[Meetings 03] - Dark Heart

by Tina Daniell - (ebook by Undead)

  Kitiara swung the club as hard as she could, striking him across the face. Camium lurched to the right, danced a few steps, tottered again. But he would not fall.

  Camium's eyes had puffed shut. He could not move his arms. The bristle brush dangled from his beard. Blood seeped from under the bucket, from places where Kitiara had torn away skin with her blows.

  Still Camium Ironbender, champion of the Wooden Weapons Annual for eleven years, would not fall.

  Kit doubted that he was even conscious. She had respect for the old dwarf and didn't want to hurt him any worse, nor embarrass him any further in defeat. Raising her eyes wearily, she looked to the judges in mute appeal.

  Conferring hastily, the three officials raised their arms to signal a draw and an equal sharing of the prize. The crowd erupted. Camium swayed. Kit slumped to the ground.

  * * * * *

  A couple of hours later, hours crowded with healers and well-wishers, Kit was left alone on a stone bench in the weapons room, working her jaw back and forth painfully.

  Alone except for a tall, furtive stranger, his face shadowed by a cowl, who had been lingering to catch her by herself. He didn't worry her. If she could fight Camium Ironbender to a draw, she could handle whatever was next.

  Even so, the man's voice took her by surprise. "You're making a career out of posing as a man," the stranger remarked, standing over her.

  "Ursa!" She spat out his name bitterly, jumping up. She looked around for her choice of weapons.

  "Whoa!" Ursa Il Kinth said, looking over his shoulder warily. "Not so loud."

  She made a move. He grabbed her arm, but gently. "You've had enough fighting for today," Ursa urged quietly.

  He let her arm go. Kitiara stood her ground, her eyes flashing. All weariness had vanished, replaced by a surge of energy. "I owe you a whipping going back years!" Kit said angrily.

  He sat down and pulled off his cowl, shaking his long, tawny hair free. Kit had time to grab a weapon—and did. Her bag with the sword in it was across the room. The studded cudgel she hefted would have to do.

  She waited for Ursa to make a move, but he just sat there, staring up at her with his dark, glinting eyes.

  "Yes," he said at last in a somber voice. "That was bad business all around. You owe me a whipping, and I owe you your share of ... of that job."

  "Where is it? Don't think you'll get away this time without giving it to me!" She jabbed him in the chest with her cudgel.

  Halfheartedly, he pushed the weapon aside. "Don't be a fool," he said. "You're better set than me now." Instinctively she patted the half purse of gold in her pocket, Ursa's eyes watching her a little wistfully.

  "I owe you something," he continued. "I don't deny it. But I'm glad to see you. Can't you see that? Even though you did cost me a fair slice of what little money I was carrying." He grinned sheepishly. "Like everybody else, I had made my bets on Camium."

  She snorted unsympathetically.

  "It took me a while to recognize you. But eventually I couldn't help but see through the poor disguise of someone who first taught me the virtues of wooden weapons as a girl," he said in his best teasing manner. "You weren't such a bad fighter even then, but you're damned impressive now, I have to admit. What are you doing in these parts anyway?"

  Kit scowled, softening. In truth she was a little glad to see Ursa with his roguish grin. He seemed sincere, if a trifle low-spirited. "You first," she said, lowering her cudgel. "What are you doing in these parts?"

  "I've got a job," he said, brightening. "Me and Cleverdon—yes, he's still with me. Not the others." Ursa's face clouded over. "I'll tell you all about the others later. Now what about you?"

  She didn't see any reason to hold back. Kit told him, briefly, the story of her mock betrothal to Patric, her sea voyage, his mysterious murder, and her escape overboard. It already seemed like years ago.

  "The Silver Gar" Ursa exclaimed. "Everybody in the crowd was talking about that ship. It put into Vocalion just this afternoon for repairs. It sits in the harbor even as we speak. The talk is that the captain is in a state, for he must sail back to home port with the dead body of his lord."

  The news stunned Kit. "If the Silver Gar is here," she put in excitedly, "that means I might be able to get Cinnamon back."

  "If what you tell me is true," Ursa said, "you had better be careful."

  "True . . ."

  "I tell you what," Ursa said. "Join up with me, and I'll get Cinnamon back for you somehow."

  Kit was about to object when he put up his hand. "And in good time I will pay you back what I owe you," the mercenary promised. "You may as well trust me on that."

  * * * * *

  Ursa's tall, stooped companion waited for them in an unsavory section of the waterfront. Droopface—she could think of him by no other name—evinced no surprise, no reaction whatsoever to Kit's presence in their midst after two years. For her part, she wished that she could take her sword—or something—to the traitor, but Ursa's whispering restrained her.

  If she had to admit it, with silent resignation, Kit was comfortable with the idea of working with these two again.

  "There it is! I see it!" Kit exclaimed. The Silver Gar was docked at a pier right off the waterfront, a gangplank leading up to it. She thought she spotted La Cava stalking around on deck and pulled her companions into the shadows of an alleyway.

  "There's the captain. My advice is not to run afoul of him, whatever you do. I think he's your match, and then some," Kit said to Ursa.

  The young woman peered around the corner again and saw several of the passengers returning up the gangplank. No sign of Cinnamon, who was probably being cared for below.

  "Our horses are stabled on the edge of town. You and Cleverdon get them and take them to the edge of the marsh just north of here. Cleverdon will know where I mean."

  Droopface nodded silently.

  "Wait for me there," added Ursa. "I'll join you as soon as I can. If Cinnamon can be sprung, I'm the man." Some of his old cockiness had returned.

  Droopface shifted, and Kit got up to go with him. Ursa put a hand on her arm. "Wait, Kit," he said. "How about that purse?"

  Her mouth opened to protest.

  "For bribes," he grinned, "and other operating expenses."

  With a sigh she felt in her pocket and handed it over. Ursa was right: she might as well trust him. And she hadn't had any illusions about holding onto her gold for very long anyway.

  The three of them moved out of the alleyway between two buildings, Kit and Droopface going off in one direction, Ursa melting into the crowd in the other. After they had split up, a cloaked figure emerged from a nearby doorway, gazing after them. If Kitiara had looked back, she would have recognized the dark elf from the Silver Gar.

  Chapter 13

  The Slig's Lair

  Kitiara and Droopface had been waiting at the designated rendezvous, on the edge of a reedy marsh ten miles east of Vocalion, for almost two days. At first Kit was patient, but as time wore on she grew restless, worrying that something had happened to Ursa.

  Their makeshift camp was concealed by a cover of tall fireweed and sawgrass, away from the main road. All around them was a sparsely wooded lowland plain dotted with ponds and ice. To the north Kit could glimpse a snow-dappled range of mountains.

  During their wait Droopface had said little, as was his wont. If the tall, stooped, lugubrious one was at all worried by Ursa's absence, he did not show it. He had reverted to his usual self, stoically reading his tome of magic, his lips moving soundlessly as he occasionally slobbered over the pages.

  At last, when it seemed as if her nerves were about to burst from the waiting. Kit heard a clatter of hooves and then the sounds of several horses that had left the highway and were pounding in their direction. She realized that Droopface must have been more concerned than he let on, for he had stood up and was fidgeting expectantly.

  Ursa hove into sight, and Kit's heart leaped when she saw the horse that was trotting b
ehind his own. "Cinnamon!" she cried joyously, and rushed forward to untie her father's horse and give Cinnamon an unabashed hug. "How did you get her back?" she demanded of Ursa. "How—"

  Even as she asked that question, Kit became aware of another rider close on Ursa's heels, pulling up on a skewbald pony. This new arrival had long, free-flowing sandy hair entwined with feathers and was wearing a painted leather vest and chaps. Yet what took Kit most by surprise was that the stranger was a young woman.

  This female addition to the group dismounted gracefully. She was rather short, almost pygmy-like in stature, but obviously limber and strong. She eyed Kit, fingering the dagger thrust into her belt.

  "It wasn't easy," bragged Ursa, tying his horse as he gave a rippling laugh. "That ship's captain, I think he wanted to keep your horse as his own. Cinnamon was getting the royal treatment. They kept a constant guard over her, and I could barely get near her without raising suspicion. I learned, however, that she was taken off ship, twice daily, for a walkabout. I figured the ship would only be in port for about a week. That gave me time to arrange an old trick."

  Turning back toward Kit, Ursa realized that she was staring hard at the new woman, who met her look coolly.

  "Oh," said Ursa, enjoying his little surprise. "This is Colo. She's been riding with Cleverdon and me for several months now. Colo, this is Kitiara—I told you about her."

  "You didn't tell me about Colo," said Kit tersely.

  The other stood her ground.

  "Colo's stealthy," enthused Ursa, "and good in a fight.

  Ask Droopface."

  Droopface, who had sat back down, murmured his assent.

  As Kit weighed this information, her face relaxed. "Kitiara Uth Matar," she said, proffering her hand in a greeting.

  Colo declined the hand, raking Kit over with a glance before hurrying off and squatting a few feet distant from the three of them with her back to the campsite, busying herself at something. Peeking over her shoulder, Kit could see that the diminutive female mercenary was engaged in throwing a cup of stones and bones, poring over their configuration.

  "Not very friendly," Kit grumped, albeit good-naturedly, to Ursa. The mercenary had sat down on a rock near the fire that she and Droopface had started. Kit poured herself some tea from a container that had been warming over the low flames.

  "It's not your fault," said Ursa, his eyebrows furrowed. "She's convinced we're under an ill omen."

  "How cheerful."

  Ursa began to unpack his bedroll. "Just a run of bad luck," he said, his mouth set in a hard, thin line. "It started four months ago, when Radisson was killed and El-Navar disappeared. We've been on the run ever since. Haven't been able to get back into things. She thinks we're being followed."

  "Followed?" asked Kit. "By who?"

  "Whoever it was, we lost them," boasted Ursa confidently. "We've been zigzagging between places and covering our tracks. Our luck is starting to turn. Isn't my liberation of Cinnamon proof of that?"

  "What about Radisson—and El-Navar?" Kit felt compelled to ask. "You haven't told me what happened to them."

  He sat on a rock opposite her. Kit noticed that Droopface had set down his book and was listening intently. Colo was paying them no attention, her back still turned, consulting her oracles.

  "We were outside a small nothing village, across the channel and three hundred miles southwest of here. Radisson went into town with El-Navar looking for some drink and—" he watched Kit's reaction "—female companionship. They went into a tavern called the Double Shiner. Everybody knows about the place, an old standby for wayfarers in those parts. They should have been safe there. We were forty miles from any enemies, forty miles from our last job."

  "But there had been signs," ventured Droopface solemnly.

  Kitiara was so surprised to hear the sad-faced mercenary speak so adamantly that she nearly dropped her tin cup into the fire. Ursa, reaching over to pour himself a mug of tea, nodded at Droopface's comment.

  "Yes. Somebody or something had been following us. I don't know who or why. There were strange birds in the sky and unfamiliar noises at night. I thought it was wiser to stay clear of people, stick together. But Radisson wanted to get away and have some pleasure, and El-Navar said he would go with him." He paused, frowning. "They ought to have been safe. Radisson can outwit most regular people, and El-Navar has the strength of a half-dozen."

  "What happened?" asked Kit anxiously.

  "Don't know," Droopface shook his head ruefully. "Don't know."

  "When they didn't come back," continued Ursa, "we went into town to look for them. The Double Shiner had been leveled—destroyed. It was almost as if it had been uprooted and ripped to bits and sucked away somewhere, so that the ground was littered with its remnants.

  "Everything was gone but its center post, from which dangled Radisson's body. He wore no clothing. His eyes had been dug out, and over his body were scribblings done with a knife point. A thousand little cuts and holes and markings all over his body."

  "And El-Navar?" Kit tried to keep her voice even, while in her mind flashed memories of the sinewy Karnuthian. She remembered his deep, mellifluous voice; the hair like writhing snakes; the gentleness of his touch; the power of a panther that lay dormant within him.

  "Gone too. Vanished. No evidence of his death or any clue as to his whereabouts. Colo there—" he indicated the female mercenary, preoccupied with her soothsaying "—is an able tracker. She could find nothing."

  "Even if the townspeople could have told us anything," added Droopface, "they wouldn't. They were too afraid to talk-There was a long silence after that remark. Ursa swirled his tea. Droopface got up and went over to his pack, preparing to go to sleep. Colo gave Ursa a sharp look, then went to her horse and unstrapped her bedroll.

  "As I was saying," said Ursa, ignoring Colo and taking one last sip of his tea before tossing the dregs on the ground, "our luck is changing. We haven't encountered any difficulty for weeks, and now we happen upon you." He flashed Kitiara one of his old brisk grins. "Grown up some and even more skilled as a fighter than I remember."

  She had to grin back.

  "It will be good to work together again," he finished.

  "What's the job you mentioned?"

  "It's not much of a job, but it'll bring a fair price. A slig is terrorizing a community just forty miles north of here, someplace called Kimmel."

  "What's a slig?" asked Kit.

  "Oh," Ursa laughed. "A slig is a rare experience. You'll find out soon enough. Here—" he kicked some twigs and branches onto the fire "—you take first watch. Wake me up to relieve you."

  She noticed that he made up his bedroll close to Colo, who was already asleep.

  * * * * *

  For a day and a half they progressed northward into hill country, following scrawled directions that Ursa fished out of his pocket and consulted at intervals. They gravitated to lesser roads and dirt paths until, in the late afternoon of the second day, they came to a rushing river that they followed upstream in the direction of a small farming village named for the leading family, Kimmel.

  The late autumn days were blustery, and the nights at this altitude increasingly cold. But the weather stayed dry, and Kit liked the snap of early winter.

  Kitiara had to admit she felt strangely comfortable being with Ursa and Droopface again. Ursa had his swagger back, and she enjoyed his bragging about exploits. Droopface, with his long, inscrutable silences, reminded her of poor, inarticulate Strathcoe; he had become just as companionable, too. Kit wondered about the fate of El-Navar, but she couldn't coax either of her old partners into talking about the Karnuthian any more.

  Colo was a strange sort, militant and masculine in some ways, but flirtatious and feminine in others. She seemed to carry no grudge against Kitiara. The first night on the road she performed a wild dance by the firelight that made them all hold their sides for laughing. She always rode in the lead, because Ursa said she had eyes that could see far into the distan
ce.

  The place where they eventually arrived was less a town and more a number of hill farms that had clustered together for community and protection. The locals had pooled their resources to hire mercenaries to slay a slig that had been roaming the area, stealing food and terrorizing the women at night. Some citizens had tried to battle the slig, but this one was a ferocious rogue male, detached from his tribe. He was tricky to track and even more perilous to corner.

  It was in Vocalion that Ursa heard the good people of Kimmel had chipped together and were offering a fair sum, with proof of the creature's demise.

  For an hour, the mercenaries met with representatives of the citizenry led by the constable, a cowardly fool who seemed eager to foist the responsibility for taking care of the problem onto someone else. Ursa presented his credentials, and they in turn affirmed the amount of the reward. The general whereabouts of the nuisance was well-known. The slig dwelled somewhere among the sandstone cliffs that

  bordered the river, near where the forest ended.

  That night Ursa and the others camped away from the town, as was their habit.

  Ursa was in a gregarious mood. Around the campfire he told stories about the time he rode with a company of upright Knights of Solamnia, pretending to be one of them until he was drummed out of their regiment for his drinking and womanizing. Like a lot of his stories, you couldn't tell if this one was entirely true, but Kit laughed along with Colo and Droopface.

  They made up their bedrolls early. Colo went off into the darkness to take first watch. Laying side by side on their blankets, Ursa and Kit stayed awake, passing back and forth a jug of local mead that had been bestowed on them by the grateful citizens of Kimmel.

  "Sligs are tough kin of hobgoblins," Ursa told Kit, preparing her for the morrow. "Whatever you do, don't get in the way of its venomous spittle. The spittle can't kill you, but it'll burn your skin and make you wish you were dead. Their eyesight is poor in daylight, but their aim is good at night or in caves."