“Enough out of you,” he said. “You’re beaten, and at my mercy. Lies and silence get you pain, only pain. Not honor. Not sacrifice. Not nobility. Just pain.”
Tarlak mumbled something into his gag. Ghost debated, but then left him alone. He’d go to the wizard only if the others proved uncooperative. So far this Delysia appeared the most compliant. He knelt before her, all teeth and smiles.
“Senke’s bleeding over there,” he said, dropping his voice lower. She tried to look, but his eyes held her. He knew he could do that, had so many times before. He felt like a snake charmer, controlling them by the sheer ferocity of his personality. “You can feel it, his pain washing over you like a heat. You’re a priestess, so you could help him, tend his wounds. How badly you must wish to go to him. Such sweet compassion.”
He shifted to behind her, pressing a painted cheek against hers as they both looked to where Senke lay.
“But is it just compassion? I don’t think it is. I think it’s fear. I smell the stink on you. It’s rising in your chest, crawling upward like a beast. You don’t want to watch him die, yet that’s what you are doing. Life is draining away before you, and all you can do is sit here. Struggling against your ropes won’t seal the hole in his gut, Delysia. Only one thing will, and that is talking to me. Tell me the truth, and only the truth. Can you do that, pretty girl? Can you do that for Senke?”
She bit her lower lip. Tears ran down her face.
“Yes,” she said at last. Brug sighed. By the wall, Senke chuckled. Tarlak let out another mrmph into his gag.
“Good lass. It’s a simple question, really. I have a contract to find the Watcher, and your group knows of him. Tell me, where can I find him?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She stared into his eyes, and he realized she wanted him to know she didn’t lie. “He’s only stayed here twice. Where he goes when he leaves … please, I don’t know. None of us do.”
Ghost frowned.
“Tell me his name, then. He must have a name.”
Tears ran down her face. She looked to Senke, but Ghost grabbed her jaw and forced her back to him.
“Haern,” she said. “He calls himself Haern.”
“Last name? First?”
“Just Haern.”
Possibilities ran through Ghost’s head, and he didn’t like any of them. A single, plain name would be marginal help at best in tracking him down. Still, it was better than nothing, which is what he’d been going on before. But mostly he didn’t want a name. He wanted the man in person.
“Will he be coming back here?”
She hesitated, just for a second, but Ghost saw it and smiled.
“No lies,” he said. “That just gives pain, remember?”
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “But I think he will. Please, can I help him now? He’s almost gone.”
“Of course, my dear.”
He untied her wrists and then gestured for her to go. She ran to Senke’s side and knelt. He whispered something to her, and he heard her begin to cry. Ideas raced through Ghost’s head as he watched out of the corner of his eye. If this Haern was coming back, then he had to keep them all here until he did, otherwise they might find a way to warn him. Of course it could be days until he showed, or worse, Haern might spot the ambush through a window, or sense it from the lack of common activity. Troubling. He’d have to dump them in one of the rooms, preferably without a window. Once done, then he might…
And that was when the door opened, and in stepped the Watcher.
CHAPTER 21
Haern’s elbow still ached like the Abyss, but at least it’d stopped bleeding. He felt naked without his swords, so he kept his head down and shambled along as if he were drunk. Given the horror of the previous night, he knew he was far from the only one who staggered along the road. Many had buried their grief in alcohol. His nerves rose as he hurried down the Crimson, but he reminded himself it was safer in the day than at night. Sure, some of the young cutpurses might try to swipe his coin, but he had nothing to steal.
When he reached the Eschatons’ building he put his hand on the door and closed his eyes. Returning here meant many things, and he wasn’t sure if he was prepared for the implications. Could this place become a home to him? Could he accept Senke’s companionship, even knowing his presence would be a danger to his friend? Deep in his heart he knew he desired nothing else. It was his head that kept getting in the way. But sometimes you needed to think like that to protect others. To Haern, the self had never mattered more than those he cared for. He’d learned that lesson from watching his teacher, Robert, sacrifice his life to protect him.
He opened the door with his good arm. So lost in his thoughts, so focused on what he might say to them, and what they might say back, he was unprepared for the sight before him. Tarlak sat bound and gagged in a chair. Brug lay on the floor, also bound. Senke slumped against the wall, blood covering his clothes. Delysia knelt before him, her hands also covered with blood. And there amid them all was a giant stranger, skin like obsidian, face painted white as a skull. It seemed the stranger was as surprised as he was, and they both froze for a split second. Haern looked into this man’s eyes and saw death.
“Watcher,” said the painted man. Not a question, just a statement. His deep voice chilled Haern to the bone, telling him it was time to act. This was no game. Their lives hung in the balance.
“Run!” Delysia screamed.
But he couldn’t leave them like this. Damn it, what he’d give to have his swords!
The stranger lunged, drawing two swords as he did. Haern dove farther into the house, tumbling to avoid the attack. His eyes searched for a weapon, any weapon. There, on the wall, he saw the short swords Senke had used during their brief spar. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for them, not even slowing when he slammed into the wall. His good arm snatched one free, and then he rolled aside, the stranger’s sword cutting several inches into the thin wall.
“Who are you?” Haern asked as he held the blade before him and crouched into position.
“I am Ghost,” said the man. His brown eyes shone amid the paint. Sweat dripped down his neck and arms, every inch seemingly nothing but muscle. His swords lifted and dipped into a stance, perfectly smooth, perfectly calm. Haern felt terror at the sight. For all his reputation, all his killings, this man faced the Watcher unafraid. He even smiled.
Every instinct told Haern to retreat, but he wouldn’t. He’d thought he’d lost Senke in a fire, and he’d never come back to look. He’d been dragged off by his father while Delysia bled. This time he’d stay until the end, whatever that might be. Death or victory, he thought. His father would be proud.
“Come then,” Haern said. “Kill me if you can.”
He kicked aside the table and in the limited space began spinning in place. His multitude of cloaks dipped and rose, hiding his presence. Ghost watched it, the concentration in his eyes frightening. When he moved to attack, out lashed Haern’s short sword, nearly slicing off his nose. Again Ghost watched, waited. Haern had practiced the cloakdance over the years, trying to perfect it since it had first been used on him during the Bloody Kensgold. The constant motion kept his true movements unpredictable, kept the positioning of his swords hidden. Lesser foes he could defeat with ease, and it gave him an advantage against several attackers at once. But against someone so skilled? It was a stalling diversion, nothing more.
“Stop dancing and kick his ass!” Brug shouted, unable to do anything but watch from his spot on the floor.
A sword swung in. Haern dipped below it, his spine nearly parallel to the floor. Out went his blade, cutting into the thin flesh of Ghost’s knee. It’d be painful, but not debilitating beyond a limp. He hadn’t been able to apply enough force due to his awkward position. Worse was that the blade caught on the bone instead of slicing free. Ghost stepped in, unafraid of the cloaks and defiant of the weapon lodged in his flesh. He swung downward with both swords. Haern’s momentum had him rising to a stand, so
he kicked out his own feet to fall instead. The swords missed, but only barely. Haern landed flat on his back, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His wounded elbow hit hard as well, and the pain of it filled his vision with black dots. Ghost twirled a sword in his right hand, pointing the blade downward, eager for a killing thrust.
But then Delysia was there, her hands raised, palms facing Ghost. Bright light flared, blinding even to Haern. Ghost roared, and he took a step back as if struck by a blow. Haern swung his legs wide, taking advantage of the distraction. His heel struck the wounded knee, hard enough to dislodge the sword stuck in the joint. Down Ghost went, the knee crumpling. Again Delysia let out a cry, shouting out the name of her deity. Her hand moved in a downward arc. A golden sword materialized in the air before her, mimicking the motion. It sliced into Ghost’s chest. Blood sprayed across her, but she didn’t appear to notice. Another prayer was already on her lips, demanding the strength of Ashhur.
“Begone!” she cried. Haern saw a faint outline, almost like an enormous hand, shimmer and vanish in the blink of an eye. Ghost flew back several feet, as if hit by a battering ram. When his body met the wall, it was the wall that gave, the cheap plaster breaking. Haern took to his feet, his wounded elbow held against his chest. It had started bleeding again, staining the gray of his clothes red. Ghost took a woozy step forward, then collapsed when he tried to stand on the other leg. Haern reached down and grabbed his sword while the giant man crawled toward the exit.
“Don’t,” Delysia said, grabbing his shirt. Her voice had authority now, and something in him was unwilling to challenge it. “Please, don’t kill him.”
“Are you mad?” Brug asked, still squirming against his ropes. Haern felt inclined to agree.
“He’s beaten, and leaving,” she insisted. “Don’t. He let me save Senke. He deserves as much.”
“He’s also the one who did it in the first place,” Senke said with a sleepy voice. “Just thought I’d point that out.”
“Phggrrmpf,” Tarlak chimed in.
Ghost looked at them as if they were all mad. He used a chair to brace himself as he stood, then limped toward the door, his teeth clenched against the pain.
“You were beaten,” he said as he took a lumbering step outside.
“Sure thing,” Haern said, Delysia still clutching his shirt. The moment the door closed he slumped backward, sitting atop the edge of the overturned table. Delysia checked his elbow.
“Senke needs my help more than you,” she said. “It can wait. Untie Tarlak and Brug.”
“As you wish.”
Delysia returned to Senke and knelt before him. Haern heard her prayers, and white light shone around her hands. No wonder the wound on his chest had healed so quickly those few days ago.
“Friend of yours?” Tarlak asked once the gag was removed.
“You aren’t funny,” Haern said.
He cut the ropes around his hands and feet, and while the wizard stretched, he did the same for Brug.
“Son of a whore ambushed me coming up the stairs,” Brug said, grabbing his punch daggers. “Otherwise I’d have torn him a new hole.”
“You mean like this one?” Senke asked.
Brug flushed and looked away. Haern tossed his short sword to the floor. He felt sick, and he still hadn’t recovered from the blow to his head earlier in the day. His elbow throbbed, feeling even worse than when he’d first received the cut. He saw Brug and Tarlak glaring at him, and he felt he deserved their ire. He tried to stumble for the door, but Tarlak blocked the way, holding it shut with his arm.
“Not yet,” he said. “And not anytime soon. It’s time we talked, Watcher.”
CHAPTER 22
Matthew’s relief upon seeing Felwood Castle lasted only as long as it took him to see one of Hadfield’s men standing watch far from the other guards. It was as he’d feared. Less than ten minutes ago he’d had to drag himself and Tristan off the road, and when the horsemen rode on by, his gut had told him who it was they served. And now the sentry was there, keeping a close eye on everyone entering and leaving Lord Gandrem’s castle.
“What do we do?” Tristan asked. Matthew had abruptly turned them both around and back north on the road, hoping the soldier hadn’t seen their approach. Given the distance, it seemed probable.
“I don’t know,” he said. He could imagine what would happen if they tried to pass by. The soldier would cut them down before letting them reach John Gandrem. Whatever punishment the soldier received would be bearable so long as no one identified the one-armed boy as the son of Lady Gemcroft. Given his disfigurement, the dirt on his face and the plain clothes he now wore, it seemed doubtful that anyone would.
“Will we continue on to Veldaren?” Tristan asked.
“Quiet, boy, I don’t know!”
He waited until his temper calmed, then resumed.
“And I’m not sure we can. Don’t have the food, and water might end up scarce too. I need inside to resupply, but that might mean leaving you behind for a while. They won’t know me from shit, since you’re the one they want. That, and I don’t know who John’s sided with in all this.”
“John was always nice to me,” Tristan said. “I stayed with him for a year. What if … what if I get us inside? Will he keep us safe?”
Matthew shot him a look.
“How could you get us inside?”
“I don’t know. I could run real fast. I’m a fast runner, even Arthur said it!”
Matthew bit his lip. It was just one man, a professional soldier perhaps, but still just one. He touched the old sword at his hip. If he could last for a little while, just a little…
His eyes fell upon the near-empty sack that had carried their food.
“I have an idea,” he said. “But you better run like the wind, you hear me? Like it, and even faster. My life is depending on those legs of yours.”
Ingle mumbled curses as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to generate some heat to counter the cold. After another minute he pulled a blanket from a saddlebag and wrapped it around his shoulders. Beside him his horse clomped the ground.
“Blanket ain’t big enough for two of us,” he said. “We’ll get you somewhere warm once we find that brat, though, I promise.”
Ingle and his horse waited a hundred yards outside the castle’s entrance, near the fork where the main road turned toward him. The woods had been thinned out toward the front, though they were still thick enough to make him worry. Nathaniel and the farmer might try to sneak along the walls, using the woods as cover. Doing that was a good way to earn an arrow in your back from a guard, though. They would come traveling down the road, he felt certain of it. According to his bitch of a wife, Matthew had left immediately after killing Gert and Ben. Dimwit farmer couldn’t know how many were actually looking, or that they might have beaten him here. Ingle expected him to come riding full gallop, the boy behind him on his horse, thinking he’d finally reached safety. Already Ingle had practiced his excuses for when the castle guards came running.
“Guy looked mad as a dog,” he’d say. “Started hollering for me to hand over my money, then sent the boy to do his dirty work.”
No one would question him for killing two hungry thieves too stupid to know better. Even if they did, what would it matter? John Gandrem wouldn’t challenge Arthur, not over something so petty as a dead farmer and his boy.
While he held the rough blanket and looked about, he saw a man approaching. He walked on foot, leading his horse. A large sack lay slung across the saddle. Ingle raised an eyebrow at the sight. No boy, but what could someone be bringing to trade this late in winter?
“Slow down there,” Ingle said, tossing his blanket back toward his horse and putting a hand on his hilt. “Strange time for travel, don’t you think?”
“Pigs die when they die,” said the man. “Come to see if his lordship would like a fine meal tonight.”
The cogs and wheels in Ingle’s brain were never the most tightly f
itted, but still they turned the words over, again and again, unable to get rid of a deep feeling of someone putting something over on him.
“Let me see it,” he said. The man continued leading the horse right on by, forcing Ingle to jump in his way. Still the man didn’t slow, and Ingle took several steps backward to keep from getting knocked over. At last he drew his sword and stood his ground.
“I said let me see,” he said. “I don’t think that’s no pig.”
“If you say so,” said the man. He pulled the sack off the horse with a grunt and plopped it to the ground. “Just a small one, maybe good for John and some of his closest…”
While he talked, his hands messed with a tie at the end. The moment the knot came undone the sack was flung open, and out ran a boy who even Ingle knew had to be Nathaniel. The boy darted underneath his horse’s legs and then shot straight for the castle.
“Fuck!” Ingle shouted, turning to give chase. Matthew flung himself in the way. He wielded an old sword, recently polished but still timeworn and unreliable. Didn’t seem to matter, though, for he wielded it as if it were Ashhur’s blade itself and Ingle the dark-spawn of Karak.
“Outta the way!” Ingle shouted, slashing with his sword in the hope of overpowering the unskilled farmer. He blocked, clumsily perhaps, but Matthew still banged his sword away. Instead of pressing the advantage he retreated, fully defensive. Behind him the little brat hollered like his lungs were on fire.
“He’s gonna kill my pa, he’s gonna kill my pa, he’s gonna kill him!”
Damn right, thought Ingle.
Ingle feinted, smirked at how easily the farmer fell for it, and then cut from the other direction. The edge of his sword slashed into Matthew’s arm, eliciting a cry of pain. Ingle swung again, lower, hoping to split his belly open. The man put his blade in the way just in time. The sound of metal on metal rang out, though there was something funny to it, as if one of their weapons wasn’t flexing as it should. Ingle doubted it was his. Blood spilled down Matthew’s arm, and Ingle saw the elbow below it shaking.
A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2) Page 24
