“Then strip,” the priestess commanded.
Lord Drencis sighed, but got to his feet and removed his toga, handing it to the acolyte.
“Down to the skin,” the priestess ordered. “You must be naked as the day you were born before the Goddess.”
“Is this really necessary?” Drencis complained, but he stripped off not only his underwear, revealing fleshy buttocks, but also two silver armbands and four rings. They clinked as he laid them in a silver dish the acolyte provided.
“Wait for my signal,” Fitch whispered. His hand rested on her mane, the touch sparking down her nerves and making her forget her objection.
The priestess crossed her bony arms, unimpressed. “Now prove your virility. Without touching yourself.”
Lord Drencis made a revolted sound. “Surely I’m allowed some stimulation—”
“Fine. Show him the tits you’re so proud of—”
Demurely lowering her eyes, the younger acolyte began to pull down her neckline.
The room’s occupants were so absorbed in their drama, Fitch slipped over the sill and inside without anyone noticing. Rhiain lashed her tail, prepared to spring.
Like a shadow, Fitch slipped behind Drencis and laid his sword across the fat man’s throat. The argument crashed to a halt.
Eyes wide, the younger acolyte opened her mouth—
“Ah, ah,” Fitch warned her. “Scream and I’ll slit his throat. You don’t want blood splashed on your pretty little feet, do you?”
Pretty? Rhiain granted that the woman’s feet were tiny, but her claws were pitiful.
“What do you want?” Lord Drencis croaked.
Fitch smiled. “For you to pass a message on to Primus Pallax. Tell him Gotia will no longer tolerate being ruled by governors from Temboria. We want no part of your Republic.”
“I’ll, ah, be sure to inform him the next time I see him.” Sweat dripped down Drencis’s brow.
Fitch shook his head, enjoying himself. “No, no, you needn’t say anything. I think the death of Gotia’s second governor in a period of weeks will speak loudly enough on its own. What do you think, Governor Drencis Marconus?”
“I—I—” His double chins wobbled.
Just then two pairs of red-cloaked legionnaires barreled through the door, swords at the ready—
Rhiain crouched, ready to spring, but Fitch just grinned as if he’d invited the guards himself. “Back!” he warned, pressing his blade against Lord Drencis’s fat throat. Bright red blood welled.
“Do what he says!” Lord Drencis squealed.
The unshaven guard in the lead glowered, but held up his hand to halt the others.
Rhiain flexed her claws, puzzled. Why hadn’t Fitch just finished him off, then signaled her? The two of them could easily take on four guards.
“Well, Drencis? Any bribes you’d like to offer in exchange for your worthless life?”
“G—gold. Dowry.” Lord Drencis raised a shaking hand and pointed to a chest in the corner.
“Open it,” Fitch barked.
The acolyte jumped to obey. She flung back the lid of the chest, displaying a wealth of gold coins and jeweled goblets.
“Very nice,” Fitch approved. “But you know what I’d really like? That ruby ring you were wearing.”
“It’s yours,” Drencis said at once.
“Acolyte, put it on my finger,” Fitch instructed. Tension vibrated in his voice. Rhiain didn’t understand. What could be so important about a ring?
The unshaven legionnaire shifted his weight as if considering a charge, but Fitch kept his gaze on them and the sword tight as the acolyte slid the heavy gold ring onto Fitch’s left middle finger.
“A fine ruby,” Fitch said. “Too fine for a fool. Do you remember where you got it?”
“Why, no, I—No.”
“Careful now.” Fitch pressed the blade tighter. More blood trickled down. “I don’t like liars. Tell me how you stole the Gotian ring of kingship.”
“Kingship? I don’t remember.” Drencis trembled in body and voice.
“I’ll help you. You stole it from a boy. Didn’t. You.” He sliced a little deeper.
“Please, don’t—” Drencis lifted his chin higher. “I remember now. I confiscated it.”
“You stole it.”
“The boy was poor, too poor to own such a ring. He’d obviously stolen it. I ordered him to turn it over to me.”
“And when he refused, saying his father had gifted it to him?” Fitch asked.
Drencis blubbered. “He ran away. I ordered my men to chase him and take the ring.”
“And then you crippled him.”
A growl built in Rhiain’s throat. This fat, cringing lordling had crippled Edvard.
“It was his own fault!” Drencis burst out. “If he’d just told me where he’d hidden the ring, I would’ve let him go, no harm done.”
“Oh, I understand,” Fitch said low. “You had to punish him for his insolence.”
“Yes, yes, that’s it,” Drencis gabbled.
“For the crime of being Gotian and daring to own something of value.”
“Ye—ess?” Drencis sensed the trap at the last second.
“He was a fool to take it off and hide it. If he’d kept it on, he would never have been caught. Just as you would’ve survived if you had kept it on your fat finger,” Fitch said coolly. “Would you like to know just what you gave up?”
“You—you called it a ring of kingship?”
“Yes, it is. It’s the ring Tol gave to a Gotian chieftain when he was inebriated and enamored with the man’s daughter. But Tol didn’t make the ring. His sometime-consort, Diwo, fashioned the ring. It is a ring of luck. And now it’s mine.”
No more playing. Fitch slit Drencis’s throat. Blood fountained out, drenching his toga.
A few drops spattered the acolyte; she screamed. The old priestess merely grimaced in disgust and turned her face away.
The legionnaires charged, swords held in front of them like lances. Fitch released Drencis and kicked his body out of the way, clearing his line of attack.
Signal enough. Rhiain sprang through the open window, heedless of the thorns that scratched her belly.
Fitch had already engaged the unshaven guard when she landed between him and the other three, snarling in their shocked faces.
Their swordpoints dipped in chagrin; the rearmost beat a hasty retreat. Rhiain batted at the nearest sword.
She expected it to go flying, but the scar-faced legionnaire tightened his grip and twisted the blade. The edge bit into her pad. Yowling, she swiped at his face. Her claws laid open his cheek and knocked off his helmet. He screamed and collapsed.
The third guard scored her side. Snarling, she turned on him—
—and her front paw slipped in the pool of blood, sliding out from under her. She threw herself into a roll, briefly exposing her vulnerable belly. The third guard gripped his pommel in both hands and plunged down—
—only to sag in sudden surprise as Fitch’s thrust took him through the heart. Fitch grinned down at her as she rolled to her feet. “Next time watch your footing.”
Rhiain’s fur fluffed in embarrassment. She—
Danger. Her hind claws dug into wood. She leaped over Drencis’s body and smashed into the fourth guard, who hadn’t retreated after all, but edged around the wall and sneaked up on Fitch’s unprotected left. She tore out the guard’s throat with her teeth.
The rich, meaty taste of blood made her mouth water. She spat to clear it.
“Well.” For a moment, Fitch appeared shaken, but he shrugged it off. “I have what I came for. Let’s go.”
He and Rhiain walked boldly through the temple halls and out the front door. Fitch stood on the step and ra
ised his fist in victory, displaying the ruby ring.
At his signal, the Grasslander barbarians rode into Dunbridge, howling and rattling their sabers. People and chickens scrambled out of the way.
“You keep that rabble out of my temple.”
Rhiain turned her head, surprised to see the old priestess had hobbled out to join them. “Tell them they can have the gold and welcome, but if they enter the temple my goddess will curse them with infertility.”
Rhiain marveled at her fearlessness, but supposed it came with being old and close to death.
Fitch nodded respectfully, but humour glinted in his eyes. “I shall let it be known, but Grasslanders honour Mek and scorn all other gods and goddesses.”
A quiver of outrage. “So you’ll stand by and let barbarians enslave my children?”
Children? Rhiain remembered the voices she’d heard earlier and saw little faces peeping over the windows of the second temple. Was it a school?
She bared her teeth. “I will guarrrd the childrrren.”
Fitch didn’t object when she took up a position on the second temple’s steps, nor did he participate in looting anything beyond the chest of gold Drencis had brought to bribe the temple with, but...
Rhiain felt troubled, watching the Grasslanders run amok in the town, chasing women and chickens. The chained men being chivvied into place looked more like prisoners than freed slaves. She wished Lance were here to set things straight. Fitch was a great warrior, but he lost interest after the battle ended.
Not that the village put up much fight. Only the newest recruit, Breslin, was seriously injured, falling to a hoe to the head. Rhiain felt bad when the Grasslanders left him to either win his battle with Mek or die, but she lacked the hands to get him up onto her back. The only other casualty died in a quarrel over a pearl necklace between two Grasslanders.
More and more, Rhiain wondered what the purpose of this raid had been. To tweak the Republican’s nose? For a chest of gold? To take revenge on Drencis for crippling Edvard?
Or had it just been for the ring of kingship?
* * *
Lance tipped his head back and studied the tall fir. It listed alarmingly to one side, having suffered wind damage in a summer storm. After a moment, he shook his head. “It won’t work.”
Disappointment sharpened Edvard’s voice. “Why not? It’s heavy enough to crush my legs, and we can control the direction it falls by chopping. Willem says it’s just a tree, not one of the Undying.”
Lance doubted they could aim its fall with enough accuracy to ensure crushing only Edvard’s legs and not his skull, but Lance didn’t argue the point. “And once the tree is down, how do we lift it off you?” It might not be an Undying, but it still weighed several tons.
Edvard stopped with his mouth open.
“He’s rrright,” Rhiain said anxiously. “Even I could not budge it.”
A few days ago, Lance would’ve patted Edvard’s shoulder, but the gesture seemed too patronizing now. The news that Fitch had “avenged” Edvard’s crippling had hit him hard. He’d accused his brother of “stealing” his vengeance, and then not said another word. Fitch had retaliated by calling Edvard a child, but a child would’ve raged or pouted. Lance saw a man’s tightly controlled anger in Edvard now. No longer a boy.
“We’ll think of a better way,” Lance promised.
Edvard nodded, lips pressed together.
“Perrrhaps he could jump from a height?” Rhiain suggested. “Like Sarrra did?”
Rhiain hadn’t seen Sara’s fall from the roof, but, of course, she would’ve heard the tale.
“Jumping from one of the tree platforms might work,” Lance said. Though it would still be dangerous. If Edvard hit head first, Lance might not be able to save him.
“I can’t climb,” Edvard said flatly.
And the only natural cliff Lance could think of was the bridge at Tolium.
Lance sighed heavily. “There’s no choice then. It’ll have to be the sledge.” A repeat of the very torture Edvard had endured when receiving his injuries. The thought of it sickened Lance.
Edvard’s face paled, but he spoke with a man’s firmness. “If that’s what it takes to walk again, then I’ll do it.”
Now they just needed to find someone willing to swing the sledge. Rhiain couldn’t do it. Lance needed to be ready to heal any misplaced blows. Willem refused, aghast, when Lance asked him.
“I’ll do it,” Fitch volunteered.
Lance drew him aside. “Find someone else. Edvard doesn’t need a memory of you hurting him.” Goddess knew he’d regretted swinging the axe during Sara’s execution.
Fitch stared at him, incredulous. “Edvard needs someone with a strong back and keen aim. He needs someone he can trust—his kin. You do your part, priest, and let me do mine.”
The “priest” gibe pricked Lance on the raw. Because he was still angry with Loma and hadn’t prayed to her about Edvard’s legs. He had some qualms about using Her magic to heal self-inflicted damage, but he’d healed Sara after she boiled her hands, and a man who’d attempted suicide. The Goddess had lent Her grace to heal them; why not Edvard?
Whereas She claimed to be unable to help Lance. Though he had served Her faithfully for many years, he was going to lose either the woman he loved or his unborn son. Didn’t he deserve mercy, too? Pushing away the bitter thought, Lance left Fitch and went to speak to Edvard. “Do you want me to find someone else to swing the sledge?”
Edvard shook his head, a white fringe of hair hanging down over his eyes. His lips were thin. “Having Fitch do it will be fitting. He’s always thought being crippled was just punishment for losing the ring.”
Appalling. And yet, knowing Fitch, Lance couldn’t be surprised. He tried to hide his anger, relaxing his fists and saying only, “If you’re sure, then we might as well proceed now.”
Lance bound Edvard’s ankles to separate stakes. He knelt beside Edvard and marked with daubs of mud on bare skin the places where the bones needed to be broken. Five in all. Goddess—
Cutting the involuntary prayer short, Lance turned to instruct Fitch. “Hit the spots I’ve marked exactly—the less blows this takes the better. Do the knee last, and above all, stop if I tell you to stop.”
Fitch nodded. If he felt nervous about maiming his brother, it showed only as impatience.
Next Lance spoke to Edvard. “Channel the pain into screaming—” He ignored Fitch’s sneer of disgust. “If you try to stifle the pain, you’ll thrash more. Willem, Spring Colt, hold down his upper body. Everybody ready?”
“You’re the one holding us up,” Fitch muttered.
Lance ignored him, not moving away until Edvard nodded. His skin had bleached pale, but his expression was set and determined. His bravery swelled Lance’s throat to painful fullness.
Unexpectedly, Rhiain darted forward and licked Edvard’s cheek. “It will be overrr soon. Lance will heal you.”
Lance moved back.
Fitch lifted the heavy sledge. Swung it down.
Skin split, blood splashing out. Edvard screamed, high and keening, face contorted. Willem and Spring Colt flattened themselves, holding him still. The sledge struck again. Then again. White bone jutted through torn skin. Lance tried to shut out the screaming and judge if Fitch was hitting the marks, but blood obscured the muddy smears.
The fourth blow shattered Edvard’s kneecap. Edvard’s upper body convulsed, trying to throw off Willem and Spring Colt, then mercifully he passed out, suddenly limp. “Enough!” Lance shouted.
Fitch raised the sledge again, but Rhiain shouldered him aside. And growled.
Lance didn’t have time to think about her change of attitude. He laid his hands on Edvard’s skinny chest—and felt the heart within stutter with shock and pain.
He opened his mo
uth to pray, but Loma answered without being asked, heat pouring out of him in a healing torrent. A humming note vibrated through his blood and bone, and the fresh scent of rain and wildflowers wrapped around him.
It felt so pleasurable Lance almost jerked away. Confused anger still tumbled in his chest; he didn’t want this sense of closeness and connection to Loma right now.
But healing was an intimate partnership. Through Her, not only could he sense Edvard’s shattered bones mending and straightening, blood vessels linking up, but he could feel both the Goddess’s bright-as-the-sun power and Her compassion, no, love, for Edvard.
Edvard opened dazed eyes dazed. “Is it working?”
“I think so. Keep still.” Almost done. The deep work finished, Edvard’s lacerated skin raveled back together.
Fitch stopped pacing to peer over Lance’s shoulder. “That part still looks crooked,” he criticized.
Edvard tensed. Rhiain flattened her ears.
“Have patience. Wait and see,” Lance counseled them. If need be, they could rebreak the leg, though he was reluctant to suggest causing such pain again.
Timeless moments later the Goddess stepped back, releasing Lance. She tried to be gentle, but Lance still staggered, weak as a new foal. He took a deep breath, smelling evergreen and damp earth, then pushed himself to his feet, locking his knees so Fitch wouldn’t see how much the healing had drained him.
Hope and fear wracked Edvard’s face. Wordlessly, he climbed to his feet.
Edvard stood for a moment, eyes narrowed in concentration, then took a step forward. Then another. After five paces, he pivoted, delight lighting his expression like a torch. “It worked! I’m not limping!” He bounced up onto his toes, then broke into a run.
Lance smiled, joy and satisfaction welling in his chest, as Edvard touched a cedar then sprinted back toward them. Fitch whooped and pounded his brother on the back. “You can walk!”
He could always walk. He’s just not crippled anymore.
Edvard smiled from ear to ear. “Rhiain? Did you see? I can walk without limping!”
Soul of Kandrith (The Kandrith Series) Page 35
