Morning broke over the castle threateningly, gray clouds on the western horizon more promising than threatening a storm.
The horses whinnied, and the soldiers holding the reins had to struggle to keep them from bolting. The horses sensed something, although Doria wouldn't have wanted to guess what. It couldn't still be nearby, could it?
The leatherworker's wife stood red-eyed next to her stony husband, occasionally turning to hush at the children hiding inside the low, wattle-and-daub house at the end of a row of such houses. Shutters over a shattered window told where the creature had gotten in, and out.
Doria wanted to go to her, to say something. But what? What could she say? She shook her head. There was nothing to say, and it wasn't her job as baronial regent to comfort; it was her responsibility to see that this thing was chased down and killed.
Durine eyed the path into the woods, and then Doria, and then took another step toward the midpoint position between the two, while Kethol and Pirojil, each with a pistol in hand, kept watch.
Pirojil, in particular, seemed to want to position himself between Doria and Derinald, perhaps as a way of expressing disapproval of last night.
She assumed he knew. Castle life didn't leave one much privacy. Her morning plate of biscuits and pot of almost bubbling-hot cinnomeile tea, along with her riding clothes, had been just outside the door of Derinald's room, and if Pirojil and his companions didn't know how she spent her night, it was because they didn't particularly care to. Maids always gossiped.
Last night had been the first time in longer than she cared to think about, and Doria had apparently been storing up some appetite. She wouldn't have changed a moment of it, but the truth was that she was sore, and while long habits and training had forbidden more than casually considering the idea of using healing draughts to make it less painful to sit a horse, it was still a temptation. Bouncing up and down on a hard saddle was painful enough normally, but the stableboy had picked a robust young mare for her, light-footed and spirited, and the damn horse had felt obligated to keep pace with Derinald's big bay gelding.
But while only remnants of her magical abilities persisted, there had been more to being a daughter of the Hand than simply spurting spells, and she took the few moments of relative quiet to perform an exercise she had both learned and taught.
Pain was important. It was a warning, perhaps of danger, perhaps of an excess of pleasure, but it was a good thing, something to be grateful for, not to fear. It was a matter of recognizing her various aches and pains, accepting them as they were, and then dismissing them, with thanks to her body for reminding her of its limitations.
The pain was still there, and it would still be there, but it was put in context.
That was enough.
Derinald grumbled to himself as he looked at the ground behind the leatherworker's small wattle-anddaub shack. "Too many feet, too many feet shuffling around the ground," he said, motioning with one idle hand for the rest to keep back while he squatted, looking at the ground, squinting as though he was trying to read words in a foreign language.
Finally, he shook his head. "No good at all." He waved a hand toward where a raised path toward the forest separated two cornfields. "Probably went that way; let's see if I can pick up the trail."
One of his men, a crooked little man with a face like a ferret, gestured at a gap in the corn, where perhaps half a dozen stalks had been knocked down. "Perhaps there, perhaps, Captain?"
"I think not, Deven," Derinald said as he shook his head, looking more closely.
"You never can tell, Captain. Even the big animals can fool you. I've seen - "
"Yes, and nobody's hunted anything like these monsters for a dozen generations, but if he was clumsy enough to leave a hole like that, he would have knocked down some stalks going further in." The rows were closely spaced, and there was room enough for somebody to walk between them without knocking against them, but just barely.
Durine grunted. Kethol walked toward one side of the gap while Pirojil eased to another side, all three of them drawing swords and pistols.
The ferret-faced little man grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. "I think the soldier-boys are worried about him hiding there, Captain, I do."
"Well, let's show them better." Derinald picked up a rock and flung it sidearm into the gap. The rock whipped through the leaves, and some yards away, a small bird that had been hiding fluttered into the air and arrowed away, just skimming the tops of the plants... but there was no motion. Nothing.
"No, there'd be no reason to hide there," he said. "Not overnight." Motioning at the rest to stay still, he walked down the path and disappeared into the woods.
In a moment, he was back, beckoning at Deven and another, larger man. "It went this way, some hours ago. Probably long gone, but the two of you see if you can pick up the trail."
He had a quick whispered conversation with Deven, who nodded and retrieved a leather bag from his saddlebags before heading into the forest.
Derinald walked over to Doria. His face was grim, and pale.
"You'd think," he said, "that one gets used to such things, but. . .we'll search for the creature, and most likely run it to ground. Clumsy thing; doesn't pay attention to where it's putting its feet. But it ripped the head clear off the child, and left it just a short way in," he said quietly. "The boy probably was screaming too loudly, and frightened the thing. Were it my choice to make, I'd say it would be enough if we tell the parents that we know it to be dead and leave it at that, but it's not my choice, and I'll not intrude."
Deven, walking, while the rest followed along on horseback, led them along the web of an old hunting trail back up toward the hills at a good clip, scouting ahead and picking up traces of the creature's flight that Derinald apparently saw as well, but were utterly invisible to Doria.
As the trail forked and split, Deven was able to find some indication of which way to go, even though in a couple of cases he made them wait at the fork while he jogged down first one path, then returned to find some spoor and lead them up another.
A scraped tree here, some broken brush or disturbed leaves there, an occasional partial print in soft soil was all that the two of them needed. There had been spots where the creature had left the game trails and cut through the woods, but it kept returning to the beaten paths. Understandable, really; the forest was dense, the ground covered with brush in the shade of the leafy giants, their crooked limbs arching above in a green canopy that kept the forest cool and musty.
Around midmorning, they forded a shallow stream to catch up with Deven and his latest find: a small bone by the side of the trail. Deven made as though to throw it into the woods, but stopped at Derinald's gesture, nodded, and handed it over to the captain, who in turn handed it to Doria.
The ants had gotten to it first, although there barely was a gobbet of flesh on it. Part of a femur, maybe six inches long, and it had been thoroughly chewed. She wrapped it in her scarf and tucked it in her saddlebag.
"Ta havath," the captain said. "Easy, now. It could be anywhere, anywhere at all." He frowned at the trees around them.
"No, Captain." Deven shook his head, his voice low, barely carrying the few yards from where he squatted up the trail. "Paw marks up here - but I think we're getting close. They're fresh, and he's not even trying to keep his claws in. I think he's tired - prints are getting less regular, like he's gasping for breath. No piss markings, but you wouldn't expect that, not here, not now."
Derinald glanced at Doria, then back at Deven. He would make his point later, no doubt, about how Doria and her people couldn't have followed it, not that he was right, but -
Her horse's nostrils widened, and it whinnied as a vestige of Doria's old sensitivity flared brightly in the back of her mind, hot and red with hate and fear.
"It's here - " She started to turn, as Kethol sprung from his saddle, Pirojil and Durine a heartbeat behind.
A black, hairy mass leaped from an overhanging branch behind
her, pulling one of Derinald's troopers screaming from his saddle and down to the ground. It was a huge beast, half as tall as a man and covered with short hair or fur, like a bear, and for just a moment Doria thought it was a bear, except that, thick as it was, it was too slim, too humanlike in its shape.
But it wasn't human. Claws slashed at the screaming man's face, and a mouth filled with sharp teeth sank into his neck, turning the scream into a horridly liquid gurgle.
Doria's horse panicked, whinnying in terror, rearing back. She tried to cling to the saddle, but she hadn't been braced for it trying to throw her, and she tumbled off, falling hard on her side on the trail, her right foot caught in the stirrup for a horrible second before it twisted loose, her horse bolting.
She was surrounded by sounds and stomping hooves, and it was all she could to do roll off the path and into the brush, ignoring the way it clawed at her, her hands covering her face to protect her eyes.
Shouts mixed with the loud neighs of the horses, the screams of the injured, and the growls of the beast.
Doria staggered to her feet, the brush grabbing and clawing at her before she could pull free.
The horses had scattered, taking the imperials with them, but Kethol, Durine, and Pirojil had somehow dismounted before their own mounts had fled, although none of them had managed to remove his flintlock rifle from his saddle-boot in so doing.
The orc was still shaking its prey. Kethol took careful aim at the creature's broad back with his flintlock pistol. It fired, with a gout of flame and smoke accompanied by a surprisingly quiet report.
The creature shuddered, dropped the battered, bloody body of the imperial trooper, and spun, not even slowed by the shot as it dropped to a three-point crouch and leaped for Kethol, claw-tipped fingers outstretched. Two other shots rang out, although Doria couldn't see where they came from.
Kethol had managed to get his sword out, and had it extended, but the orc reached out a hand and twisted it away, ignoring the way the sharp blade sliced its thick hairy fingers to the bone.
Its claws had barely touched Kethol when Durine hit it in a full-bodied tackle that took both it and the big man to the ground. Pirojil, moving more delicately and precisely than a man that big and ugly should have been able to, danced in among the flailing limbs, his sword tip jabbing and probing. One booted foot stomped down hard, pinning one of the creature's arms to the ground.
A swipe from a hairy hand caught Durine on the side of the head, but Durine just shook his head as though to clear it and fastened both his massive hands on the orc's neck. His growls mingled with the ore's as he squeezed, harder and harder, his own beefy face reddening with the effort, while Pirojil's sword, now bloody halfway to the guard, continued to probe and stab.
And then, with a shudder and a groan and a horrible flatulence, the creature went limp, and dead.
Maybe Durine didn't believe that it was dead, or perhaps he just didn't like to take chances; he didn't stop squeezing until Kethol patted his shoulder and said, 'Ta havath, Durine."
Dead and still, the orc somehow looked smaller than it had in life and motion as it lay stretched out on the ground, flies already gathering in the pool of blood and shit.
It reminded Doria of pictures she had seen of Bigfoot, back on the Other Side, although it was perhaps somewhat slimmer, and the dark coarse hair shorter than she remembered, over the years. A ragged muslin breechcloth lay across its loins, tented in the middle in a way that Doria couldn't, despite the situation, help finding vaguely comical.
"Dead, but not forgotten." Pirojil poked at the breech-cloth with a stick, pulling it aside to reveal a surprisingly small pink penis peeking out through the fur. The tip of the penis was ringed with a crown of barbs, like a male cat's.
"Well." Kethol chuckled. "No wonder they've got a bad temper. The orc bitches, I mean. Hmmm ... come to think of it, no wonder they all do."
"I don't know," Pirojil said idly, his smile something ugly. "Could be that once you have one with spikes on his prong, you never go back."
Durine grunted, and pulled his belt knife. He looked over at Doria. "Well?"
"Well what?" She was more than vaguely disgusted. "Do you want a trophy?"
She knew she'd said something stupid when all three of their faces went blank and expressionless.
"No, Regent," Pirojil said quietly, calmly. "Do you want me to make sure that this is the one that ate the little boy?" He rested the point of the knife against the protruding abdomen of the orc. "It would be a shame to turn around and go back if we haven't gotten the right one, to leave the one we're hunting still out there."
He was right, of course. It wouldn't really make any difference whether they knew or not. This probably was the one, and the baby was probably in pieces in its stomach, and they could just tell the parents that they were sure.
But no, not knowing didn't make it better. It made it worse.
She worked her mouth, but no words came out. It was all Doria could do to nod.
Pirojil was helping Doria down from her horse when U'len stormed out of the kitchen and pushed more through than past the imperials, leaving scowls and rearing horses in her wake.
"What have you done to her?" U'len wailed as she shoved Kethol aside, then snatched at Pirojil's sleeve.
Durine, still looming above on horseback, took in the scene with his usual equanimity as he returned Pirojil's grin. Yes, any of the three of them could have gutted the fat old woman like a trout; no, they'd no more think of raising a hand to U'len in protection of the regent than they would in protection of the Cullinane children. U'len was as loyal as a good dog, and she was a good Cullinane dog. Every bit as expendable in a crisis as, well, Pirojil and Durine and Kethol were, of course.
Doria held up a hand. "Be still. I'm... not unwell."
"Oh, you're not unwell, are you? And are you not quite undead, as well? And would you then decline to deny that you do not appear to be other than not unhealthy, too?"
Derinald's too-pretty face was split in a too-easy smile as he stepped forward, his arm extended. "If you'll permit me? Lady Doria and I have matters to discuss."
"They can wait. Now get yourself and your little men out of my way, and - "
"It's nothing, U'len," Doria said. "Just a strenuous day, and I'm not used to so much riding."
U'len's snort threatened to drown out the snort of the horse just behind Pirojil. "Be that as it may, child," she said, "you need a hot cup of tea, and a hot bowl of soup, and a hot bath before you'll be discussing anything with anybody."
She started to lead Doria away, but Derinald interposed himself and laid a gentle hand on her arm. "Please, Lady, permit me," he said, the familiarity of his tone and manner grating in Pirojil's ears.
Durine's mouth twitched, and he cleared his throat loudly enough to get everybody's attention. Pirojil wouldn't have seen Kethol quietly reclaim his own gear and move away if he hadn't been looking for it.
In fact he didn't see it - he was deliberately focusing his attention on Durine, just as the big man wanted.
"I think, Captain, you'll stop right there," Pirojil said, trying to keep his voice light despite the metallic taste in his mouth. "I think, Captain," he said, deliberately ignoring the way that the dozen or so horsemen were moving into a shallow arc around where he confronted the imperial captain, "that you'll lay not so much as a finger on the hem of her garment without permission. Twice."
His body felt all distant, but precise, as though he was outside it, manipulating it from a distance that lent objectivity to his every word, to his every motion. Or maybe it was that it wasn't just his body, wasn't just bis mind, but all three of theirs. Perhaps it was a mind that the three of them shared, that had Durine's horse backing up a few steps and turning away so that the big man's hand was covered as it dropped to where his long saber was lashed to his saddle, that had Kethol, only slightly out of breath from his run up the stairs and to a keep window, his bow strung, an arrow nocked, and a half-dozen others set po
int-first into the flooring, while Kethol stood back from the window, concealed in shadow from the sight of anyone, but not from Pirojil's knowing what he would do.
"Pirojil." Lady Doria's voice was firm, if quiet. "Stand aside."
"Let it be, Lady," Pirojil said. "Now's as good a time as any, and this is a fine enough place." There were a full dozen of the imperials, and only three of them, but if it were to be necessary, this was the time and place: the old watchman would drop the gate upon command, trapping the imperials in the killing ground. Durine was well placed to cover U'len's and Lady Doria's retreat into the keep, and Kethol was ready and able to send half a dozen shafts whispering through the air before anybody could possibly tell where he was and where they came from.
Pirojil and Durine would be unlikely to survive, of course, but you couldn't have everything. In life you had to keep your priorities straight, and Pirojil's priority was that that smirking pretty boy, Derinald, not touch the Lady under their protection without her permission.
It could be now, or it could be later, or it could be never at all.
Derinald's face paled beneath his even, aristocratic tan. He had seen Pirojil, Durine, and Kethol in action against the orc, and had some sort of idea of what the next few moments held in store for him.
"Let it be, Lady," Pirojil said again as he turned to Derinald's men. "My name is Pirojil," he said loudly, "and I rode with the Old Emperor on his Last Ride, as did my companions, I promised him before he died my loyalty to his family and friends, and I don't think that includes letting some imperial lackey lay his overly familiar hands on the Lady Doria."
It would keep the politics simple, at least as simple as the politics ever got. The three of them would disobey Lady Doria and kill more than their own weight in imperials in the doing. It would help to maintain the principle that it was unsafe to mess with the Cullinanes without putting the barony into open conflict with the dowager empress. Cut through Beralyn's machinations, and if that left blood on the ground and bodies stinking in the sun, well, that was the end result of most political maneuverings anyway.
Not Exactly The Three Musketeers Page 5
