men preferred

to hoot and bellow, as if trying to break the juggler's concentration, as if

hoping that one of the daggers would plunge down to more dire effect.

But it did not happen. Within a few moments the juggler was gathering in his

blades, nodding briefly as the crowd roared its applause. The roars became

more tumultuous when the juggler was joined onstage by a smiling young woman,

whose shapely figure was barely covered by a sleeveless top and a

semi-transparent skirt.

The four soldiers made the most noise when she appeared. Some of them bellowed

remarks that were more coarse than even that rowdy company could enjoy. But no

one objected. The four men were big

BLADE OF THE POISONER

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PARTONEGatheringofTalents1DeathintheWellwoodJarralGullenslidnoiselesslyforwardthroughthebrush.Grippinghisspearfirmly,hefixedhisgazeonhisquarry,feedingunawareinthesunlitglade.Onemoresilentstepforward...thenonemore....Butanunseenbriar,snagginghisbareankle,broughtJarraPsgameabruptlytoahalt."Ow!"hesaid,...

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