Lady Of Regret (Book 2)

by James A. West

  Fedik, the last, was bald as an egg and had a disturbingly empty face. He stood a head shorter than Horge, but was wide as a bull, and not an inch of his girth looked like fat. Of the four, Rathe counted him as the most dangerous. Not just for the breadth of his shoulders, but for his striking lack of emotion. His was the face of a man who would dash a newborn’s head against a rock at a single word from his leader. Rathe decided Mardin would be the first of the four to fall.

  “I advise you to move aside,” Rathe said now, knowing full well Wull had no intention of agreeing to his demand. Still, the game must be played. “Do not, and I’ll be forced to defend myself. Should it come to that, your days of celebration will be over.”

  Wull came a stride closer, again thumped the head of his axe down between his feet. “And I advise you to give over Horge, afore you run on back to Skalos. ‘Course, you’ll have to get by Mardin and Fedik, first. Might escape Fedik, drunk as he is. Mardin though … well, he swore off drinking a goodly stretch back. He don’t hold to sobriety so much, but he does keep oaths to his dear dead mama, even when they make him touchy. Ain’t that right, Mardin?”

  Mardin stared at Rathe, pulled two curved daggers from his belt. He held them with a keen familiarity.

  “You’ll have to forgive my friend’s silence,” Wull said. “On account of losing his tongue to one of your brothers when he was still tugging his mama’s apron strings, he’s not been one for talking since.” Wull laughed softly, and Rathe guessed the hard-toned and well-used jest was meant to arouse fear in followers of the Way of Knowing.

  He debated telling Wull they were not who they seemed, but knew it was a waste of breath. He had dealt with such men before. Wull and his ilk held fast to hate, no matter the face they gave it, and there was no amount of water in the world could put out that fire. Blood was all such men knew. And death, of course.

  Mardin stepped closer, eyes lifeless as a rotting snake’s, daggers glinting coldly with the distant light of the wedding festivities. Fedik tugged a bung-starter from his belt, twisted his fingers round the heavy mallet’s wooden handle.

  Rathe said, “I would not hand you Horge, my guide and companion, any sooner than I would lay my sword at your feet. But, I am curious as to why you wish him harm?”

  Wull gestured to his fellows, freezing them in place. “You monks, with your questions and edicts, sicken me. But, if you want answers, then you’ll have them. Horge is a—”

  Wull cut off with a start, looked about. “Fedik, Adner, did you see where that slinky little cock got off to?”

  While the toughs peeped into nearest shadows, Loro glanced from Samba to Rathe, and whispered, “I looked away, for but a moment. When I looked back, the craven wretch was gone.”

  Dismissing Horge’s talent for vanishing whenever trouble arrived, Rathe flicked his gaze to Fedik, who had bent over to peer under a wagon. A light of understanding lit Loro’s eyes when Rathe drew his sword and spun to face Mardin.

  The barrel-shaped man was quick, stunningly so, but Rathe’s backhand stroke fell like lightning. His blade sang as it smashed away one of Mardin’s daggers. Still turning, Rathe drove his fist against the man’s stony chin. Mardin retreated a single step, shook his massive bald head, and charged. Rathe rolled under grasping fingers, came up in a crouch. Mardin had already turned about, and now crashed against him. Blades locked together, they fell to the dirt, each vying for an opening.

  Without warning, Madrin snapped his head down. Rathe twisted, taking the brunt of the blow on a shoulder. Madrin tired again. Rathe twisted the other way. This time, the brute’s forehead slammed against Rathe’s ear. The glancing strike dazed him. Another would render him unconscious.

  Trying to heave the man off his chest was akin to shoving against the weight of a mountain. Struggling for breath, the side of his skull throbbing where Madrin had butted it, Rathe did the only thing left to him. He rammed his knee into the man’s groin. Madrin reared up with a roaring gasp. Rathe caught the wrist of the man’s dagger hand, and toppled Madrin off his chest.

  Uttering a high wheeze, Madrin rolled into Fedik’s heels. Loro crushed the pommel of his sword against the red-haired man’s temple at the same instant, and he fell bonelessly atop Madrin. Growling like an enraged bear, dark robes flapping around his bulk, Loro raised his broadsword and set upon them both.

  Rathe came up as Ander rushed in, swinging his heavy iron-headed maul overhead as effortlessly as small hammer. With a snarl, Rathe swept his sword up, and the blade hacked through flesh and bone. Ander fell one way, his mouth gaping in a soundless scream. His arm and the maul fell the other way. Rathe paid neither any more mind, and went for Wull.

  As Rathe closed, the man’s surprise at the unexpected reversal shattered. He blocked Rathe’s attack with the handle of his axe, and chips of seasoned ash flew. Rathe’s blade whirled, and he struck with a blurring backhand. More chips flew, but Wull held his ground.

  “Keep at it monk,” Wull taunted, “and you’ll dull that pretty sword.”

  Rathe did not waste a breathe to speak. He heard sounds of struggle at his back—Loro, by the voice, but could not chance a look. He circled warily. Wull matched him step for step.

  “If I’d known you wanted a dance,” Wull chuckled, the scarred side of his face moving from shadow to light, “I would’ve let you pass.”

  With a blinding flurry of strikes and counterstrikes, Rathe pressed in hard. Until the very end, Wull held his own, grinning and taunting. Rathe unexpectedly spun, arm and sword extended. The last inch of his blade scored a fine cut across the base of Wull’s neck. The man’s laughter became a bubbling hiss, his axe fell from his fingers. With shocked eyes, he staggered and fell to his backside. He pressed his palms against his throat, and a torrent of blood, black in the night, poured between his fingers. Wull tried to speak, but more blood washed over his lips in place of words. His hands fell slowly to his lap. He died slumped forward and sprawl-legged.

  “You need to talk to someone about breaking your curse,” Loro panted, coming up behind. His sword ran red, but he seemed unhurt. Two unmoving men littered the ground behind him. Chewing his cud, shaggy coat ruffling in the breeze, Samba looked at the battle’s survivors as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  “What curse?” Rathe asked. He knew full well what Loro was going on about, but he also knew he had never mentioned it to anyone. He glanced at the village green. The revelers had formed into a large circle made up of whirling dancers.

  Loro straightened from cleaning his blade on Wull’s woolen trousers. “The one you speak of in your sleep. Khenasith, the Black Breath.”

  “The way you snore, how do you hear anything?”

  “Make your jests,” Loro said in a serious voice, “but there must be some truth to it.”

  Rathe looked sideways at him.

  “Think on it,” Loro began. “Nabar’s men hounded us down the Shadow Road, as sure as if we’d told them our route. Then you faced some shadow-man. We were set upon by Tulfa, who wanted to roast us on a spit. Then there’s Durogg, who nearly killed you with a touch. After that, Jathen would only agree to heal you if we agreed to fetch his worthless baubles. Now Wyvernmoor. We barely stepped foot into the village, before a pack of rogues decided we needed to die.”

  Rathe could have argued, but Nesaea’s voice filled his mind. “Yours is a fate buried in shadow, a life of woe, a harrowing storm to trouble your every step. Turn this way or that, but you will never escape distress, until the grave draws you to its loveless bosom.”

  He held still for some time. “Soon as I was old enough to wield one, I have lived by the sword. I’ve made war across a handful of kingdoms, faced more enemies than I can count. Through all that, I never counted myself accursed or blessed. My enemies have changed since I was exiled to Fortress Hilan, but they are only enemies of a different war. I do not hold to curses.”

  “Fools!” Horge cried, rushing out of the darkness. He skidded to a stop when the two warriors faced him,
swords held ready to lay him open.

  “You sniveling wretch,” Loro said, face twisted in anger. He advanced one step, another. “I’ve a mind to cut you into maggot bait, here and now!”

  “What … why?” Horge blubbered, cowering away, hands raised.

  “Leave him be,” Rathe ordered. If any man deserved pity, it was probably Horge. He also deserved a clout to the head, but that was a matter for another time.

  Loro halted. “If it’s not a curse upon you, then this craven whoreson led us into a trap. I remind you, we came here at his word.”

  “I don’t need reminders,” Rathe said, eyeing the feral little man. “Why did you bring us here? Speak the truth, or I’ll allow Loro to do as he wishes.”

  “The Gelded Dragon,” Horge whimpered. “We need to go there. Quickly. Before anyone finds what you’ve done.” He looked toward the dancers, now struggling to keep up with a chaotic tune. No one on the green seemed inclined to leave all that light and laughter.

  “We defended ourselves,” Rathe said.

  “You’re outlanders who wear the robes of the Way of Knowing. Even if you are believed, the townsfolk will not take to you murdering men they know. And that’s how they’ll see it—murder. Come with me, before it’s too late.”

  “What of the dead?” Loro asked.

  Horge glanced at the corpses and shuddered. “Leave them. If luck favors us, everyone will think they got pissing drunk, and fought amongst themselves. Hereabouts, that’s not unheard of—” He cut off abruptly. “Where’s Ander?”

  Rather and Loro looked around. All that remained of Ander was his stiffening hand. Loro laughed. “Seems he decided life was worth living.”

  Rathe cursed under his breath at having missed the man’s absence. He pushed that aside, and fixed Horge with an unflinching eye. “Why are we here? The truth.”

  Horge cringed, fingers plucking at the collar of his grubby tunic. “The friend I told you about is my sister. She waits at the Dragon.”

  Considering they had found Horge at Deepreach nearly a fortnight gone, Rathe was about to ask why she would be expecting him. Horge answered before he could.

  “At the last turning of the moon, we agreed to meet at the Gelded Dragon. She worries, my sister, and knew the mistake of getting tied to Jathen. If not for Durogg, I would’ve set out the day after you saved me from Tulfa and the shadowkin. If I delay any longer, I fear my sister will do something foolish. She’s very vicious, when angry. Come, my friends, and I will introduce you to her.”

  “Worrisome and vicious?” Loro said dryly. “Sounds mad. I’d rather meet a hungry wolf.”

  Horge’s lips trembled. “She is a wolf. I mean, that is to say, she can behave as a wolf, if pressed. Yes, very wolfish, very wild, very—”

  Rathe waved Horge to a stop, before his gibbering grew intolerable. “Fetch your yak,” he commanded, “and take us to her. After we meet, I want a meal and a bed.”

  “And a plump wench to nuzzle,” Loro added, a wide grin splitting his face.

  Horge looked behind them, spun in a frantic circle. “Where’s Samba?”

  “Where you left him….” Rathe trailed off. The yak was gone. “Seems your pack beast has taken the habits of his master. More’s the pity, as Samba ran off with all our supplies.”

  With a regretful sigh, Loro said, “We should have eaten the smelly beast, while we had the chance.”

  “Samba knows the way home,” Horge said, sounding more hopeful than sure. “We can fetch him on the morrow. Come, my sister waits.”

  As they turned to leave, Rathe spared a last glance for Wull. He looked a child gone to sleep while playing in the street. Quietly, Rathe said, “I gave you the choice, friend, where you offered none. You should’ve heeded me.”

  Wull did not answer. He was dead, and growing cold.

  Chapter 22

  Rathe had seen the inside of worse places, at least one or two. The Gelded Dragon reeked of sour ale and sawdust, with a hint of old vomit. Worse was the stench of the poorly tanned furs worn by the inn’s few patrons. With all the revelry outside, he had expected to find a welcoming haven of light and gaiety. Instead, he was greeted by a gloomy interior sparsely occupied by trappers and woodcutters, wild men all, with dirt-blackened nails, rotted teeth, and sour expressions. Some wore their hair long and matted. Others had shaved their skulls and decorated them with tattoos. A few looked up when Rathe and his companions stepped through the open door. Most searched for meaning or absolution within the depths of their wooden tankards.

  “Gods damn my black soul,” Loro gasped, halting next to Rathe. When Horge tried to squeeze between them, the fat man dropped a heavy hand to his shoulder. “ ‘Women, wine, and song, the best of all can be had at the Dragon.’ Those were your words. Instead I see shit heaped upon shit.”

  Horge missed Loro’s irritation, and nodded excitedly. “Aye, ‘tis true.” He jabbed a finger at a stout figure plodding under the burden of a serving tray loaded with tankards. “Vena will also do all you ask for a copper,” Horge said with a lecherous wink.

  “Vena is a woman?” Loro said doubtfully. “Unless my eyes deceive, I see a beard decorating her chin.”

  Horge looked confused. “Aye, that’s what makes her special. It’s rumored she can—”

  He cut off with a squeak, when Loro dragged him close. “Don’t say another word, or I’ll have out your filthy tongue.”

  Horge’s mouth worked, but no sound came.

  “Where’s your sister?” Rathe asked, peering round the smoky common room. Back beyond the few mostly empty trestle tables, shadows lurked deep and plentiful.

  “I don’t know,” Horge said, struggling to pry Loro’s thick fingers off his shoulder. “Master Gilip might have word of her.”

  “Let him go,” Rathe said.

  Loro obliged with a disgusted oath. “If you’re not cursed, then I am. Gods, I miss Fira. Mind you, she was a touch scrawny, and a hellcat to boot, but a man did not have to wonder about her being a woman. By the gods, I had no concern of her using a beard to tickle my fancy!”

  Rathe pressed his lips together against a burst of laughter. Not so long ago, Loro had complained that Fira’s carnal appetites had shamed his own sordid morality.

  Horge scurried ahead, nodding to a few surly fellows. They ignored him. At the empty bar, he stood on tiptoes to look over the edge. “Ah, there you are!”

  Rathe struggled not to recoil from the man who stood up. Master Gilip leaned on the wooden bar. A pox had scarred his gaunt face, and his hair hung straight and coarse and yellow. His sunken eyes, underscored by dark, hanging folds, took in his newest customers.

  “Master Gilip,” Horge said, “these are my friends, Rathe and Loro.”

  “Didn’t know you had friends, Horge, even amongst the monks,” Gilip said, chuckling in a disconcertingly high-pitched voice. “Wull has been asking after you. Might be you want to catch up with him, soon as possible. Horge, are you ill?”

  Horge swallowed. “Wull, you say? I … I’ll find him on the morrow. Aye, I’ll do just that.”

  Master Gilip’s gaze roved over Rathe and Loro. “Well met, good brothers.” His tone was pleasant enough, but no love glinted in his gray eyes. “Ale, wine, or mead?”

  “Ale,” Loro said, shoving Horge aside. “Bitter is better.”

  “I’ve a cask of fresh goat piss.”

  Loro dropped a handful of coppers on the bar, held up two fingers. Gilip swept up the coins with an approving chuckle. “And you, Brother Rathe?”

  Rathe had a taste for wine, but guessed the request might not go over with such a hard lot of men. “Goat piss for me, as well,” he sighed.

  Gilip waited for more coin. Rathe cocked his head at Loro. Grumbling, the fat man doled out another two coppers. Gilip made them disappear as fast as the first. A moment later, three wooden tankards, crowned in dark foam, slid across the bar.

  Horge reached for one, but Loro slapped his hand away. “You’ll not drink on my coin.”


  Horge licked his lips, rustled under his cloak, came up with a long, yellowed fang.

  Gilip squinted at it. “Bear?”

  “Frost leopard,” Horge corrected.

  “Suppose I could make a necklace from it.” Gilip pursed his lips. “Add another, and you have a trade.”

  Horge produced a second tooth, this one with the tip broken off, and placed both on the bar. “Have you seen Yiri about?”

  “Aye,” Gilip said, turning back with a fourth tankard of ale. It was half full, but Horge took it without complaint. “At her usual table. Been waiting for you, I expect.”

  Horge looked into the thick darkness at the back of the inn. “Has she … gotten up to any mischief?”

  “You could name it that.” With a narrowed eye, Gilip reached under the bar and came up with a mug of rich dark wine. Rathe stifled a disbelieving groan.

  Horge gulped his ale. With a contented sigh, he clunked the empty tankard atop the bar. “Has she been scrying again?”

  “Not so as I would recognize it,” Gilip said. “I’ll tolerate the reading of leaves, even peering into mirrors and the like, but Yiri goes too far with her beetles and blood.”

  Loro choked on his ale, spraying misty foam across the bar. Gilip scowled, tugged a filthy towel from his apron, and gave the wood a cursory swipe. “Put an end to that nonsense, Horge, and you and Yiri are welcome in the Dragon. Don’t, and I’ll toss you both out on your scrawny arses.”

  “We paid your fee,” Horge whined.

  “Aye, and I expected Yiri’s talents to draw folk in, not run ‘em off.”

  “I’ll speak with her,” Horge promised, casting a longing glance at Loro’s second brimming tankard.

  Gilip looked between Rathe and Loro. “When you’re done with Yiri, come back, have another round, and I’ll tell you about the dragon my grandfather gelded.”