The Cursed

by Dave Duncan

  Poul was in the House of Creation. Babies born in the spring usually thrived. And Jaul was in Lovers, although her retrograde motion hinted more at madness than reason. Better to invert the house: chaos to enemies made a good augury.

  The wood was dark and utterly still. Polion could not recall a night with less wind. The stillness certainly made for easy guard duty; he could hear leaves rustle under blankets every time anyone rolled over in the camp. He could hear the snoring. Earlier, he had even heard the children speaking over in the Jaulscath camp. Nothing else. Once or twice an owl had hooted, but that was all. A mouse couldn't sneak up on him unheard.

  He leaned against a tree and tried not to get too aroused thinking of Niad. Tonight was the night. At last! He had been married a whole week with nothing to show for it.

  Awail would rise soon, just past the full. She would be in the House of Travel tonight. That might be significant. In fact there had been change in travel already. Crossing the Flugoss had brought them into Wesnar, a mysteriously deserted Wesnar. The absence of people was eerie, although logically it meant that there could be no enemies around. It just felt wrong. When Awail was three fingers above the hill, he could go and waken Jukion to take over.

  Then waken Niad, if she was asleep.

  A grown man with whiskers and still a virgin! Married a whole week and still a virgin! It was disgusting.

  The wedding night had been his own fault. He couldn't blame anyone but himself for drinking too much and passing out. But then that gang of mud-headed donkeys had decided to carry him off to Bad Cove. Zanion had gone along with the jest, because of Meilim. He had let the others tie Polion to a horse, and they hadn't stopped laughing the whole way. Big, big joke!

  And then, when he had been reunited with his wife, she had sadly told him that the time was wrong. He'd have to wait a few days. He had seriously considered just going crazy at that point.

  He had wondered if he was fated to die a virgin.

  A golden glow in the eastern sky heralded moon rise.

  Today Niad had said it would be all right tonight, but Zanion had given him first watch. Well, it was going to be more than all right. He was going to rustle enough leaves and snap enough twigs to waken the whole camp. Three times a night from now on! He was going to have the last laugh on those jokers—he had his wife along with him now and they did not. He would yawn at them all day and rustle leaves at them all night. Revenge was going to be very sweet.

  Niad was going to be very sweet, and ever so satisfied with her husband.

  After all, he was the family hero. The Old Man had said so—a true Zardon! Except for Wraxal and Vaslar, he was the only man in the group who had ever actually killed anyone. He had no reason to doubt his manhood. Strong hands grabbed his wrists, hauling his arms back and pinning him against the tree. He opened his mouth to cry out and a cloth was jammed into it. He felt the icy touch of a knife at his throat. A pale face glimmered in the darkness before him—empty sockets in place of eyes, a hole where there should be a nose, white teeth—a skull, leering triumphantly at him. He had not heard a sound.

  39

  The Wesnarian army was camped not far from the village of Veriow. The king was dallying in his tent—a large, luxurious pavilion of silken walls, comprising several other rooms as well as his bedchamber. The furniture was rich and tasteful; candles burned in golden holders, illuminating crystal goblets and bright-hued carpets.

  Reclining on his cushioned divan, Hexzion Garab resembled sausage in the last stage of preparation, when the pig gut had been stuffed tight with meat and fat and was being tied off. Invisible strings constricted his wrists, ankles, elbows, and knees. Everywhere else, he bulged to the uttermost limits of his skin's tensile strength. He seemed liable to burst out at any moment.

  He was watching Arbim dance for him. She was down to the last shred of gauze. Sweat glistened on her limbs and torso, her breathing was urgent, she twisted and writhed convulsively. Alas, she had raised no royal interest so far.

  He had lost the manic stamina for which he had been notorious in his youth, but he should be reacting by now. He would be, were this performance being staged in one of his palaces, with musicians playing behind a screen. Unfortunately, music coming from the royal tent in the middle of a military campaign would be inappropriate. Seeing lights still burning there, the troops were expected to believe that their beloved monarch was at work on tactics and strategy. Music would make it harder for their simple minds to cling to that loyal faith.

  Yes, the absence of music detracted from the effect. Performed in a silence broken only by her own loud panting and footsteps, Arbim's dance might easily be mistaken for an epileptic fit.

  Breasts gyrating, abdominal muscles undulating, she oozed out of the last veil. Still nothing! Well, Hexzion had seen it all before. He had spent a long, hard day being driven around in his chariot. In spite of sunshades and frequent cool drinks, chariots were tiring.

  The silent music rose to an inaudible crescendo. Arbim whirled through her last contortions and collapsed on the floor beside him in an attitude of submission and supplication. He smiled approvingly at the fervent surging of her breasts as she fought for breath, while noting with disgust the trickle of sweat running down between them.

  He popped a sugared morsel between his teeth. "Well done, my love chick. Take a breather and then do the fire-cat one. Pour me some of that wine."

  The real problem was not music or dusty roads. The real problem was that he was expecting a prisoner to be brought in for interrogation. He could hardly expect to find trivia like Arbim truly interesting when he had a duty like that to look forward to. The prospect simultaneously nauseated him and thrilled him. King Hexzion was a devotee of pain as a spectator sport.

  Ah! He heard the guards challenge in the distance. He heaved his bulk off the divan. Arbim rushed to fetch his wrap. He thrust his feet into his sandals as she returned to help him arrange the horrible thing around himself. A Zarda warrior wore only the hide of an animal he had slain himself. As a king could sport nothing less than a lion skin, Hexzion had arranged for a suitable legend to explain his. It was outrageously heavy, scratchy, and smelly. It did mask his shape, though, giving him an undeniable magnificence.

  He paused to examine himself in the full-length mirror—two men had been flogged for that chip missing from the corner. Yes, magnificence. He had breadth and depth. He heaved his sword-belt tighter a notch and raised the mane a little higher to conceal his pendulous breasts. He peered closer and noted with annoyance that the roots of his beard were showing white again. He must have that attended to before he emerged in the morning.

  He accepted his crown from Arbim—just a modest circlet of gold—and adjusted it to hide the bald spot. He started to move to the curtain, then paused to reconsider the girl, who was gathering up the remains of her costume from the rugs.

  He favored her with a kindly smile. "Get some sleep. Possibly I shall require you later." That was very likely, if this proved to be a good interrogation.

  He pushed through the drape and went into the antechamber. Here the chairs were solid, serviceable oak and the rugs were plainer. A chart hung against one wall.

  Frenzkion was waiting. He thumped his spear against his shield in salute to his king and returned to rigid immobility again.

  Hexzion looked him over with approval. Frenzkion Zorg was Dreadlord of the Faceless, the elite corps of the Wesnarian army, the only remaining sect of traditional Zarda warriors in all Kuolia. He was wrapped in a leopard skin to which he was personally entitled, although either the leopard had been on the small side or he spurned more than the bare minimum of covering. He was entitled to that conceit, for he was a tangle of bronzed muscle.

  "Success, Captain?"

  "As you commanded, Sire, we have taken a prisoner, a young man."

  Hexzion rubbed his fat hands. "Strong? Hardy?"

  "A wiry youth, Sire. He appears healthy."

  Frenzkion's expression was unreadable,
as always. The Faceless plucked out their beards, mustaches, and eyebrows, and tattooed their faces in white and black to resemble skulls. They also cut off their own noses to make themselves appear more ferocious to their enemies. These were traditions that Hexzion had not followed in his own case. He found pain better to give than to receive.

  "And his companions?"

  The skull's jaw twisted in what might have been a smile of satisfaction. "They sleep soundly, unaware that their sentry is missing."

  "Excellent! See that the men responsible are awarded extra time with the women. Well, bring him in! Fetch the braziers. We must learn who these intruders are, mustn't we?"

  The real joy in this situation was that the invaders were almost certainly just innocent traders, so there would be no secrets to reveal. Prisoners who babbled important information too quickly were always a disappointment. Denial let questioning be prolonged indefinitely.

  Hexzion headed for his favorite chair and then realized that the captain had not moved. "Well?"

  "The intruders had camped in two groups, Sire. You will recall that they were reported traveling in that style—four in the van, then sixteen following at a distance. They camped that way also, well apart."

  The king frowned. Frenzkion must see some significance in this, but his skull face was unreadable. "Why?"

  "The prisoner has confirmed that the small group are Jaulscaths, Sire."

  "Curse of Poul! Untrained Jaulscaths?"

  "I assume so. The prisoner also claims that there are other Cursed with the party."

  "Fates!" Hexzion roared. He drummed his fingers on the back of the chair while he thought the matter through. "This could be Raragash business!"

  "It is possible."

  "They may be on their way to Raragash!"

  "They were heading in that direction, Sire."

  The Academy would not approve of one of its agents being tortured to death. How very annoying! Hexzion felt cheated. What had he done to annoy the fates like this? He glared at the captain.

  "Have you hurt him yet?"

  "Very little, Sire. He volunteered information readily."

  "Lying?" the king asked hopefully.

  "I do not think so. He has a Zarda name but he is no Zardon."

  "Well, don't just stand there! Send for Han a'Lith! We've got to get to the truth of this."

  #

  In preparation for questioning, the prisoner had been stripped naked, bound, and gagged. He was brought in and sat in a chair. As Frenzkion had said, he was a wiry youth, but to Hexzion's experienced eye, he seemed more likely to die of shock than provide much entertainment. He just sat and stared at the king with his eyes bulging out of an ashen face. He did not even look around the tent to admire the furnishings.

  Hexzion puttered about, humming to himself as he sharpened knives and chose irons to warm on the braziers. Then Frenzkion returned, escorting Han a'Lith. The dumpy old man had obviously been dragged from sleep, and was in a foul mood. Being awakened by the Faceless would convince anyone that his worst nightmare had become real. His silvery hair and beard floated in all directions like cobwebs. His green smock clashed with both his blue breeches and his ruddy complexion. He had his sandals on the wrong feet.

  "Forget the apology!" he snarled. "I would see through it anyway." He frowned at the prisoner and then shuffled around to look at his face.

  "Thank you, dreadlord," Hexzion said in dismissal. He trusted his Faceless as far as he trusted anyone, which was about the distance between a wasp's eyebrows. There was no need to spill state secrets in front of Frenzkion. It was a'Lith who knew the secrets, of course. The stringy youth had no answers. All he was good for was questioning.

  The flap steadied. Now there were just the three of them.

  "Ask!" Han a'Lith growled. He settled into a chair and busied himself changing his sandals to the other feet.

  "What's your name, boy?" Hexzion demanded.

  The prisoner, being still tightly gagged, merely looked alarmed and waved his eyebrows up and down.

  "Polion Tharn," Han a'Lith said, sounding bored.

  The prisoner's eyes opened even wider, although that should not have been physically possible.

  "Why are you in my country?"

  Han a'Lith sat up a little straighter. "They're on their way to Raragash. They have Cursed with them." His voice grew more excited. "How many, lad? What Shoolscath said that about him? Who cured the old woman? Tibal who?"

  The prisoner stared at him in horror, unable to speak a word.

  "Hold it!" Hexzion barked. "I—"

  "No you don't!" Han a'Lith said testily. "Be quiet. This Ivielscath she whipped?..."

  He fired off a dozen more incomprehensible queries, then leaned back in the chair and ran both hands through his hair. "Well!" His face had turned even redder than usual. He looked up at Hexzion with a sly smirk. "Very interesting! Very interesting! You'd better not tamper with that band, Sire! Oh, no! Indeed not!"

  "Explain!"

  Han a'Lith tittered. "Can't!"

  "You are contracted to serve as—"

  "But under the terms of the contract I am not required to reveal any of the Academy's own secrets. No, this is epic! The boy doesn't know the half of it. This goes well beyond the business of a petty tyrant like you, Hexzion Garab!"

  Hexzion's hand went to his sword.

  The old man's eyes narrowed, but he laughed shrilly. "No you can't! I know all your nasty secrets, and I can spread them through half the camp in an instant. And how long do you expect to live if you harm a Raragashian advisor? Mm? Not even that long. You'll have to let these pilgrims through. No, I insist. They have two members of the council with them! I doubt that anything you could do would stop them, anyway—anything at all!"

  But those pilgrims were blundering around...

  Han a'Lith grunted. He frowned and fondled his beard. "Yes, they are, aren't they? If Mokth throws its army into your trap, they'll be right in the middle of the battlefield! Well, that won't do. Send a messenger, then. Send them around by High Pass. They can get to Raragash just about as fast that way."

  He stood up and waggled a finger at the king. "Do as I say, or you void my contract! That goes for the Nogin, too! We'll both withdraw, and you'll count Raragash among your enemies."

  Hexzion wrestled with a fierce desire to draw his sword and slash the old pipsqueak to ribbons. But without Han a'Lith, how would he know when men began plotting treachery? Worse, life without a healer at his side would mean going back to having all his food tasted and nightmares of assassination. He had been negotiating for a Muolscath, also, to brighten his evenings with Arbim and the others.

  The Jaulscath smirked. "Wise of you! Now you can release this boy..."

  The boy knew too much. Hexzion was going to salvage something from the disaster this night had become, some entertainment.

  A'Lith grimaced at the thought and glanced toward the prisoner, whose eyes had just flamed with hope. "No, we can't let him go, can we? He's heard too much. Bother! I should have watched what I said. Mm! Tell me again about that fight in the hostel, lad."

  The boy blinked twice.

  The old man brightened at whatever he read in the prisoner's mind. He turned back to the king with a chuckle.

  "If I had known what a horror you were, Hexzion, I'd never have taken the contract. But I'll make a deal with you. By the old laws of the Zarda, any man who had ever killed another honorably could claim an honorable death, could he not?"

  Hexzion nodded suspiciously.

  "Thought so. This boy qualifies. Yes he does! So I'll give you someone else to play with, someone who deserves it much more than this one."

  "A traitor?"

  The little man gestured with both soft hands. "Almost. They're not quite ready to plot your demise, but they'll get there soon enough, and then I'll have to report them to you anyway."

  "I agree!" Hexzion said hoarsely. He hated nothing more than traitors—shadowy, faceless cowards plotting in the nig
ht.

  Han a'Lith pointed at the drape hiding the bedchamber. "That little Arbim minx of yours has been humping with Captain Olith. Know him?"

  Yes indeed! A big, arrogant, strong cavalry officer. And Arbim? Hexzion shivered. Oh, they would pay! How he would make them pay! The two of them together! Delicious visions floated through his head.

  The Jaulscath curled a lip at him. "You'd better hurry. She was listening. She's trying to escape under the back wall of the tent. Then summon Dreadlord Zorg and give the prisoner to the Faceless."

  40

  It was not yet dawn and thin mist filled the valley, but already a wan light was revealing the chaos in the camp. Gwin did not know who had awakened first and sounded the alarm; she was concentrating on comforting Niad. The two of them sat on a fallen tree amid the crushed grass, the litter of tents and packs. Men blundered around through the birch trees, cursing and shouting. Bulion was over by the horses, organizing a wider search. Jasbur was building a fire.

  "He promised!" Niad whimpered for the ninth or tenth time.

  "I am sure he did not leave of his own free will." That was Gwin's invariant response, and every time she thought how much better it would be to believe that Polion had run away voluntarily.

  Hooves thundered. She saw Ulpion riding off up the slope to the south, and someone else heading north. Was that wise? The enemy who had abducted Polion wanted to remain unseen. To hunt him out might increase Polion's danger—assuming he was still alive, which seemed unlikely after Tibal's hints the previous night.

  A pudgy, dark-haired woman stumped forward with a rolling, flat-footed gait. "Gwin Saj?"

  "Who?" Gwin stared for a moment. "Oh, Vaslar! I didn't recognize you!"

  "Nor did I. I came to ask if you have a mirror."