by Julian May
It made little difference, Deveron thought grimly. The pathetic moans and screams were becoming almost continuous, making it nigh on impossible for the torturers to notice their approach.
Induna was seated in the bow, hunched low, wincing at each new outcry. Forgetting that her husband could not see her, she began to wave her arms frantically just as they emerged from a thick reed-bed into the open black water of a sizable pond. The mist above it was torn by a breeze and floated like ragged swatches of gauze.
‘Stop!’ she called silently on the wind. ‘This is the place. We’ve found them.’
Deveron halted the skiff. Faint golden ripples spread out from the indentation in the water’s surface marking the position of the invisible craft. The scene was dimly illuminated by a lantern shining within a small structure resembling a crude hut that stood on the pond’s opposite shore. Behind it rose an area of higher ground where four horses and a mule were tethered amidst a thicket of saplings. The fowler’s blind was erected on pilings sunk in the water and connected to the land by a short dock of log puncheons. The flimsy walls of wattled twigs and withes facing the water had arrowslits in them rather than windows. A silhouetted form, moving with ominous purpose, could be seen through gaps between the woven sticks.
The sickening sounds of a lash meeting flesh mingled with heart-rending cries. Then, suddenly, the tormented woman fell silent.
A harsh male voice let out a furious curse. ‘She only pretends to have fainted! Prick the sole of her foot with your dirk, Larus. That’ll rouse the stubborn slut. You must make her talk!’
‘Sir, there’s no response. She’s senseless again.’
‘Damn it!’ another voice exclaimed. ‘Use that old bucket to throw water on her. Sir Asgar, get the smelling salts we brought with us. Trozo, untie her hands and lift her head. See if you can get some brandy down her gullet without choking her.’
‘What are we to do?’ Induna spoke soundlessly. ‘I scry four men gathered about the poor soul, who lies on her back with her wrists and ankles tied to the slatted floor. Those – those arrant fiends have torn open her dress and beaten her breasts and upper body bloody. We know that yesterday they scourged her back. We’ve got to stop them before they start in again!’
‘We will,’ Deveron responded on the wind. ‘Calm yourself and look closely at the place. Do you think its floor is high enough above the water so that our skiff will slip beneath with you inside?’
She hesitated. ‘If I lie flat I can just make it. But I fear you will be too bulky to fit.’
‘It matters not. Now this is what I want you to do…’
Moments later, the low-riding invisible boat’s bow was nosed against one of the blind’s outer pilings. The men inside were arguing about whether it would be best to postpone the inquisition until the morrow. The voice Deveron now recognized as belonging to Lord Tinnis Catclaw resisted the suggestion.
‘I must know tonight what message she carries. It’s imperative! A certain person is due to arrive at the castle soon, and I must have the woman’s information beforehand.’
Low mutterings ensued. Someone said, ‘We should light the brazier then, my lord. It’s plain that flogging hasn’t worked.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Catclaw growled. ‘Get on with it.’ Deveron bespoke Induna: ‘Are you lying well down?’
‘Yes.’
‘When I’m four ells away from you, the sigil will be unable to render you invisible. There’s little chance of anyone seeing you under the blind, but be very cautious. Remain in hiding until I say it’s safe to come out…What I must now do will be messy and horrid, love, but you must be brave. For Rusgann’s sake I dare not leave any of these men alive.’
‘Must it be so?’ she asked, her voice heavy with dread.
‘In truth, I shrink at the prospect with all my soul. But merely rendering them unconscious before rescuing the woman will not serve. The Lord Constable is now a man whose own life is in grave danger. He’s doomed if King Conrig discovers that he lied about killing Princess Maudrayne – and even worse, kept her as his lover. Catclaw’s men are equally at risk as accessories. None of them can rest easy until they hunt down and slay Maude and anyone who has had contact with her.’
‘And Prince Dyfrig, once he reads his mother’s letter –’
‘He, too, would know the constable’s deadly secret. And there’s another thing, Duna: if Dyfrig is the Sovereign I am to assist in the New Conflict, then no price is too great to ensure his safety. We are at war, my love. The men inside that hut are the foes of the Source and the Likeminded Lights just as surely as the Salka are.’
She knew he had killed before, but always in self-defense. Now he would be forced to go against the Tarnian Healer Oath he had pronounced after being taught shaman arts by her mother Maris, and slay in cold blood as a soldier must.
‘Deveron, have courage,’ she said. ‘Do what you must do.’
All he said was, ‘Later, I may have great need of your comfort.’
The boat rocked as he slipped overboard without a sound and waded toward the shore through lingering wisps of fog. She peeped over the gunwale and her heart leapt into her mouth as she realized that in spite of the sigil’s sorcery his presence was all too obvious in the lantern’s betraying light. Where his legs entered the water were peculiar dark ‘holes’, and the yellow-glowing mist tendrils swirled unnaturally around the moving mass of his body, giving it a faint human outline. But no one emerged from the hut and saw him. A moment later all traces of Deveron were out of her sight.
Then it happened.
She froze in terror. For a brief instant she and the boat popped clearly into view, no longer invisible, lit by the narrow beams shining through the gaps in the wattle. Then, blessedly, Concealer’s spell embraced them again.
With trembling hands she gripped the crudely hewn floorjoists and pulled the skiff beneath the blind with infinite slowness until it was positioned near the pathetic motionless body. Drops of bloody water dripped down from it. Through the cracks in the slatted duckboard floor Induna could see the brutes who had done the evil work. A nobleman dressed in a fine riding habit of midnight blue stood against one wall with folded arms and a scowl disfiguring his comely face. Two men-at-arms in mail shirts and hoods, whose livery bore the blazon of a wildcat’s threatening paw, worked with a tinderbox at a rusty brazier. A fourth man, unarmored and wearing a knightly belt, stout of body and flushed with frustration, knelt beside the victim and ministered to her clumsily.
‘My lord, the brandy runs from her lips,’ this villain announced. ‘She cannot swallow. If you wish us to continue, we’ll have to wait until she comes around. Shall I cover her? It may hasten her revival if she’s kept warm.’
‘Oh, very well,’ snapped the Lord Constable. ‘Use her own cloak. And give that brandy flask to me. I need a drink worse than she does.’
‘We’ll warm her up soon enough!’ said one of the warriors at the brazier, which had begun to smolder. His mate gave a coarse guffaw.
Induna’s eyes filled with tears at the callous cruelty. How could human beings treat a helpless person so?
The duck blind’s ramshackle door creaked slowly open. One of the warriors spun about with an oath. ‘Who’s there?’
An instant later, he crumpled with a bubbling cry, both hands clutching at his neck in a vain attempt to stanch the torrent of blood gushing from it.
Catclaw howled, ‘On guard!’ and drew his sword. But no enemy could be seen. The constable stood in helpless horror as the second warrior, who still knelt at the brazier, flung wide his arms and arched his head backward, exposing the bare throat above his mail hood. A gash opened miraculously like an additional gaping mouth, flooding the man’s surcoat with scarlet, and he fell dying.
The Lord Constable slashed the empty air, shouting obscenities, until his voice soared in a piercing shriek. Induna saw blood pouring from the back of his right boot, just above the heel. An invisible blade, perhaps wielded by someone lying on
the floor, had hamstrung Tinnis Catclaw. He staggered, dropping his weapon, and crashed onto the slats, where he writhed and roared until his own sword rose up like a living thing and smote off his head.
The spouting cascade of gore barely missed Induna in the skiff floating beneath. She retched thin bile and impelled the craft out from under the shambles into the open water of the pond, rendering herself clearly visible. After she caught her breath and cleared her mouth, she continued her resolute scrying of the ghastly interior of the blind. When Deveron needed her, she would come.
Sir Asgar, the corpulent knight, was on his hands and knees, so dumfounded at the uncanny carnage that he had yet to put hand to weapon. He scrambled toward the open door on all fours, uttering a frantic mewling sound, struggled to his feet, and lurched awkwardly along the dock toward the shore. Catclaw’s flying sword plunged into his unarmored back and found his heart. Still impaled, the bulky body swayed, then fell into the shallows with a monstrous splash. The mounts tied in the thicket screamed and plunged in fear.
‘BI FYSINEK. KRUF AH!’ Speaking the Salka words that cancelled Concealer’s spell, Deveron stood on the muddy shore, head hanging, splattered with blood, surrendering to the sigil’s pain-debt and the greater anguish afflicting his own heart.
Induna sent the skiff speeding to him. She stepped out, took hold of one arm, and led him to a place where the ground was drier and grass grew. There she made him lie down, bathed his face and hands with pondwater, kissed him, and let him be. The sigil Concealer was a minor stone and its price, at least, would soon be paid.
Taking her fardel from the boat, she entered the blind and drew her small dagger, which served to cut Rusgann’s ankle bonds. The unconscious woman’s wrists were already free. After reassuring herself that the tortured victim yet lived, Induna lifted the cloak covering the half-naked form and turned her carefully to examine the injuries. The fresh weals on her breasts and upper belly still bled copiously, while the older wounds on her back were scabbed and oozing.
Induna had loaded her fardel with medicines and bandages obtained from the healers at the Green village. Now, after cleansing the wounds with a solution of witch hazel and dilute spirits, she laid out squares of linen on sections of the floor free of gore and smeared them with thick unguents that would slow blood loss and promote healing. These she applied to the cuts, binding them in place. Then she wrapped Rusgann tightly again in the black woolen cloak.
Ignoring the dead bodies round about her, closing them off from her sight as though they were already enshrouded, Induna searched the small hut. She found another cape folded neatly in one corner, a rich and voluminous thing that might have been the property of the fat knight called Asgar. She made a pillow of it and eased this beneath Rusgann’s head before beginning to chant ancient Tarnian invocations that she hoped might strengthen the sufferer and ease her pain.
Time passed.
Deveron appeared at the door, looking hollow-eyed and haggard, and wordlessly proceeded to haul away the remains of Catclaw and his men. She heard multiple splashes outside. When the grisly task was finished he used the old wooden bucket to sluice out the blind, sending bloody water draining through the duckboards. Finally he spoke aloud.
‘How fares Rusgann?’
‘Her color is not good, and her breathing is rapid and shallow, as is her heartbeat. She is in grave condition. In a moment I’ll try to give her a potion, but she may be unable to swallow it.’
‘I’ll be just outside, sponging the worst of the gore off myself. You’ll want to clean up as well. I can dry our damp clothes with my talent. If we stink too much of blood, the horses may shy at carrying us. And ultimately, we’ll have to be seen in public. I lack the strength to use Concealer again immediately, and three persons cannot readily be hidden by the distracting cover-spell.’
‘So you intend for us to ride out, rather than use the skiff?’
He nodded wearily. ‘We’ve still got to deliver the letter to Prince Dyfrig – or its content. I pray you can rouse Rusgann.’
‘Her nether regions and legs seem unharmed, but I fear she is too feeble to sit a saddle or even ride pillion. She lost much blood.’
‘I’ve found leather rain-capes in the saddlebags of the Lord Constable and the knight. I’ll fashion a litter, using them and two poles, to drag behind one of the horses. She can lie in that, and you and I can ride ahead and behind.’
‘The dead bodies –’ she began.
‘Stripped naked, bellies punctured to inhibit floating, and consigned to a part of the pond thick with rushes. Wild pigs, fitches, pike, and other swamp scavengers will dispose of them in a week or so. Their clothing, weapons, and other accoutrements are sunk in the pond. Let us hope the Lord Constable told few persons where he and his henchmen intended to go on this accurst night.’
He turned and went out the door.
‘Accurst for some, may they freeze in hell,’ Induna murmured, rummaging in her fardel for the needed tincture of burnet and tormentil. ‘Blest for another – if she survives and is yet able to fulfill the important duty she was assigned.’
‘If I don’t live,’ said a cracked voice very slowly, ‘then you must carry my lady’s message to Prince Dyfrig. You, Induna of Barking Sands! I remember you.’
‘God of the Heights and Depths!’ the healer whispered, nearly dropping the medicines in her surprise. ‘You’re awake!’
Rusgann’s eyes were half open. Her discolored, unlovely features brightened in a triumphant smile. ‘I still carry the letter. Hidden. They searched me. Stupid whoresons…stripped me but never found it.’
Induna bent low to hear the indistinct words. ‘Where is it?’
Rusgann blinked. ‘Folded very small and encased in a sealed gold locket without a chain. Hidden. Take it! Take it now.’ Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. ‘The bastard Catclaw said my dear lady is dead. Burnt alive in a house fire. Alas – I prayed Dyfrig might free his poor mother from her long captivity. But at least he will have her precious letter as a remembrance.’
‘Maudrayne dead?’ Induna cried in dismay. ‘But she lives, Rusgann! My husband and I were told by a friend of the Source – do you know who he is? – that she escaped from the Lord Constable’s burning lodge. I know not where she may be, but she is certainly not dead.’
‘Thank God! Then…give Dyfrig the letter. Take it from me now. It’s a good thing you’re a healer. A woman. No silly squeamishness.’ Using an earthy term, she told where the locket was.
Induna gave a soft gasp. ‘You mean –’
‘The letter is safe.’ Rusgann uttered a rattling breath. ‘They said I was too old and ugly. Never raped me, so they never found it…damn…fool…men!’
‘Oh, Rusgann, how clever of you!’
She smiled. ‘Take it now. Take it! So glad…my lady lives.’ Another hoarse sound come from her lips and then she was silent.
‘Rusgann!’ Induna took both of the woman’s hands. They were like ice and utterly limp. ‘Oh, no, no.’
She felt for a pulse, but there was none. The pupils of Rusgann’s eyes were wide and black, staring into eternity. Induna shut the lids, blinking back her own tears. Then set about retrieving the locket. She wiped it and studied it closely in the lantern light. It was gold, very flat and no larger than a double-mark coin, engraved with an ornate initial M. Some sort of dark cement had been daubed along the seam and hinge to render it waterproof.
She tucked it into her belt-purse, then re-wrapped Rusgann’s body in the knight’s fine cloak. Closing her eyes, she began the Tarnian Incantation of Soul-Departure.
‘Duna? Wife, can you hear me? We dare not tarry here any longer.’
She found Deveron standing over her. All physical traces of the necessary slaughter had vanished from his person, but his face looked more ravaged and pallid than she had ever seen it before.
‘I was praying for Rusgann. I did what I could, but…Induna shook her head. ‘She still had Maudrayne’s letter with her. Hidd
en in a locket.’ She told her husband where it had been.
‘Good God!’ he murmured. ‘Did you open the thing?’
‘It’s cemented shut. I think the locket can only be opened by destroying it. Perhaps we should deliver the locket to Prince Dyfrig as it is.’
‘I’ll think about that…We must locate him without delay. My deep-scrying ability is presently too weak to penetrate the castle walls, but he’s probably somewhere inside. When we’re closer to Boarsden I’ll try again. I did manage to windsearch about the army encampment a bit. Casya and Baron Ising are no longer with Duke Kefalus or anywhere near the town. I’ll look for them again later, when my strength recovers.’
‘But where could they have gone?’
‘Zeth knows. At least they weren’t found out and clapped in irons. I did find out something of vital interest while eavesdropping on the nightwatch: the army is preparing to break camp within three days.’
‘Are they disbanding, then?’
‘Nay.’ His countenance grew more doleful. ‘The news is very bad. The Salka horde is swimming toward the Icebear Channel – perhaps to attack western Tarn. The Sovereign has been forced to split his force in two, not knowing where they might land. The larger North Wing, some twenty thousand experienced warriors of Cathra and Tarn led by Conrig and Sernin Donorvale, will follow the Wold Road almost to its end and wait there to cross Frost Pass and defend Tarnian cities if the necessity arises. The smaller South Wing, ten thousand Didionites under Somarus and his son Valardus, and five thousand Cathrans led by Earl Marshal Parlian, will camp at the Lake of Shadows, in case the Salka objective lies further south, on the coast of Didion. Once the enemy landing point is confirmed, both wings of the Sovereign Army will converge there. However, King Somarus has refused to send his troops to Tarn. Even worse, nearly half of them are only armed yeomen with no battle experience, whose resolve and discipline is dangerously shaky.’