by Don McQuinn
Beseeching, Ondrat looked to the Abbess. Her thin-lipped glare made it clear what she thought of his ill-considered revelation. Her rigid silence made it equally clear he must answer. “I wasn’t going to mention her. It’s Jaleeta, the girl who escaped from your people. He pants after her like an old dog. She flatters him. It’s disgusting. He’s besotted, really. I know you must hate her. So do we. If she survives, we’d be glad to hand her over to you.”
Lorso’s voice, directed at the thick table was sepulchral. “Our god demands we punish those who hurt us. Do you remember I asked you about one of our boats that might have made it to your shore? We never found the man. His entire family serves Sosolassa now. Weighted, sent to the sea bottom. Tears of Jade sang the song of curses. Those spirits will forever lurk just under the sea’s surface, waiting to pull others down. There is no worse thing for a Skan. Domel’s blood is gone from our people. Save one man, a fishing slave. To remind others.” He gazed deep into the eyes of the Violet Abbess. “So we take revenge. So we please our god.”
She blinked. “And happy he must be. If he wishes Jaleeta, he may surely have her. We don’t care. Do we, Baron?”
“Not at all. Good riddance. Little slut.” He wheezed.
Lorso’s head sagged again, almost as if he were too weary to continue. He made a wet sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a hiss. Ondrat and the Abbess avoided eye contact with each other as assiduously as they avoided staring at Lorso. His voice, when he spoke, was as heavy as before. “This is what will happen. I return here on the night of the third day from now. On the night of the fourth day, the moon will rise halfway through the night. The Skan will attack early.”
Ondrat interrupted. “You mean later. You won’t be able to see if there’s no moon.”
Lorso made the strange noise again. The Abbess glared at Ondrat. Lorso continued. “My sharker will lead, of course. You will prepare the hiding place for us. We will lay up there the fourth day and prepare to attack. If Gan Moondark is returned by then, he dies with his family. Or the woman and child die without him. If Sylah lives through the battle, she leaves with me. And Jaleeta.” He looked up. His eyes were wild, drifting; it took an effort for him to focus on Ondrat. When he did, he centered on some point within the Baron’s skull. “Your men will strike when they hear Skan war cries. Not before. The witch and Jaleeta must live, must be given to me.” He rose. “Be ready.”
He was halfway to the door before either the Abbess or the Baron recovered, the looming blackness swallowing the sound of his heels on the stone floor. The Abbess gestured furiously at Ondrat, clucking her tongue as at a shying horse. After a false start he bolted after Lorso.
Carefully bracing her elbows on the arms of her chair, the Abbess leaned back luxuriously. Chin resting on tented fingers, lost in contemplation of the ever-changing pattern of fiery coals, she smiled.
* * *
Domel understood Baron Ondrat’s insistence on secrecy in political matters.
What troubled him was the distance that suddenly yawned between himself and his benefactor. He could date its beginning quite accurately.
Three nights ago.
There was a visitor that night. Someone extremely important. The flurry of security activities—which included a guard on himself, Domel noted sourly—was extraordinary. As was the after-dark arrival of the Violet Abbess and her predawn departure.
Domel trusted his instincts. He no longer trusted Baron Ondrat. Never trusted the iron-eyed old bitch who called herself Abbess.
So he presently sat in his quarters putting together a knotted line of leather horse tack, stolen from the stables. It was quite strong. It had to be; it was at least three body-lengths to the ground from his window.
Before being politely but firmly confined to the quarters this morning, Domel saw Baron Ondrat was going quietly wild with more security efforts, preparing for another visit. The cook, always grateful for an appreciative audience, grumbled to Domel about having to ready food for impossibly late guests. He also wondered about anyone who insisted on vegetables that were either raw or pickled and wanted no meat, but fish. To Domel, that meant only Skan. And that meant betrayal.
Darkness presently crawled across the fort while he worked. A small leather bag held soot. He scooped some out now, blackening the line. There would be no pale line descending the wall to betray his departure.
Domel made a great show of going to bed. He pressed a wooden wedge under his door, then smeared face and hands with more soot. Securing the line to a heavy table, he pitched it out the window. Dropping, knot to knot, was easy. He leaped lightly to the ground, and in moments had scrambled to the back end of the great hall.
At the peak of the roof was a triangular entry. In summer it was covered with a wooden screen, allowing air circulation. Now, in winter, it was fitted with solid wooden doors. Men normally reached it by ladder. Domel tested the rough corner of the stone building. There were protrusions and chinks, enough for toes and fingers. Reaching high, he tested his first grip. He lifted himself. A knuckle cracked under the strain, unpleasant warning that aging tendons and joints flirting with arthritis were not the preferred tools of stealth. Domel gritted his teeth. He couldn’t get younger if he didn’t discover what was happening in the great room, he might not get older.
Fingertips burning, feet threatening to cramp, Domel reached the roof overhang. To reach the window required a sideways maneuver, feet against the wall, hands clamped atop the roof. Domel took a deep breath, launched himself. Moccasins scrambled for scant purchase. Weary hands grabbed, pressuring for holds. He edged toward the window.
He was trembling when he reached it. Panting, he danced frantically, feet searching for the tiny sill under the window. Finding it was wonderful, exhilarating. With most of his weight solidly on his legs, he bent to grab one of the two door handles to pull it open.
It refused to move.
Domel tugged harder. The hand on the roof slipped. Fingers jammed through the sturdy wooden hoop. When his falling weight pulled full force on them, he groaned at the pain. But held on.
Dangling over the courtyard, he reached high, sought the other handle. Pulling himself up, he saw the small wedges securing the door. They were tight, but he got them free. After that, it was a matter of hanging by one hand, pulling the door free, and scrambling, wriggling, squeezing through the hole. Stretched out on the massive tie beam just inside, he closed the door behind him.
For some time he simply recovered.
Below, the Violet Abbess and Baron Ondrat argued. Voices echoed off the walls, one mingled with the other to create a rising, falling surf of angry, indistinguishable sounds.
Cross struts linked the tie beams. Domel hurried along the timber nimbly. Directly above the couple, words were clear, bouncing off the massive flat chimney. More, Domel was far beyond the revealing light of the fire. Lying flat at the junction of the beam and pole plate, he wedged himself into the angle formed by the rafters.
The Abbess was saying, “You must calm yourself, Baron. He said he’d be here; he shall.”
Ondrat’s deeper voice, rough with tension, contrasted with the Abbess’ coldly controlled anger. “But he’s late. Can’t you understand anything? If he’s late in the attack, we lose the benefit of darkness.”
“How can he be late? He specified no time. He’s the one who has to avoid Wal’s sea patrols and curious fishermen. The worst that can happen is that he’ll be killed. We’ll simply fall back on our original plan.”
“What if he’s captured? He’ll tell everything. We never should have agreed.”
“I asked you once before, Baron; please don’t keep saying ‘we.’ This whole scheme is yours.”
Ondrat stomped into the darkness. When he returned, he was calmer. “I worry about the Wolves. Once we strike the castle and Ola, every man in the barracks will come after us.”
“Really, Baron. No conquest can go unchallenged. Still, all we need do is hold the castle until Windband arrives. The Wol
ves will be trapped between our walls and Windband’s riders. They’ll have to surrender.”
“Who knows how long before Windband moves north?”
“Perhaps a Messenger to Moonpriest, explaining that you’ll rule in the castle in the next two days, would move him north a bit more quickly.”
Ondrat was thoughtful. He mauled the side of his nose with a forefinger. Musing, he said, “I like that. I’ll see to it immediately. There’s a Messenger lounging about here now. They sense trouble, I swear it.” He rubbed his hands, held them to the fire. “And when Windband advances, it’ll give those filthy Skan more to think about. The more distraction we offer them, the better I like it. What savages they are. Domel’s family; they did nothing, and still suffered abominations.”
The Abbess’ dark hood bobbing affirmation made Domel think of a bird stabbing its beak at prey. “Drowned, like unwanted kittens. What did he say? ‘The song of curses.’ I wonder what that means.”
“Don’t forget the fisherman, the one enslaved. Someone must have liked him, to let him survive.”
The Abbess’ hand crept out of the sleeve, tapped the table. “The man’s a great liability, Baron. What happened to his family could be extended to his protectors.”
“I only kept him alive because he seemed to have some value for Church.” Ondrat grew thoughtful. “Lorso might pay for him.”
Unctuously, the Abbess said, “Remember, we kept him because of Church. If you sell him, there should be some consideration involved.”
Domel heard no more. Images shrieked across his inner vision. He’d never been a loving husband or father. He paid little attention to his children, less to grandchildren, practically ignored the rest of his kin. But they were kin.
He wondered who was left alive, to labor blind, testimony to Domel’s disgrace.
And now these lying landscum spoke of selling him. A Navigator. Selling.
The song of curses.
Given to the god. A god that couldn’t beat a man in a fair fight at sea. A god that used a twisted, evil cheat to get his revenge.
Saturated with hate, Domel heard no more until the huge door to the great hall boomed open. Even that sound barely registered. It was the potent, trenchant smell of the sea that thrust him back into the present.
Lorso strode into the red-gold firelight.
Domel felt Lorso’s words, his presence, as clearly as he heard.
The Skan plan of attack was simple. A detail of Ondrat’s men, pretending to be ordinary travelers and relatives of the city dwellers, must infiltrate Ola on the following day. They would take individual lodgings. Shortly before sundown, the combined dissident forces of Krevelen, Byrda, Mull, and the rest of Ondrat would move on Ola. Those warriors must be in position to charge the city just after nightfall.
Lorso’s sharker would reach the narrow beach below the castle a little later. The seaborne raiders would signal the attack with fire arrows. The Ondrat men in the city must be in position to kill the Sunrise Gate guards and admit the rebels. Simultaneously, Ondrat’s men assigned to the castle guard must attack their Wolf counterparts.
“What of your men?” Ondrat asked. “What do they do?”
Lorso answered slowly. Domel smiled at the offense in his voice. “We scale the seaward castle walls. We’ll be inside in time to finish what your warriors start. Where will the lightning weapons be?”
“There’s only one.” The Abbess spoke up. “Conway’s off to fetch Gan home. Tate may be anywhere.”
Lorso faced her. “Will Gan and Conway be here tomorrow night?”
She shook her head. “Impossible.”
“I don’t like that word.” Lorso was thoughtful. “Request a meeting with this Emso. Ask for the Black Lightning to attend. And Sylah.”
Dryly, the Abbess interrupted. “You’re putting together a guest list.”
“Excellent. A party. Tell Emso you have something wonderful to announce. Gather all of them in one place.”
“I can’t.” The Abbess’ hands fluttered, moths against fire.
“You will.” He turned back to Ondrat. “We have until dusk tomorrow. You know where my sharker is. Come, if you have questions. If not, I’ll see you in the castle—King Ondrat.”
Domel craned to watch. Obscure in shadow, Lorso’s interrupted gait became sinuous, wavering progress. Once again, Domel fancied he smelled the sea.
The door boomed shut.
Domel’s mind took him from that room, carried him home to thundering surf. Clear green water that bathed the feet of lush, cloud-snaring mountains. Forests of silence so profound that the smallest birdcall lingered, fixed in a listener’s hearing. Domel mourned that he’d paid so little attention.
Baron Ondrat and the Abbess renewed their vocal hacking at each other, primarily casting about for lies to induce Emso to invite the intended victims to the party.
Retracing his steps, Domel arrived at the far wall. Head and shoulders outside, door in hand, he was distracted. Someone pounded, a bass, drumlike sound. There were shouts. Curses. With his back to the excitement, attempting to refit the obstinate little door, Domel bent awkwardly to see. An armed guard erupted out a ground-floor door of the wing where he quartered. He sprinted for the back entry of the great hall, directly below.
Domel froze.
The guard hammered on the door. Ondrat himself opened it. Light spilled out. The cowering guard mumbled, held up something. Ondrat’s hand reached out, grabbed the man by the jersey, and jerked him inside. Trailing on the ground, snaking into the building behind the disappeared guard, were the perfectly distanced knots of the escape line.
Chapter 12
Trapped, Domel retreated inside, hid among the timbers. The Abbess scurried out behind a roaring, cursing Ondrat.
The noises of pursuit seeped through the walls, picked at Domel’s nerves. He held fast to his shadowy perch. There was no alternative. Time passed. Slowly.
Something furtive moved down below. Sound suggested haste. Domel chanced leaning over the edge of his beam. Rats, big as cats, moving with fat, rolling assurance. Thin, almost inaudible squeals laced the room. Flurrying games became near-mayhem when the leaders reached the table’s rich leavings.
Such boldness pleased Domel. It inferred complacence, meaning few security patrols checked that area. Then the door flew open. Rats scattered, a torrent of skittering, blurry forms that disappeared into darkness. Ondrat’s disgusted scorn echoed. “Do you think the renegade Skan scum had dinner in here with us, you fool? I’ve been in here all night. Get away. Search where he might be.”
The door closed. Domel ignored the returning rats. Wedged in his space, he considered his situation. Unarmed. Trapped. But very much alive. And reasonably safe. Unless he tried to escape.
For him, there was no escape. There was revenge.
In the morning, servants bustled about sweeping floor and table with the same broom. Domel remembered the rats, and smiled happily down on Baron Ondrat at his morning meal. A steady stream of armed men reported. Again, Domel was impressed. There was fear in the Baron, and plenty. He had that stiff, twitching action. Every time a door opened or a shout penetrated from outdoors, his whole body turned to it, concentrated on it. Yet he functioned well, decisive and explicit.
Domel wondered how long that strength would last. There was a sense of brittleness in it, like steel, too rapidly ground to razor edge. Blades like that cut flesh admirably; they splintered on other steel.
When the castle fell silent, Domel knew darkness was near. Much later, he rose carefully, massaging chilled, stiffened joints before trusting himself on the huge tie beams. He crossed to the river rock chimney. It provided holds if one was careful.
Once on solid ground, Domel considered the matter of outer clothing and a weapon. He decided to try the kitchen. There were knives, if nothing else.
The cook sat at a small worktable. Domel crawled through the open door. He advanced, hiding behind the long workbench in front of the hearth and stove. Select
ing a massive skillet, he leaped, crushed the unsuspecting man’s head.
The cook’s heavy wool overcoat and hat fit well. Domel pulled them on, then helped himself to the cook’s favorite cleaver. With a blade almost as long as Domel’s forearm, very thick along its non cutting edge, and sword-sharp on the other, it was a formidable weapon.
Outside, night held the walled village utterly still. A dog’s bark was a raw wound of sound. Domel fidgeted. Deserted streets and darkened buildings assured him that most men had already left for Ola. He crept to the wall. A guard stirred in the darker shadows where stairs led to the battlewalk.
The heavy cleaver proved a fortunate choice. The guard’s metal helmet would have turned a lighter weapon. As it happened, it collapsed under Domel’s two-handed blow. Too loud. Racing, Domel reached the battlewalk as running footsteps and shouts closed on the sound. Dropping the cleaver to the ground outside the wall, Domel followed it. He had the weapon in hand and was running seaward before the first torch was lit.
He found the trail leading to the fishing village easily and followed it at a steady trot. Balancebars were conveniently lined up on the beach. It seemed to take moons to heave one into the water. The temptation to simply luxuriate in the feeling of a boat under him was irresistible. He stroked the gunwale with one hand, shifted the tiller back and forth with the other.
A querulous cry spiraled up from the cluster of fishermen’s houses.
Domel hastily raised his sail. The little boat responded smartly, hoisting its extended bar, swooping out to deep water. Lying on his back Domel watched for a sharker silhouette. The stars provided him a direct course, avoiding coastal indentations. The straighter route risked meeting Lorso. Time necessitated it.
When the lights of the castle were visible, Domel sat up, hauling the sail drum-tight. His little boat throbbed as if it understood that this was no fishing trip, that adventure was at hand. It snapped at the swells, split them furiously. When the mast groaned, it was a throaty growl of pride.
Overhead, stars glittered with wild intensity. Wind whipped Domel, burned his face. He reveled. Plunging a cupped hand in the black frigid water, he drew it out filled, swabbed his face. The smell and taste of the sea infused him, its chill mingled with windburn and blood fired by emotions too powerful to express.
