by S E Meliers
‘I know, and I do not know,’ she replied, answering his second question first. ‘But, that she has left Amori is significant, is it not? That those who had roles to play there have played them?’
He considered. ‘Or they have moved, and she moves with them?’
‘Possible,’ she watched the soldiers. ‘You should run a daily drill for your cubs.’
‘Oh?’ he was surprised by the segue. ‘Why? And what drill?’
‘To teach them hand to hand fighting stances, to make them more limber, to get them used to following your command, there are many reasons why. And you know what drill,’ she eyed him keenly. ‘The one you learnt as a boy. Who better to teach how to fight against a Shoethalian than a Shoethalian?’
‘I do not consider myself a Shoethalian,’ he replied shortly. ‘I-’ he was interrupted by an outcry near the door into the castle. There seemed to be a lot of congratulations and joviality amongst the soldiers. ‘What is it that has happened?’ he wondered moving towards the source of the celebrations.
‘I think it is not good,’ Lovel kept pace, but her expression was concerned.
‘How so?’ he did not wait for her answer, but seized the nearest soldier by the shoulder. ‘What has happened, my friend?’ he asked.
‘We have captured an enemy scout,’ the soldier replied gleefully. This was a major coup as it gave the Rhyndelians’ the opportunity to find out as much about their enemy as possible, Cedar noted, though the methods by which such information would be obtained put a bad taste in his mouth.
‘I have to find Charity,’ he said to Lovel.
She brightened. ‘I have him,’ she said helpfully.
‘You have him?’ he repeated baffled.
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘As I was coming through the town, I found him in the gutter, drunk as loon. As tempting as it was to leave him there in his own piss and vomit, I thought you would like for me to bring him back here to you. I wrapped him in some cloth so he did not soil my wagon, and brought him.’
‘So he is in the wagon?’ Cedar summarised, stunned, and hoping she had not overwrapped and suffocated the lord.
She frowned. ‘That is what I said,’ she was irritated now; he was not providing the expected praise for her good action.
‘Thank you very much,’ he corrected hastily, interpreting her irritability. ‘I am very grateful for your retrieval of Charity. It would have been most difficult to find him otherwise, and he’d probably have had his throat cut for his boots by now. Where is your wagon?’
Appeased, she smiled sunnily and pointed to the exterior exit of the training yard.
He followed her through the various curtain walls to the guest stable. Her wagon was not the only one kept here – traders bringing supplies into the castle all left their wagons in the care of this stable during loading and unloading of their wares. He assumed that Lovel had been mistaken for one such, and wondered if someone had unloaded the Lord Charity like a sack of meal during her absence, but the Lord was as she had left him, bundled in a stinking heap of cheap cloth.
‘Damn,’ Cedar recoiled from the stench. Lovel raised an eyebrow in a silent ‘I told you so’. The Lord had vomited and urinated on himself, then lain on where passing horses had defecated on the roadside, resulting in a level of rankness that only the worst drunks achieved. ‘By all the Gods and their bastards, he is a fine mess. We will need to scrub him down. I will have to go to his chambers for clothes. Damn it. He is not going to be in any condition to get me in to that prisoner before they kill the man.’
‘You need him sobered in a hurry?’ Lovel gingerly picked the Lord out of her wagon and laid him on the cobblestones near the well. He looked like chrysalis about to release a butterfly into the world – except no butterfly would ever smell so bad. It was a busy stable, and the stable boys and merchants watched them with interest. The Lord Charity’s humiliation was the afternoon’s entertainment – more fun than a puppet show, and cheaper than a play, Cedar thought wryly. ‘I have just the thing.’ She fished around inside her wagon coming out with a small bottle, expensively crafted of blown glass. He had only seen such artwork on the tables of Kings and assessed the woman suspiciously. ‘It will make him purge up everything he has in him,’ she explained. ‘Sober him up faster than if left alone. He will be thirsty, after, however.’
‘Cannot drink this water,’ one of the stable boys, watching with open mouth, supplied helpfully. ‘’Tis not fit for drinking. We only use this well to clean. See?’ He pointed to where someone had painted the rune for unclean in whitewash on the well lid.
Cedar sent the grumbling stable boy to the castle to order a page to bring a change of clothes and water for the Lord Charity. ‘Let us do this, then,’ Cedar said kneeling by the Lord. They unwrapped him delicately from his foul cocoon. He was as floppy as a sleepy cat, and only mumbled slightly in protest at their manhandling. ‘His boots are recoverable,’ Cedar noted and Lovel tugged them free. They also removed his belt, purse (empty), and what little jewellery the Lord had on him (a brooch, a ring) and stowed these items into the wagon.
‘Have you ever wondered why he drinks?’ Lovel mused looking down at the pathetic wretch of man. ‘Those who drink like this drink because they seek to silence their inner pain; have you ever talked about why he drinks like this?’
Cedar stared at her in disbelief. ‘I am a man,’ he pointed out emphasising each word carefully so she could not mistake him, ‘we do not talk about inner pain. Women – women,’ he shook his head in bemusement, ‘all women do is talk about their inner pain.’
‘Bah,’ she snorted in disgust. ‘Stop worshipping your dick, Cedar, and open your eyes, you fool man. This man,’ she nudged the lord with a toe, ‘is killing himself with drink, and you are too busy admiring what dangles between your thighs to do anything about it. I should dose you with this too,’ she thrust the bottle at him threateningly.
‘Lovel,’ Cedar snapped. ‘I have more important things to do right now than argue with you about… whatever it is that we are arguing about, I do not even know what that is. I need to get inside, to where that Shoethalian is. Please, help me.’
She sighed. ‘Fine, fine, but when this is done, Cedar, you are going to talk to Charity, and I mean really talk,’ she glowered at him.
‘Fine,’ Cedar held up his hands in surrender. ‘Please.’
‘Roll him onto his side,’ she said unhappily. ‘We do not want him to choke on his vomit.’ When Cedar had the Lord positioned to her satisfaction, she prised open his mouth and dropped a single drop of liquid into the Lord’s mouth before standing back hurriedly. ‘You should hold him, he will writhe,’ she added just in time. The Lord gave a terrible sound, something between a yell and a retch, his whole body contorting, and vomit seemed to be dredged from the very soles of his feet, up and out of his mouth in a horrible stream that left him gasping for air around it. It was all Cedar could do to keep the Lord on his side.
‘By the gods,’ Cedar cursed. ‘It is killing him.’
‘No,’ Lovel perched on the back of her wagon and watched with interest. ‘But he will be sore for a couple of days. Here is the page with his clothes and water. Give him some water. He will probably bring that back up then give him more until it stays down. After this, he will need as much water as you can put in him.’
The page’s eyes all but jumped from his head at the little scene. ‘Do you need a healer?’ he asked anxiously.
‘I do not think so,’ Cedar replied from his position crouching at the Lord’s side. Charity began to vomit anew, reaching so deep that Cedar thought he could feel bones grating within. ‘Throw me the water skin, then leave the clothes where you are and go get another. Better make it two. And a cloth for drying the Lord Charity with once we have cleaned him up soon. And, please, run a message to the Lord Service that Charity must see the prisoner, so please keep him alive for the time being. The Lord Charity will be along shortly.’
‘Yes sir,’ the page seemed dubious but
followed instructions obediently.
Their audience had taken a few steps back, but watched avidly with the strong stomachs of the lower classes. The fascination of seeing a Lord so humbled would, no doubt, stick with them, and be recounted far and wide. Cedar sighed. The Lord deserved no less for his foolishness. Finally, Charity seemed to have reached the end of his stomach contents. ‘Give him water,’ Lovel prompted. The Lord was awake and probably aware, but in too much discomfort to do any more then gasp like a fish out of water.
‘Drink,’ Cedar instructed, unwillingly propping the Lord into a sitting position with his arm and holding the water-skin to his mouth. Charity drank like a desperate man, managing to palate a considerable amount of water before, as Lovel had predicted, bringing it back up. ‘He is vomiting blood,’ Cedar commented, unhappily. ‘Is that supposed to happen?’
Lovel shrugged. ‘Blood, or red wine, who knows? He will survive. Give him more water.’ After several more attempts, Charity was able to keep the water down. ‘Now to get rid of that filth,’ Lovel wrinkled her nose delicately. Charity was able to stand and so they used the wagon to shield him from onlookers as he shed his soiled clothing, roughly bathed in cold water from the well, and dressed in the clean clothing brought by the page.
‘How are you feeling?’ Cedar asked him.
Charity blinked at him with red rimmed eyes. His skin was the colour and sheen of wax. Even the glorious golden curls seemed blanched. ‘Horrible,’ his voice was hoarse. ‘What in the Hag’s name was that poison?’
‘We call it alcohol, my Lord,’ Lovel replied serenely.
Charity threw her an annoyed look. ‘And where the fvccant have you been?’ he demanded.
‘Charming,’ she sneered. ‘Your vocabulary reflects the company you have been keeping, my Lord.’
‘We do not have time for this,’ Cedar said irritably. ‘Come, my Lord, we must be to the dungeons swiftly. They have caught a Shoethalian scout. They will kill him with heavy handed torture without getting any worthwhile information if we do not intervene.’
‘And you know this how?’ Charity replied unhappily, leaning heavily against the wagon. ‘Why do you think the Guarnites are so unskilled with getting information from an enemy?’
‘My Lord, they are Guarnites, need I elaborate?’ Cedar grimaced.
‘Good point,’ Charity ceded. ‘Very well,’ he stood on his own with effort. ‘Though I fear it will kill me.’
‘Here,’ Lovel tossed a pouch to Cedar who caught it smoothly and regarded it with puzzlement. ‘For the pain. Steep it in hot water and get him to drink it. It should take the edge off – enable him to talk coherently.’
‘Oh, good,’ Charity was relieved.
‘I do not think she means for you,’ Cedar clarified. ‘For the Shoethalian.’
‘Oh,’ Charity was depressed. ‘Let us get on with it then. The sooner done, the sooner I can die.’
They made their way into the castle. Charity listlessly led the way to the dungeons which, due to the swamps, were not in the depths of the castle as was traditional, but in one of the towers, as the water from the swamps tended to seep into any underground chamber the Guarnites tried to excavate. The guards permitted their entry, bowing to Charity who did not seem to notice, and escorted them to where Service, Humble, their chief torturer, and Diligence had the Shoethalian strapped to a chair in a poorly lit, filthy chamber rank with the smell of defecation. The chair was bolted to the floor, and the straps sturdy leather and iron. Hooks around the walls, and a bench on one side, held various grotesque instruments that were dark with gore.
At swift glance, Cedar tallied four broken fingers, one probably irreparable in that the bone had broken through the skin and he was sure that marrow mingled with the blood, a broken nose, a split lip, and a heat blinded eye. The Shoethalian was young, and had been handsome. He may, Cedar thought, survive what had been done to him, but he would never recover. He wondered if the man had a sweetheart at home, or a wife and young children, to miss him and mourn his loss.
‘There you are, Charity,’ Humble greeted them cheerfully. ‘You heard about our success, then? My men caught this bugger and some of his friends checking out Guarn and brought him back here to have a little talk with us.’
‘Good work, Humble,’ Charity acknowledged the achievement without inflection. ‘I need some hot water and a tankard,’ he said to the executioner, who reached into the shadows of the chamber and pulled out a filthy child of indeterminate age and gender, a scrawny collection of dirt smeared bone thin limbs, grimy hair and cloth that he pushed out the chamber door, assumedly to fetch the Lord’s bidding. ‘What has he told you so far?’ Charity addressed the Lord Humble and his son.
‘Not much,’ Service replied grudgingly. ‘His name.’
‘And that is?’
‘Sheath,’ the Shoethalian man cried out. ‘Sheath, Sheath, Sheath. Oh, Merciful Monad, Sheath.’
‘Sheath,’ Humble replied to Charity’s question as if the man had not spoken.
‘Anything else?’
‘Yes,’ Service was furious, ‘the bastards are moving to surround Guarn!’
‘Good luck with that,’ Humble snorted. ‘The swamps protect two sides, and everyone knows that only Guarnites know how to safely navigate them.’ Cedar thought it wise not to point out that Shoethal also had swamps, and people who knew how to navigate them.
‘How many do they have?’ Charity asked.
‘He does not know exactly; many he says,’ Service looked as if he’d like to lean back against the wall, but reconsidered when he remembered where they were and what the walls were covered in.
‘How many is many, though?’ Charity wondered. ‘More than our many?’
‘Many, many, many more than the heretics,’ Sheath mumbled to himself tossing his head back and forth restlessly. Cedar thought the man half mad with pain.
The child returned with a covered steaming pot on a tray with a couple of pottered tankards. ‘Wonderful,’ Charity said. ‘Is there a table?’ there was not, and the bench too cluttered with instruments of torture, so the tray was placed on the ground a safe distance from the prisoner, who was probably too incapacitated to take advantage of any potential weapons left within reach, anyway.
Cedar mixed a pinch of the herbs from Lovel’s pouch with some water in one of the tankards. When he was sure he wouldn’t scald the man’s mouth, he put it to the bloodied lips. ‘Drink this,’ he said softly. The man obeyed, too damaged to worry about poisons. ‘It may take a bit to work.’
‘What is that?’ Humble asked.
‘Something to loosen his tongue,’ Cedar advised, thinking it impolitic to explain that it was to relieve the pain they’d caused the man so he could talk coherently. ‘Is it possible to get some chairs in here? We may be here for a while.’ The executioner sent the child out again. Laboriously, the child made several trips, dragging in heavy wooden chairs and placing them in a semicircle around the prisoner.
Sheath opened his eyes, the sightless one milky. ‘My Lord,’ he said clearly.
‘Yes,’ Cedar said gently. ‘Tell the Lords what they need to know, Sheath, do not cause yourself any further suffering.’
‘Traitor,’ Sheath said shaking his head. ‘Traitor.’
‘He needs further persuading, obviously,’ Service snorted.
The executioner shifted his weight as if to stand. ‘No,’ Cedar said, holding out a hand to halt the man. ‘No, no more of that sort of persuasion or you will kill him.’
‘Who are you to give me orders?’ Service was outraged.
‘He is right,’ Charity intervened. ‘This man is on the edge of death. Let us see if Cedar can convince him to speak without us testing how close to the edge he is.’
‘Please,’ Cedar entreated Sheath.
‘Kill me,’ Sheath pleaded, a tear worked its way from his good eye down to the bruised edge of his jaw. ‘Please.’ The executioner reached out suddenly and twisted one of the man’s broken fingers. Shea
th screamed, long and hard.
‘Do not do that,’ Cedar snapped out at the torturer. He seized the arms of the chair in which the broken man was strapped and leaned over him. ‘You must speak,’ he ground out capturing Sheath’s gaze. ‘I insist upon it.’
Sheath passed his tongue over his swollen lips. ‘By the Monad,’ he whispered.
‘The Monad will forgive,’ Cedar ceded, with meaning. ‘By my blood, I swear it.’
‘What does that mean?’ Service demanded. ‘What nonsense is this?’
‘Shhh,’ Charity held out a hand as Sheath sighed and sagged in the chair.
‘I will speak,’ the Shoethalian murmured. ‘By the Monad, I will speak.’
Rogue
Rogue strolled into the hall. It was past midnight, and the long tables lining the walls were nearly empty. The fire was a soft glow in the large central fireplace behind the head table. The rushes crunched beneath her feet, releasing a fragrance reminiscent of spring into the air, scuffed to reveal the stone floor with her passage. On a table near the fire, two young nobles well into their cups played a game of dice in the idle way of men more interested in the drink then the game. Near them, a manservant slumbered, propped up against the wall.
A maid rubbed her eyes wearily as she trudged between the tables, wiping surfaces between errands to fetch those who supped late in the hall their repast. Only the desperate and the Hallows ate this late in the evening. Rogue counted twelve Hallows spread throughout the hall. As she entered, several met her casual gaze and nodded acknowledgement. She poured herself a tankard of flat ale and sipped it as she strolled between the tables. Flanking her on both sides of the room, gliding like shadows on her peripheral vision, the Hallows who had met her gaze took their positions.
She paced herself. At the last second, her approach signalled the well-honed sense of attack, and her victim looked up, astonishment and resignation in his eyes. She threw the tankard at the Hallow, and beheaded his companion. As the first Hallow leapt to his feet, shedding flat ale like raindrops and drew his sword, she took his arm with her back swing. No training can prevent the instinctual clutch at a severed limb, and in that moment, she finished him.
