This journey was not a processional or a progress. Gaelen had told her he wished to complete it unannounced and as swiftly as possible. The sooner they reached Bargia, the less opportunity for ambush. He had driven them hard today. By the time they made camp, even the hardened soldiers were looking forward to their blankets.
Both Marja and Brensa, unaccustomed to such long periods on horseback, were saddle sore and needed assistance to dismount. They had to pace about for several moments to loosen tight muscles. Brensa dutifully tried to give Marja her arm, but Marja shrugged her off with a laugh. “That is like the legless leading the lame. You can walk no better than I.”
Marja felt awkward about the tent arrangement. Not only was she unaccustomed to sleeping in close proximity to others, but the fact that those others were Gaelen’s men, and they would know she was sleeping with him, made her intensely uncomfortable. She sincerely hoped Gaelen would not expect anything, because the men would be sure to hear and know. She shuddered to think what the looks and comments would be next morning. Even though Gaelen made her feel safe, and she understood his reasoning, she would have preferred to share her tent with Brensa, and hang the danger.
The second day they made camp by late afternoon. With no one ready to bed down yet, after dinner they sat around the campfire sharing stories and jokes. To Marja’s delight, one of the men pulled out a small wooden flute and played a sprightly tune, his heel keeping the beat on the ground. Then he accompanied another, who sang a heroic ballad in a fair tenor. Each successive song grew bawdier than the last. And, Marja noted with a smile, more off-key, as the ale flowed to wet parched throats. But she noticed that in spite of the merriment, the guards who were scheduled for the next watch stopped drinking well before they were due to work. And Klast drank only water.
After the third song Marja piped up, “Brensa will sing for us. She has a sweet voice.” She looked at Brensa, who agreed shyly. She performed a melancholy hero’s tale with many verses. At each chorus, Marja chimed in with the harmony. When the last note faded away, the rapt men sat in silence for a moment, then broke into loud applause, with great huzzahs and much stomping of feet. By then the moon rode high, and Gaelen ordered the party to break for the night.
Once again, Marja watched Klast take the first shift. She knew he would be awake before first light as well. Did the man ever sleep? He was like a ghost.
~27~
AMBUSH
The first three nights passed without mishap. As the other men relaxed more with each uneventful day, and talked excitedly about getting home, Klast became more restive and spent more time scouting. Gaelen seemed to find this contagious and grew wary as they approached the last camp area.
Klast had private orders from Gaelen that, in the event of an attack, his first duty was to see to Marja’s safety. Klast knew the men would protect Gaelen, but he agreed they would not be so careful of Marja. He understood how important her role was to the future of Bargia and a united Catania, and knew Gaelen relied on him not to be swayed from his orders in the event that Gaelen found himself in danger.
Klast observed Marja trying unsuccessfully to soothe Gaelen’s unrest. Eventually, she gave up and stayed close to Brensa, who chatted animatedly with her. His respect for Marja, and even Brensa, grew as neither woman complained throughout the journey. They remained cheerful and cooperative.
Their final encampment lay just south of the forest where it had thinned again to scrub. To the rear, rose the woods they had just traversed, its dark pines rising high up a steep slope, the brighter new green of the oaks further down.
Progress had been slow that day. They descended carefully down a narrow gorge covered with loose rocks that could turn an ankle or disable a horse. They had to make this part of the journey on foot, as it was not safe to ride, and led the horses by hand until the forest floor levelled enough for the party to remount.
At the top, the trail had been only a short distance from a deep ravine. Klast heard the rush of water in spots but could not see it. The path ran several paces inside, so the view was blocked by a thin layer of trees. Rumour held that caves existed above, which bandits used to hide in and to cache their booty until it was safe to retrieve it. Klast knew those rumours were true. He mentioned it to Gaelen. They both stayed alert for ambush.
Where the ground levelled off enough to make camp, the river widened to a cold current. It provided welcome fresh water for both men and horses. Unfortunately, it lay too far away to provide protection from attack. Yet, the ground was too uneven to camp closer. The other two sides had no cover, and only the north side had trees at its back. The trees made Klast uneasy, as they provided good cover for potential enemies. At Klast’s suggestion, Gaelen doubled the guard that night.
Gaelen waited until Klast returned from a last look around before entering his tent, and then only at Klast’s urging. Klast assured him that he would remain awake.
Klast was about to wake the next guards for their shift when he saw a flaming arrow arc towards the tents.
“Attack!”
“Fire!”
The two shouts came almost simultaneously.
Gaelen had Marja up and out the tent flap just as the first flaming arrow hit and ignited the oiled canvas. The second arrow missed the other tent and landed between them, where it was immediately extinguished. By now, the larger tent was engulfed in flame. It provided a lurid illumination to the fighting. Klast kept Marja between himself and Gaelen. For a split second he saw Marja pointing frantically.
“Brensa!” she screamed and gesticulated wildly in the direction of the trees.
When he looked where Marja pointed he was just in time to see a heavy sack pulled over Brensa’s head and watch her disappear into the darkness of the forest. There was nothing he could do. His orders were to protect Marja.
“Klast! Behind you!”
At Gaelen’s shout of warning, Klast’s sword barely parried a sudden thrust from one of the attackers. He had been careless to let himself be distracted.
The melee ended almost as soon as it began. The men doused the fire. When Gaelen took stock, four enemies lay slain on the ground, as well as two of his own men. Two more men had minor injuries. One attacker still breathed but died before they could question him. Brensa had vanished without a trace. And it was still spans until daylight.
Klast knew he was the only man with the ability to track in the dark. Only he could remain silent and undetected while doing so. So he was not surprised when Gaelen beckoned him to him at the edge of the camp, out of hearing of the others.
“Klast, find her and bring her back.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Klast melted away into the darkness.
~28~
KIDNAPPED
Brensa found it hard to breathe within the heavy canvas bag. She soon grasped that if she did not stop struggling and kicking her feet, she would not have enough air and could suffocate. So she mustered what courage she had left to arrest her panic and tried to adjust to slow shallow breaths. That seemed to work. She tried to distract herself by concentrating on the smells and sounds around her. The bag must have held root vegetables as it had an earthy odour. She could tell her captor was taking her uphill by the grunts of effort and heavy breathing. And even through the sack she detected the smell of sour wine and stale sweat. Her efforts to stay calm were not entirely successful, but the distractions helped stave off complete panic.
Part way up the path, her captor handed her to another, who hoisted her for the next lap. This handover happened three more times before they reached their destination near the top of the mountain. It took about three spans. Once there, they dumped her unceremoniously on the ground and yanked the bag off her head.
As her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the fire, Brensa found herself in a large cave. The back wall remained obscured by darkness. A fire burned near the mouth. Wild hopes of escape died when she made out four savage-looking men wearing ragged, filthy
clothes. Their hair and beards looked equally unkempt, except for the youngest, who showed only a thin scrag of facial hair.
Before she could take in more, the smallest man erupted in a roar of rage.
“Fools! Ye got the wrong one! This one be dark. Ye were told to bring back the red fox!”
He kicked Brensa viciously in her side so that she fell over with a yelp, doubled in pain. Two of the others cowered and looked at the ground. The third, who looked alike enough to be brother to one of them, stared dumbly as if he did not understand what was wrong.
Rellin, for that was the small man’s name, kicked her again. When she curled up tighter to ward off the blows, she saw a sly, hungry look come over him, his leer unveiling blackened teeth. He rocked gleefully back on his heels and fumbled with his breeches. “Well, if she be no use to Sinnath, mayhap she be sport for us, eh? Gurth, Farl, hold ’er down.”
Brensa made a mad, futile scramble to get away, which only made the men laugh. The two grabbed her ankles, and she twisted frantically as the horror of what they were about to do overtook her.
Grinning in anticipation, Rellin licked his lips and lowered his breeches. Then he reached down and tore her bodice to reveal her breasts. Brensa bucked and screamed, but to no avail. He pulled her skirts up and was on her. In her nightmares, she would always relive the cruel leer and the foul reek of his breath. Terror threatened to banish sanity.
With the two holding her arms and legs, she could barely move. And when she tried to resist, it only excited Rellin more. When he entered her, she gave a long, keening scream. The searing pain seemed to go on forever. She screamed again when Gurn took his turn. By the time Farl was on her, she only whimpered, like an animal in a leg trap that sees the trapper coming to collect his trophy. When she saw Hanish, the youngest and last, lower his stinking bulk onto her, she went limp, her eyes blank.
Brensa had left. She had gone to a place beyond pain and fear, to the top of the cave, in the dark, where they could not see her. She looked on in a daze, disconnected, as Hanish heaved and thrust until he was sated. She watched him climb clumsily off her, panting, and relace his breeches, tongue lolling like a satisfied dog.
When they all returned to the fire, their lust abated for now, Brensa slowly came to awareness of her body again and the burning pain that filled her. She saw the blood on her skirts, and noted with odd detachment that it was fresh and that she was still bleeding. Slowly she lowered her skirts, absently pulled her blouse together and crab-walked her way backwards to the rear of the cave. There she curled into a tight ball pressed against the rock and tried in vain to ignore the burning throbbing between her legs and in her ribs. She wondered distantly if she was dying and how long that would take. She hoped it would not be too long. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, it occurred to her that her death meant that at least Marja was safe … she hoped … but it was a thought that belonged to another time and place.
~29~
TOO LATE
The sound of that first, piercing scream told Klast he was too late. He had failed. That scream tore open memories tightly locked away for many years. He had schooled himself for so long to feel nothing. Feeling left a man open to weakness and deceit. An assassin could not afford to feel.
But that scream reverberated down into his past, and opened a crack in the crypt in which he had sealed away his heart. Two unwanted, dangerous emotions woke in him. First was his rage against Rand and against his own impotence to save himself or any of the others. He heard again, in his mind, those same screams from the young girls and boys that Rand had used. Klast burned for revenge against the men who were doing those same bestial things to Brensa. And against the beasts that had murdered his father without a second thought. He wanted to kill them all. In Klast’s fury, Brensa’s captors became everyone who had ever done him ill.
The second feeling, even more threatening to his hard held control, was compassion. He wanted to save young, innocent Brensa in spite of, or perhaps because of, knowing she would never be the same girl again. Somehow, if he could save her, some of the rage he held against himself, the blame and guilt, might be atoned. These were not conscious thoughts. They happened without Klast recognizing their importance. The feelings seemed part of another world.
In spite of his fury, Klast’s training held. He did not rush in swinging his sword.
Those men had to die. That was certain. He needed to remain in control. That was also certain. So he calmed himself with several slow, deep breaths until the red haze ebbed and he could think clearly again. Then he resumed his careful ascent to the cave. He could see the glow from their fire now.
Fools! Did they not know Lord Gaelen would stop at nothing to find them?
The second scream told him Brensa lived, though he knew she would wish she did not. He had seen more than one suicide after such an attack. But he was determined that Brensa would not be another, unaware that he needed it as much for himself as for her.
Klast did not know how many waited in the cave, but he had heard voices and believed it to be at least three. For the time being, patience was his only tool. He would have to pick them off one by one. The men did not keep him waiting long. The first came out to relieve himself over the edge of the ravine behind the cave. Klast broke his neck with a practiced twist and tossed him over the cliff before the fool could even register that he had been attacked. The knowledge that he now had one less enemy improved Klast’s focus.
He crept closer and heard a second say he was leaving to join the first, laughing, “Maybe he got lost. Not too much upstairs there.”
Klast waited until the man had moved several paces from the mouth of the cave and looked about to call out to his missing companion. A knife across the throat cut him short before a sound escaped his lips. Klast lowered him silently to the ground and melted back into the trees beside the mouth of the cave to listen.
“I could use some sleep. We need to guard ’er ye think?”
Another voice answered. “Nah. She be goin’ nowhere. Just fall off the cliff. No loss if she did.” The man’s laugh became suggestive. “Unless ye fancy another go? Willna even need to hold ’er down. No fight left.” Another laugh, then Klast heard him grunt as he rolled into his blanket. “Dinna reckon we be needin’ to tell Sinnath we got the wrong one. Reckon he be knowin’ soon enough. Wasted five men … and fer what?”
Klast heard him fall silent a moment. Then, aware that the other two had not returned, he added, “Say, they be takin’ their bloody time.”
But the other already snored loudly and did not answer. Klast heard the man rise and come to the mouth of the cave, where he stood silhouetted in front of the fire. There he yelled out the names of the other two. When they did not answer, he returned to his companion.
Klast crept close and saw him give the other a hard kick.
“Hey, get up. Get yer sword. Somethin’s amiss.” Then he bent for his own sword, which lay on the floor of the cave beside his blanket. He did not reach it.
Klast ran him through the back and had his sword out again, ready to take the other before he was fully awake. He had time to yell only once before he was cut down. Klast felt a surge of disgust. The man had not even the skills of a raw recruit.
Klast looked hastily around for more, his back against the wall … silence …. He had killed them all. The fire had died to a dull glow and its light no longer lit the recesses of the cave. Klast had not lived this long by being a fool. He waited until his eyes adjusted to the dim light and listened for breathing or any noise that would indicate another enemy. When no sound reached him, he risked throwing one of the branches, piled ready, onto the fire to increase the light. Nothing moved. No more enemies lurked in the shadows.
With the danger past, Klast turned his attention to Brensa. Where was she? He scanned the cave and spotted a bundle at the back. As he approached slowly, it moved, and he heard a low, mewling, “Nooooo,” as Brensa tried to shrink further into the stone at her
back.
Good. She was alive then. He stopped and turned to the side, so that the fire would illuminate him, hoping she would recognize him and understand that he was Gaelen’s man.
“Lady, I am Klast. The men who took you are all dead. You are safe now. Lord Gaelen sent me to rescue you.” He kept his voice in a low croon, the voice a mother uses to soothe a frightened child or a trainer to tame a wild animal.
Brensa neither moved nor made a sound. Klast had expected this. He had seen the same lack of response in other victims. It would take much more than soothing words to gain Brensa’s trust.
Klast busied himself about the cave, gathering the men’s blankets in a pile near the fire, keeping all his movements slow and obvious. He faced a dilemma. Gaelen expected him to return with Brensa immediately. He would become concerned in a matter of days if Klast did not arrive. Yet experience told him just how small his chances were of bringing Brensa back with any sanity left. If he touched her without her permission she might retreat into herself so far that no one would be able to reach her. He needed time … a lot of it … to coax Brensa to the point where she would allow him to touch her. Yet he had no time. Brensa was injured. He needed to examine her to ascertain just how badly. And he needed to tend to those wounds before they festered.
There was an additional urgency. He had overheard Sinnath’s name and understood that he was the one behind the attack. His loyalty to Gaelen demanded that he bring that knowledge to him with all haste. He knew that the Lady Marja was still in danger from Sinnath, because the attack on Gaelen’s party had failed. They had captured the wrong woman.
Yet Brensa was in no condition to move, and Klast knew that it was absolutely necessary that he take whatever time it required to gain her trust. Trust was essential to Brensa’s healing … for her to her hold on to her mind. This was also part of his mission as he understood it. If Brensa lost her sanity she might as well be dead, and he would have failed Gaelen.
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