by Janzen, Tara
Morgan slipped along the inside passage of the southwest tower, his jaw set, his mood dangerous. He had done naught but chase his tail this night. The walls on either side of him were timbered and led him down toward the pit. He’d searched the lower and upper baileys and the garrison and had found no one and nothing, but given the happenings earlier in the night, he had not gone over the wall. If there was to be more trouble, it would take place in the southwest tower, and if Dain and Ceridwen were together, Dain would bring her there. As it was, they both seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.
The tower was strangely empty, with most of the castle guards scurrying around the baileys and swarming over the keep. Even at that, they were a loose-fingered bunch. There had been the sound of battle around midnight, the clash of swords unmistakable in the air. He’d raced back along the wall only to find himself too late. Dain had been taken and the maid lost, so shouted the captain deriding Balor’s mesnie.
Where Dain had been taken had been easy to deduce. Balor was no great castle. Breaching the keep had also been relatively easy, with only one man killed in the process. Getting to Helebore’s damned dungeon and finding himself again too late, because hell had already broken loose and Dain was gone, had not been easy. He’d been quick enough to be part of the group breaking down the door, and anonymous enough in the dead man’s helmet and hauberk. He had been quick enough to hear a woman’s cry and to see Dain disappear—of all the damned things—into a tunnel hole near the ceiling of the damned smelly room.
But so help him God, no matter how hard he’d tried, he had not been able to squeeze himself through the same hole. Being no bigger than Dain, he didn’t know how his friend had done it.
The sound of approaching footsteps had him drawing his dagger. Dawn’s light filtered down into the hall through the cracks in the timbering, enough to see and be seen, but he was in no mood to hide and possibly too eager to fight. Each man of Balor killed now was one fewer to face later.
The footsteps faded down a different corridor, giving the man another day of life, and Morgan continued on toward the pit and the ironclad door that sealed it. Beyond the maze of the pit he would search for the passage that led to the caves below. Mayhaps Dain and Ceridwen would show up there from their sojourn through the guts of Balor’s keep.
As he neared the door, he tilted his head to one side to listen. He had been to the pit only when Caradoc was taking wagers and fighting animals. Be they boars, bears, dogs, cocks, or a combination thereof, men were always stationed at the door during the spectacles to confiscate weapons in an effort to keep the bloodletting in the pit itself and out of the gallery. Whether there would be guards at dawn, he did not know.
Someone coughed up ahead beyond where he could see, and he cursed to himself. His luck was holding at bad. At least one man guarded the door.
Wisdom dictated that he proceed with caution, but he gave wisdom not a pittance of consideration. Tossing his dagger into his right hand, he drew his sword with his left. He was going through the damn door, no matter how many blocked the way. His strides were long despite his limp, and as he rounded the last corner, a quick glance proved the odds not in his favor.
There were three guards.
He did not hesitate, but clasped his two hands together, melding dagger hilt to sword grip, and swung a mighty blow at the first man, hitting him on the side of the head and knocking him senseless into the wall. The man slid down the timbers, blood running from beneath his helmet, yet even as Morgan raised his sword to block the second man’s blade, he lunged in with his dagger and cut the first man’s throat. There would be no dealing with the same guard twice.
The third man flanked him, and near hacked Morgan’s arm off with his initial attack. Morgan countered with a quick cut up the man’s forearm as part of his defensive parry. He met blow after blow, pressing his attack on two fronts with his sword and dodging in close to wound any unprotected flesh with his dagger. The lack of maneuvering room threatened him more than either of the mediocre swordsmen, but it was a true enough threat with the two of them bearing down on him. He blocked a thrust and ducked beneath another while the scrape of metal against metal rang in his ears. Then, of a sudden, the third man slammed back against the timbers, impaled by an arrow. The remaining guard was dispatched by another even as he gawked at his comrade.
Morgan let his sword arm fall, but kept his dagger up. That had been close. The swivin’ flight of the second arrow had brushed his cheek, he’d swear it. Breathing heavily, sweat running down under his stolen hauberk, he looked down the hall for his rescuer—or his next opponent.
’Twas Llynya who stepped into the dusty stream of sunlight.
“Malashm,” she said, looking unkempt and yet wildly pretty by the light of day.
Surprised, he lowered his dagger. Her hair was dark, as he would have guessed, but from what he’d seen of her in the night, he would not have guessed her so lovely, her eyes so green, or her mouth so lush. “Good shot,” he said, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Both of them.”
“Ceridwen?” she asked.
He shook his head, still catching his breath. “Might have heard her voice. Couldn’t tell for sure.”
“Dain?”
“Alive. Last saw him diving into a tunnel on his way out of Helebore’s dungeon.”
“Aye, the place is riddled with holes snaking through the ground.” She walked over to the first dead man and rolled him onto his back. Quickly efficient, she patted him down for keys. When they weren’t on his belt, she went to the next man.
Morgan watched, very aware of the shortness of her skirts and the graceful length of her legs as she bent over each guard. Her clothes moved with the fluidity of water. The twigs and leaves in her hair gave her a woodland nymphish look he had not noticed in their haste to scale Balor. But now, with the heat of battle flowing through him and dawn’s light revealing her face, he wondered if she knew how perfect the moment was for a kiss.
She looked up then, and he had his answer. The sprite had no notion of the fetching picture she made, or of the path his thoughts had taken. Yet such innocence could be transformed with even a chaste kiss and a caress. He knew the way of it well enough.
“And you, Morgan ab Kynan,” she said. “How do you fare?”
He grinned. There would be no kissing of dark-haired maids this morn. “I am but warmed and ready for the next foe,” he assured her.
“Then let’s hope the third man has the key.” She gestured to the body at his feet.
He dropped to one knee and searched the guard. “There are none.”
“Sticks!” she swore, though ’twas her tone rather than the word that let him know she was cursing. Sticks? He’d said worse as a babe.
He rose to his feet and gave the lock a thoughtful look, then reached into her hair for one of her sturdier twigs. “Oak?”
“Aye.” She nodded, and a silky loop of curls tumbled down the side of her face.
Morgan near swore himself then, to counteract the sudden lurch he felt in his heart. He forced his attention back to the necessary deed, and with the tip of his dagger and the stick, contrived to release the lock.
“Stay light on your feet,” he warned her, opening the door a bare crack and peering inside. “The pit is known for traps and wild boars, either of which could kill you in a heartbeat.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Mayhaps you should stay here. I’ll come back for you, if the way is clear.”
She gave him a look that plainly said she was not staying anywhere, and pushed by him. “You have not seen light on your feet, until you have traveled with me, ab Kynan. As for boars, I know their tricks better than the sows that dropped them.”
There was naught for Morgan to do but follow her into the pit and pray she told the truth.
~ ~ ~
Dain pulled Ceridwen to a stop as soon as they reached a place where he could stand.
“Wait,” he said, leaning his back against the wall, one hand gripping
hers tightly, the other arm wrapped around her waist.
“Snit,” she called ahead to her strange companion. He’d caught a glimpse of the boy before they’d dragged him into the tunnel, if boy he was. “Can you get some water?”
“Aye.”
’Twas dark, yet Dain knew when Snit was gone. He felt on his belt for the cool crystal grip of Ayas and pulled the knife free, squeezing it in his palm. Blue light emanated from the crystal as he had hoped. Rhuddlan’s magic was strong.
“Have you been hurt?” he asked, holding the dagger out far enough for the light to reach her face.
“Aye,” she said, a pained catch in her voice.
A deep chill washed through the center of his body, his fear realized. He closed his eyes in defeat and dropped his head. Utter fool that he was, on the long ride to Balor he had succumbed to desperation and prayed to her God to keep her safe, and her God, the same who had abandoned him in Palestine, had refused him again.
“But only for the pain you have suffered, Dain,” she said. He felt her hand on his cheek, the caress of her thumb. “Caradoc did not touch me with so much as a look. ’Twas you he tortured with his knife.”
His eyes opened. “He did not rape you?”
She shook her head, and relief sapped the last of his strength. Still holding her hand, he slid down the wall, until they were both sitting on the earth and stone floor of the tunnel.
“Ragnor?” he asked. “Did you kill him?”
“Aye. I slit his throat,” she said without a tremor.
“’Twas a blessing, no doubt.”
“No doubt.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “When Snit returns, I’ll wash the blood from your face. Do the cuts pain you?”
A short laugh came up from his throat. “His intent was not to cause me pain, but to give me pleasure, the lying bastard, as if I had acquired a taste for his sickness. Like me, he is far better with a knife than he would wish. Any cuts he gives are apurpose and caused by no lack of skill.” He adjusted his position and winced. She and that Snit of hers had near squeezed the life out of him, dragging him through the tunnel. “Caradoc could shave the down off a babe’s buttocks and leave less than a blush to mark the blade’s passing.”
“I don’t understand,” she said in a softly confused voice.
He should have expected no less, but it was not easy to hear the question in her words. Still, he would not lie to her. “And I do, and mayhaps that is what you don’t understand.”
“Mayhaps,” she admitted.
A sigh that was half groan escaped him as he reached into a pouch on his belt. She must have heard the worst of Caradoc’s soliloquy and apparently wasn’t going to have the grace to lie to him either. He brought out a Quicken-tree cake and broke it in half.
“Rhuddlan swears by seedcake for all that ails a person.” He gave her a portion, then watched until she took a bite. “You heard Caradoc speak of a man, Jalal al-Kamam?”
Her gaze lifted and met his, the blue of her eyes enhanced by the light of Ayas, and for a moment he feared he would falter.
“Jalal trades in people, traveling the desert with his caravan of slaves to be bought or sold, for pleasure or pain, to whomever has gold enough to buy.” He forced his gaze not to waver from hers. “I ended my Crusade as one of those slaves, some said the best he ever had. As bedzhaa I was sold many times to many people, until my worth as a magician proved more to Jalal than my worth as a whore.”
Her lashes swept downward, and the hand he’d held she withdrew into her lap.
That hurt. He released another sigh. “I cannot be other than what I am, Ceri, and I cannot change what once was—though God knows I try,” he added in a disgusted mutter.
“I would have you no other way, except for the pain you have suffered.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible. She reached out and tentatively touched the bleeding scar on his wrist.
“Ah. That was only foolishness,” he assured her with a small lie. “Nothing more. I was no child when Jalal chose me from out of Saladin’s prison, and I, too, was given a choice.” He slipped his hand around hers. “He was both savior and destroyer, and I often did not know where the one began and the other left off. He taught me the magic you like so well, Ceri, and much more besides the lowest paths of pleasure. Without Jalal, I could not have opened the Druid Door and would not have been in Wydehaw to save you.”
“A steep price to pay for the saving of an unknown maid.”
“But I know you now... and I have known you.” His thumb caressed the back of her hand, adding an intimate meaning to his words.
Tears spilled from beneath her lashes, and when he bent to kiss them from her cheeks, she moved so that their mouths met.
“You are mine, Dain Lavrans,” she whispered against his lips. “All that you once were, and all that you are, are both a part of me, will always be a part of me.”
He kissed her then, unable to resist what she offered, even as he vowed to hide the worst of it from her with at least as much success as he hid it from himself. Caradoc with his talk of knives. Christ, even the buggery had been worse than the knives. If a man wanted to be cut, Dain had not suffered any qualms in doing it. If a man wanted to be tantalized with razor-sharp daggers scraped along his skin, he’d been happy to comply, and unlike Caradoc, careful enough not to draw blood unless Jalal had been paid for blood.
But the ambrosia. When demons crawled out of his mind in the night and slid beneath his skin to make him shiver and shake, they smelled and tasted of opium-laced kif. The fiendish stuff had stolen more of his soul than buggery had ever stolen of his manhood.
“If yer through, I haves the water.” Snit, sounding none too happy, had returned.
Dain lifted his mouth from Ceridwen’s. They were far from safe. Truly, he would not feel so until he had taken her north.
They both drank, and Dain offered Snit a piece of Quicken-tree cake, which improved the boy’s mood.
“’Sgood.” Eyes as green as summer leaves watched Dain from above a black stripe of paint. The pair of them were marked as demons, though Dain doubted if they could conjure up a thimbleful of evil between them. A dirty fif braid hung down the left side of the boy’s face. Dain said nothing, but wondered if Rhuddlan knew he’d lost one of his own. Despite the deformity of his body, Snit was undeniably Quicken-tree, and young enough to still have dark hair.
“I s’pose yer looking for a way out too,” Snit said.
Dain shook his head. “A way in, to the pit, and beyond the pit to the Light Caves.”
“The pit?” Snit wrinkled up his fine nose. “’Tis a rank place, the pit, and good for naught but teasing the boars that run there.”
“Loose?”
“Not all, but one pretty much ’as his way with the place, a big, nasty boar, name of Old Groaner. Caradoc’s made a fortune off of that one, he ’as.”
“Can you take us there?”
“Aye, if yer sure that’s where ye want to go.” Snit looked doubtful.
Dain was not. “I’m sure.”
~ ~ ~
“Llynya!” Morgan yelled. Light, he needed more damn light. He’d lost her. She was as quick as she’d said, too damn quick.
The awful noise that had sent her running came again, a low, pained, and brutish groan echoing back and forth through the maze. It ended in a deep, rasping squeal that tore through the air and made the hair rise on the nape of his neck.
“Shit,” he swore. ’Twas a boar. Mayhaps, one left from the last match. A wounded boar someone had not finished off.
This far in, the pit smelled of blood spoor and offal. Debris and bones were thick upon the floor. She’d get herself lost for sure. No one could smell their way through such a stench, and the light offered by the few smoking torches along the walls did little to illuminate the maze. He kicked aside a rotting carcass.
“Llynya!” He strode forward, sword at the ready, wishing he had a spear. Meeting a wounded boar with no more than the length of a sword between
them would be a quick death.
He swore again, determined to find her. They had traversed most of the maze with her unerringly leading the way. Why she had spooked with the boar’s groaning, he did not know. One instant she’d been next to him, and in the next, she’d been gone. Disappeared in a twinkling.
“Llynya, damn you! Answer me!” he bellowed, demanding a reply. If he drew the boar, so much the better, for he’d formed a sudden, inexplicable attachment to the sprite and would not have her harmed.
A softly sung song came to him then, winding its way through the maze on a melody of lilting notes. Could only be she. He followed the sound, and as he came closer to the source, noted the strange words of the verse:
“Fai quail a’lomarian, es sholei par es cant...”
A tremor of fear trickled through her voice. A blue light shone up ahead, around a bend in the walls, and he broke into a run.
“Pwr wa ladth... Pwr wa ladth... Pwr wa ladth...” Her song became a nervous chant or a pleading.
Morgan skidded to a halt at the turn. ’Twas Llynya, aright, cornered by the boar in a dead end of the maze, holding him off with the wrong end of her dagger, which was doing the most peculiar thing. It was glowing.
Magic. He swore and crossed himself. Just his luck to fall for a pagan maid who wielded magic with the grip of her blade. She had the beast transfixed with the crystal light and her song.
Something was going wrong, though, for the rangy old boar was tossing his head, slicing at the air with his tusks, and stepping closer, his cloven hooves stamping up small puffs of dust. Her voice faltered.
Morgan did not hesitate, but moved in with his sword held high and brought it crashing down in a mighty blow, slashing into the beast’s neck with the force of every muscle in his body. The cut was deep, severing the animal’s spinal cord and dropping him paralyzed to the floor. The boar’s eyes rolled back at him as blood gushed from the wound.
“’Twas my duty... Rhuddlan told me... protect you,” Llynya babbled breathlessly. Morgan put his boot to the animal’s flanks and shoved the beast off his blade. “I thought to bait the boar, to keep you safe. I thought I could—”