Frank-EReturn

by The Exile's Return [lit]

  Malthus clucked his tongue. That was so unfair."

  "Yes it was. Can I have.... Gorgarty's voice trailed off, he blinked, and then collapsed face down on the table.

  Malthus stroked Gorgarty's temples, insinuating subtle needles of power into his simple mind before easing the spelled cup from Gorgarty's hands. You won't remember I came by. You believe that I am one of the finest people you have ever met. You trust me completely."

  Taking Gorgarty's keys, Malthus made his way down the corridor of the dungeons, glancing into the first cell where he found their only prisoner: Yren Maddox. Sooner or later Claw's myn would make Yren talk. Malthus regarded the necessity before him with a twinge of regret. He considered Yren his favorite, a special pet rather like a fine hound.

  He unlocked the cell, and slipped inside.

  The scrawny youth hung nude from a ceiling hook by the chains on his shackled wrists, his bound ankles secured to a hook beneath him, drawn so taut that his shoulders had been dislocated. Yren appeared thinner than ever, his slender ribcage standing out beneath his skin. The shadows of exhaustion and pain underlined his eyes in a battered face made puffy by swelling. The angry red marks from the kiss of the hot irons ran from his throat to his groin. Long lacerations from the barbed whips adorned his backevidence of the torturer's systematic attentions. Malthus could easily imagine how the fifteen-year-old must have screamed.

  "Ahh, Yren. I'm so sorry to see you like this. He crossed the cell, and stroked the youth's body in light touches.

  Yren looked up and hope brightened on his face. I didn't tell them anything, Malthus. Nothing at all. They can't break me. Get me out of these chains, please?"

  "I'm afraid I can't do that. Malthus wrapped an arm around Yren's hips as if he intended to lift him up and remove his shackles from the hook. He wanted a firm hold to manage the movements of the youth's body once it began to react to his deadly caresses. The torture was too much for you, Yren. You were never a strong boy, so scrawny and undernourished."

  Hope vanished and Yren's brow furrowed. What do you mean?"

  Malthus touched the hollow of Yren's throat and reduced his voice to a whisper.

  Yren's eyes widened. Sa'necari."

  "I'm afraid so. Malthus spoke with exaggerated gentleness. Close your eyes. Think pleasant thoughts. Don't fight me. You're my favorite. I will regret losing you."

  The youth began to struggle, twisting and pulling at his bonds. Oh, gods mercy, please don't kill me."

  "Hush. Resisting makes the pain worse. Malthus put his hand over Yren's heart. They'll get the truth from you eventually. I'm protecting your friends."

  Malthus sent the first thrust of power into the youth, and damaged Yren's heart to start him dying. This would be every bit as much of a work of art as the deaths of Tempest Anstey and Granta Softpaws had been. It would take a bit of thought to do it right; however, the evidence of torture granted him some measure of creativity.

  "Gods, mercy. Yren whimpered as the death magics surged into his chest.

  "Don't fight me. Malthus kissed Yren's stomach. Be a good cub."

  Malthus examined Yren's injuries from the outside, and then Read the youth's internal condition. Several minutes passed in reflection, during which Malthus did nothing to hurt Yren further.

  "Changed ... your ... mind? Yren looked down at him, pathetically beseeching.

  "I'm choosing how best to end your suffering. Malthus pressed two fingers over the youth's right lung and shredded it.

  Yren screamed, but the sound could not get past the spell. He coughed violently, bringing up a bloody froth. Stop. Please. It hurts."

  "I know. Malthus kept his tone soothing. I'm very sorry."

  His fingers roved Yren's body, pausing at each blackening bruise. Malthus created internal damage beneath them. Lungs, spleen, kidneys, liverMalthus damaged all of it.

  Yren trembled, not knowing when the next pain would come, but certain that it would.

  Malthus paused on a particularly darkened bruise on Yren's ribs. He snapped the bone in two places with a word, and nudged the sharp fragment into the youth's shredded lung.

  Yren shrieked. Fucking goatsucker. His voice broke off as his body shuddered up another series of coughs. A frothy blood-flecked drool ran from the corners of his mouth.

  Malthus stroked Yren. Relax. Relax. I'll break one more and leave your ribs alone."

  The youth's eyes glazed with pain, his head hung forward and tilted to the side. He breathed heavily through his wide parted lips. Rot in hell."

  "Your soul will go straight to Hadjys. Murder is a sin, you know. Malthus broke the next rib above the first one, nudging the sharp fragments into Yren's lung with the rest.

  Yren flinched away from him. Oooooooooh gaaaawdddddsssss."

  Malthus tightened his grip on Yren's waist.

  "It must look like the broken ribs caused the damage to your lungs."

  "Please stop ... hurting me. Yren gasped, then choked, and coughed up more bloody froth.

  "If you'll just close your eyes and relax, instead of resisting, it will be over with less pain. I promise."

  "Liar."

  Malthus chuckled. You've still got some spirit left. I like that."

  He went back to work on Yren's heart, while speaking to him in loving tones. You see, my friendI'm the Butchering Serpent."

  Yren's eyes widened. Damn you."

  The sensation of pressure grew in Yren's chest, and combined with his ragged coughing spasms from the punctured lung, built into agony. Tears ran down Yren's face. A convulsion shuddered through him.

  Malthus tore open the lower aorta with a blade of power, and Read Yren while his heart's blood drained into the lycan's chest and stomach.

  "I ... didn't ... tell them. Yren went slack in his bonds.

  Malthus Read him, found that he wasn't quite dead, and gave the youth's heart a final squeeze, emptying the organ of its precious fluid. With a sigh, Malthus patted the dead youth. I'll miss you."

  He returned Gorgarty's keys, and removed the wine and glasses, returning them to the kitchen. A long worktable dominated the room and across from that stood the heavy cast iron stoves imported from Iradrim. Malthus heard movement coming from the pantry as he left the wine and glasses on the table. He stole into the pantry and found Isbeth, one of the Redhands nibari slaves that they referred to as servants. She was slight and blonde, her lactating breasts seeming over large. Isbeth had given birth three weeks ago, and was now back at work in the kitchen where she had a reputation as a fine baker.

  "Hello, Isbeth."

  She jumped with a flinch, turned and saw him, relaxing with soft giggle. Master Malthus, you frightened me."

  "I want to show you something."

  "Yes, Master Malthus."

  Malthus opened the lacings on her blouse. She shivered, but did not resist. Isbeth's aura was fragrant with terror to his arcane senses; but she could not act upon her fear, because nibari could not produce adrenaline normally. His fangs came down and he sank them into her breast.

  She shuddered with a whimper as he sucked the blood from the vein he had opened. Then he leaped into her mind tearing it apart like a carnivore into the flesh of a deer.

  When Malthus had finished, he placed four vials into her hands. Make certain that Kynyr Maguire gets all four doses today."

  "Poison."

  "Of course. Malthus kissed the wound he had left. Return the vials when you're finished with them."

  Isbeth was the perfect tool. No one would ever suspect a nibari of poisoning anyone. They lacked the capacity to do harm of their own volition.

  * * * *

  Belgair entered the dungeons at dawn accompanied by Finn MacIver, Kynyr Maguire, and Robert Morcar. Finn MacIver had a strong nose reminiscent of a hound dog's and much too prominent for his long, narrow face. His silken hair, more white than blond, hung loose past his shoulder blades. His lean body made him a greyhound when compared to the more leonine Kynyr with his heavier musculature and
undisciplined golden ginger hair. Robert Morcar was a black lycan, olive-skinned and black-haired, shorter than Kynyr and Finn with a stocky build.

  Finn moved close to Kynyr. Times like this, I wish we were going fishing."

  In spite of the gravity of the situation, Kynyr could not resist responding as he had went they were kids together and trying to elude their sisters to sneak off and fish. Ugly cubs have more fun."

  "I did get a lot more fishing in than you did."

  Gorgarty stifled a yawn and straightened in his chair when he saw Belgair.

  "You'd better not have been sleeping, Belgair growled.

  "I wasn't."

  Belgair eyed him skeptically and thumbed at the stairs. You're relieved. Grab some breakfast and get some sleep."

  Belgair strode to the wall and took down a nasty looking cat of nine tails. We'll see what we get out of the goatsucker today."

  They opened the door to Yren's cell and went inside. Belgair stopped short and stared at the deep purple lividity of Yren's body, darkest in its legs. What the hell? Finn, fetch Sheradyn."

  Finn ran from the cell, leaving Belgair alone with Kynyr and Morcar.

  Belgair walked around the corpse, studying it while slapping the whip against his palm. I didn't hit him hard enough to kill him."

  Kynyr squeezed Yren's thigh. Pale splotches appeared around Kynyr's fingertips. About six hours dead, I'd say. Give or take a bit."

  Morcar scratched at the back of his head, making his close-cropped, scruffy black hair stick out. He was a scrawny bit. Underfed looking. Maybe he just couldn't take it."

  Belgair scowled. I've had scrawnier and they lasted for weeks. He spit on Yren's corpse. This is the first I've had die on me this fast."

  Sheradyn Kelly arrived, wearing his maroon dressing robe, his gray hair unkempt, and blinking sleepily. Killed him already, have you?"

  "I didn't kill him. He just up and died on me, damnit."

  "Hmph. Just give me a moment to get focused. I'm barely awake yet. Gillivray and I were just heading down for tea. Sheradyn gave his mouth a pat to cover a yawn. Sheradyn Kelly had been sent for to care for Merissa during her pregnancy and become resident physician to the household.

  Belgair's lips curled back and he bared his teeth. The healer's nancidawg manner grated on his nerves. Get on with it."

  "I am. You can't rush something like this. Sheradyn rolled his sleeves up and placed his hand on Yren's chest to Read his remains. A good Reader could discern the patterns of the genes; a great Reader could perceive it all right down to the molecular structure. He frowned in concentration, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and cleaned his hand off. Two fragments of rib are in his lungs. It's possible he drowned in his own blood. However, I'm inclined to say his heart gave out."

  Catching the looks passing between Kynyr and Sheradyn, Belgair shook his head. I didn't hit him hard enough to break his ribs. I know what I'm doing."

  Kynyr shrugged. We didn't either."

  "Well, one of you did. Sheradyn's brow furrowed. If you're going to doubt me, just cut him open and look at it. You'll find the pieces where I've said you would."

  Belgair left without another word. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and headed for the Blue Room to see if Claw was up yet.

  Malthus fell into step beside him just past the staircase. What's going on?"

  "I must tell Claw first. You can come along. It's no secret."

  Claw sat by the hearth in the Blue Room, his face lined and haggard. He held one hand pressed to his chest, and his other hand gripping the chair arm so tight the knuckles were white.

  Belgair went up to him. Are you all right?"

  The chieftain glanced up at Belgair. What do you think?"

  Malthus glanced at Belgair with a faint shake of his head and then turned to Claw. I think you're hurting again. Shall I get Sheradyn?"

  "No. Just tell me why you're here so early. Claw grimaced and shoved his palm into his chest again.

  Malthus lowered his head with a solicitous look. Shall I at least get your medicine?"

  "I've taken it already. Get to the point."

  Belgair shrugged. Yren's dead."

  "How? Claw's face reddened with anger as he listened to Belgair explain.

  "I've never killed one this fast before. I always get the information..."

  "Fetch Pandeena. I want a second opinion."

  Belgair shook his head, frowning. He looked away and then back again. That's not necessary."

  "I'll tell you what's needed and you'll do it!"

  Malthus went to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses from a bottle of whiskey. He carried one to Claw. You need to relax."

  Claw snatched the whiskey from Malthus hand and downed it. He wiped his mouth off on his sleeve. Go on, Belgair. Have someone fetch Pandeena. Now!"

  Belgair retreated to the door without another word.

  Claw glared at Malthus. Pour me another one."

  * * * *

  Yren's death did not add up. Kynyr walked around Yren's corpse, eyeing the marks on it. He had come to work for Claw shortly after turning sixteen and was now twenty-one. In all those years, Belgair had not lost a prisoner prematurely during interrogation. The broken ribs bothered him the most.

  "This stinks."

  "He sure does. Finn's nostrils twitched.

  "That's not what I'm talking about. Belgair has a deft hand at torture. He's never accidentally killed a prisoner. Kynyr could not stop thinking about it. His thoughts circled with such intensity that he had to catch himself to keep from simply repeating it over and over again.

  "Either he did or someone else did."

  "Did anyone see Malthus come home last night?"

  "No idea."

  "Ask around for me, Finn?"

  "Sure. Finn gave him a lopsided grin. You want to go drinking with us tonight? Or are you too married for that?"

  "If I'd married Igrainne, as everyone thought I would, I'd have the Dreaded Horde trying to tack my hide to the wall."

  Finn chuckled at the mention of their sisters, his eight and Kynyr's six. Death by hairbrush is not a pleasant way to go. But seriously, Erskine and Vayle are going, but it's not the same without you."

  "So long as we do it on the early side, I doubt Kady will object."

  Kynyr went up to the Blue Room to talk to Claw, and found him drinking whiskey with Malthus. More and more often, Kynyr found Malthus sitting alone with his grandfather. The closest thing to proof that Kynyr had of Malthus dark motives were the words of a dead bitch, Baroucha Seaver.

  "Malthus will kill you, Kynyr. He'll kill you all."

  Kynyr dared not share those words, because they would incriminate him in her murder.

  Frustrated by his inability to deal directly with Malthus, his uncle by marriage, a surge of irritation derailed Kynyr from what he had originally meant to say. Suddenly he just wanted to get away from the manor for a bit. He wanted to hold Kady in his arms and kiss her; tell her how much he loved her, and take comfort in her presence. With everything going on, Grandfather, I haven't had a night home since I left for Hell's Widow."

  Claw's expression softened. Go home. Just remember to bring that wife of yours to visit me."

  * * * *

  Preece spied Vika Softpaws, a stout matronly figure, heading in the direction of his longhouse and faded back into a cluster of trees where he knelt down to avoid being spotted by her. She had only been in charge of the camp for three days and already he hated her.

  Vika pounded on his door. Preece, get your lazy self out here. There's work to be done."

  Preece darted deeper into the trees, cutting across the camp to Cheshire Road. None of the wolves he passed said anything to him. They were all afraid of him with good reason. Once beyond Vika's reach, his long legs settled into a comfortable saunter, heading for Wolffgard and a tankard at the Difficult Horse.

  Passing a tree stump, Preece settled cross-legged on the ground to use the stump as a table. He t
ook his box of White Fire and the metal tube from his pouch and laid out lines in the lid. Until he met Malthus, he had not had the wherewithal to feed his addictions in many years. Now he could not seem to go a full day without using and Malthus always had more for himfree.

  He snorted four lines before he felt he had had enough, savored the rush, and put it all away. Preece had not walked much farther when the harsh sounds of crows drew him to a stand of pine trees. Three myn stood there, staring down at something. He approached and they moved away from him. Then he saw what they were staring at: Torquil's body.

  Preece saw the note on Torquil's chest. What's it say? Can either of you read?"

  One of them nodded and told him.

  Alarm shivered through Preece. The last time that Preece had started finding friends dead on the roadsides had been during a gang war in Skeleton Creek, Waejontor. Preece had been raised a city wolf, not a clan wolf, and his instincts screamed that he was facing a turfwar. The problem was ... with who?

  * * * *

  Raonul's Smithy sat on the north end of Main Street close to where Main became Cheshire Road. Cooley set off for the smithy as soon as he finished exercising the horses he had inherited from his father. He walked with a purposeful stride, wearing his best clothes and a determined look. Rory and Hamish trailed after Cooley, asking questions and getting no answers.

  Raonul was best known for the weapons he made, although he also shoed horses and occasionally cast steel to produce a few specialty items on commission.

  A bell hanging from the door rang as Cooley stepped into the shop section of the smithy. He stood with his hands on his hips, a determined glint in his eyes, and scanned the racks and stands of weapons.

  The bell had alerted Raonul to their presence, and he appeared in a thrice. He turned a skeptical eye on the mismatched cubs, two of them scruffy and the third well dressed. What do ya want?"

  "I want to buy some weapons. Cooley looked up at Raonul in an exaggeratedly business-like manner made ludicrous by his height and years.

  Raonul repressed a chuckle only to have it escape as a snort. They're expensive. Ya got money?"

  Cooley brought out a handful of gold crowns. Plenty."

  "Where'd ya get all that? Raonul's bushy eyebrows shot up to his hairline along with the furrowed folds of his skin.