His eyes followed her to the door. There was something magic in the sway of her hips. In the way her hair brushed against her back with every step. She rounded on him as she grabbed the handle. “Come to think of it, that shirt is a bit drab, you know. May wish to drape something over it.” There was a necessary mischief swelling in her eyes.
“Perhaps you’d best have another look, then.”
She left him with a smirk.
He moved quickly after that, draping on a sable cloak and sliding his sword into his belt. He paused only briefly, taking a final look about their room. They would have to move quickly when all was done. If they had a chance. Only a few things remained. If the worst came to pass, they could abandon them in their flight, though he did not care to think of how they might handle the winter without. It was no matter. They would do what they could and no more. Breathing deep, he mouthed a short prayer to no one in particular, and headed out the door to join Essa and Rowan in the hall.
Neither Alviss nor Chigenda were with them.
“Hope you’re bundled,” Rowan advised. “That wind is something else tonight.”
Assal’s righteous balls. He saw his father smiling. He clenched his hand to keep it from shaking. Deep breaths. Everything would move so quickly now. Deep breaths. Soon he would see his home. Soon he would see his father. Then…Woe be to thee, oh Kinslayer, darkest blight of darkest night. He started to flex his fingers. In. Out. In. Out. The repetition helped.
“Are you ready?”
Can any man be? Somewhere, shutters rocked and slapped against the windows and the wind battered the walls. One of the horses in the stable was whinnying, its desperate cries drowning in the howls. Everything was chill. Can I? He could not think. If he thought, he surely could not do this thing. Maybe he would not have to. There were other ways. No. Stop thinking. He did not need to think to say what needed to be said. Long ago had he committed his questions to memory. Perhaps, if his father…
There was a sword in his chest.
Essa slid his arm in hers. Startled, he looked to her and she patted his hand reassuringly. She didn’t ask. She knew. She may not have approved of his path, but she would see it done, for him. As she always had. She had not needed to have ever joined him at all, but that night at the tavern in the wind and the rain and the blood, she had taken his hand and never turned from it again.
He exhaled slowly.
“May I escort you home, my lord?”
He let her guide him. Rowan moved aside for them and fell in step behind. “It will be alright,” the swordsman whispered in his ear, though he doubted even Rowan believed it. Home could be at hand, but the road might never lead away from it again.
Why was it people always assumed that home would remain the same? He hated old points of phrase like that. Nothing else ever did, so why should home be any different? They always said you could never go home again. Well, if that was what they said, then they had that right at least. In Rurik’s case, it was true, ordered by blood far older and far more established in the hierarchy of being than his. Life, whatever he could make of it, was his to hold, so long as he wandered far and abroad. If he ever went home again, it was a death sentence. Cullick had pushed for that to begin with.
He wanted to close his eyes and hide. This was madness. Standing there, right then, he could see himself as a walking corpse—the stupefied undead. Death clamored against him, smiling its fat, greedy smile, for it knew that he was a marked man. He could walk in, but law itself decreed he could never walk out again. He did not know what to make of the hopelessness that evoked.
The others turned to meet them as they stepped into the common room. Something was amiss. He could see that immediately. Alviss spun on him like a shot, bristling with some unseen worry. Chigenda’s gaze swept over them, then glued itself to the door, spear poised. The Zuti was picking his way toward the entrance, stalking panther-like amongst the tables, as though he might vault one in his hunt for prey. Neither the innkeep nor her son were about. Too late for any proper service.
Essa felt it too. “What is wrong?” Her grip on him stiffened.
“Dogs,” Chigenda answered.
Alviss elaborated. “We heard dogs outside. Spooked one of the horses.”
“What does that mean?” Rurik asked, though he already knew. Not now. You cannot find me now. His breath caught and pinched in his chest.
The Kuric’s silence said it all. They were not the only ones about this night and someone else had moved far quicker. He wanted to turn on Chigenda and scream. Damn you, Zuti. Damn you thrice to Hell.
But something was off. It could not have been Bluebeard. They had watched carefully throughout the day, to see if the gossip-prone minstrel would share his news. Yet he had never gone. One of the knights might have, but Alviss vouched for them. The merchants? Blind old Jez? There were too many possibilities. For all he knew, it might have even been her poor, simple Tully.
Alviss hefted his great axe in one hand and drew Rurik aside with the other. Essa, still linked at the arm, trailed along behind them.
“You leave now.” There was no room for debate in the Kuric’s tone.
“Wh-where? What do you mean? Me?” His mind reeled. “What of Essa? Rowan-you, wait, wait!” But he did not wait. Alviss dragged them toward one of the shutters at the far wall.
Only when they reached the window did Alviss release him. In one broad stroke he heaved his bardiche into the latched portal and snapped it wide open. A gust of bitter wind rushed in, snapping against Rurik and chilling him to the bone, even through his many layers. Shuddering, he tried to draw back as Alviss came at him again.
“Alviss, stop it! I’m not going. If you’re going to meet them, then so am I.”
He thought it was one of his braver moments. He gripped Essa tighter, and when he shied away from Alviss’s unforgiving stare, he looked to her frightened eyes for support. As soon as he did, though, he realized his own opinion no longer mattered. He could label himself leader all he liked, but a title didn’t stop the hand that caught him by the throat.
Rurik might have screamed from the shock, had Alviss’s fist not promptly clamped on his wind-pipe. As it was, all he could manage was a hoarse hiss as he was slapped against the wall. Essa screamed as he was yanked from her, and he could hear Rowan shouting. Down the hall, beds creaked at the noise. Rurik squirmed, but though he kicked and rasped, there was no freedom from his guardian.
The Kuric pressed him, even as Essa clawed at Alviss’s back. Alviss pressed him until it became a struggle just to breathe and the world began to haze. He could see blood on Alviss’s hand where his nails were digging in, but the hand would not relent.
“This is no debate,” the Kuric said. “You all go. Now.”
As Rurik choked, he could hear the Kuric speaking to the others. Taking Essa by the arm, shaking her. Stop it. Stop hurting her. What are you doing? I’m not here. They’re not here. This isn’t right. This isn’t the way it happens. I, I…She would go with him. So would Rowan. Where, he did not know. Away. This isn’t right. He had to stay. They would die. He was dying. Strangled by a friend. Where am I going? It was all…slipping.
Then he was back in himself, rasping for air as he crumbled to the ground. Essa threw herself over him, trying to see and to feel and to hold, gathering him up and making sure he was alive. She threw a withering glare at his guardian, but when he looked up at Alviss, he saw sadness in the old man’s eyes. The Kuric shook his head slowly. Outside, there was a howl and the metal jingle of the latch.
Someone pounded on the door.
“Rowan,” the old man sharply beckoned. “Watch them. Get them out. Do not listen to the boy.” Then he turned back to Rurik, adding, “We brought you home. No more. You stop, or it stops you. This madness can end you nowhere good.”
The pounding came on again, even louder than before. There was a shout, demanding entrance. He noticed then—the door was barred.
“Get up.”
From beh
ind the bar, a figure emerged, rubbing at his weary eyes. Tully took one look at them and their weapons, and turned promptly on his heel and disappeared back into his quarters. The door slammed behind him.
Essa helped Rurik to his feet. He wanted to say something, but the words caught in his raw throat and all he could ask was “why?” The Kuric sighed and turned away, muttering something he couldn’t make out. Rowan urged them to the window, and though he did not want to go, Rurik found himself with little choice.
“Bring it down.”
With one lingering glance back at his friends, he was the first out the window. The shouts were clearer then, and the roar of the wind as well. He shuddered from the chill, drawing his cloak snug about his shoulders. Then he heard a great clatter from inside, a feverous pounding, and Essa came tumbling out the sill as well. He caught her, and both collapsed in the dirt. Rowan was right behind them, but he hesitated as he put a foot to the sill. He twisted back and they could hear him shout: “Don’t do it, you fool!” Wood splintered, cracked and tore.
He could hear the shuffling feet, even over the howl of the wind, and the Zuti’s roar.
“Chigenda, throw up your spear.” Alviss.
Then Rowan’s foot withdrew. He glanced back one final time. “Get out of here,” he hissed. There was a ringing in the air. Steel grated on steel—men shouted, chains rang. Essa sat dumbfounded, staring at her cousin’s reddening face. She reached for him.
“Rowan? N-no. Come Rowan, just a step, please…”
Someone screamed and the panic set in. Chigenda was attacking them. Assal help us. He’s killing them. Rowan cursed under his breath and swatted his cousin’s hand away. “Flee, you fools, flee!” Then he slammed the broken shutters as he twisted about, but there was nothing to catch them closed.
They needed to go. Rurik could hear the barks of many dogs, and the ringing was already trailing off. Rurik grabbed at Essa, but she struggled and easily pulled away from his sweat-licked hands, tears in her eyes. She screamed her cousin’s name, flinging herself at the window, clawing one of the shutters aside in her haste. He lunged after her, but the damage was done.
There were a half dozen men and as many dogs. Just a glance could tell him that. And he knew the dogs, every one. That only set his heart racing all the faster. Isaak. He sends you to sniff me out? His brother was there, with all his devil hounds. The black and white Kari, the short-haired Falinsi. Hunting and war dogs all, affectionately groomed and tended, but as ruthless as roused bears.
Yet he feared not one of them half as much as Isaak’s pride.
Both froze as they heard the low growl. The dog that sauntered around the side of the inn stood a full head above the rest of the pack and weighed more than half Rurik’s weight, far as he could tell. Probably more. It had grown since he had last seen it. The red coat was distinct, and that alone was enough to set him trembling. Then he saw the jaw. Its massive head was lowered, nostrils flared and jowls quivering as it drank in their scent. Teeth flashed as it locked eyes with him, and Rurik began to back away slowly, clutching at Essa’s arm. It wore no leash. Isaak never kept that one on a leash.
It was his pride and joy.
“Easy, Cathal. Easy. Don’t you remember me?” You mean little bastard. “It’s-it’s Rurik, remember? Just, take it easy…” Please don’t eat me.
He chanced to glance inside at that moment and beheld another pair of eyes staring back at him. Another dog, and just as fierce. The scarred face stirred at the sight of him, and the shout went up. They knew he was there. Outside. Rowan twisted back, saw him, and spun again, swearing. Then Cathal began to snarl and bark. Rurik broke into a run, yanking Essa along behind him.
He thought he heard something snap inside, but it was gone all too fast, lost to the wind and the mud and the jaws snapping at his back. He could hear the soldiers scurrying out the door, and in the distance someone shouted orders, but the words could only be guessed. The hound snapped at their heels, gaining quickly.
Help me. Not like this. Please, not like this. His chest ached as they surged forward, running as fast as their legs could. Yet the ground was frozen over, the dirt grown slick beneath his boots. The chainmail was wearing him down, as well. Essa could move faster without him. A part of him wanted to see her run past, to flee into the night and be safe. Another wanted to keep her beside him, in some vain notion of protecting her, or dying for love, or something childish of the sort. As luck would have it, the decision was not his to make.
Essa trailed behind as he dragged her, but suddenly she cried out, and as he twisted, fearing the worst, he was shoved aside. They split down the middle, Essa falling one way, Rurik the other. He hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, grunting beneath the rattle of chains, the impact jarring the wind from his lungs. Essa, he saw, struck the ground and rolled lithely away.
Then he saw the dog lunge between them, its powerful legs striking the ground where they had stood but seconds earlier. It twisted with a growl.
Without second thought, he scrambled over his feet and away from the road, toward the trees. Essa shouted at him, but he could not hear her on the wind. Over his shoulder he glimpsed her gesturing toward a particular crop of trees, and he sprinted for it. Already he could see the hound came on for another lunge.
Rurik fiddled with his belt, trying to free his pistol, but in his rush he could not work it loose. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Instead he tried to draw steel, but he had it only half-way out before something large slammed into his back.
He screamed as his legs went out from under him. Flailing wildly, desperately trying to regain his balance, he pitched forward into the dirt, Isaak’s hound rolling underneath him. When they righted, the dog sprang apart from him, only to dart back in immediately. He tried to scramble away, but it caught him by the leg and began to crush it between his powerful jaws. Nothing registered but the searing fire racing up his leg. Before that maw, his bones felt naught but cracking twigs. Still, he managed to draw up and batter the beast about the head with his other leg, hurling curses all the while.
He struggled for his blade but the sword had fallen in the crash and rested just beyond his reach. Leg hot and slick with a noxious mix of blood and saliva, he lurched as the dog twisted its head back, and he became distinctly aware that he was being dragged by the calf. For all the energy it cost, his fevered kicking gained him nothing. The dog's only recognition seemed to be an increasing pressure on his bones.
Abruptly, the pressure gave to the sound of a pained yip. An arrow embedded in the creature’s back. Seizing the moment, Rurik drove another kick into its head, and at last it recoiled from him, yelping as it fell amongst the grass. He jerked back and away from it as Essa swept over him, dragging him up by the hand and pulling him along. Her bow dangled from her other hand, but she did not stop to plant a second arrow, she merely ran, their places now traded. Rurik paused only long enough to scoop up his sword.
As torches flickered around the inn, they limped into the night.
The break to the trees seemed longer than it was, but they claimed the nearest hill and slipped into the woods unmolested. From there, they could see the trail winding its way into Verdan, though they had no intentions of rejoining it. All around them were a veritable sea of broad oaks and slender ashes, spiny spruces and grizzled sequoias. Green and brown flashed to left and right, blurring as they ran, and the wind howled between them all, lashing them wherever they went.
To watch Essa move, however, was to watch a gazelle in stride. She darted between the trees with an unparalleled grace, seemingly unfazed by either the piles of needles and leaves at her feet, or the many branches stretched across their path. In contrast, Rurik was not nearly so graceful. Though he managed to keep pace with her, the effort rapidly winded him, and his leg throbbed, and more than once he slipped amidst a shower of decaying leaves. When Essa looked back at him, though, he would say nothing, gritting his teeth and shouldering through the pain.
They had to go. He could
n’t have her worrying about him as they did.
Only when Essa stopped to regain their bearings did he dare sink against the nearest trunk. Panting, he watched her pick amongst the trees, focusing on the work at hand. It was her defense mechanism. Always had been. When things got tough, she put herself into the nearest labor. It distracted her. When it was done…well, neither liked to think of that. Rowan might have been her cousin, but he was more her brother. If anything had happened to him, he dared say she would never be the same.
But what of him? He had lost as well. Would he not weep? He could feel it stirring inside him—the breaking. Part of him wanted to. That was the part that saw Brickheart leering over Alviss, beating the man raw with mailed fists for hours on end. It was the part that saw, when there was no more for the captain to hear, friends being led down the planks toward his father’s gallows, nooses about their necks.
They would die, for that was a traitor’s penalty. Worst of all, they would die for him. He was not sure he could take that. He was certain that Essa couldn’t. It was one thing to die together. Quite another…he tried to shake the thought off. If he lost Essa, then it was all for nothing. It wouldn’t matter—any of it.
This part of him warred with vengeance and salvation. Aside from, perhaps, Chigenda, his father would not kill the others straight away. It was not in his nature. Whether for interrogation, or merely the show of justice, his father would have them for days before they need fear the hangman’s noose. He and Essa could still get to them, if they went about things the right way. Then they could go and he could…he could…
A false hope. Man could assail much, but such odds as were arrayed against them—it was a hopeless madness to dream of overcoming.
Then again, these walls had always been insurmountable. Stubbornness took him and left him, and fear, more prevalent—these were the greatest of forces put before him.
The Hollow March Page 12
