"Are you sure you want to do this, Coronea?" he asked. Xanthippus could see that Gorgeo understood the value of her plan. He was a man accustomed to issuing hard orders, but this was eight against a thousand. He left it to her to decide. She was indeed the Huntress and he a man of iron.
"We will catch up with you by the next nightfall," she said.
"I will accompany you." The voice was that of the village boy, and he was not asking. He stepped forward manfully. His sickle was gone, but his anger remained. "I buried the dead of these demons, my own father among them. The rest of my village has scattered before them, to fates unknown. If they can be killed, it is my right to kill them. You cannot deny me."
"They can be killed," Coronea said, "and I would not deny you. Can you shoot?"
"I am the best bowman you have ever seen," the lad said.
"Then you shall join us. Come!"
Chapter 16
Menleco could feel someone watching him. His eyes snapped open.
But for the light of a full moon, the bedchamber inside his tent was just as he remembered it upon falling asleep. The armor he had hung on a tent pole was still there, a man-shaped apparition, yes, but no different than he had left it, certainly not to be mistaken for one watching him. Crickets and frogs he heard clear enough. What he did not hear was more telling--the deep, sleeping breaths of his wife. Lyssa breathed as one awake. And what of that slight flutter of movement? Had that been her eyes snapping shut the moment he had looked her way?
He reached under his pillow and was satisfied when his fingers found the hilt of his dagger, just as he had left it. Lyssa did not sleep, that he knew. But he wondered if she watched over him in the night, perhaps even with dagger in hand. Did she gaze upon his sleeping face, struggling to summon the courage to use it?
He rolled out of bed, feeling the stiffness in his knees and shoulders. This was not the first night he could not sleep, not the first night he had felt scrutinized. He dressed quietly, watching Lyssa's back as it heaved deeply in mock-sleep. She was his wife, and every morning that she awoke in his bed caused pain to King Areus and, indeed, to all of Prathia. He would have thought that that alone would have been enough to make him happy, but -- gods help him! -- he wanted her to love him too. Might as well ask to fill his goblet with all of the Middle Sea. Even now, he caught himself walking on cat's feet so as not to disturb the woman who one day he knew would try to kill him in his sleep.
Pathetic old man!
He removed his armor from its peg on the tent pole. He might as well get ready for the day. The Shadow Riders had been riding hard for a week now and he was eager to put this campaign behind him. He would find this Clautias for the Irrylians, though he bore the man no personal hatred. He was expecting word any day now of the successful conclusion to the Tygetian affair. The Irrylians would have Clautias in their hands and Hurrus in the ground, and Menleco's purse would be bulging for his efforts. He could return to his estate and go back to entertaining emissaries from all over the Middle Sea, whoever had need of Prathian spearpoints.
He strapped on his leather corselet, watching his wife's farcical show of sleeping. Do you dream, my dear? He wondered if one who pretended to sleep also pretended to dream. The notion struck him funny.
He could not vouch for her sleeping dreams, but he knew what she dreamt of while awake; she dreamt of heroes and of champions. But their numbers dwindled almost as soon as she thought of them. Poor dear. He might have pitied her for her disappointment, so endless it was. The Tygetian agents would take care of Xanthippus and Nydeon. The men would simply vanish, he had been assured. Fools to believe they would be allowed to live. He had loved the men once. For a time, Xanthippus had been his right hand when Menleco's right hand had been deadly indeed. Never had there been a more natural warrior than that one, a man born fighting from the womb, a prized find. Menleco would almost be sorry to lose him. Lyssa certainly would. There was a time, he knew, when she had been counting on him to save her.
Yet another funny thought, in its own way. This time he even chuckled a little.
He was amazed by how his mood could improve simply by waking and not finding a blade poised to open his throat. It was indeed the little things in life that made one happy.
By the time he ducked through the flap and into the front room of the tent, he found himself whistling a cheerful little tune. Softly, though, so as not to wake those who yet slept. When you actually stopped to consider, there were few obstacles in life that were not easily overcome.
He heard voices from outside, muted but angry.
"This oaf of a guard will not allow me through," Captain Raulon complained when Menleco emerged from the tent.
"It is the middle of the night and the general sleeps," the guard snapped. It was the same young fellow Menleco had nearly throttled earlier in the week. He couldn't remember his name, but he'd lay odds the boy remembered Menleco's grip.
"The general does not sleep now," Menleco said.
The guard stiffened with a start and slammed his fist to his chest. "Sir! I didn't realize you were awake, sir...General, sir..."
"It's all right," Menleco said. He laid a calming hand on the guard's shoulder, fearing that he might pop a vessel. It was then that he noticed a second young man, this one dressed in a filthy farmer's tunic with a wisp of beard under his chin. "What have we here?" Menleco asked. The filth on his tunic might have been blood. In the moonlight, it appeared black.
"The lad brings us news from the countryside," Captain Raulon said.
"A farm boy come to complain of the theft of a few chickens, no doubt." Menleco looked the boy over. A complainer or a beggar, one of the two certainly. A righteous fire in his eye made Menleco lean toward the former, but it was hard to tell. Epirians were known to beg as fervently as they groused. "Surely, Captain, these tiresome appeals can wait for sunup when I've had my breakfast."
"I would not bring him to you if I didn't think it was important."
Menleco sighed. He had worked himself into a good humor for nothing. "Let him speak then. You must have a name..."
"Vonos," the young man said, stepping forward. "Son of Umey."
Menleco shrugged his shoulders. Oh, the grandiosity of youth and its silly pretensions. He wanted to laugh. "Is that supposed to mean something to me? I hate to tell you, but it is gibberish in my ears."
The boy didn't seem put off at all. "Perhaps a certain band of rebels means something to you. Perhaps the name 'Gorgeo' is more than gibberish in your ears."
Menleco looked up sharply. He might have had no personal hatred for the man Clautias, but the rebel bands were another matter. They had plagued his every step all the way to Irrylia, attacking his wagon train and ambushing footmen. He had crucified them, he had impaled them. Soon he would break them as the Shadow Riders broke the will of the people wherever they went. Oh, yes, he longed to get his hands on Gorgeo. Taler would pay handsomely for that one.
"Tell me more," Menleco said.
"Ah, but I have more than just information about Gorgeo and his bandits," Vonos said. "What I have to tell you is worth your life."
Grinning slyly, Vonos moved past Raulon, an unnecessary intermediary, and boldly entered the sphere of Menleco himself. Up close, the general saw that there was less farm boy than bandit in this one as well, and the commander of the Shadow Riders did not bargain with brigands.
"You have entered the camp of the Shadow Riders, which means your life is forfeit, Vonos, son of Umey. To loosen your tongue, I offer you only your life. If your information is pleasing to me, I will reward you in silver. Now, out with it."
Greed flashed in Vonos' eye. Menleco loved simple men. "A group of Gorgeo's rebels have set up an ambush for you on the road to the south. I am fresh from there myself."
Vonos went on to describe Gorgeo's sojourn in the burned-out village and his own presence there.
"When I came upon them, the villagers had already been removed from the stakes and buried in shallow graves. I d
ug a couple of them up, looking for silver. I supposed it was your handiwork and should have known better than to think I'd find anything of value remaining."
Menleco realized Vonos was intending to flatter him. One killer to another. Menleco nodded as he supposed brothers of a trade might and Vonos continued.
"I covered them up again, but when I heard hoof beats approaching--lots of them--I thought it was Shadow Riders come back. So I hid--only to find myself surrounded by Gorgeo and his band of brigands. I had to pretend to be one of them."
"But what of this ambush?" Menleco asked impatiently.
Vonos grinned, approaching the crux of his story's significance. This was where he would earn his silver.
"There is an ambush waiting for you in the pass to the south, near the temple. Eight men. Bow-armed. Wait, make that seven men. The eighth stands before you." He grinned again. "Six really, for one is a woman..."
Like Vonos, Menleco began calculating the weight of the story in gold. "Is Gorgeo himself among them?"
Vonos' eyes lit up. "No, but the Huntress is."
"Coronea!" Menleco exclaimed. This mysterious girl was no Gorgeo, but her name was increasingly to be found on the lips of every captive. Taler would be pleased to meet her in person. Very pleased.
Vonos began laughing. "I have her convinced that I am a zealot, like the rest of them. As if I give a damn about her bloody cause, whatever it is."
"You will lead us to this place at once," said Menleco.
"And my silver?"
"Silver you shall have, Vonos. Two pieces per rebel head. Four for the Huntress, if taken alive."
Half an hour later, Menleco, with Vonos riding beside him, led a column of twenty Shadow Riders to the south. They stopped on a rise that gave them a good view of the road as it disappeared into a gap between two craggy crests. The crests rose out of a long line of ridges that marked the beginning of the southern Epirian hill country. The mountains of Prathia were not far off. In the moonlight, the road was a pale ribbon. The crests were interlaced with fissures and pockmarked with scrub and growths of little twisted black trees.
"They are hiding in those rocks." Vonos indicated the dark crags above the road. Behind them, the horses of the twenty snorted and pawed at the rocky ground. Menleco could hear the creaking of the Riders' leather armor and saddles. "They can be approached unseen from the far side of that ridge, or through the little temple complex, there."
Menleco followed his pointing finger and saw the white colonnaded temple where it sat upon a sheer rock face overlooking a small sleeping city below.
"The temple is of Two-Face," Vonos explained, speaking of Ardonis, god of both Good Fortune and Calamity. "There is a little torturous path up the rock face from the city. The devout demand an arduous climb to the houses of their gods. I myself prefer straighter and flatter paths to wherever I'm going. Two-Face be damned, eh? How about you fellows?"
Captain Raulon sat with his helmet tilted back over his forehead, his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle. "They could be anywhere in those rocks."
"Could be, but they're not. They are right where I say they are," Vonos said.
Menleco looked over the landscape. The road through the pass formed a natural ambuscade. Following Vonos' plan, he could also see how the bushwhackers could be ensnared in their own trap. "Raulon, take ten men across that ridge. The rest will come with me through the temple complex. And, Vonos…You will stay by my side, for if anything is not as you say, you will be the first to be struck down."
Vonos showed not the slightest hesitation. Menleco would have said the lad was enjoying himself. Never had he seen the prospect of a few bits of silver make a man happier. "You will find everything as I say it is," he said.
The first man they found exactly where Vonos had said he would be. While the rest of Menleco's group waited near the temple, two of the Shadow Riders dismounted and clambered up the rocky hill and disappeared over the crest. They reappeared minutes later, one of them making a slicing motion across his throat to show that the deed was done. Just like that, quiet and quick. Menleco wondered what thoughts had gone through the mind of the rebel as he turned to see two skulls smiling down at him from the rocks above. It was almost a disappointment. Anonymous killing was not all it was cracked up to be.
"That's two silvers for me," Vonos said, still grinning.
Menleco relaxed a little, but only until he heard a cry from the far side of the road. It was followed by other voices raised in alarm. Raulon's men. Menleco reached over and grabbed a black leather fistful of Vonos' tunic.
"If this is a trick--" Menleco began, but his voice stopped short when he saw the throat-slashing Rider pitch forward and fall flat on his face. His companion crouched in the shadows of the rocks. Menleco searched the ridgeline and saw a black shape dart away from under a twisted little tree.
In the next instant, an arrow sprouted from between the shoulder blades of the Rider next to him. He had just been dismounting when the arrow took him. He fell against his horse and then crumpled to the ground. His horse whinnied and bolted. Menleco's own horse reared as arrows loosed from the dark rocky slope above began to buzz past his ears. A second Rider fell, an arrow protruding from his chest. The rest of the men scattered. Menleco turned to Vonos, but he had vanished.
Treachery!
"Get back here!" he cried, but his men were in full panic as arrows flew at them from the darkness.
One struck his horse in the neck, another in its flank. Wild-eyed, the horse sank to its knees and Menleco rolled away from the creature, hitting the ground with a breathless thud. Springing to his feet, he found himself alone in the temple courtyard. An arrow clattered off the pavement, narrowly missing him. He had to get out of bowshot range of the hillside. His black form set against the white marble of the pavement would make him an easy target. As men began shouting in the distance, growing closer, he turned and ran.
He felt men chasing him--sensed it more than knew it--though his were the only footsteps that rang across the courtyard. Those who pursued him were masters of stealth, he could see that now. He slid past columns and under the shadows of statuary. He ran past an altar draped with strips of unburnt, rotting meat. The priests had abandoned the temple when the Shadow Riders came, but the devout stole up the rock face at night and left their pathetic little offerings while the demons up the road gorged themselves and pissed around their fires. Menleco's scouts had brought back reports of them, laughing at their efforts to get Ardonis to turn his stubborn face. Just one more lamb, just one more jar of oil…Like all of the Gyriecian gods, Ardonis was a true bastard.
Menleco zigged and zagged up the steps to the temple. He could not say how many arrows had bounced off the pavement at his feet, but he was mad to lose himself in the shadows under the massive columns. There he would be safe. The Huntress would have to come close to get him where her bow would profit her little. Better still, Menleco could duck inside the temple itself, for he spied a gap between the giant bronze doors. He rushed to them and slipped through.
Inside, the only sound was Menleco's frantic breathing. His heart pounded in his chest and blood pulsed in his ears. He drew his dagger and pressed himself up against the inside of the door, his chest heaving. He waited for his pursuer to emerge through the opening. Tens of seconds passed, but no one appeared. He relaxed and as his breath began to slow, he was certain he could make out footfalls from the steps outside. Cleverly, they did not approach the entrance, but he could hear them scuttling around to either side of it. Then he saw another pair of huge doors on the adjacent wall, a crack of moonlight between them. Gods! Another way in. They were surrounding him. He pushed his body from the door and ran into the heart of the temple, towards Ardonis himself.
Ten men high, the god stood with one arm upraised in greeting, his smiling face of Good Fortune peering down at all who entered. A light from behind Ardonis shone dim and red, a goodly dollop of priestly everflame behind a floor-to-ceiling rectangle of crimson g
lass. When Menleco came around the side of the statue, he saw Ardonis' second face. This one bore the weeping and wailing countenance of Calamity, tinged red with the fires of despair. Southern Epirians and Prathians were forever beseeching the deity to show them his smiling face. They lived constantly with the knowledge that a single twitch of his head might result in disaster without parallel. Menleco would have long ago deemed Two-Face unappeasable, but his worshippers would never cease trying.
The clacking of Menleco's hobnailed sandals on the marble floor reverberated and bounced off the temple walls in all directions. How many pursuers rushed across the floor at him, he could not tell. Perhaps they stayed in the shadows along the base of the walls, meaning to encircle him. Menleco could not be trapped so easily. It was true he was cut off from the way out, but not from the way down. What he knew was that all Prathian temples were built above labyrinths. The Prathian mind, which he knew well, was attuned not only to sudden calamity but also endless struggle, symbolized by labyrinths and twisting paths up steep rock faces. It was a mindset capable of producing great warriors, but, as he well knew, miserable companions. If he could find the entrance, he could plunge into the labyrinth and easily turn on his pursuers as they stumbled into dead-end passages.
He found the descending stairway at Ardonis' heels, under the face of Calamity. Menleco ran to it and started down. Everflame burned in the labyrinth as well, enclosed behind small squares of crimson panes set in alcoves in the walls. Bathed in a shimmering red light, Menleco raced into the opening passage. He followed labyrinthine twists and turns, blindly forking this way instead of that, until he felt he had put enough distance and enough complexity between him and the Huntress that he could afford to stop and listen.
What he heard was the swishing of shoe leather on a stone floor. The sound was at times hesitant, at times boldly rushing forward, at times non-existent. He could not determine from where the sound emanated, nor from how far off. His face dripped with sweat as he strained to listen. He heard a small skittering sound that might have been rats, a hollow drip of water, and a faint rattling growl that he realized after a moment came from his own throat as he struggled to catch his breath. And then…
The Blood Gate Page 23