Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 23: Deathbite Would Also Have Made a Good Name

Sexton led down long halls draped with tattered cobweb, tattered tapestry. Barnaby shivered in storm winds that trespassed the shattered windows. His cat-tutor kept hurrying before them all, then trailing behind, then rushing ahead again, near tripping every foot.

Barnaby held to the silence ordered by the cat. For all he wished to ask of Dark Michael. Did the ghost walk unseen beside him? Tripping on the cat, perhaps. Did ghosts trip? And this was surely a haunted house. No doubt ghosts crowded the hallway now, drawing cold wet fingers across face and back. Granted, so did the wind.

Sexton halted before an imposing door of stout oak, banded with bronze. Producing a heavy key he fed to the mouth of a lock. With twist and click, the door opened.

Within waited a long chamber lined with stands of rusting armor, shelves of worm-riddled pikes, blades and axes gone to rust, bows with strings woven into dust.

The solemn servant set about lighting candles, an oil lantern.

"Thank you, Sexton," said Night-Creep. "That will do. Allow me to attend the Marquise."

"Certainly, sir."

When the man departed, the cat hopped upon a table littered with daggers blood-red with rust and murder. For a while he stared about the chamber, sniffing, whiskers twitching. At last nodding satisfied.

"We may talk freely here. Bodkin, shut the door."

While Bodkin obliged, Barnaby released all the words he'd been holding with his breath.

"I'm to fight a rat? The Marquise of Millstones? The soldiers in the tavern were asleep not dead. Baby mermaid? Anyway Val killed the bandits. And how big is the rat? Your friend is missing an arm. A real baby mermaid? Where is Michael? A giant magic rat?"

"Calm," said the cat. "A rat's a rat, no matter the size. It will menace with incisors, then leap for your throat. You jump high and sideways, bite through the spine just behind its head, and adventure ended."

"Bite?" asked Barnaby and Bodkin together.

"Strike, I mean," growled the cat, tail giving dismissive twitch.

"But why should I do this?"

"You entered Pentateuch's house of your own will. He accepted you as guest, you accepted his request. If you refuse now, he will take grave offense. And 'grave' in terms of a necromancer's displeasure, is a dark business indeed."

Barnaby felt the room grow colder.

"Yet, if you meet this modest challenge, the reward shall aid against the far greater dangers of your real quest."'

"What quest?" asked Bodkin.

"What dangers?" asked Barnaby.

"What reward?" asked Bodkin.

The cat growled at the young thief.

"For you? None. For Barnaby, he gains weapon and armor, and what items of use we shall request from our rich and grateful host."

He turned to Barnaby. "To work, miller's son. Find a weapon that suits your grasp. I smell items here touched with spell-craft. Might even be a lesser relic or two."

At the thought of magical swords, Barnaby held off further complaint. He looked about. "Truly?"

The cat leapt from the table, pacing along hangings and displays, whiskers twitching.

"Ah," said the cat, halting. "This will serve nicely."

Barnaby and Bodkin approached, considered. Upon the wall from a rope of velvet hung a sheathed sword. Dusty but untarnished. The hilt caught the candlelight, returning it in sparkles.