They sat silently for a while, Gwaynn glancing about at those nearest him, feeling a bit uncomfortable with so many people behind him.
“Here we are,” a woman said as she placed a pan of steaming meat and potatoes on the table, along with four plates. Gwaynn frowned at the number of plates, and was still frowning when the woman returned with four tankards containing a light brown, sour smelling, ale.
“Name’s Dot,” the woman said sitting without being asked. She scooted in so close to Gwaynn that their legs could not help but touch. He moved away, but she appeared not to have noticed.
“You boys look like you’ve traveled far,” she commented as she scooped out some meat and potatoes for the both of them.
Gwaynn shrugged. The woman was older but far from old; she had yet to reach middle age, though Gwaynn could see a few small wrinkles around the corners of her mouth, and a few more at her eyes. He guessed she was nearing thirty, but could not be sure. He always had trouble with the age of women, especially those older than he.
Dot moved closer to him so that their legs were touching again. “Where are you from stranger?” she asked leaning over to Gwaynn, holding her chin in her hand and giving him a good look down her low cut bodice.
“Solarii,” he heard himself murmur, using all his will to keep his eyes from the breasts of the woman at his side. There was a lot to see, and though he tried not to stare, he found it impossible and after a fleeting look at her breasts, he glanced back up at Dot, who was smiling at him.
“Like them?” she asked and placed a hand on his left leg. Gwaynn immediately stiffened, but didn’t move away; instead he began to eat his potatoes in earnest.
Dot laughed. “You’re a long way from home,” she added and pecked at the food before her. Gwaynn was surprised that she ate like a lady, small bites and with her mouth closed. “I could keep you company,” she added and he felt her hand move farther up his leg.
Gwaynn jerked uncomfortably, but still did not move away, though why he could not say. He did not find her all that attractive, nice looking perhaps and she smelled good, but there was something hard about her eyes that he found troubling. And he was not sure exactly how to deal with her.
“I’m not looking for company,” he finally said and glanced over at Krys for support, but his friend was completely drowning in the charms of the younger woman of the night.
Gwaynn once more moved away from Dot and closer to Krys. He took a sip of ale, trying not to make a face at the taste of the bitter, thick liquid.
Dot did not seem offended by his rejection; in fact, she smiled all the more at him, and moved closer. “That’s fine, honey,” she said and touched his leg again. “Just buy me a few drinks and will have a fine conversation.”
Gwaynn took another sip, completely aware of her hand moving up and down his thigh.
So they ate and drank, though Gwaynn made sure only to have a few, since Krys had thrown all caution to the wind and was now on his fourth tankard, sipping heartily when he was not kissing Emm brazenly. Dot continued to make advances which Gwaynn continued to deflect until Emm suggested they retire up to their room. Krys and Dot immediately agreed. Gwaynn wanted to protest but he was pulled quickly to his feet. He felt suddenly woozy and just a bit tired and was surprised to find that he was unable to formulate his thoughts.
The girls led them out of the tavern and up the stairs, Gwaynn growing dizzier despite his caution with the drink. He swayed and leaned heavily on Dot, whose hands were all over him.
“Hang on there tiger,” she said holding him up while moving her hands across his chest and stomach.
“Well aren’t you well built,” she said delightedly. “Be nice to have a young one. Most of my fair is a bit on the fat side.”
Emm laughed and taking the key from Krys opened the door to their room. The women literally pulled the young men inside and moved them to their separate beds. Both Krys and Gwaynn sat with difficulty; both were dizzy and wavering in place.
The fact that something was wrong dimly fluttered into Gwaynn’s mind, but was soon dispelled as Emm and Dot began to undress before them, and while Gwaynn was a bit more experienced with women than his friend, he was still completely captivated by a set of bare breasts. He glanced at Krys, who was sitting back arms spread behind him, his hands buried in the soft bed for balance. He was breathing fast and staring at Emm who posed in front of him, small pert breasts, with small dark nipples.
Nice breasts, Gwaynn thought, and suddenly fell onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He was dimly aware of Krys doing likewise.
“They’re nearly done in,” he heard Emm say with a giggle.
Something’s wrong. Gwaynn’s brain screamed at him and he tried to rise, only to feel the soft hands of Dot holding him down.
“Shame, I would’ve liked to have a go at this one,” she said and ran her hands down his belly and over his crotch. Gwaynn felt his pants being opened and then a warm hand cupped his penis and fondled his balls.
‘Something’s wrong,’ he thought again as the hand left his private area and moved to the coin purse at his belt. Alarm rose in him and without conscious thought his right hand moved to his back, drew his knife and had it at Dot’s throat before she even was aware that he was moving.
Dot gasped as he half rose. Gwaynn shook his head, trying desperately to clear it. For a brief moment he stared into the eyes of the woman hovering over him and for an instant she saw death looking back at her through his eyes, but then they rolled back in his head and the boy slumped onto the bed unconscious.
ǂ
Tar Navarra watched from the edge of the Scar as the girl swam slowly over and plunged a knife into Furia, and though outwardly he showed no sign of emotion, inside he was boiling. It didn’t help matters that after the dog had disappeared into the water she looked up and waved to him. He turned and moved away so that he would not scream out in frustration.
Two dogs and a horse! He thought as he hurried back through camp even though he had made a point never to hurry. To hurry was to admit to a lack of control, and that was uncomely for one who dealt out death. Even so he hurried; what did it matter now that those around him were already dead? He hurried because more than anything, he wanted to catch the bitch and bring her into the waiting arms of the Black Horseman.
Rage was blinding him, causing him to rush and perspire, but by the time he reached Chaos he had restored some semblance of calm to his demeanor, not that his passion for the death of Samantha had waned, but his own cool reason was now beginning to assert itself once more. He was close, he told himself, thoughts like frost on a window pane, and when he had her he would take her, rape her in more ways than she could imagine, and then kill her very, very slowly. He leaped up into the saddle, turned and moved back through the briar as quickly as the horse could safely manage. It helped that the obstacles were still removed, but even so it took nearly three quarters of an hour to reach the road.
Once there he proceeded much more slowly. First, he knew he must ascertain whether or not the girl had the courage to re-climb the Scar and pass this way going south. He forced himself to slow down and climb from the back of the horse to study the tracks leading away from Lynndon. It took another quarter of an hour to determine that none were made within the last day, let alone the past hour. Satisfied, he stood and moved back down the Scar, passing the dead old woman, still on the porch. Of the boy he saw nothing.
By the time he rode into Lynndon he was again the calm Executioner, and the fact that he was minus two dogs was beginning to fade into the very recesses of his mind. The townspeople were going about their business, moving here and there on errands. He stopped nearly all of them and asked about the girl, but it was not until he cornered a young boy near the edge of town that he found someone who had witnessed her passing.
“She took a horse from Wake’s,” the boy said. He ran along side as the Executioner rode up to the smithy shop and dismounted. The boy, who had just turned seven, was too
young to be afraid, and felt very special helping this tall, dark and obviously very important man to leave well enough alone. He watched as Navarra carefully moved from smithy to barn, studying the tracks in the ground and growing more excited as he spotted the small set he was looking for. She was missing her shoes, her toes clearly visible in one print. He knelt down to examine it more closely and then he reached out, feeling the same earth beneath his fingers. The print was no bigger than his hand. Then he moved to the horse’s prints. They were large, frightfully so. They would be very easy to follow.
Without a word he moved out of the dimly lit barn and back into the daylight. The boy still followed, just a step or two behind.
“Which way did she go?” Navarra asked, thinking of giving the boy a pence for his help.
“She rode west along the Scar,” the lad piped up. Navarra nodded.
“Mister, where are your dogs?” The boy asked. A second later his head was bouncing along in the dirt, the questioning look still on his face. Navarra watched it until it stopped moving, then let out a laugh, feeling better. The boy had died fast, probably without even knowing it was coming. It would have to do…in place of the pence.
XV
Samantha rode at a quick and steady pace. Bull would never be taken for a sprinter, but he was big and strong and carried her weight as if it were nothing at all. He was used to either Wake, or hauling heavy wagons, the girl on his back was hardly noticeable. She used his strength to get as far from Lynndon as possible, riding most of the day, stopping only twice so that they could both drink from the Scar River, which she was following to the northwest. Several times she left the river’s side when she spotted bargemen floating her way, carrying goods along the river to the host of small towns which dotted its banks. They moved slowly, so she had plenty of time to veer off and hide among the foliage until they past. After they were gone she continued to ride until it was well dark and the rocky ground was becoming a danger to the horse. She finally stopped when she spotted a small sandbar by the soft light of the quarter moon. She dismounted and moved down the bank. She was closer to the river than she would have liked. The rushing water created enough noise so that she would not be able to hear anyone coming up on her, but the bar was protected from the wind by the riverbank on one side and the Scar on the other. The sand was fine and soft and afforded a nice place in which to try to get some rest.
Bull was a worry, since she didn’t have a rope to hobble him. She removed his saddle, but had to leave his bridle in place so that she could tie the reins to a stubby bush not far from where she laid her one smelly blanket. She would not light a fire, she could not risk it, but it was relatively warm, and she could half cover herself in any case.
Surprisingly, she slept the sleep of the exhausted, and woke curled in a tight ball against the chill of the morning air, her clothes still somewhat damp. She sat up and Bull snorted at her, obviously displeased. She stood and led the horse over to the river to drink. While Bull was thus engaged, she quickly relieved herself and then moved across the sand bar and climbed the bank to carefully look about the surrounding area. Her heart was hammering in her chest in anticipation of seeing the Executioner riding her way, but thankfully the immediate area seemed empty. She ran back down the sandy bank, holding up her skirts so as not to trip over them, grabbed her blanket and saddle and placed them on Bull as he continued to drink. She hurried, suddenly very sure that the Executioner was close, and that he had not stopped for the night and was almost upon her. After what seemed an eternity to her, but in actuality was only a few minutes she finished and with difficulty raised her leg and placed it in the stirrup and hoisted herself up upon the very large horse. It took a bit of coaxing, but she eventually pulled Bull away from the river and rode him up the bank. She looked around frantically for her pursuer, but again, the immediate area seemed empty, then she turned and headed once more west along the river.
Bull displayed his strength again and they traveled at a quick pace for most of the morning. Samantha encouraged him with kind words and pats on the neck when she was not looking back over her shoulder. The Executioner was coming. She could feel it and her anxiety and fear drove her on, but it was not until around mid-day that a great wave of hunger finally struck her. She had not eaten since the evening before last and up until now had not truly missed food. She had just not given it any thought; her mind and body elsewhere, but time was beginning to take its toll as her stomach clenched several times in painful protest. It was not long before she was thinking of nothing but food. She rode along the river, thinking of fish, and knowing that she was in deep trouble. All she had was a knife; her bow was broken and discarded. She knew she could not take the time to hunt or fish, not with death chasing her. Sam had intended to by-pass Manse and cross over the Scar before she reached the town, but now she knew she would have to risk the danger and move among the people of the town in the hopes of getting food. The trouble was Manse was still at least two days away. She would not make it another two days without food, of that she was very sure. She would have to find something to eat, or she would die of starvation before the Executioner could kill her.
It was still early in the afternoon, when her stomach forced her to leave the river and move nearly a quarter of a mile to the north where there were sparse groups of trees, and high bushes. She hoped to flush a rabbit, a bird or even a squirrel, though how she would catch them she did not know. She knew that if she had to she could live on mice, or even insects, but hungry as she was she was not that far gone yet. Her journey inland paid off far sooner than she expected, though not with any sort of meat, instead she came across a patch of large blackberry bushes. Her mouth watered when she recognized them, though they were still young, reddish and hard, even so she nearly twisted her ankle jumping from Bull’s back, and walking quickly, bare footed to the bushes.
Her fingers, mouth and lips were soon purple from the juice of the bitter berries but Sam was sure she had never tasted anything quite so sweet. Surprisingly it only took about ten minutes of constant eating before her stomach began to settle. Bull snorted, and she remembered that he had not eaten either.
“Sorry Bull,” she said and walked to him and removed his bit. The horse did not go for the berries, but instead moved to a patch of nearby grass and clover. The two of them ate contentedly for another quarter of an hour before Sam moved to Bull and removed the saddle and then the blanket underneath. She put the saddle back on and then began to load the blanket with as many berries as she could pick. She was so involved with the picking that she hardly noticed the weather until it began to rain, sporadically at first, with large wet drops, but then it opened up and drenched her where she stood. She cursed softly; her clothes had almost completely dried from her plunge. But there was nothing to be done for it, so she wrapped the berries up in the blanket and then carefully walked up to Bull. She hated the storm. She hated to be wet, and she was afraid a nearby lightning strike would startle the horse and he would bolt. She knew she was dead without Bull. The horse allowed her to lead him away from the clover and back into a copse of trees in order to find what shelter they could. There were more blackberry bushes here, thick along the tree line. She stopped and let Bull graze once more but she kept one hand on his reins at all times. They were hardly in the midst of the foliage when she heard voices, male voices, carrying through the storm. She froze and looked out beyond the trees in the direction of the approaching men, and her heart nearly sprang from her chest when she caught sight of a group of Deutzani soldiers. There were seven of them in all and they were moving quickly in her direction, likewise trying to find some shelter.
ǂ
Gwaynn woke the next morning confused and in pain. His head pounded as if his heart now lived between his ears. He struggled to a sitting position, the pain so bad he had to fight the urge to throw up. He lost that battle, puking on the floor. The pain increased as he retched and he saw blinding white flashes even though his eyes were closed. He sat quietly on
the edge of the bed for several long minutes listening to Krys groan before he finally had the courage to try to stand. Waves of dizziness and nausea hit him almost immediately but slowly subsided as he stood there, very still.
Slowly and carefully he made his way over to the bureau and the pitcher of water. His tongue felt thick, heavy and scratchy as if someone had placed a sand-filled, waterlogged sock in his mouth. With great effort he lifted the pitcher and drank directly from it. The first sip was small, but wonderful, the best water he’d ever tasted. The next drink was larger, and after a moment he began to drink in large gulps. He wanted more, but forced himself to stop, knowing that Krys would be in a similar state when he finally came around.
Gwaynn placed the pitcher back on the bureau, feeling much better, his thirst and much of his dizziness gone. His head was still pounding, keeping time to some sadistic song. He suddenly remembered the women, nude. His hand went instinctively to his belt and found the bag of coins Paulo had given him was missing. He was not surprised, but angry, both with himself and the two who did this to him. His anger exploded into rage when he noticed that their bags were missing. The bags held all their personal belongings, but most importantly, their kali.
“Krys!” Gwaynn shouted loudly, then groaned and held his head in his hands. Gwaynn shuffled back over between the beds and in his effort not to step in his own vomit, kicked his knife, which lay on the floor. He slowly bent down and picked it up with a great deal of satisfaction, then leaned over and punched his friend as hard as he dared in the upper thigh.
“Aaah,” Krys moaned and sat up very fast. His face went from red to pale in a blink. He squinted and grabbed his head, moaned once and then vomited.
“Welcome to the party,” Gwaynn said softly.
The Black Horseman (The Temple Islands Series) Page 30
