To Sleep With Evil

by Andria Cardarelle

  Glancing backward only once, Marguerite pro­ceeded down the rutted track that led to the rim. The road was muddy and laced with puddles, but a grassy hump rose in the center above the muck. Marguerite kept Lightning to this ridge, hoping to make better time. She was not sure what she expected to accomplish by following her husband and his associates; certainly, she knew better than to dare interfere with whatever they were doing. But she had to see, to learn for herself if her darkest fears had substance.

  As she crossed the stone bridge, a dark shadow swooped low past her ear—an owl perhaps. She gripped the mare's neck and pushed on, riding steadily until she reached the fork in the road. There she allowed herself to pause and regain her breath, wishing she had thought to bring a flask of something warm to drink, or least a skin of water. The wagon's tracks confirmed her suspicions about the group's plans; the mud showed the clear imprint of hooves and wheels, leading to the right, toward the rim.

  Marguerite followed. The trees pressed in around her, dark and menacing. Shaken by the wind, a black spruce flailed its arms, freeing a rain of loose cones to assault her. Lightning twitched and whin­nied as one struck her flank. Marguerite reached forward to pat the mare's neck, but the gesture was as much to reassure herself as her mount. She tapped her heels against the horse's belly, and Lightning trotted on.

  As the road began to climb into the hills, fast, low-flying clouds cast flickering shadows across its sur­face. Soon, Marguerite knew, she would be approaching the spot from which she and Donskoy had gazed down at the mist-covered valley. She dis­mounted and led her mare by the reins, picking her way carefully over the sharp boulders that sprouted up from the rough track.

  After several minutes, Marguerite heard voices ahead. She tied Lightning to a tree and continued on foot. When the voices grew louder, she left the road and, ignoring her fears, climbed over the top of the ridge. A short distance down the other side, she stopped and crouched on the hill, peering out through the branches of a shrub.

  On the moonlit slope below, near the edge of the valley's swirling mists, she could see her husband sit­ting on his horse beside the wagon. A column of horses, now minus their riders, waited on the road behind the cart. Ekhart and Ljubo stood close by with the pack of hounds—the three from the castle and many more. Donskoy's associates had arrayed them­selves on the hillside below the road, spacing them­selves several yards apart to form a long line. Each was armed with a mace or flail. Jacqueline paced back and forth behind them, carrying a shortsword, which glinted brightly in the silvery light of the full moon.

  Whatever they were waiting for, Marguerite knew it had nothing to do with helping lost travelers. Why would they need weapons to effect a rescue?

  Not a sou! stirred for several minutes—only the trees, surging and sighing in the wind. Then Mar­guerite heard voices out in the mist, echoing up the foggy valley. A woman spoke soothingly to a nervous, sobbing child, summoning him close. Men muttered warnings. They sounded very near, but Marguerite knew it for a trick of the mists.

  Donskoy lifted the black horn to his lips and blew, repeating the awful wail Marguerite had heard at the keep, The associates hid their weapons behind their backs. Ekhart's hounds began to bay.

  "Here!" called Jacqueline. "Here, to safety!"

  A figure scrambled up the bank, his face twisted, his clothing torn. It was a young man in robes—a cleric, perhaps. A large medallion hung round his neck. When he saw the line of Donskoy's associates, his expression changed to one of relief. He turned and called something to his companions in a language Marguerite did not understand.

  Donskoy blew his horn again, and his associates shouted more encouragement to the wayward travel­ers. "Come to us, to safety!" Jacqueline cried.

  More silhouettes appeared at the swirling edge of the mists, following the cries of encouragement. The young cleric climbed the slope and fell on his knees before the closest associate, clasping his hands around the man's legs and uttering foreign words that sounded to be an exclamation of relief and gratitude.

  Then the cleric saw the moonlight glinting on the head of the associate's mace, which was protruding from behind a meaty thigh. The young priest released his grasp and started to rise, clutching at the holy symbol around his neck.

  The "rescuer" gave a sharp laugh. He swung his mace, splitting the cleric's head iike a red melon. The other travelers, now half-emerged from the mists, heard the awful crack and stopped in their tracks, cry­ing out in confused voices—whether to each other or to the dead priest, Marguerite could not tell.

  It mattered little. At that moment, Donskoy's asso­ciates raised their weapons and rushed down the hill in a we! I-practiced charge, falling upon the stunned travelers like a pack of wolves,

  Jacqueline squealed with glee and rushed over to the fallen cleric. She ripped the medallion from his corpse, putting it to her teeth to test its metal, then slipped the disk into her pocket. Something on the man's hand caught her attention. As Donskoy's asso­ciates slaughtered the other travelers, she severed the dead cleric's wrist. Then she sheathed her sword and pulled a ring from his stubby finger.

  The surviving travelers turned, attempting to flee from whence they had come. Ekhart released the hound pack. The dogs sprang into the mists, snap­ping and snarling, driving the hapless wanderers back to meet their gruesome fates.

  Apparently not all the travelers were helpless. A fireball raced up the path and licked at the line of associates, engulfing two, and lashing out toward Jacqueline. In the crimson flash, Marguerite could see one of the associates slitting an old woman's throat.

  When Jacqueline felt the kiss of the flames, she leaped back unharmed, then spouted obscenities like a barroom wench who'd just been bilked. She yelled for a counterattack, but it was hardly required. A hound bayed, then came running up the slope after the offending spellcaster, biting at his heels. The terri­fied mage, distracted by the growling beast at his back, did not even see the blade that clove his skull.

  Then came the young women, herded like fright­ened sheep before the dogs. Jacqueline cackled. The women wore fine garments. Some carried parasols, as if prepared for a daytime picnic. From their shocked faces, it was clear they had no idea what had occurred to change their plans.

  One girl shone like gold among the rest, with her tangled blond locks spilling over her shoulders, obvi­ously a beauty despite the twisted expression her fear had wrought. Ljubo seized her by the hair and drew her up the slope.

  Jacqueline screeched at him. "Ljubo, remember yourself! You must leave the head unmarred."

  The girl writhed. Ljubo shoved the quivering blonde toward the road. Blood streamed from her mouth; she had bit her own tongue in terror.

  "Oh, for pity's sake," sneered Jacqueline. "Look what you've done, you silly twit. I'll have to take care of you now." She walked over to the girl. "Don't be afraid, child. There is nothing to fear. Promise me you'll behave, and I'll make sure that no harm comes to your pretty head."

  The girl nodded feebly.

  Jacqueline pushed the blonde to her hands and knees and, with one swipe of her sword, beheaded her The gold tresses poured onto the ground. "No harm above your neck, that is," laughed Jacqueline. She sheathed her sword and picked up the head with great care, examining it in the moonlight. Apparently satisfied, she carried it to an embroidered satchel rest­ing on the ground nearby. She tucked the head neatly inside.

  Then she motioned to Ljubo. "Now you may have her."

  Ljubo grinned and scooped up the headless corpse, cradling it in his arms and scampering off into the woods. The rest of the bodies were soon neatly arranged on the road. Five or six associates worked the row like black vultures, stripping clothing and jew­elry, stuffing it into bags. Some of the victims moaned and twitched as their limbs were picked clean; appar­ently not all the victims were dead.

  Donskoy rode along the gruesome line, then stopped and pointed to one of the females. Ekhart called for Ljubo, but seeing him gone, scowled and snapped at an
associate to help him. The pair returned to the wagon, then dragged the long black box from the back and carried it over to the woman Lord Don­skoy had indicated. They set the crate beside her and poked at her form. When she squirmed feebly, they stuffed a gag into her mouth. Finally the men lifted her into the box, secured the lid, and returned the crate to the back of cart.

  Marguerite sat on the ground at her hiding place, her eyes damp, her stomach churning. She had sus­pected foul play, and yet the scene was even more gruesome than anything she could have envisioned. Before Donskoy and his men finished their ghoulish business, she had to return to her mare and leave. She tried not to think about what she would do then; after what she had seen, it was impossible to imag­ine returning to the castle to live with Donskoy. But what choice did she have? She knew no other place in this land.

  Marguerite forced herself up. ho sooner had she risen to her feet than one of the hounds turned toward her and began to bay. Someone raised a lantern and shined it in her direction.

  Marguerite started up the hill at sprint, then stumbled, sending a shower of rocks down the slope. A man's voice cried out in astonishment, then barked an alarm.

  Marguerite bolted over the top of the ridge and down the other side, into the night, a frightened hare fleeing for her life.

  SIXTEEN

  Marguerite ripped the reins free of the twisted branch and scrambled onto the back of her mare like a frantic monkey, then assaulted its sides with her heels. The horse jerked its head and kicked savagely, attempting to throw off the demoness that clung to it. But Marguerite stuck fast, so the mare gave in to her demand and sprang down the boulder-strewn road. When the horse stumbled on a jutting stone, Mar­guerite realized her feet were sti!I flailing. She reached forward and patted the mare's neck, murmuring ner­vous apologies and reassurances. Lightning took the rein and chose her own pace down the rest of the steep slope.

  Over the crest behind them, the hounds continued to bellow. Marguerite could hear their masters shout-;ngr catling the dogs together in some semblance of order. In her mind's eye, she saw Donskoy scanning the ridge with his coid leaden gaze, saw him question­ing his associates as to what or who they had seen. She imagined a gray pall spreading over his face as he came to realize it had been his own wife, suppos­edly snug in her plush prison at the keep, spying on them in the darkness, observing all that had occurred. And what would he do then? she wondered. What would her punishment be? For in Donskoy's domain, she had learned, the punishments could be harsh indeed. If Zosia had convinced him she was with child, she might escape his wrath. But only until he knew the truth, only until he realized he had been tricked. Then his anger would flare twice as hot as before.

  If only the potion had worked, she thought It might work yet—she could sense it—but she was running out of time. Assuming, of course, she had not run out already.

  Over the crest, the hounds bayed. They were eager for the hunt, but she could hear the shouts of their masters, commanding them to wait until everyone was assembled and the wagon was loaded. Marguerite thought of the black crate and its cargo. She won­dered if this was the way a barren wife might find her­self set aside: clubbed into senselessness, stripped bare of ail possessions and securely crated, then carted away to Jacqueline Montarri's manor, or deliv­ered to another fiendish collector, ferried to some obscure pit of torment in a long black box.

  The road began to level; she had cleared the steepest part of the ridge. She whipped the reins hard over Lightning's neck and spurred the horse into a gallop. The mare could smell her rider's terror; like a sickness it spread through the beast's flared nostrils and into her lungs, then through her blood to her quivering flanks. For the first time the name rang true; Lightning opened her gait into a thundering gallop, stretching her knobby white legs as if the hounds of hell were on her tail. The horse could not long maintain its speed, but Marguerite clung to Lightning's neck, her hands tangled in the coarse white mane, whispering hoarsely for the mare to go faster still, oblivious to all common sense.

  Soon the fork lay ahead. Lightning slowed, then began to veer left toward the keep—the most familiar path. Marguerite dragged hard on the bit, struggling to steer the horse to the right. The castle was the only sanctuary she knew, yet it was the last place she wanted to go. To her relief, the mare curved right and sped into the darkness, along the road that had brought Marguerite from Darkon. From home. Some part of her knew this home no longer existed as she remembered it, but she shoved that thought aside. Neither reason nor logic could catch hold among her tumbling, panicked thoughts. She was heading home to Darkon. And if not to Darkon, then away. Anywhere but back to Donskoy's keep.

  Clouds of mist drifted across the wagon track like huge, rolling ghosts. She rode into their midst. One of the clouds struck her like an icy wave breaking upon the shore, leaving her shivering and wet Marguerite heard a scream and realized it was the horse, neighing in protest—or fear. She slowed the pace, but continued on. The clouds multiplied and huddled closer, growing large; soon they loomed all around like great white, buffeting wings. Lightning stopped in her tracks.

  Marguerite clucked her tongue and gently squeezed her mount's flanks with her thighs. The horse reared, and Marguerite slid back onto its rump, fully out of the saddle. Her hands gripped the stiff pommel in desper­ation until the horse dropped back onto its forelegs. Through some miracle she remained seated. She dragged herself back into place and fumbled for the reins, then felt for the stirrups with her clumsy, flailing feet. When she had recovered, the white fog sur­rounded them completely, blotting out the landscape, concealing the road beneath Lightning's hooves. The horse's white knees seemed to melt directly into the mist. Marguerite became aware that a quiet had settled over the wood. She heard only her own breath, mingled with the heavy breathing of the horse, echo­ing strangely, The mare's sides heaved under her legs tike a bellows.

  Marguerite gently urged the horse forward. Light­ning stepped backward instead and began to turn, slowly spinning. Marguerite pulled back on the reins to signal a halt, but it was to no avail; the horse con­tinued to whirl through the white mists like a leaf caught in an eddy, until Marguerite became disori­ented, losing all sense of direction. A white dream had ensnared her. Something moaned in the distance, muffled and malevolent. Long white shapes stretched and pulled through the air around her. Something brushed against her face. Marguerite laid herself flat on Lightning's neck, clinging desperately, afraid to lose her on!y anchor to the things she knew. The fog slipped over and around them like liquid—as if it were a milk sea and she and the mount were suspended deep beneath its waves, drowning as they spun help­lessly toward the bottom.

  And then the fog started to clear. The horse stood rigid, the haze draining away a)3 around, departing with a hushed hissing. The road became visible again, dark and damp below Lightning's hooves. The black feathered walls of Donskoy's forest loomed up on either side. Tendrils of mist swirled through the branches like retreating specters. The horse pawed the dirt nervously, testing for support. Like its rider, the animal sensed that something unnatural had occurred. Marguerite urged her mount forward—hop­ing that forward was still the direction she desired.

  They rounded a bend, and the road slipped out from the forest, By some cruel trick, or an even darker magic of the mists, they now stood miles from the point where Lightning had begun to spin. On either side of the road spread a fetid marsh dotted with blood-red brambles—the same marsh that lay halfway between the keep and the fork. Just a few miles ahead stood Donskoy's castle. And directly behind her, bel­lowing in the distance, came the hounds. It seemed as if space had folded in on itself, creating a siimy chute that had carried Marguerite and her horse in the oppo­site direction from that in which they had meant to go.

  The mare lurched forward, then stopped and took three steps back. Confused and panicked, Lightning seemed oblivious to any command issued by Mar­guerite's clenching thighs and urgent hands. A dark shadow, about as tall as a man but m
uch broader, slithered across the road ahead. Lightning reared, almost toppling over backward. The mare's head twisted backward in the air, and for an instant the horse and Marguerite exchanged panicked glances, both with mouths agape, Lightning's single visible eye now wide and rimmed with white. Already half-unseated, Marguerite found herself flying through the air. She landed on a wet cushion of grass in the marsh beside the road. Her mount kicked once, then thun­dered down the road toward the keep.

  Marguerite stood slowly, wincing at the sharp pain in her right shoulder. She was mired to mid-calf. Her thoughts raced, and she struggled to quiet them. Perhaps Donskoy will not be angry, she thought. Perhaps she could still reach the keep before him, and then Yelena and Zosia would help cover for her as they had done before, help make excuses, claim she had never left

  "Perhaps the fall has knocked you senseless," she muttered derisively. On foot, she could never out-race Donskoy and his men. It seemed that two choices lay before her. She could stagger back to the castle, sod­den and bedraggled, to face her husband and his associates. The prospect was as humiliating as it was horrific. Or she could flee into the woods—and then what? She couldn't hide forever, and escaping her husband's domain posed a formidable challenge. Lord Donskoy had told her the mists held him captive on his land, and it was now painfully clear that she was a prisoner here as well—how else could she have set out for Darkon only to find herself nearer to the very keep she was fleeing?

  The Vistani could master the fog. She had to find Ramus.

  Marguerite turned and waded Into the marsh. The hounds might not track her over the water, she rea­soned. Later, she could veer into the woods and look for the gypsy. Ramus would help her; he had helped her twice before. Mounds of pale grass dotted the marsh, pushing up from the muck like heads cloaked in long, stringy hair. After struggling through the water for what seemed an eternity, Marguerite climbed onto a mound and leapt from one to the next. It was faster than wading. Now and again the soft ground pitched her back into the mire, but she continued on until she heard the hounds whining on the road behind. She stopped short, then scrambled behind a clump of bare brambles and turned to face her pursuers.