Life in Andrango was harsh and unfair, and he had not expected to survive long here. He had not bathed for three years, and his skin and hair itched, and his stench offended him so much that he was constantly seeking to be upwind of himself. His leather clothes had proven to be more durable than the other prisoners' cloth garments, so while many of them now had nothing but the blankets they were given to sleep on with which to wrap themselves, he still possessed trousers and a jacket. Albeit that they were stiff with salt, oil and dirt, and stank worse than he did.
Blade owed his survival to one man. Shortly after his arrival, a group of murderers, offended by the presence of an assassin, had waylaid him. Even though unarmed and injured, he had killed two before the rest had brought him down and proceeded to try to kick him to death. They would have succeeded, if not for the intervention of Andevar. The muscular giant, who towered over most men, had waded into the fracas for some unknown reason and carried Blade to safety. He had then protected the assassin for the two tendays it had taken him to recover from his injuries.
When his cracked ribs, bruises and contusions had healed, he had discovered the reason for Andevar's glum silence. According to a talkative guard, the giant had once been a gladiator, a champion of the sawdust ring. Andevar, however, had been a lady's man, and dallied with the wrong woman. Her lordly husband, discovering her infidelity, had not only arranged a fatal encounter for her, but also had Andevar captured and castrated, then framed him for his wife's murder. Andevar, Blade mused, was probably the only innocent man in Andrango. Oddly enough, the guards knew it, and so had, most likely, the judge who had condemned him. The lord who had accused him was powerful, however, so Andevar had been sent to Andrango, upon his request.
Andevar, it seemed, had a penchant for helping underdogs, and regularly rescued weaker men when the gangs of murderous thugs set upon them. Most eventually succumbed, and one reason for Blade's survival was his use of the central tower as a sanctuary. It had once been a watchtower, but the guards no longer used it, preferring to use the perimeter towers, which did not require them to cross the yard. The door at the base of the tower was locked, and only Blade could scale the rough stone wall. He spent most of his time in it, descending for meals and some calls of nature.
The roofed summit provided a comfortable lodging, which he had improved with the blankets he collected. It was spacious enough to allow him to exercise, and scaling the wall several times a day kept him fit. He had even set up a couple of gutters, which he had purloined from other buildings, to collect rain water in a slops bucket. It was vastly cleaner than the muddy liquid the other prisoners were forced to drink. He shared it with Andevar when he had some to spare, and the gladiator seemed to appreciate it. No one, not even the gangs of murderers, dared to tangle with Andevar.
Three winters in this harsh place had weakened the assassin. The combination of bad food and freezing nights spent in miserable shivering, despite Rivan's warmth, had taken its toll. The only thing that kept him clinging to life was Rivan's company at night, and the tenuous contact with him during the day, sharing his hunts and hunger. Blade no longer hoped for rescue, and in truth, the hope he had initially had had been slight. No one knew he was here, and no one here knew who he was. Revealing his identity was more likely to get him killed than rescued.
Blade glanced at the sinking sun. Soon it would be time to descend for the evening meal of half-rotten meat and stale bread, washed down with dirty water. The fare disagreed with his gut, and he often had bouts of diarrhoea that left him weak and shaking. The prisoners had learnt the folly of attacking him on their own after he had killed the four who had done so, and group attacks always led to Andevar's intervention. Rather incongruously, the big man's familiar was a black-backed stag beetle, which he carried in a ventilated wooden box and let out each day to fly off and find food.
Shouts drew Blade's attention to the slatted gate through which he had entered this accursed place three years ago. Two bald, golden-skinned men argued with the warden, who appeared to be mighty unhappy about something. The assassin's interest grew as he studied the Cotti soldiers clad in pale dun, the same colour that the two who had accompanied him here had worn. Had Faradin grown tired of waiting for Blade to die, and decided to execute him, or had he found a use for him? Either way, he did not relish the prospect of a torturous death, or any other form of abuse.
Blade glanced around at the prison walls, noticing an oddity. The setting sun cast long shadows across the inside of the walls, and deep gloom shrouded one side of a watch tower. The dogmen on the battlements had wandered towards the altercation, abandoning their posts in an unusual show of laxness. The time when the prisoners were usually herded from the yard to be fed had passed, and the guards' distraction had made them neglect to light the watch fires. A cool wind ruffled his hair, and seemed to whisper in his ear; flee flee flee flee.
Blade quit his soft nest and swung over the side of the tower, his fingers finding well-known cracks with expert precision. Within moments he was on the ground, trotting towards the outer wall where gloom shrouded the stone. His weakness hampered him only a little, for a rush of excitement and hope powered his steps. If he could get over the wall unseen, he may have a chance to escape into the wilderness, where it would be better to die with Rivan than in this stinking cesspit of human misery. His fingers found cracks and crept into them, holding him to the wall as he ascended it. Years of practice ensured that he climbed steadily, his ears tuned to the distant argument that still held the guards' attention.
By the time he reached the top of the wall, his arms shook and his fingers ached. Hauling himself onto it, he flattened himself and crawled across the battlement, shooting a quick glance at the guards. Some had lost interest in the confrontation and wandered back to their posts. On the far wall, a pair struck sparks from a tinderbox to light the watch fire. Blade had mere moments to quit the wall before he was spotted. Rising to his feet, he pressed his back to the watchtower, safe in its shadow for now, and peered over the crenulations.
Slick black stones lay at the foot of the dizzying drop, treacherous and forbidding. Throwing caution to the winds that urged him to flee, he swung his leg over the wall and slid off it, hooking his fingers into cracks between the stones. The outside of the wall was weathered, making the stones smoother and the cracks smaller. His fingers ached and his arms shook. He descended as swiftly as he could, aware that the sunset's fading rays bathed the wall, and anyone who glanced down would see him. As far as he knew, no sentries patrolled outside the prison, and he hoped he was right. If he was not, he would soon be recaptured, and the punishment for attempting to escape was twenty lashes from the warden's bullwhip. He would not survive it.
Blade's arms trembled and his fingers dug for purchase in cracks clogged with sand. His nails tore and his fingertips bled, becoming slick. They slipped, and he fell, twisting to get his legs under him as he looked down. Dark rocks rushed up at him, and he hit them with bone-crushing force. One ankle twisted between two boulders, sending a stab of pain up his leg, and stones thudded into his ribs, punching the air from his lungs. Something hit his head, and darkness slammed down.
Blade woke with a gasp, all his internal alarms jangling. A shadow sat at his side, and Rivan's warm tongue rasped on his cheek. The cat gave a purring chirp, urging Blade to rise and flee. The assassin stifled a groan and tried to pull his foot from between the rocks, where it was wedged. Several minutes of tugging and cursing freed it, and he rose unsteadily to his feet. His head pounded, his ankle throbbed and his ribs twinged. The stars bathed the land in silvery light, and no moon had risen yet. Rivan bounded away and turned to look back, giving his purring call. Blade stumbled after him, wondering how far he would get. The watch fires high above threw a diffuse golden glow that the gloom swallowed before it reached the ground, and his black clothes hid him.
Evidently no alarm had been raised yet. The guards were lax in keeping count of the prisoners, since it was considered impossi
ble to escape from Andrango and few ever tried. Rivan bounded ahead, and Blade followed. At first he trotted, but as soon as he left the prison's light behind he slowed to a walk to conserve his strength. It may be days before his absence was discovered, especially if Andevar chose to mislead the guards and tell them Blade was in the outhouse when they looked for him. The big man could conceal Blade's escape for days if he wished, and Blade hoped he would.
Even if the guards discovered his escape the following day, they had no idea which direction he had gone, and even though there was no cover, if he lay down in the scrubby grass, or found a hollow, they would walk right past without seeing him. Their dogs, however, would track him, so his only hope was that his absence was not discovered until his scent trail had faded. His breath steamed before his face in white clouds, and the cold bit into him, numbing his face.
Dawn found him stumbling through the rough terrain, his strength waning but his determination still strong. His harsh breaths rasped in his dry throat, chilled his lungs and made them ache. His head pounded, his heart laboured and his ankle twinged with every step. It was the same joint that had been broken when he had arrived at Andrango, and he suspected that it had not healed properly.
At around mid-morning his strength gave out, and he sank to his knees. Rivan, who walked beside him, came closer to lick his face and press himself close, trying to warm his friend. Blade hugged the cat, glad of his comfort and warmth. Shivers shook him, and the cold wind probed through his jacket and nipped at his face. He rested for about a time-glass, then stumbled on until mid-afternoon, when he sank down in an exhausted heap and closed his eyes. Rivan curled up beside him, purring.
Blade woke in darkness, a starry sky blazing overhead, and stumbled on, his legs shaking. Walk. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. Each step carried him a little further on his journey, following a shadowy cat. Rivan seemed to know where to go. Just as his ghost had led Blade out of the desert so long ago, so now he guided his friend again. The memory of that time returned vividly as the assassin reeled across the tundra on dragging feet. Then he had crawled, and the hot sand had blistered his palms. Now he walked, and the icy wind froze his fingers. He tucked them under his arms to try to warm them, but all of him seemed equally cold. His dry lips cracked and his nose ran. One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.
Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. He wanted to go home, and wondered where that was. Not the gold-plated palace, or the dingy room in the city, but a bleak castle on a muddy estate where a warm-hearted woman tended a cosy hearth. Her ugly face swam into his mind, her soft brown eyes filled with love. It faded, and a younger face replaced it, with liquid grey eyes and a generous mouth too often down turned with unhappiness and hurt. She gazed from his memory with sad reproach, then a regal, ebon-haired woman replaced her, followed by a pouting girl with flaxen locks. He snorted and gave a rusty chuckle. Two queens, a regent and a broken-nosed whore.
Blade found himself on his knees and wondered how he had got there. His legs had no strength in them, and the horizon on his right brightened with dawn's first pink streaks. The bitter air froze his lungs and his throat was so dry he could not swallow. He seemed to be freezing, little by little. Rivan chirped and vanished into the scrubby grass. Blade lay down with a sigh.
A warm tongue rasped on his cheek, and he opened his eyes. Blue sky arched overhead, puffy white clouds drifting across it. Something wet and smelly landed on his chest, and he looked down at a dead rabbit, its blood staining his filthy jacket. Rivan sat beside him, looking smug. Food, his thought drummed in Blade's mind. Not a word, but a sensation of hunger and chewing. The assassin struggled to sit up, gripping the limp rabbit, his stomach clenched. He could not stand the sight and scent of blood at the best of times, but now it represented food, and it was not human, for a change.
His hunger and thirst gnawed at him, and he gripped the rabbit's front legs and ripped it apart, spilling entrails into his lap. He thrust his face between its ribs and tore out its heart, chewing the raw meat. Sweet blood ran down his throat, easing its dryness. He ate the lungs too, then the liver and kidneys before peeling back the skin to gnaw the tender meat. The cat watched him, purring, and Blade left the haunch for him.
Blade woke as the sun sank in a red-gold medley and staggered onwards, following the cat. Snow fell just before dawn, and he knelt to scrape it from the clumps of grass and suck down its melting sweetness, tainted with mud. At mid-morning he lay down and slept until Rivan woke him up with another rabbit. Blade walked at night to ward off the cold with his exertions and slept while the sun warmed him. It also made it less likely that his stumbling form would be spotted in these open plains at night. The rabbit blood was not enough, even with a little snowmelt to subsidise it, and he grew weaker each day. He had lost count of the days, but after five rabbits he spotted a distant line of dark verdure ahead.
Blade reeled into the forest at dusk. Rivan bounded ahead, chirping, and the assassin forced his aching legs to carry him a little further. Rivan lapped from a rivulet that gurgled over mossy stones, and Blade fell to his knees and thrust his face into it, sucking the water down. When he thirst was assuaged, he flopped down on his back and closed his eyes, sinking into a deep, exhausted sleep.
The assassin rested beside the stream for two days, eating the cluck hens Rivan brought him. The forest abounded with life. Its air reverberated with bird calls and animal sounds, from hooting monkeys to barking foxes. Rivan led him onwards, and he hoped he found another stream before his thirst grew too fierce again. Blade hated the forest, with its slippery needles and treacherous roots that sought to trip him, not to mention the low branches that sometimes left him gasping on the ground, clutching his aching head. His preternatural senses always warned him of danger, but trees seemed able to sneak up on him.
Blade ate mushrooms and the raw meat Rivan provided, which reminded him strongly of when he had dwelt beside a pond, long ago, eating ducks and frogs. He became a cat again to survive, his strides lengthening as his strength returned. The cat led him deep into the forest, over mossy stones and rotten logs, curled up beside him each night and woke him with a warm tongue-bath in the morning. Rain was miserable, even huddled under a fallen tree, and many-legged insects sought refuge in his rotting clothes. He almost felt like a corpse again. He certainly smelt like one.
Six days later, Blade stared at the icy torrent that blocked his path, his heart sinking. It was the Merdith River, and Jashimari lay beyond it. He glanced at Rivan, who sat beside him, his tail twitching. The prospect of crossing the river made the cat's skin crawl. Blade walked downstream, searching for a place to cross. He had no idea where he was. The Merdith ran right across Jashimari, from the northern peaks to the desert border. These were wild lands though, and he held out no hope of finding a bridge. The best he could hope for was a shallow area or a fallen tree, but the river was wide and deep.
Two days later, he stopped where the river curved, forming a calm pool on its inner bank, and set up a rough camp. There he rested for three days, washed his filthy clothes until most of the stench was gone and scrubbed the grime from his skin and hair. He spent a day naked whilst his clothes dried, stretched out, for the most part, on the pebble beach to warm in the sun. If not for the cold, discomfort and raw food, it was not a bad life. Certainly peaceful. In the afternoon he crouched in the shallows and tickled two fat rainbow fish for dinner, giving one to Rivan.
The purring cat's company warmed Blade's heart, and he sensed the ice around it thawing further. Like a timid creature kept too long in the dark, his tentative feelings crept into the light when he stroked his familiar and gazed deep into Rivan's golden eyes. There was no bond quite so close as that of a familiar. The cat fed, warmed and comforted him. Even though Rivan grew thinner, and hunger gnawed at him, he brought his first kill to Blade each day. At times the assassin's heart ached, and occasionally, sharp pains stabbed through it, making his breath catch. He lost weight too
, and could count his ribs under the layer of muscle that padded his chest and ridged his belly.
On the fourth day, he continued downstream, searching for a crossing. The river grew narrower and deeper, becoming a raging torrent that roared over rocks. Two more days of walking brought him to a place where several rocks stood above the water in midstream, and a fallen tree trunk, bleached grey by the sun, spanned half the spate's width. Blade sat on the bank and considered it, glancing at Rivan, who paced the bank. The cat laid back his ears and spat.
Blade smiled. "You just don't want to get wet."
The cat turned his back and sat down.
"But we'll have to, if we want to cross it. This is the best place I've seen. Do you have a better plan?"
Rivan shot him a scathing glance, huffing.
"I didn't think so. With that tree trunk and the rocks, we may reach the other side only a little damp."
The cat spat again.
Blade stood up. "Come on, let's get it over with."
Rivan followed him to the end of the log, then sat down, eyeing the water. Blade calculated the distance to the rock in midstream, which was a fairly long jump from the end of the log, and wet with spray. The leap would be dangerous. Deprivation still weakened him, and if the rock was slippery he could end up in the river, a fate he did not relish. If he landed safely, however, two more rocks offered easy access to the opposite bank. Forests of bristle pines clothed both sides of the river in a solid wall of dark wood and dull needles. Further downstream, the river entered a steep-sided gorge, and he may have to walk for days to reach its bank again.
The Queen's Blade VI - Lord Protector Page 25
