Saxon talked intently to the falcon. ‘I accompany Herek from time to time on various missions. I get bored of palace life and prefer the open road. We were headed for Kyrakavia, which was not in our plan when we left Tal. I questioned the Prime—oh, Herek is Prime now, by the way—and he admitted something which had been kept a great secret for several years. Goth never did burn. The bitch, Xantia, aided him to escape on the eve before Tor’s execution. Herek confessed that he was so shocked to lose a prisoner that he kept the information from the King and Queen until after the stoning.
‘And then, I am told, Lorys decided that the news should be kept from the people until Goth had been recaptured. Like Herek, he expected the Shield to swiftly track down the former Chief Inquisitor and bring him to justice. When that did not happen, word was given out that Goth had died in prison, inexplicably poisoned by his own hand. The plan was to execute him in private once he was captured; to deny him the final recognition of a public execution. The whole of Tal was in such despair after Tor’s execution that everyone believed the poisoning story; no one seemed to care what had happened to the man who brought it about…’
Saxon blinked and paused, seeming to gather himself. ‘Why did he have to die like that, Cloot? Is that why you left us? Alyssa was inconsolable for months after your disappearance at the same time as his body. You were all she had of him.’
It was Tor’s turn to feel the tumult of emotions now. Cloot soothed him quietly. Just listen.
Saxon continued. ‘Anyway, after the shame of losing his prisoner, Herek vowed to do everything he could to find Goth. And he has never given up the search. Even now, he has detoured from a routine mission at Martintown to head north into Kyrakavia to take a brief look around. I left in the early hours of this morning to come further on to Caradoon. It seems a fitting place for the likes of Goth.’
Cloot flapped excitedly. Tor could see Saxon was thinking hard.
‘He’s here?’ he asked.
Cloot flapped joyously then hopped to a higher perch and stared towards the white building. Saxon followed the direction of the bird’s gaze and his broad jaw set itself firmly.
‘Then we keep a vigil until my eyes confirm it.’
The trio remained in their secret spot and watched carefully.
As night closed in on dusk, Saxon stretched. So did Cloot.
‘I have to take a look,’ was all Saxon said before moving soundlessly through the trees and emerging to walk stealthily across the street.
What’s he going to do?
Tor, time is our enemy. I must get us back to the Heartwood.
Tor ignored the caution, shooshing Cloot so they could watch.
Goth lay back amongst the silk cushions. He was dressed in the voluminous silk robes he now preferred; they hid the gauntness which the stracca had imposed on his once stocky frame. The room had a salubrious air, but closer inspection revealed it to be tired and jaded, like its clients. Once the stracca worked its magic, though, nothing else mattered and Goth could pretend he was Chief Inquisitor once again, living at the palace, powerful, rich, respected and feared. He liked the last most of all.
During the long, painfully bright days spent in recovery from the effects of the previous night’s stracca, reality bit like a snake. Fast and unrelenting, the truth of his life always struck as he emerged from the haze of intoxication. Sometimes the pain of it could make him weep. Xantia would come and soothe him.
Why she stayed with him Goth was never quite sure. She told him they were kindred souls; reassured him they shared the same enemies, the same dreams and desires. And yet he saw how her lips pursed each time he drifted into his pleasant oblivion. She did not like her life. He was not altogether sure she liked him. But she had saved him from death, brazenly ordering those cringing guards to allow her into his cell. Her plan had been simple and cruel. The old hag, Heggie, was expendable. Bribed with a purse, she had agreed to accompany Xantia into the jail and remain there in Goth’s stead. After all, what could the Guard do to her; and, in truth, neither Goth nor Xantia cared if the old woman was punished for her part in their skullduggery. Yes, Goth loved Xantia for that cruelty; her passion for power and her unquenchable thirst for revenge was almost as addictive as the stracca.
Goth remembered how it had been her idea to remain in Tal to watch Gynt’s crucifixion. How they had sniggered together beneath their disguises at all those stupid people keening and weeping in distress. It had been more fun than a bridling.
Seeing Alyssa had made the risk worthwhile. She had looked so regal standing up there, proud and defiant. If he was still a whole man he would have been hard with lust at that moment watching her. Curse the Kloek who had taken his manhood. It did not seem to bother Xantia that he was not whole. In fact, if he really thought about it, Xantia was not at all interested in him as a man. But she admired his cunning mind, enjoyed his games.
Watching Gynt’s head split open had been the highlight. He had died bravely, Goth would give his enemy that. His forgiveness of the King had been a master stroke, but oh, the delight of witnessing his death. Goth had been forced to bite his teeth together to keep himself from laughing aloud.
Xantia’s eyes had been sparkling at the hour of Gynt’s death. Goth remembered the high colour on her cheeks. And whilst the rest of the mob stared in horrified silence at Gynt’s limp body and the surprising amount of blood gushing from the huge wound in his head, Xantia had turned to watch Alyssa. She had bitten her lip in pleasure until it bled at the sight of the girl’s agony and chuckled quietly to see Alyssa holding out her arms, reaching for Tor, then her face, twisted with hatred, as she turned on the King.
Goth wished they could have stayed to witness more of that fine theatre. He had wanted to see Gynt’s corpse cut down from the cross, perhaps even to touch it to be sure Gynt had died. Xantia had laughed at him then and mocked him. ‘Who could live after that, you fool?’ she had snarled.
Fool. Goth turned the word over now in his numbed brain. He did not like to be laughed at. And no one had ever called him a fool before. But Xantia was not scared of him. He could hate her for that. She saw through him, knew his weaknesses. Once she had even brought him an eleven-summers-old girl for his sport. But the girl had cried too much and, anyway, what was the point in his condition? If only he could be within spitting distance of that golden-haired Kloek once more…Even with his own hands tied and his ankles manacled, Goth knew he would find a way to rip the man’s throat open with his teeth…and he would wallow in the blood.
He was fantasising again, but simultaneously he could feel the welcome numbness of the stracca wearing thin. So thin that his greatest fear was re-emerging: someone was watching him, spying on him. He would run back to the King and ask for a reward for revealing the whereabouts of the fugitive Goth.
Goth inhaled on the long glass tube again and relaxed into the drug’s reassuring embrace. Too much use took away the sense of taste; removed all feeling, in fact. It was said a man could drink bubbling hot water straight from the pot and not feel it, such was the numbing ability of the stracca. Goth was not ready to test that theory yet, even though it appeared his life was over.
Xantia did not think so though; kept talking about some mad god, hell bent on revenge. He did not understand any of it but he humoured her. She made sure he got high-quality stracca. He had to stay on the right side of Xantia. Sometimes he thought she was actually running the den. ‘Patience, patience,’ she would coo in his ear. ‘I have the good stuff for you tonight.’ And he would do as he was told.
What did she want from him? Why did they remain in this flea-infested pirate town when they could climb aboard the first available ship to the Exotic Isles? He thought harder and through the stracca haze managed to recall that it had been Xantia’s idea to use the stracca den as a hideout. ‘We can lie low for a full moon or two,’ she had persuaded him. But how long had it been now? He could not remember.
Goth knew he was hallucinating now. He had to be, for throug
h the window he could see the hated Kloek staring at him.
He rolled over and closed his eyes tightly. If only it were true. If only Saxon the Kloek were this close. He could take his vengeance. He inhaled once more and passed out.
Saxon wanted to crash through the window and end the miserable sod’s life. It was Cloot who prevented him making a rash move. Goth looked as if he was unconscious.
The contraption next to the bed of faded cushions gurgled away; a thin stream of purple smoke drifted up and clouded at the ceiling. The Chief Inquisitor was a shadow of his former strutting self; his face was so gaunt it was almost unrecognisable. But he could not hide the twisted flesh and the incessant twitch which marked him as the person they sought.
Saxon considered his options. Goth was useless for the time being. Instead of risking an error, he could make his way back to Tal and inform Herek, who by now would already be heading back south to the capital, of his find. At the same time, he could warn Alyssa of this new discovery. She must be told, even though he dreaded confirming for her that Goth lived. Then he could return with a full complement of soldiers, re-capture this lowlife and deal with him once and for all, not to mention his nasty accomplice. Saxon nodded. It was a wise decision.
He heard Cloot’s warning shriek but it was already too late. Whatever it was hit him hard and he collapsed outside the window.
Saxon came to, groggy and disoriented. He could hear a familiar voice yelling through the darkness. It was a voice he despised. Xantia.
The man holding him hissed near his ear. ‘Stay still, stranger, or I’ll slit your throat from arsehole to appetite.’
Saxon had a mad urge to laugh at the nonsensical statement, but he also had the sense to remain silent as commanded. He peered through blurred vision and realised he had been dragged around to the side of the stracca den where it was virtually pitch black. Xantia looked like a demented ghoul, lit up in the open doorway as she shouted in their direction.
He realised they were just silhouettes to her and thanked whichever lucky stars were protecting him. She thought they were drunken revellers. She had her say, issued a nasty threat if they were still there in two minutes, then slammed the door.
‘You don’t plan on making any trouble for me, do you, tall man?’
Saxon spat. He tasted blood as he shook his head. His attacker struck a flint and held it up between them.
‘Now we’ll remember each other’s faces. It pays to know who might want me dead.’
Saxon took note of the livid scar which crossed the man’s face where an eye used to be; now there was only a blackened socket. He shrugged, momentarily thinking about taking on ‘One Eye’, but remembered the blade poised near his throat and figured this was a fight better lost and fought again on another day.
‘Where is my falcon?’
It was the first time One Eye had heard his distinctive voice. ‘A Kloek? My, my, you’re far from home, Goldie.’
Saxon hated the nickname but he did not bite. ‘My falcon?’
‘Ours now,’ the man said, pointing to the bushes where Saxon could make out another fellow. Cloot was held firmly in his grip.
Saxon swung back to stare at One Eye. ‘You can have all my money—’
‘Already got it,’ One Eye said, shaking a purse and grinning.
The light inside the building went out. All was quiet.
Saxon spoke softly this time. ‘You must give me that bird or I will kill you.’
‘I hold the knife, and my friend over there will break your bird’s neck if you so much as raise an arm against me, Kloek. Now, do as I suggest and leave Caradoon.’
Saxon tried a different approach. ‘What would you want with a falcon?’
‘Birds of prey are rare where we’re headed. This one’s a beauty. He’ll fetch me gold for sure in the Exotic Isles. Her majesty has a passion for falcons. She loves to watch them kill.’
‘I meant what I said, pirate.’
‘About killing me, you mean?’
Saxon nodded slowly, watching for the next move. He was surprised to hear the one-eyed man laugh.
‘Shaking in my boots, Kloek. Until the next time we meet then.’
He laughed again, pushed Saxon hard in the direction of the town and wagged his finger at him. ‘Go now, Goldie. I’ve spared your life because I can see I have taken something from you which matters to you greatly. But don’t push your luck. My name is Janus Quist. Remember it.’
Saxon did not hear it coming but he saw Quist’s eyes flick to whatever was behind him. Something hard and unforgiving hit his head and the Kloek dropped to the ground like a stone.
‘Get him as far south from here as possible. Dump him as close to the capital as you dare. I don’t want him returning,’ Quist ordered.
6
Breach of Souls
Cloot had been so intent on getting into a position where he and Tor could see Goth sucking on his stracca pipe that he had not heard the man creeping up on him. Careful fingers extracted him from the net which had been thrown about him whilst other members of the gang dragged Saxon around to the dark side of the building. The man then bound his beak with a fine thread…but not before he had gouged the man’s flesh, Cloot thought, although it was very cold comfort.
Don’t struggle any more, Cloot. It will just weaken you. Let’s wait and see what they want, Tor cautioned, sounding braver than he felt at this moment, remembering his body so far away.
They felt their combined hopes sink as they realised what their fate at the hands of Quist and his pirate gang was to be. They shared distress as they heard the pirate give the order to remove Saxon and watched helplessly as the Kloek was dragged off down the street.
Now all Cloot could think of was their own precarious situation and the dire need to ensure Tor’s escape.
Forget me, you fool! Cloot spat at him. We have no time to waste on anything but you…getting you away from them.
I will not— Tor began but was cut off fiercely by his friend. He could feel the anger coursing through Cloot’s fragile web of light bones and feathers.
You will not put yourself in any further danger than you already have. Now use that powerful mind of yours and conjure up a solution, Tor. There is no more time. Quist is about to stuff me into a sack; I’ll lose all sense of direction and then we’ll find ourselves on a boat to somewhere in the Exotic Isles and that will be that. You’ll die inside me and I’ll die of a broken heart and of my failure to fulfil my task as the Second. You cannot do this to me. You will do as I say…NOW!
What do you expect me to do? Tor yelled, feeling the stirring of real fear.
Something that will magic you away, Tor! Now think. Think hard on everything you know. The answer is within you. Lys has always told you that you have the answers. You just have to know how to ask the right questions. Do it now. Save yourself.
Save us, he added softly before falling silent.
For a moment Tor felt lost, helpless. Growing up, it was not just the love and support of his parents which had made him feel safe; it was knowing he possessed a power way beyond anything anyone else understood. There had never been anything he could not do. Even when Merkhud had suggested the Spiriting, Tor had trusted he could achieve it. But now, many years later, he felt doubt creep in. His own life was his to lose…if he so chose. But with Cloot it was different. Cloot was his closest, most beloved friend; he knew the falcon would die without a second’s hesitation if he thought it might save Tor. He steeled his resolved. He would not lose Cloot. He would not let a drug-intoxicated bully, a scheming woman and a one-eyed pirate beat them. He remembered how, years ago when they were children, Alyssa had taught him to turn shame into strength, misery into determination and fear into anger. Now he would display that same courage.
Tor withdrew and summoned the Colours. Cloot seemed distant now. The Colours roared and instantly he felt connected to where his body lay with Solyana and Arabella keeping vigil over it. He needed no guiding star to find it.
He had only hours left before his body would die and then Cloot would surely be lost—and so would the Trinity. His anger swelled and the Colours roared brightly in answer to his call.
Trust yourself. Who had spoken? Tor did not know but he repeated it in his mind. Trust yourself.
He leapt.
Cloot called across the link, brave as always. Travel safely, child. Don’t forget me.
Cloot, Tor whispered, I love you.
I know.
The link snapped shut and he was travelling alone. Speed was all he could grasp. He felt nothing else. Emptiness enveloped him and he hurtled through the blank. Where were his Colours? Did they blaze behind him? Perhaps he had become the Colours. Faster, faster. No sound.
How long had he been travelling before it happened?
Cold hit him like a slap. He slowed. He was confused. What was it? A sense of foreboding permeated his consciousness; at the same time he sensed that whatever was reaching for him must not be allowed to touch him in the depths of his haven.
Travel! called voices. They were urgent.
He thought he recognised them but recognition disappeared, to be replaced by fear.
And then another voice. It was wintry. It was the source of the cold.
Ah…so this is Tor, it said icily.
Who are you? Was his voice shaking from fright or cold?
I am he.
Panic gripped Tor. He had stopped moving. He was dying with each second he remained here but he felt impaled. Orlac?
The voice laughed. Still no warmth in it, but there was genuine mirth. I am not Orlac, though I am as interested in him as you are.
Where is he?
Before it could reply, another voice, frosty with menace, came crashing into Tor’s head. Get away from him! Lys said.
It laughed again. He was passing. I am lonely.
Quickly, travel on, Lys commanded. Time works against you.
Tor picked up speed again through the blankness, worrying at the sinister coldness of that voice until he heard the friendly voices again. All of them singing to him.
Revenge Page 6
