by Ed Greenwood
By Ed Greenwood
“Up, Dead Man. It’s time to run.”
Galorn rolled over quickly. Too quickly. Amid the rattling of his chains, he hissed in pain. His mouth hurt too much to shout.
The brands still burned. Not so much the one on his right haunch, but the one on his left shoulder…where skin stretched every time he turned his head, caught fire whenever he forgot and leaned over too far or too quickly.
Like right now, Devil take all…
That raging searing slowly sank back into a damnable itching. Teeth clenched, Galorn turned the rest of the way to face the old steward very carefully.
His new brands proclaimed him the personal property of the Markgrafina of Tarkania, just like her steeds. And sheep. Chained in her bed by day and hunted by her and her fellow Harhoun most nights, across the vast, thickly forested Tark Castle lands.
Two weeks ago, Galorn Russark had been a young and intensely loyal officer of Tarkania, one of its best swordsmen. He was a staunch defender of the tiny Grand Duchy against the sneering, grasping envoys and skulking agents of all Europe—of all those who’d descended on Tark Castle seeking to buy or steal the secrets of the Wargallant and the hammershale that made the flying warship possible.
Then had come murders, fierce confrontations with the sneering, monocle-sporting Count of Oporlto—and the horrid discovery that the Markgrafina who Russark loved and revered was a werewolf. One who commanded more werewolves, some of them the most senior Castle servants.
They’d bitten off his hands, and the Markgrafina herself had eaten his tongue right out of his mouth, leaving him unable to write or speak. Without his tongue, he could make wordless cries and control their volume and tone, but shape very few words.
The Harhoun mockingly called Russark “Dead Man” now, or when the Markgrafina wasn’t around, “Tired Fang”—a warning of how soon a grimmer fate awaited him when the Flame of Tarkania tired of having him in her bed. She did not keep her pleasure toys for long, Lauenhar had told him a little sadly.
Lauenhar had always liked Russark.
Where other Harhoun jeered and kicked and mocked, the old Castle steward spoke kindly, and he’d brought Galorn a wooden pointer affixed to a bracer that fitted his forearm. He’d also found an old Tark Castle schooling slate painted with the alphabet, numbers from zero through ten, months, days, and who/what/when/where/why/how so the handless, tongueless Russark could communicate by spelling out words.
“The Markgrafina desires you to run in these tonight. I’ll help with the stockings and garters if you can’t manage them.”
Lauenhar was holding up the garters and fishnets of a stage whore. There was a ladylike corset too. He laced Russark into it, tightening it cruelly. Then he opened one of the Markgrafina’s little enameled coffers and displayed its contents. Two long needles with tiny chiming bells fitted to them.
“See these? If you aren’t good sport tonight, you’ll be bleeding from having these run through your nipples for your next run—and the first to down you will be allowed a good bite. Probably out of your backside, but some of us have…stranger hungers.”
Galorn turned to his slate and urgently tapped out, “WHY THIS NOW?”
Lauenhar’s smile was sad. “Some of us want a last chance at you. A slaveship arrives two nights from now. When it leaves our docks, you’ll be on it. Orders of the Markgrafina.”
Closing the coffer, the steward turned away.
“If you’re still alive, of course.”
The forest was as dark and full of rustling as ever. Not a good place for a wise man to be out alone—still less, one who was naked and lacked not just weapons, but hands to wield them.
Galorn wished he’d gotten to know the forests by night long ago, while he still had his hands and his freedom. The freedom to wander at his own pace, at least.
He always got a head start before they came for him. Every run, he took to the many streams and rivers to try to hide his scent. The Harhoun expected it, but his only other choice was to take to a road and just try to flee, far and fast. Neither he nor any man could hope to outrun a loping wolf.
In a way, he was like Tarkania herself. A tiny country that couldn’t run anywhere, and could no longer hide from the great powers now that they’d smelled the flying warship—ridiculous legend no longer, but a very real ship that had sailed over many a European city—and were gathering in and around the duchy like vultures.
The Congress of Vienna and the other treaty meetings that had dragged on its wake were done; the ordering of Europe decided now that Bonaparte was gone for good. Or rather, a new order had been settled—until Mr. Digby Sterncastle’s insane notions had suddenly turned very real, and scudded over the heads of some very startled envoys and men of prominence and coin.
Galorn Russark chuckled, remembering open-jawed foreign faces gaping upwards at the Palace. Then his mirth plunged into gasps. No matter how cold he remembered the river being, it was always much, much colder. He lurched along, feet slipping on slimy stones, the water knee- to thigh-deep and flowing fast. Against him, of course.
These days, all Tarkania was against him. His country, the only home he’d ever known.
A man could easily walk across the Grand Duchy of Tarkania in a day. It filled the valley of the River Tark and the wild forests that surrounded it, cloaking the ranges of low mountains that sheltered the valley. Until the Wargallant had sailed into the astonished minds of courts all across Europe, Tarkania had been best known for its turnips and parsnips, its mutton, and its small, exclusive, and justly famous school of swordsmanship, the House of the Blade. Russark’s home before he’d taken his first post at Tark Castle.
Tarkania was ruled by Grand Duke Kaarl Sousark Tark, but “the Great Tark” had been ailing for years; daily rule was increasingly in the hands of his only surviving child, his daughter Althelena Suzara Tark, “the Flame of Tarkania.” The Markgrafina of Tark, who was also the fiancée of Mr. Digby Sterncastle, inventor of the flying warship.
Every Tarkanese had heard legends of savage, man-eating wild dogs lurking in the duchy forests, but until two weeks ago, Galorn Russark had scoffed at tales of werewolves—and would have angrily challenged anyone who spoke of the House of Tark or any of its retainers being able to take wolf shape.
If he needed any reminder of just how real the Harhoun were, he only had to look down at the stumps where his hands had been. Or try to talk to someone.
He struggled on against the flow of the river, climbing up over a rocky edge and taking long, swift strides. He dared not stay too long in the numbing water, yet dared not leave the river too soon or his hunters would have a swift, easy, and unsatisfying hunt.
For which he would pay.
There were more than a dozen Harhoun in the duchy, werewolves who claimed the entire world as their private hunting preserve. They’d even spoke of this Earth as if there were other worlds…
Russark shook his head at that. Perhaps he’d misunderstood. The tale of the House of Tark was unbelievable enough. All Tarkania knew that the Grand Duke’s children had hated each other, and that some of them had killed their siblings, but it wasn’t until he’d tapped out certain questions to Lauenhar, mere days ago, that he’d learned the truth.
The Grand Duke had deliberately pitted his children against each other to ensure only the strongest and most able child survived—a brutal strategy that had worked superbly. The Markgrafina had murdered all of her siblings who hadn’t died fighting each other or in various misadventures. In the end, she’d shared her father’s bed, her hatred of him growing deeper and sharper even as he trained and groomed her to be a capable ruler with a full grasp of world politics and practiced skill at manipulation and deception.
The Markgrafina, gloating atop him, had told Russark more. How for years now, with the help of some younger Harhoun who’d chafed under the Grand Duke’s cruel tyranny, she had been slowly and subtly poisoning her father, assuming more and more control of Tarkania and the leade
rship of the Harhoun as he grew weaker. Now, in this cold summer of 1816, the Grand Duke was shut up in Harkhult, being nursed in a mountain fortress he would probably never leave alive. The castle had long been Tarkania’s prison for nobility, and for wealthy and important lunatics.
It stood nigh the headwaters of this very river, up several impressive waterfalls away from here and some days of hard climbing that he’d never manage without hands. Which meant it might as well be on the far shore of the uncharted South Seas, out beyond where pirates and savages and sea monsters—
What the Devil?
He’d been hastening upriver, trying to make good time. Trying to get beyond a bridge he knew all too well from past hunts: the high stone arch that bore the road from Tark Castle to neighboring Sousarkania, and wider Europe beyond, across the river. He had to get well past it before his head start was over, and…
Standing under the bridge, thigh-deep in the river, was a lone figure. Blocking his way, facing him. Watching him.
A woman, by the shape of the outline. Striding out now from under the deep darkness of the arch to where moonlight fell across the dark, swift waters.
Waiting for him.
A woman, sure enough. Tall, curvaceous, and…unfamiliar. A longhaired stranger who wore only thigh-high hunting boots that were far too large for her, their flared tops flopping with her every step. The river would ruin them, was already…
Her eyes, large and dark, were fixed on him and she was smiling faintly. Russark knew he’d never seen her before.
She spread her arms as if in welcome, then beckoned to him.
The Markgrafina made that very same gesture. Beckoning to him like a sly coquette, pouting and batting her lashes before smiling cruelly. She knew he had nowhere to run.
She’d always known he had nowhere to run.
Russark fought his way upriver as fast as he could, heading for the arch, making no attempt to avoid the woman. If she was a Harhoun, he was caught anyway. If not…
She was moving now, striding through the fast-flowing river just as he was, but towards him and heading to one side. Making for one of the boulders that thrust up out of the river’s flow. Seating herself on it, she beckoned again.
Russark made for her. She was…
She’d taken off the hunting boots and was holding them out to him, pointing insistently at his own legs as he hesitated. Looking stern now—repeating her pointings, then mimicking drawing the boots on, and pointing at him again.
Well, what have I to lose?
Corset, garter belt, raddled remnants of stockings—why not hunting boots?
With a shrug, Russark made his way to the rock to sit down beside the woman.
As swift as an eel, she slid sideways to be under him so his bare behind touched her flesh and not rock. Her arms came up on either side of him and he tensed, ready to elbow her and twist to break free of any attack…
She was holding the boots and slipping one over the stump of his right arm. His instinct was to shake it free and send it out into the river racing past them, but he held still and waited.
She was tapping his knee now, wanting him to bend and lift his leg so she could put the other boot on it. He cooperated, and soon enough he was wearing both boots. They were cold and heavy, sodden with water and far short of comfortable—but now her hands were on his hips, thrusting him forward and off her to stand in the river once more.
As soon as he’d planted his feet amid unseen slippery rocks and bottom-muck, she seized hold of his hand and started leading him to the near bank of the river, where clean, new horse blankets were waiting, and a rope harness. She scrambled out, dripping—Russark couldn’t help but admire the view as bright moonlight shone on her wet and glistening body—and turned to arrange the blankets to cover and ascend the riverbank in a sort of chute or slide. She pointed at him, then at the blankets, slipped back into the river and sat herself down on the lowest blanket, then got off it and pointed at him, then at where she’d sat.
Russark nodded obediently and did as she’d silently directed. Was she a mute? Perhaps another victim of Harhoun hunger for human tongues? He thought he knew what she wanted, and sat still on the lowest blanket.
That earned him a flashing smile and a nod. She scrambled back up out of the water and put the rope harness around his torso, under his arms, then climbed the bank and started to tow him upwards.
After a few moments, he reached out for a nearby branch to help heave himself up by hooking the stump of his arm over it—and a stick came whirling down out of the night to dash that branch aside. She was right behind it, angrily waving him away from the branch and shaking a finger under his nose like one of the short-tempered masters at the House of the Blade. Then she collected the lowest horse blanket, left behind by his ascent, and carried it up to spread on the ground above him.
Ah. To keep his scent off the ground. Russark doubted the Harhoun would fail to investigate the strange trail of something heavy being dragged up the bank here, but…
The strange parade of blankets, removed from below and put into place above him, continued right up onto the road and up to the steps of a waiting coach. Russark saw a team of four horses, their long reins tied to the bridge-rails, but there didn’t seem to be a coachman. Well, perhaps this strange naked woman would—
She settled him briskly into the most padded seat he’d seen in any coach except for the Markgrafina’s state conveyance, collected the blankets and arranged them around him, then undid the reins and climbed the short rear ladder up onto the coach roof.
Russark heard her cluck to the horses and they started to pull, the coach rattling away from the bridge in the direction of distant Sousarkania.
Was this a trick? A Harhoun prank? Or some sort of rescue? Damned if he knew anyone who might rescue him, but…
The coach was rumbling along steadily now, at a faster pace than a Tarkanese coachman would have chosen on this road in the dark. Not that he minded, given the alternative. All too soon, he expected to see Harhoun loping along beside the coach, leaping high to peer in through the open windows.
He looked around the coach, but saw nothing in the way of a weapon. Nothing but blankets. The small night-lanterns that sometimes hung from ceiling-hooks in the better coaches had been removed. He could see the hooks, but doubted that twisting one loose would yield him anything but a sort of miniature corkscrew, suitable for blinding someone if he got it in their eye…if he still had hands to hold it, that is, or to twist it loose in the first place.
Blast the Harhoun and the helpless, maimed man they’d made of him.
Why, he—
The girl was climbing back down the ladder, blotting out the moonlight briefly as she reached in to unbolt the door, swing it wide, and—
The arm that reached in wasn’t female or bare. It belonged to…the Count of Oporlto. He gave the gaping Galorn Russark an affable grin, settled his monocle into place, and sat back on the seat facing the still-dripping Tarkanese.
Galorn shook his head in utter disbelief.
The Count’s grin widened. He reeked of port and cigars, as usual.
“Like this? Coach, boots, blankets—my way of throwing the weres off your scent, m’boy. Weres can smell us keenly, you know. One of the reasons you were trained at the House of the Blade, groomed for service to Tarkania, and taken on at Tark Castle was because of your smell. The Markgrafina loves it. Nice costume, by the way.”
Russark reddened, realized he was clutching a blanket to cover his crotch, and reddened even more.
The Count chuckled and waved a lazy hand. “I’ve seen worse. You know how many fat women I’ve danced with, through the years? And had to watch disrobe, revealing far worse than what you’re displaying.”
Russark managed a wordless growl that conveyed his disapproval and strong suspicion that the Count had enjoyed and encouraged the disrobings regardless. As if he’d spoken such sentiments clearly, the Count chuckled again, winked, and said, “’Course I enjoyed such da
lliances. They were, after all, but duty in the game I play. Dry yourself, m’boy—can’t have you coughing and sneezing at every breath on the morrow! Not without the strong warm arms of the Markgrafina to comfort you, hey? Oh, yes, I know all about how you’ve been treated.”
Russark gave the detestable man a furious glare, but offered no violence. Instead, he set about toweling himself vigorously. The Count’s coach was taking him away from swift capture and probable mauling by the Harhoun, after all…
“You’re not the only dupe in Tarkania, you know,” the Count drawled as the coach rattled steadily on. “Digby Sterncastle still knows nothing of the Harhoun, and seems to have no inkling that the Markgrafina’s love for him will last only until she has a fleet of warships of which he’s refined and worked out every last problem. Oh, she’s a right vixen, she is!”
The coach pitched and bounced over tree roots in the road, almost throwing Russark and the Count into each other’s arms, but the oily nobleman calmly stiff-armed Russark back into his seat and added, “’Course, the way she was raised, she could hardly be anything else, now, could she?”
Russark nodded coldly. He did not want to hear details of the Markgrafina entertaining her father in the same ornately carved canopied bed in which he’d been chained up for the past two weeks, enduring her clawing cruelties, panting lusts, and…
“Russark, stop wincing as you remember her rutting—I can see the scratches she’s left all over you—and heed,” the Count snapped, face suddenly close and intent. “I’d like you to entertain a proposal.”
Russark nodded, then raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Well? Let’s have it.
The Count stared into his face for a moment as the coach rocked again and rumbled on, then said, “Agree to become my agent, fighting to stop the Markgrafina, and I’ll fit your stumps with mechanical hands and…other attachments. You shall be my silent slayer.”
Russark stared at him open-mouthed.
The Count saw that gape as more doubtful than astonished, and leaned close to murmur, “You’re a dead man right now, Galorn Russark. You’ll never set foot on that slave ship. You know too much, and the Markgrafina trusts no one—smart men least of all. She’ll tear your throat out in bed, if none of her fellow weres serve you the same way first. I’m offering you a way to hit back, perhaps a way to outlast them all.” He drew back, fell silent, and waited as the coach rattled over another rough stretch and rumbled on.