Torturous Alliance

by Kristine Lichtlider

  “And these sharecroppers, what, trained them?” said Hector.

  “I don't think they were all that trained,” said Bruno, staring up into the trees “otherwise, why run up a tree like a cat?”

  “Where's Crown?” said Aven, her face grown alarmed.

  He was taking the horses to safety, he told himself. Yes, he was going to gallop away with the horses and mule to keep them safe from the ambush. Crown's hand reached for the reigns for the tenth time, and for the tenth time his hand erupted in the horrifically painful blue flame. He kept thinking that he could steel himself against it, that if he told himself that the pain was only in his mind he could overcome it. Every time he ended up panting in the dirt, his spit mixing with blood from his busted lip in a muddy pool.

  It was not right, he thought, the cursed faerie wench treating him so. With conventional bindings or imprisonment, there was at least a slim if not sporting chance for escape. Ropes could be cut, locks could be picked, and bars could be squeezed through. If worst came to worst, he might be able to bribe a guard, or trade some information for his release.

  With the magic, he had no recourse. There could be no struggling against the insidious magic worming its way through his brain. So long as his goals was even the most minor of treachery, the flame would erupt and he would feel worse pain than he had ever known, even under torture.

  A rueful smile broke out on his face when the three harried companions came out of the woods. He stood up and dusted himself off. As Bruno approached he held his hand to his face and played up the minor injury.

  “I was only playing in character, my boy,” he said, wincing at the pain.

  “Sometimes I think you wish me to finish you off, assassin,” said Bruno.

  “I wish you would,” said Crown with a touch of uncharacteristic bitterness “it would almost be preferable to being ensorcelled by your faerie witch.”

  Bruno's blade hummed in the air as it was eagerly drawn from its scabbard.

  “I did say almost preferable,” said Crown sheepishly.

  Hector clapped the assassin on the shoulder and moved to get his mule from where it had wandered off to graze. Bruno reluctantly sheathed his blade, giving one last cold glance at Crown before he did so.

  “And what manner of brigands did you encounter amid the elms?” said Crown.

  “Not brigands,” said Hector “just starving, desperate folk driven to heinous acts by the gnawing in their bellies.”

  “I heard much snarling, I had thought that you had come upon a nest of wolves,” said Crown, eying the dark red stain on Hector's shirt.

  “Of a sort,” said the squire with a grin “magic born mistakes, really. The Allfather be praised that they were not larger!”

  “Unbelievable,” said Bruno, his sword flashing free of its sheath. He stared back up the road whence they had come, where a pair of the haggard men were running towards them.

  “We are attacked!” shouted Hector, his hand going to his own blade.

  “Calm yourselves,” said Crown, putting a hand upon the boy's arm. “Look to their faces. They are fraught with fearful hopes. Likely they come to throw themselves on the ground and beg for food scraps. I have an apple core somewhere that they might glean some sustenance from...”

  “Come no further!” said Bruno through clenched teeth. Aven dropped into a crouch and summoned up her reserves of magical energy. She shaped it into a hot, roiling mass of heat within her belly, and she had but to speak the word of power to release it as a blast that would turn the air around the men's head to steam, subsequently flash boiling the men's flesh.

  “We don't mean you no harm, sir,” said one man, the taller of the two. He knelt with difficulty in the dirt, hampered by a heavy leg brace. Most of the hair on his pate had fled, but he still had a ring of sandy blonde hair without much gray, indicating he was younger than his haggard appearance might otherwise suggest. His companion was a head shorter, with a head full of wispy blonde hair that was almost white. He had blunt features, a thick jaw and round nose. A heavy brow hung over eyes that alternately went from his companion to Bruno's blade. Both bore crude weapons, farm implements that had been beaten into swords, but they remained sheathed at their sides.

  “Don't mean us harm?” said Bruno with a laugh. “Feeding us to your pets is hardly a way to win friendship, my good man.”

  “The Hell hounds?” said the man, his mouth agape. “They are plague, not pets. They have eaten all our livestock, the precious little that we did not have to slaughter to pay Drakken's cursed taxes, and when that ran out they started upon our fields! They devour the plants to the very roots, and befoul the earth with their spit so nothing can grow...”

  “I am curious,” said Aven, shocking both men when she boldly strode forward and addressed them “where did you come upon that whistle? Is that what summoned the Drogs to you in the first place?”

  “Aven,” said Bruno a bit stiffly “men are speaking.”

  “Yes,” said Aven, putting her hands on her hips “foolish men, who know not what they trifle with! That whistle was no mere dog trainer's artifact, but an ancient device that reeks of sorcery. I ask you again, man, where did you come upon the whistle?”

  The man stammered a bit, looked to Bruno who nodded.

  “It is not my place to say, lady,” he said “but I can bring you to the man who owns it, and he can tell you the tale.”

  “Walk into another ambush?” said Crown with a laugh. “You must think us preposterously stupid.”

  “No ambush, sir,” said the man, going down to both knees in the dirt. His companion followed suit a second later, mimicking the acts of his companion. “Please, I beg of you. Those hounds were but three of a pack that numbers nearly a score. You must help us be rid of the beasts! I recognize the Heartfire on your wrists, sir knight, and beseech you to help us!”

  “You are criminals,” said Hector. “You set us up to be devoured by the hounds that you might loot our corpses, yes?”

  “That and...for other purposes, my lord,” said the man, his eyes downcast. “The Hell hounds slay men, but do not eat them.”

  “Why would they not eat men?” said Hector, raising an eyebrow.

  “The sorcerer Banabas the Cur first created the breed,” said Aven “he desired the corpses of his enemies to be intact for a truly sickening practice known as Necromancy.”

  “Sounds like a personable fellow,” said Crown with a smile.

  “Why have I never heard of this Banabas?” said Bruno.

  “Because of the church of the Allfather,” said Aven harshly, giving the Knight a green eyed glare “your holy men burned many texts which bore stories that did not fit their version of history, and forbade the oral versions from being uttered on pain of death. Sorcery was not always illegal in these lands, Templar. Your own Drakken line...”

  Her voice trailed off, her eyes growing hard.

  “Never mind,” she said “we don't have time for history lessons. The Drog are a blight upon the land and must be dealt with.”

  “This has nothing to do with our cause,” said Crown. “I pity these people, I truly do but perhaps we should simply continue on our way?”

  “This has everything to do with our cause, assassin,” said Bruno, his lips a tight line. “These people suffer, in part, because the king has not done his duty. If we are truly men, if we wish to honor the spirit of our task as well as the completion of it, we must help these folk.”

  “More morality,” said Crown with a sigh. “I suppose I might as well join the Templar order, I am apparently so often expected to ride into almost certain death.”

  “The order would never accept someone like you,” said Hector with a scowl.

  “We are being rude,” said Bruno “this man has asked us for aid, and we will not disappoint! Up, man, and tell us your name.”

  The man rose from his knees, getting an assist from the silent blonde man at his side. He grinned behind his thick whiskers, bowing at the waist.
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  “I am called Guthrie the Lame, sir Knight,” he said.

  Guthrie gestured at the man by his side.

  “I never learned this fellow's given name, but he is called Toad,” he said.

  The little man grinned at them, especially Aven.

  “Toad?” said Bruno.

  “He's little,” said Guthrie “and much like his namesake, you can walk right by him in the woods and never spot him.”

  “Why don't you know his real name?” said Hector.

  “An account of he can't talk,” said Guthrie.

  “He can't write it down for you?” said Aven.

  “No,” said Guthrie “on account of he can't read.”

  “A pleasure to meet you both, I am sure,” said Crown wryly.

  “Lead on, Guthrie and Toad,” said Bruno with a grin “let us see what can be done about your dragon problem.”

  “Sir Bruno...” said Hector, glancing at Crown.

  “Twelfth duty, squire,” said Bruno.

  “Twelfth duty?” said Crown.

  “Slaying dragons,” said Hector with a sigh. “You know, you are not even allowed to be afraid of fighting them?”

  “The Templar order is possessed of a strange mind set,” said Crown.

  “Aye,” said Hector “one of their favorite percepts is “He who rides into battle expecting to live will surely die, while he who rides into battle expecting to die will truly live.”“

  “Not my philosophy,” said the Assassin with a grin.

  “I suppose you would flee if things turned dire,” said Hector with a scowl.

  “No, my dear boy,” said Crown after a chuckle. “I would simply endeavor to not ride into a battle in the first place. If I have a fast horse, you can be sure I will be riding away from battle and not into it!”

  The Gray Death laughed heartily as the procession made its way into the woods.

  Chapter 12

  Squinting his eye in the bright sunlight as it splashed off the waves, Seamus felt the salty spray on his cheeks. He was on the deck of a small cargo ship named Forever Lucky. While Stella had loudly protested being aboard any ship with such a fate tempting name, Lobo had insisted that it would sound fine in a song, and Seamus had decided to book passage aboard just to aggravate the little wizard.

  Seamus was no sailor, but he had found that he adapted well to the rolling deck of the ship. Stella had not been so fortunate, and had spent her first night aboard draped over the railing, emptying the contents of her stomach. The wizard was doing better now, as he saw her making her way across the deck towards him. She was nearly knocked over by a pair of sailors as they rushed to make some adjustment that the captain insisted was urgent but looked minor to Seamus's eyes. Squatting down on the deck, she groaned and held her head in her hands. She used the railing as a backrest and stared miserable up at the azure sky.

  “Where's your bird?” she said.

  “In my cabin below,” said Seamus “Roikza's the type of girl that prefers the evening time.”

  “I'm the type that prefers solid land,” she said “how much longer till we are done with this foolishness?”

  “We should be reaching Cesaro sometime tomorrow,” said Seamus “it is a charming city-”

  “Tomorrow?” said Stella, fixing him with a groan. “I cannot sleep aboard this ship, Seamus! I cannot! I'm going mad, mad I tell you!”

  She grabbed him by the tunic and shook him. He laughed and used his forearms to break the grip.

  “Relax, love,” he said “it'll all be over soon.”

  “That line may work with the horse faced tavern wenches you plow,” said Stella “but it doesn't help me at all.”

  She levered herself to her feet and strode away from him, looking a bit pale even as he focused on her naked, wriggling ass. He cut off his angry retort, thinking he may be a bit testy if he had not slept in so long. Besides, he didn't want to screw Stella when she was sick. She might throw up on him. There would be time to punish her later.

  He thought to the bag literally bulging with coin in his quarters. The Port Gar council had been quite generous, paying him over five thousand gold for his efforts. He had left a good deal of it with several banks, and had given Murdoch five hundred and Stella two hundred. Lobo had received, as of yet, nothing from the dragon slayer, but neither had he asked for anything.

  Seamus's brow wrinkled as he wondered about the minstrel. Stella was clearly smitten with him, but Lobo rebuffed her advances, albeit politely. If the big man had not known better, he would have thought that the blonde haired slender fellow had amorous thoughts towards himself. Often the musician would find him aboard the ship and pump him for details of his life, ostensibly for the epic he was writing. Still, Seamus felt as if he leaned a bit too close, laughed a bit too quickly at the big man's infrequent attempts at humor.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, the minstrel arrived on deck. He was wearing flowing, blouse like garments as he always did. Seamus mused that he probably did so too hide his scrawny body from the women who seemed to swoon in his path. The thought had a smile on his face, which Lobo misinterpreted as an invitation to join him at the rail.

  “How fare you this day, dragon slayer?” said Lobo, leaning up against the rail. Seamus turned to face the sea, mystified as always by the lack of land in sight.

  “Just getting some fresh air, Lobo,” he said. “You know, enjoying the quiet?”

  “Say no more,” said Lobo apologetically “I shall disturb you no further. I will merely sit here and enjoy the quiet with you.”

  “Don't go through the trouble,” mumbled Seamus.

  “What?” said Lobo. “Oh, right, quiet time.”

  They sat that way for several minutes, Seamus studiously ignoring the musician. In time, Lobo began to hum, very low, but for some reason it grated on the big man's nerves.

  “Could you stop that?” said Seamus.

  “Stop what?” said Lobo with a grin. Seamus wanted to slap his smooth, hairless jaw.

  “You were humming,” he said, forcing himself not to shout.

  “Oh,” said Lobo “was I? I don't think I was humming.”

  “You were definitely humming,” said Seamus.

  “I don't think so,” said Lobo, turning his big blue eyes upon him. “Maybe you heard the deck of the ship, as it sometimes groans under the weight of the waves.”

  “It was you,” said Seamus in irritation, standing up straight to face the smaller man. “You, and you alone, who was humming.”

  “Well, if I was,” said Lobo, spreading his arms wide “I am sorry.”

  “Okay then,” said Seamus “because you were humming.”

  “If you insist,” said Lobo.

  “Not because I insist,” said Seamus. “Because you were.”

  “I am agreeing with you that I may have hummed,” said Lobo.

  “You are irritating the piss out of me!” shouted Seamus, seizing the man by his biceps and lifting him from his feet. The minstrel felt light as a feather in his arms, as if he were scooping up a child or a woman.

  “All right, Seamus,” said Lobo with a grin, as if the reaction was exactly what he had been hoping for “I was humming. I concede the point. Put me down please.”

  Seamus complied, and set the minstrel none too gently on his feet.

  “You're strong,” said Lobo, squeezing his arms and wincing.

  “Real men,” said Seamus “aren't afraid to do some honest labor once in a while! You cannot get arms like these by strumming all day, you know.”

  “I suppose not,” said Lobo, looking with admiration at Seamus's muscular arms, which made the man wish for long sleeves. “Often have I seen you of late, practicing thrusts with your sword on the deck in the early hours of the morning.”

  “I was never a great swordsman,” said Seamus with a shrug “and losing three fingers hasn't helped any. I need to be able to defend myself.”

  “And slay a dragon,” said Lobo “will the spear you have wrapped up in your
cabin truly resist the ravages of the dragon's blood?”

  “The smith Daveed swore that it would,” said Seamus. “I hope the shield is as sturdy, or my career will be very short.”

  “Aye,” said Lobo “hunting the same dragon twice. I wonder if you can finagle a double payment out of that...”

  “I seek to finish what I started,” said Seamus “no more, and no less.”

  Lobo stared into his hard eye and nodded.

  “You are driven,” he said “more driven, more...passionate than other men, though you keep it bottled up inside. I will go, and trouble you no further good Seamus.”

  As the man strode sinuously away, Seamus cocked an eyebrow. He was not certain, but he felt as if the minstrel had been testing him somehow, and had passed.

  “Hooray,” said Seamus, burying his face in his hands “I suppose now he'll be wanting to hang around and write a sequel!”

  Thurston spent three days in agony, expecting, and hoping for, death. His flame ravaged flesh bore no resemblance to his former manhood. His shaft had been burned down to a nub, with a blistered slit that caused him horrific pain when his body forced urine out of it. His testes had not been spared, having burned so badly the village physicker had no choice but to sever the tiny shreds of tissue holding them on his body.

  The mayor now lay on his back, staring up at the face of the physicker. He was an older man, having once served in the Amber wars during his apprenticeship. The old fool was trying to cheer him up, going on about how Thurston could still live a full, long life without his privates.

  “It is not as if you lost an arm, a leg, or even an eye,” said the physicker, putting a hand on Thurston's arm. “Why, when you get to my age nothing works right down there anyway. You will learn to adapt to these changes my boy.”

  “Stop your prattling,” said Thurston, his rasping voice filled with ice. “How many have you told, old man?”

  “What now?” said the medicine man, cocking his head to the side.

  “How many have you told that Thurston Taal is no longer a man,” he said. “Your wife? Your grandchildren? How many tongues now wag about the village? How many stifled chortles and pitying gazes must I endure?”