Lost Is The Night

by Greg James

  His eyes radiated envy.

  Barneth was honouring a brigand over Farness. How dare he.

  The games of these noble men, Khale thought. Even as allies they must wound one another. The need for superiority always wins out over respect. Ever was the way of men.

  Khale had not given up men and horses for the siege. He had not left a kingdom behind to ensure victory, nor had he ridden through the gates of Colm at Barneth’s side, as Farness must have done. For Hruth Farness was a man neither as rich nor as feared as Milius Barneth. He was a frail creature with a jutting prognathous jaw, long, loose ears, and an old maid’s flaxen hair, which he stroked with soft, constantly trembling fingers. His complexion was as limpid as the marsh-mists that haunted his homelands.

  He was not a catch by any means, and no lordly daughters had been sent to marry him and bear his seed. He was now too old to bring anything into the world, other than enfeebled bastards, and the Wetlands were no asset.

  Alosse, the Wanderer recalled, had perceived the worthlessness of the Wetlands in his younger days and had left them to whoever wanted them. Hruth’s father, Yluth, had not wanted them, but it was all he could conquer and hope to hold, being of a bloodline that lacked wealth and stature.

  Khale was sure Lord Farness had felt good, so good, riding through the streets of Colm, seeing its people slaughtered. Seeing the city fall had probably given the man his first true erection in months, or years.

  The whore beside Farness smiled at his jokes and let the Lord’s hands wander as they pleased, but Khale could see how her own eyes roamed about the room. As much as she was receiving coin for the night, he was sure she could pick out a dozen other men she would rather lay with than Hruth, and the withered twig of his manhood.

  Khale managed to arrest his attention from Farness, and cast his eyes over the other minor lords and chieftains. Tribesmen and nobles sitting together at table was no mean feat to achieve. The people of the forests and the mountains in these parts had been at each other’s throats for generations. Barneth must have paid them all very well to ensure one another’s company this evening.

  It was then that the Wanderer felt the eyes of another upon him. Someone was examining him as thoroughly as he was examining the assembled company. When he found those eyes among the candlelit throng, Khale was surprised to see whom they belonged to.

  Murtagh Alen, Captain of Colm’s City-Watch. Out of uniform in the black velvet and silk befitting Barneth’s retinue.

  What was he doing here, and how was he alive?

  The cold ferocity in Murtagh’s eyes, even from across the room, cut a path through the atmosphere of revelry. Barneth must have had good reason not to run him through, which meant the old man had been a traitor to Colm—and to Leste.

  I did not expect that, Khale thought. Well, well, life does continue to serve up certain surprises to me, after all.

  The long years became tedious when human nature operated according solely to its outward certainties; when seeming good showed itself to be laced with blackest bile, it was a balm to his mood.

  How refreshing.

  The old man of the City-Watch was more conceited than he had ever supposed. He had let an entire city and its people be crushed into dust. Even to Khale, that was impressive in its complete and utter dishonour. Colm would have fallen anyway. Khale had said as much to Alosse, although his words had fallen on deaf ears. But the people could have been made prisoners and slave-soldiers, rather than corpses that not even vermin and carrion-birds would deign to feed upon. Some dirty, foul thing had been done to Colm, and seeing Murtagh alive made the Wanderer more intrigued about what that was; though he had no doubt Murtagh had questions of his own.

  Khale had left Colm with Milanda in his arm and Leste in pursuit, yet here he was, returned with neither.

  “What of Leste and Milanda?” That was the question screaming out of Murtagh’s eyes.

  Khale tore at his meat and emptied his flagon without care or courtesy, matching Murtagh’s gaze. How he would like to pluck those accusing eyes from their sockets with the blade of a white-hot knife. So arrogant and righteous still, after being a party to the murder of his own people.

  Thine eyes offend me, old man, thought Khale, and I would cut them out.

  Maybe then, the man would talk and tell him the truth of what had happened to the city.

  He favoured Murtagh with a wine-stained smile and a crude gesture.

  “What have you done with my Leste?” said the eyes.

  Khale wondered that himself. What might have become of her after passing through the shadowglass mirror? But this was a feast and not the time for such thoughts.

  He found that he had a strong desire to get drunk.

  Very, very drunk.

  Chapter Five

  Lord Farness stumbled, drunk, from the Great Hall. He stayed on his feet only because of the support offered by Ealia, his whore. He leaned in, suggested they find somewhere cooler to lie down, and bit hard at the lobe of her ear. She did not recoil, but she did not like the pain much either. They left the hall as the servants rolled away more of the wine-kegs.

  Farness led Ealia deeper into the castle, down stairs that wound into its heart. As she went down, down, down, into the emptiness below, Ealia could smell the mould in the air and feel the soiled dampness of the lower vaults breathing on her skin. Barneth Castle was so aged a place. She knew from his talk at the feast, as he became increasingly drunk and bitter, that the Lord meant to defile this hallowed ground as a gesture to Barneth.

  To her, the castle was made somehow sacred by its great age, but whatever reluctance she might have had was washed away by knowing how much coin would be hers for letting Hruth Farness pleasure himself until the morning.

  Lords pay well, the other girls said. Let them do as they please on the night and scrub yourself raw on the morrow.

  They had descended far. Her slipper-clad feet touched the flagstones of the Barneth crypt, and here Farness stopped. This was the place he wished to sully: the burial place of their host’s ancestors. Through the dust and the gloom, she could see the doors of each tomb, set into the grey walls. The carven faces of Lord Barneth’s forebears thrust outwards, grim-faced men with hard, curling beards, while the lean, worn-out masks of their women seemed to cower in shadow.

  The whistling of Farness’ breath—so warm, so close— made her bite at her lip. He was whispering in her ear. He had an idea. He knew exactly what he wanted to do.

  Her palms were clammy as he took her fingers in his own and squeezed them hard. “You wait here. Lie down. I’m going to make myself comfortable. Then I will come in and take you.”

  “You want to be ... my wolf, your Lordship?” she asked as he kissed her wetly.

  “If you like,” he said, gnawing at her fingers as he had gnawed at the hog’s leg. “If you like, my dear.”

  He retreated into the dark, and she listened to the sound of him removing his clothes. Ealia shuddered to think what his body would be like underneath his finery. She imagined a hairless weasel or a shaven rat, nothing remotely wolf-like.

  “Lords pay well,” she whispered to herself. “He’d bloody well better do.”

  She took off her shoes and peeled away her stockings. They would get filthy down here. The crypt-stone left cold kisses on her soles and toes as she finished undressing.

  Filthy, she thought, filthy and dirty, but that’s the way Lords often like it.

  She reclined on the place he had indicated: a sarcophagus in the centre of the crypt, with the cruel features of Lord Barneth etched into its exterior. Farness meant not only to stain the resting place of his ally’s bloodline, but the place where Barneth’s mortal remains would, one day, be interred. Ealia peered into the black of the crypt’s arched heights and wished herself elsewhere. She could feel gooseflesh growing on her backside as she waited for Farness to make his entrance.

  Be the wolf, she thought. Be the wolf as much as you can, you perverted old lech, and then le
t’s be gone from here. I like it not.

  From the darkness, there came a sound.

  She sat up straight, arms across her breasts.

  Was someone else there?

  “My Lord?” she called.

  A footstep … a pause … and then another. A second pause. Then another step. There he was, steadily walking in, emitting soft groans. Farness came towards her, as naked as she was. His stunted manhood was hard; its thin head glimmered and wept.

  “Come here.” She whispered the rehearsed words in a tired voice. “Be my wolf, become wild for me, my Lord.”

  Ealia lay back across the stone and parted her thighs for him, closing her eyes, hoping it would be brief. She had heard tell that it would be with him.

  Thank the Gods, and their Shadows, and their bones for small mercies.

  She felt him kneeling, and then his hands were moving, reaching up inside her legs. His fingers made her gasp as their callused tips penetrated her. They were rough and cold as the stone she was lying upon.

  Then, she could feel his whole weight upon her.

  This was it.

  She closed her eyes.

  Yet something he was doing—a motion in his rhythm as he pushed the small hardness of his root into her—made her wonder if something was wrong, more wrong than it should be, with him. For a moment, she wanted to pull away, to make him withdraw, but she did not; it could mean a flogging for her if she refused him, or worse.

  A ride on the Wheel.

  She let him all the way in.

  Her breath quickened.

  He was rough and cold, like stone. Like something dead.

  Ealia could feel space closing in around her. Her heart was the knelling of a funeral bell. Her throat became tight and dry and harsh. She tried to move, to raise herself up, but she was caught under him. Her eyes became wet. It hurt inside, and she could feel herself bleeding, more than when she had her maiden-blood.

  Then, Farness lowered his face as if for a kiss, and she saw his eyes.

  His cold, dead eyes—blacker than the blackest night she had ever seen. And she saw a deep gash on his crown where white bone showed through flesh. Lord Hruth Farness was dead yet still somehow alive. She could feel his hands scrabbling at her neck. Ealia tried to scream but could not. The grip of his fingers tightened as he lowered the black pit of his mouth over her own.

  She knew nothing more.

  Chapter Six

  The feast was coming to an end as Cacea ascended the steps to the high table. Guests were slumped unconscious across tables; others had retreated to their quarters for some drunken rutting.

  She moved to Khale’s side. “Fill your cup, my Lord?”

  Khale grunted at her, trailing spit into his beard.

  He must have more than a keg of wine inside him, she thought, and he wants more. Best pour it and keep him sweet. He could be my way out of here.

  Before she could stop him, Dion Barneth groped his hand up to her breast and fiercely twisted her nipple through her dress. Cacea let out a sharp cry, lost her footing, and then lost the wine jug as well. It fell through space. It crashed to the floor, where it shattered completely.

  Silence fell in the Great Hall.

  What she had done had been done in sight of Milius Barneth.

  “Come here, girl,” the lord of the castle said quietly.

  She did.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Cacea ... Acacea Selwen, my Lord.”

  “Are you so eager to ride the Red Wheel, Acacea?” he asked. “To lose that fair skin of yours for good?”

  She shook her head. Her body, wordlessly shaking.

  “Speak, girl,” Barneth said, his voice becoming a whisper, though all who remained in the hall could hear it, “or I will have the Wheel brought here to the hall and you shall be our entertainment. It’s been some time since a girl was flayed in sight of guests at a feast of mine.”

  Khale got to his feet, swaying. He steadied himself by setting his palm on the table, before turning to face Barneth.

  “No ... she’s mine,” he slurred.

  Cacea watched as Barneth’s eyes searched the Wanderer’s features. “Yours, Master Khale? You want this clumsy slut? I have much better for you to choose from, I promise you.”

  “No, I’ll have ... want this ... one ... to be mine ... this night.”

  “Very well,” Barneth said. “Take her. Do as you like with her, Khale. But come the morning she must be gone from here, or I will do as I like with her.”

  Khale belched and staggered away from the table. He slung his arm around Cacea’s shoulder. She didn’t think he saw the thanks shining from her eyes as she caught him and stopped him from falling. He was very heavy.

  “If only you knew what I am,” he slurred. “If only you knew ...”

  “Master Khale,” she said hurriedly, “let me show you to your chamber.”

  He let her take some of his weight and walk him out of the hall. She helped him make his way through an arched doorway without banging his head on the stone. Before the door closed behind them, Barneth’s words carried through. “Remember, girl. Come the morning, be gone, or you ride the Wheel.”

  *

  Cacea helped Khale onto the bed in his chamber. He sprawled out, hiccupping, and closed his eyes.

  “Too much wine,” he muttered. “Too much fucking ... wiiine!”

  “You had near a whole keg.”

  Khale grumbled into his beard.

  “What’s my life to you?”

  “Eh, what say you?”

  “My life,” she repeated. “If you are all of the things you claim to be, or rather do not claim to be, then what’s my life to you? What does it matter if Lord Barneth takes the skin from my back tomorrow morning and hangs it on his walls? Why do you give me your hand in fealty rather than to him, Khale?”

  “You ask too many questions.” He groaned.

  “I need to, otherwise I will never know the answers.”

  “Ha! True ... true ...” he trailed off.

  She sat down beside him and made no move to leave.

  “What ...” Khale asked, “ … do you want of me ... then, girl?”

  “To get out of here. To leave this bastard place.”

  “Then go ... go,” he said, waving his hand unsteadily at the door.

  “You think Barneth will let me? If I leave alone, he’ll have the dogs after me. He talked about the Wheel. He will hurt me in long, lingering ways once this night is over.” She paused, licked her lips, “I want you to take me with you.”

  Khale stared back at her, remembering the words of the Crone. “Only her life ...”

  Could this be her? The one he was tasked to preserve?

  “Why ... ride with me?”

  “Because I would rather die out there in the world than alone and afraid in here.”

  Khale considered her words. He thought of Milanda. Then, he tried not to think of her.

  “You may ride ... with me,” he said. “But first, bring me some water ... to clear my senses.”

  Cacea rose and brought him a leather jug from the table.

  But Khale did not drink from it.

  A rumbling snore escaped from his open mouth.

  Cacea tried to rouse him, but it was like trying to shake a mountain into wakefulness. He did not move. He continued to snore. Dead to the world.

  She sighed, got to her feet and left him to abide for a while. Barneth had given her until morning; she had a little time yet. There was one last thing she would do before leaving this dark place behind.

  She left Khale and closed the door of his chamber behind her.

  On her way, Cacea stopped by the castle kitchens and filled a clay bowl with scraps of congealing, gristled meat.

  The hour was late as she eased open the door of the castle chapel, padded through, and closed it quietly behind her. Candles flickered at the bases of the four shrouded idols. The gauze of the coverings seemed to stir from a non-existent breeze a
s she came closer and made the four bows. She set the bowl of scraps down at the foot of the idol she wished to pray to: Mirane, the Starv’d One.

  Cacea knelt and closed her eyes.

  “You come here at a curious hour,” said a voice.

  Her eyes sprang open and she turned to see who had spoken. It was a Sister of the Church, one who was very scrawny and shaven-headed. The woman tottered out of the shadows towards her. Her pale eyes were slightly glassy, but Cacea felt that all reason had not fled there. Not yet.

  Something still lingered on.

  “I know it is late,” she said. “but I came to pray for my family, for my brother mostly.”

  “Ah, and I see you have made an offering of meat from the Lord’s table. Good. Mirane has a taste for flesh, as do all of the Four, but he alone takes it in the kindest fashion. Your family are in need of succour?”

  Cacea shrugged. “I don’t know. They live far from here, but it is hard living for all in these times, and I often worry that they do not have enough.”

  “Then,” the Sister asked, “why leave them? Surely, another pair of hands would have made their lives easier.”

  “I had to,” Cacea said. “I could not stay there.”

  “A wanderer’s spirit, eh? Is that what has grown in your breast? A desire for the hardness of the path rather than the comfort of a warm hearth?”

  “I wonder how much comfort there is in the world,” Cacea said.

  The Sister sighed. “Come sit with me.”

  Cacea arose and took a chair next to her. The old woman trembled somewhat.

  “Are you all right?”

  “The cold of the nights,” the Sister said. “It reaches into my bones with cruel fingers and makes me feel such pain. Ah, me.” She opened her hands and showed Cacea the scars criss-crossing her palms, and more recent cuts, still healing, on her arms.

  “I make many offerings to Voyane, but the Blood-Creator does not hear me. I know not why. Perhaps, the tremblings of an old woman are too small a matter for a Goddess to care for. The Four, I fear at times they merely make play with us. We dance, cavort, fall, and bleed for them, but when we age and become too old to offer them much pleasure, they no longer listen. They no longer care. We are cast aside, forgotten.”