A Man Betrayed

by J. V. Jones

  "I have already told you that," said Magra, looking up from the floor and speaking very precisely. "I sent Jack to look for Tarissa. I was worried about her. She had been out on her own too long."

  Magra was giving them an excuse. Judging from the shaking of her hands and the disorderly state of the cottage, she had just been subject to one of Rovas' temper tantrums.

  The beginning of a matching anger began to rise within Jack. Magra and Tarissa were his family now and he wouldn't stand for anyone upsetting them.

  Jack moved forward and came to stand directly opposite Rovas. Although smaller than him, the smuggler was twice as wide. He was barely two feet away and his breath reeked of ale. "Well, we're back now," said Jack, turning his voice to a threat. "So there's no need for you to worry."

  The two men looked at each other. Rovas' eyes were filled with loathing. Jack didn't want to think about the reason why the man hated him so much. Such thoughts were best kept in the dark. He was aware of a buildup of tension within his head and a burning sensation in his throat. Sorcery or fear-it was hard to tell. Whatever it was, he worked to keep it under control. Afraid that his bile might carry a sting more deadly than acid, Jack made a determined effort to stop his stomach from contracting. He wanted to deal with Rovas alone. With muscle, not sorcery as his weapon.

  Rovas backed away.

  Sighs of relief could be heard from Tarissa and Magra. Part of Jack wanted to sigh along with them, but he stood firm, never once taking his eyes off the smuggler. He was suspicious: Rovas was not a man to back down lightly.

  "Well, Jack," he said. "It's obvious you're ready to avenge your sweetheart's death. Aggression like that will come in useful when it comes to dealing with Captain Vanly."

  "He's the man who murdered Melli?" Jack was tense. He had managed to control the swell of sorcery, but at what cost? His heart was beating wildly and he was aware of a warm trickle of blood running from his nose.

  "Murdered and raped her, then cut off her head." Rovas' lip curled to a sneer. A sharp intake of breath sounded from Tarissa.

  The words were a finely aimed barb. Jack covered the space between him and the smuggler, his hands grabbing for the man's throat. Rovas was ready. A mighty punch sent his head reeling. The two men fell on the floor. Pots and pans scattered about them. Jack hit his jaw on the side of the table and the smuggler landed on top of him. Tarissa was screaming. Sorcery was building. Rovas had got hold of a knife.

  Then someone threw cold water over them. Jack looked up. Magra stood above him like a goddess, an empty bucket in her hand. She bent down and started beating them both with the wooden bucket. Her fine features were wild with fury. Jack could see where Tarissa got her physical strength from; the blows were fierce and biting. He and Rovas submitted to the beating like naughty children. After a while, however, Rovas clearly had enough.

  "Leave me be, woman," he said. "I'll be black-and-blue tomorrow."

  "I hope you are," cried Magra. "And that goes for you, too!" she said, turning to Jack.

  Rovas smiled ruefully and held out his hand. "Come on, lad, I'm sorry for speaking out of turn. I don't know what got into me.". Jack could feel the considerable force of Rovas' charm working upon him. "No hard feelings, eh?"

  To keep the peace for Magra and Tarissa's sake, Jack took the smuggler's hand. "No hard feelings," he lied. The tension in the room collapsed upon itself, leaving relief in its wake.

  Rovas helped Jack to stand up. The sorcery, for there had been no mistaking its metallic tang, seemed to have dissipated naturally this time. Although beating quickly, his heart now felt under less strain. The nosebleed had stopped.

  Magra had swapped the bucket for a pitcher of ale and poured them both a brimming cup. Jack took the offered cup and downed it in one. "So when do I see to Vanly?"

  Rovas wiped the froth from his upper lip. "The day after tomorrow. I just got word that Kylock has invaded western Halcus, so it won't be long before Vanly is called to the front."

  Jack dropped his beer mug. Kylock invading Halcus. He never heard the sound of the mug crashing to the floor. At the mention of Kylock's name, something pulled sharply at Jack's thoughts, causing them to refocus on Bren and the war, and then, unexpectedly, on the man with the golden hair. It seemed the thread hadn't been severed after all.

  Baralis warmed the oil in a crucible over the flame. When it reached the desired temperature, he added a dull gray powder to the mix. His hands shook with fatigue. The pain in his joints was unbearable. The pain in his chest was torture.

  Crope had laid out the body on the bed. The unfortunate girl, whoever she was, had been lured here with promises of gold. Baralis didn't bother to ask where she came from. She was a whore, that much was obvious, and judging from her coarsely dyed yellow hair, she was a low-class one at that. She would not be missed.

  They were in a small inn in the whoring quarter. It was shabby and flea-ridden. The rushes on the floor stank of mold and the stains on the bedclothes told of sex and blood and urine. A place where no questions were asked once the innkeeper had tested the worth of one's gold. The journey here had been almost intolerable. Crope had to carry him from the palace and lift him into the waiting litter. All the time, the skin on his chest was weeping into the bandage. Pain had accompanied every footfall of the litter carriers. It had all been necessary, though. Even with the duke away, Baralis could not risk anyone at the palace discovering what he was up to. Too many hostile eyes waited eagerly for his downfall.

  "It's not enough to place the cloth over her face," he said to Crope. "It must be tied, so she cannot see." The girl was unconscious, but if she were to wake, as she surely would, it would be better if she didn't see what was happening to her. "Bind her hands together, as well." Baralis had watched the effects of fear on many people, and he'd seen enough to know that extreme terror could sometimes provoke great feats of strength, so he was taking no chances. This girl had to die so that he might regain his strength. He needed new skin for his chest.

  The powder had dissolved in the oil. A light scum floated on the surface and Baralis drew it off with a spoon. He allowed a drop of water to fall into the crucible; it hissed and skittered. Good, the oil was ready. He picked up the crucible by its long tapering handle and carried it toward the bed. Pushing back the cloth from the girl's forehead, he poured the oil over her scalp.

  The girl convulsed. A low groan gurgled in her throat and then her jaw started working on a scream. The wad of cloth in her mouth stopped the sound from escaping. Her body thrashed wildly on the bed and under the cloth her eyes opened. The fine linen gave away every terrified blink. A fatty, meaty smell filled the air as the oil burned its way into her flesh.

  Baralis stood and watched. After a few moments the powder that was borne on the oil began to work its commission. The girl settled down, her jaw no longer straining to be heard. One scarred finger scraped along the crucible's edge, and the last drop of oil was brought to Baralis' lips. He let it fall under his tongue. It was cool now, but bitter all the same. Quickly, so quickly it worked. The room blurred sharply and then refocused, more vivid and more menacing than before. The girl became known to him. Her seedy little life appeared in patches before him. She was no different than a thousand whores: greedy, vain, pathetic.

  The drawing would be half sorcery, half alchemy. A particularly potent mix, which was still practiced amongst the nomads who roamed the Great Plains. In those ancient grasslands, where survival depended on the whims of nature and the speed of a spear, hunters were second only to God. The herdsmen tended the herds, while the hunters rode out on their swift and graceful horses and slew any man or beast that was a threat. If a hunter were maimed or injured, a herdsman would forfeit his life. The sorcery created by the sacrifice would save him. It was a hard law, but one Baralis had come to respect during the year he'd spent with the nomads. Survival of the tribe was all that counted.

  Set apart from the civilized world that encircled them, the nomads had managed to keep a
nd cultivate their magic. The elders held generations worth of knowledge in their heads. Nothing was recorded: methods and ingredients were passed from father to son. Their sorcery was thick with earth and blood. Crude and powerful, it depended on the flesh and bones of sacrifice. Even the lacus, that most fetid of potions which could cure a man of a hundred different ailments, was the product of ritual slaying. A score of goats and one newly born child went into its making. Squeezing the animals' stomachs rendered a pale silvery liquid, but it was the sacrifice of the child that gave the lacus its life. Without it, the lacus was as insipid as milk.

  The nomads kept their secret close. Few knew of the true nature of their magic. When he arrived on the Great Plains, fresh from his time in the Far South, the skills of the herdsmen had seemed crude and blundering compared to the heady, subtle magic of Hanatta. He knew differently now. They were closer to the source: blood and belly, earth and nature; the mind and its intellect almost disregarded. Sacrifice took the place of thought.

  Baralis readied the blade. There was a balance to all things, and the knife must be as warm and as salted as the skin it would cut. Crope hovered behind like an anxious nursemaid. He would be there to catch him when he fell.

  The herdsmen had saved his life. He had left Hanatta in disgrace. His teacher thought his niece was too young for amorous advances. Thirteen, she was, her pubis barely downed, her hips newly curving, yet the girl was ready all the same. There was more seduction than modesty in her coyly given glances. His teacher had discovered them together. There was blood on the girl's thighs and a matching stain on his lips. Baralis left for the north the next day.

  Journeys had always proven dangerous for him, and this one was no exception. He fell in with a group of traveling musicians; they were headed for the court at Castle Harvell in order to perform at the betrothal ceremony of Arinalda and Lesketh. It was during this time, listening to what the minstrels knew about the Four Kingdoms, hearing how King Lesketh was weak and cared more for hunting than for politics, that ideas began to grow in Baralis' mind. By all accounts, the country was lacking in firm leadership and there were great opportunities for those with the ambition to take them.

  It would be four more years before he found his way to the kingdoms. Their party was attacked by bandits one hundred leagues north of Silbur. They were outnumbered three to one. Baralis made the mistake of performing a defensive drawing. The attackers were superstitious fools; they thought he was a devil and the minstrels were his minions. They slaughtered everyone in the party except him. Devils would not die by the blade.

  Beaten and bound, they dragged him to their camp. They jeered and taunted, and when they grew bored they resorted to torture. His hands were thrust into hot coals, not once, but many times. He felt the pain even to this day. Eventually they tired of him and carried him out to a rocky plain and left him there to die.

  The luck of the devil saved him. Delirious with exposure and thirst, too weak for even the simplest drawing, Baralis came so close to death he could smell it. He reeked like carrion. Visited by visions, on the edge of madness, the stars gave him glimpses of greatness. There was much to learn on oblivion's cusp. He saw it all. Fate unraveled itself before him; it tantalized with an image of the north that was ripe for the taking and chastised with the threat of death and obscurity.

  By the time the nomads found him, he'd done his deal with the devil. Or fate, or whatever it was that played one man or one country off against another and then waited to see who would win. He became a force of nature on the plains while he lay dying, and the two men who eventually found him had no choice but to bow to his fate. They brought him to the heart of the tribe. Once there, the elders tended him as if he were a hunter, and in many ways he was. Buming with a newly discovered cause, they called him "the chosen one" and offered up their resources like gifts to a god.

  One year to the day he spent with them. Unconcerned with good or evil, the herdsmen respected strength, fertility, and fate. His time with them honed his body and spirit and filled his mind with ancient learning. He emerged from the plains with a mission and the means to carry it out.

  Baralis forced his mind to the present and focused it upon the girl. She lay still now, her eyes closed, the linen still wet with her tears. The powdered oil was a bond shared, but the blade was for her alone.

  Oh, the pain was intolerable. His chest, its muscles and the tender tissue beneath, all damaged to save the life of a silly girl. Catherine of Bren would find herself with a considerable debt to pay.

  With hands that were steady despite the pain, Baralis took the blade and slit the fabric of his victim's dress. Chest and breast and belly were revealed by the taper's light. Not quite as young as he would have liked, yet still of an age when the skin would smooth quickly from a pinch.

  "Turn her for me," he ordered- Her back would provide a more appropriate stretch of skin. Crope stepped forward and did his bidding. "Good. Now bring me the second container." Baralis' eyes rested upon the girl's back. It was just what he needed.

  Crope fumbled around by the table until he found the freshly pestled leaf. "Is this the one, master?"

  Baralis nodded. "Hold it for me." He bent over the girl and nicked the flesh at the base of her spine. Blood welled bright and gaudy. It ran along the salted blade and into the waiting pot. The sap of the leaf rose to meet it. Baralis bit hard on the tip of his tongue. The taste from the oil filled his mouth. His own blood dripped into the mix and the potion was complete. He stirred it once with bare fingers and then drew his power into the pot.

  Such weakness, it made him sway where he stood. Crope waited in the shadows, arms ready if needed. The potion took sorcery's spark and became greater than the sum of its parts. Baralis leaned over and smeared it onto the skin of the girl's back. Immediately he felt a corresponding bum upon his chest. The pain reached new heights of torment. The girl upon the bed began to move. The blade drew itself to her skin, Baralis merely its keeper.

  Around her back it traced a course, across the neck, along the arms and above the buttocks. The girl arched her spine to meet it. Baralis began to lose himself; he felt every cut of the knife. Head pounding, hands soaked in blood, Baralis wavered as the darkness beckoned. He knew a single, terrifying pain and then the girl, beautiful in her abandon, was his.

  Backward he fell. Past and present no longer held meaning. His chest blazed like an inferno and his flesh was consumed by the flames.

  From somewhere he heard a voice: "Pretty necklace has owls. Can I keep it, master?"

  Baralis never knew if he nodded or shook his head.

  Maybor was pleasantly pickled. Life was good, but the ale was better. A drink in his hand, two girls in his bed: who could want for anything more? One young lady lay eyes closed, bottom up, worn out by the breadth of his passion. The other girl, a saucy vixen if ever there was one, was eyeing him up for another go around the maypole.

  He wasn't quite up to it yet.

  In fact, now that he'd had a brothel keeper's fill, his urges had receded along with his codpiece. His mind was still active, though, even if his fishing rod wasn't.

  He stood up, modestly covering his vitals with a huge cushion. Shakindra was the name of the boar-hound the duke had given him. Maybor had shortened it to Shark. "Shark," he called, moving toward the bedside chest. "Here, boy." Maybor chose to ignore the fact that Shark was actually a girl.

  "I'm telling you now, matey," piped up the vixen from the bed, "I ain't gonna do no kinky stuff, not for any amount of money."

  Maybor ignored the girl and beamed at the dog. "Good boy. Good boy." At first he'd been a little wary of the scarylooking creature, but now, seeing it come toward him, tail wagging, eyes bright with intelligence, Maybor began to feel rather fond of it. The dog came up and licked his face. "Who's a big bastard, then, eh?" said Maybor fondly. He reached into the chest. "Got something for my big boy. Something to get his teethy-weethy into." Pulling out Baralis' linen undershirt, Maybor stuffed it against Shark's mu
zzle. "Kill, boy. Kill. "

  Shark growled like a hound from hell and tore the shirt into shreds. The dog's jaws frothed in frenzy; its chest shook with intent. After the creature had destroyed the shirt, it continued to worry away at the remains as if they were a threat to its life. Maybor smiled, well pleased. Shark was aptly named.

  After a few moments he turned his attention back to the vixen on the bed. What was it she said about kinky stuff?

  Melli hitched up her dress and rubbed fragrant oils into her thighs. The ladies at Castle Harvell had told her many times that such preparations were essential for lovemaking.

  Apparently men like nothing better than to follow their hands and their noses up to the flower with the honey. Melli hated such silly talk: flowers with honey, indeed! The ladies at Castle Harvell should call a spade a spade!

  Melli breathed a sigh of relief as the oil worked its fancy upon her flesh, soothing, cooling, easing the pain. Lovemaking might not be on her mind, but rider's chafe was on her thighs. Six hours in the saddle! It was enough to make even the most hardened rider walk bowlegged for a week. Oh, the scenery was breathtaking: all purple mountains heavily topped with snow, and lush green meadows in the first flush of spring, but it wasn't quite enough to offset the strain of the ride. She was sorely out of practice. At one time riding had been like second nature; however, once a girl's blood flowed it was considered unseemly to ride astride in the company of men. Another silly court custom! And one she was pleased to say hadn't been adopted for the journey to the lodge. In fact, the duke himself had helped her onto the horse, cupping his hand in readiness for a foot meant to mount, not sit.

  Unfortunately that was the only gallant thing His Grace had done all day. For the entire six hours he had ignored her; she rode at the back along with servants and supplies. No-one had spoken to her, they just stared and whispered amongst themselves. It was a fair-sized party, nearly twenty in all: the duke and four other noblemen, several grooms, two dog handlers, an array of men servants and kitchen staff, and a lady's maid, who Melli presumed was meant to attend upon her. She didn't count the armed guards in the numbers.