David Drake - The Fortress of Glass

The creature crawled forward on hundreds of cilia each no bigger than a man's foot. It was a plant-ithad to be a plant; the tentacles were very like fern fronds though huge and hooked with thorns on the underside-but it was a plant from Hell.

Ilna had knotted a pattern from the cords she kept in her left sleeve. She held it up, facing the hellplant.

The creature squished onward, unwrapping a tentacle suddenly to grip a soldier's ankle. He slammed the lower edge of his shield down to cut the frond off against the pavement. Its tip uncurled, leaving a bloody patch above the soldier's heavy sandal. He retreated, his sword up but his face in a rictus of terror.

Chalcus put his left hand on Ilna's shoulder. She tried to shake him off. The sailor kept his grip and shouted, "Come away, dear heart, for you'll do no good here!"

Sharina found herself backing toward the doorway from which she'd entered the courtyard. The hellplant didn't move quickly, but it'd proved it could tear a passage through thick walls.

And thus far, there was no evidence than any human device could stop it.

"Lift that," Cervoran said to Cashel, pointing at the door set at a slant in the back of the pantry. The housekeeper hadn't been in when her visitors had arrived, and her two assistants had fled with looks of trembling terror when they saw their king.

Or whatever Cervoran was now. Did Protas go back to being a kid that everybody ignored because his father'd returned? There were worse things that could happen, Cashel knew.

"That leads to the bulk storage for liquids, your highness," Martous said in a chirpy voice. "We keep the large jars of wine and oil in the cellars so that they won't freeze during the winter as they might in a shed. But there's nothing down there which matters to you."

Whatever other people thought of the business, the chamberlain was sure determined to act as if nothing about Cervoran had changed. Maybe he was right.

"Lift that door," Cervoran repeated, but he could've saved his breath. Cashel had only paused to loosen his sash. He didn't want rip a tunic if the weight required him to bunch his muscles.

He bent, gripped the bar handle with his free hand, and lifted the panel in a smooth motion. The door was sturdy but nothing that requiredhis strength. The air swirling out was cool at this time of year, but Cashel understood what the chamberlain meant. Folk in Barca's Hamlet had root cellars for the same reason, though none-even the inn's-was as large as this one. The darkness had a faint fruity odor.

"Ah, your highness?" Martous said. "If you're going down there, should I have a servant fetch a lantern? There are no windows, you see."

Cashel smiled faintly. Anybody looking down the steps into the cellar could see there were no windows; it was dark as arm's length up a hog's backside.

Cervoran started down, ignoring the chamberlain as he'd done ever since Cashel saw the two of them together this afternoon.

"Follow me," Cervoran said; echoes from the cellar deepened his voice.

'Leave the staff; you will need both hands."

Cashel had already started down the sturdy wooden steps behind the king. He paused, trying not to frown, and said, "Sir? I'd rather-"

"It is necessary," Cervoran said.

Whatever else he might be, Cervoran wasn't a fellow who talked for the sake of talking. Cashel sighed and set the quarterstaff against the back wall of the pantry. He'd come this far, so there wasn't much point in starting to argue now.

The cellar was what Cashel'd expected: brick pillars in rows, and big jars lined up against the masonry wall at the back. The ceiling was way higher than Cashel could reach and maybe higher than he could've reached with his staff stretched out above him.

The light that came down the pantry door was enough once Cashel's eyes had adapted. Cervoran seemed to get along all right too, moving at his usual hitching stride down the line of jars. They were two different kinds, Cashel saw, one with a wider mouth and a thickened ridge for a rope sling instead of double handles at the neck like the other.

As he followed, Cashel's eyes caught the least sliver of light from the ceiling in the depths of the cellar. That must be the trap door onto the alley where the jars'd be lowered down from wagons. A cart with solid wood wheels for shifting them here sat beside a pillar.

Cashel grinned with silent pride. If these jars were full of liquids, they'd be work for two ordinary men to shift.

"You highness?" Martous called from the pantry. The quiver Cashel heard in the chamberlain's voice wasn't just the echo. "I have a light here if you need one."

"Lift that jar and follow me," said Cervoran, pointing at the first of the wide-mouthed jars in the rank. His fingers were puffy and as white as fresh tallow.

"Yes sir," Cashel said. He looked at the jar and thought about the path he'd be carrying it by. The stairs wouldn't be a problem because the pantry door was hung at a slant, but if Cervoran took him back into the courtyard he'd have to lower the jar from his shoulder to clear the transom. "Is it wine?"

He rocked the jar to try the weight. It'd be a load and no mistake, but he could handle it. The base narrowed from the shoulder, but it still sat flat. The pointy bottoms of the other pattern of jars had to be set in sand to stay upright.

Cervoran walked toward the stairs, ignoring the question. His voice drifted through the dimness, "It is necessary…"

Cashel grinned as he squatted, positioning his hands carefully. He'd taken orders from his share of surly people before, and that'd never kept him from getting his own job done. The others hadn't had Cervoran's good excuse of having been dead or the next thing to it for a while, either.

When Cashel was sure he had the weight balanced, he straightened his knees and rose with the jar against his chest. He had to lean back to center it. There was enough air at the top of the jar for it to slosh as it moved, but he had it under control. It was tricky, but it was under control.

Cashel walked toward the stairs, not quite shuffling. He could only see off to his left side, the direction he'd turned his face when he lifted the jar. He'd had to pick one or the other, of course, unless he wanted to mash his nose against the coarse pottery. He'd be all right unless somebody put something in his way, and anyway he'd be feeling his way with his toes. It was under control.

Funny that Cervoran'd picked him for the job. As best Cashel could tell, the king hadn't set eyes on him till they saw each other through the doorway to the council room. Cashel didn't know another man in the army who could do this particular thing-fetch and carry a full wine jar alone-better than he could, though.

Cashel heard Cervoran climbing the stairs-skritch/thump; skritch/thump. A moment later he touched the bottom riser with his own big toe. Cashel slid the other foot upward, planted it, and then shifted his weight and the jar's onto it while he brought his right foot up and around to the next tread. He'd thought of leading with his left foot on every step, but he decided he'd be better off climbing with a normal rhythm. He took the steps with ponderous deliberation.

"Oh, my goodness, what's going on here?" the chamberlain chirped from close at hand. "Should I get somebody to help, or-goodness, is that afull jar?"

It certainlywas a full jar. Cashel felt a jolt every time his heart beat.

Judging from the way it got brighter, he must be near the top of the staircase. He hunched forward slightly to make sure the jar was going to clear. It did and he could see the pantry, the shelves and bottle racks and then the chamberlain staring at him in amazement.

Cashel smiled. This jar was a weight, the Shepherdknew it was, but nobody was going to learn that from anything Cashel said or showed. Part of the way you won your fights was not letting the other guy know you were straining. Cashel didn't understand quite what was going on, but it wassome kind of fight. Otherwise Cervoran'd be moving the jar by the usual fashion, a couple guys and a derrick up through the alley door.