by J. L. Doty
He pieced together as much of the tent as possible, managed to reassemble a small lean-to to protect him and Harriok from the sun, spent the day going through Harriok’s provisions, discarding anything not absolutely necessary and tying the rest into a small pack. As night approached and the temperature dropped, he converted the lean-to into a litter, tied Harriok securely within its folds, attached a piece of rope to it and tied the other end about his waist.
His only chance was to make for the oasis at Aelldie. He looked up at the emerging stars. Harriok had taken them due west, so he guessed the oasis must be somewhere in that direction.
Chapter 3: Rescue
Tulellcoe stared silently out the window of the inn at the rippling waters of the lake. He heard Cort approach him from behind, felt her wrap her arms around his waist. She rested her chin on his shoulder and said, “It is a sad day.”
They’d taken a room in an inn at Lake Savin, about half a day’s ride northeast of SavinCourt. With almost an entire season of rest, and under Cort’s care, his wounds had healed nicely. It could have been a pleasant time, had it not been for the steady stream of unpleasant news: Morgin captured and a prisoner of the Decouix in Durin. Then, just the previous day, they’d heard that Morgin and Rhianne had both died in the jaws of the skree.
“Yes,” he said. “Those two young people deserved better than that. I should have done something to help them.”
Cort sighed patiently. “And how would you have done that, my love, with a hole in your side from a Kull saber?”
He could not dispute that. Nevertheless, he felt responsible, as irrational as that might be. “You’re right,” he said. “But I think I might have to avenge Morgin . . . and Rhianne. I think I want to avenge them.”
She removed her hands from around his waist, gripped his shoulders and turned him to face her. “Now you listen to me. You’re not going to go riding off on some ill-conceived quest for vengeance.” She put her arms around his waist and pressed her body against him, reminding him of the pleasures they shared. “I’ll not let you deprive me of you that way.”
He couldn’t help but smile. He kissed her on the forehead and grinned. “I’m not foolish enough to ride off in haste. I’ll bide my time, and some day an opportunity will arise, especially if I help it come to pass.”
She kissed him on the cheek, just lightly brushing her lips along his skin. “You’re frightening when you get that look in your eyes. At times, Morgin had a similar look, and he was tall and lanky, like you. Are you sure he doesn’t have some of your blood in his veins? Perhaps you spent a little too much time with the wenches.”
Tulellcoe shook his head. “It wouldn’t have been me. I never whored around, ever. But the gods know there were enough Elhiyne clansmen who did, men who were related to me. It’s quite possible there was some Elhiyne blood in his veins.”
He wrapped his arms around her. She smiled and said, “Well, you’re whoring around now.”
He shook his head. “Oh no, my lady. I’m taking great joy in the pleasures of a beautiful woman. A woman whom I hope will share my days to come.”
~~~
Carsaris watched four Kulls carry the plain wooden chair with the unconscious swordsman strapped into it. Standing beside him, Valso was preoccupied with the little, demon flying snake perched on his shoulder. The combination of Valso and the snake always unnerved Carsaris. Valso had occasionally used the snake to execute someone who displeased him. The snake’s venom produced a long, slow and horrid death.
The Kulls put the chair down in the middle of the dungeon’s main chamber, a large room filled with various tools for extracting information from enemies of the crown, or for merely punishing those who had displeased the Decouix king. The swordsman’s head hung down, his chin almost touching his chest, his greasy and unwashed long, blond hair hanging limply, covering his face.
Standing beside Carsaris, Valso said to the little snake, “Shall we see how much progress Lord Carsaris has made?”
“Yesss, Massster,” the snake hissed.
Fearful of one of Valso’s whims, Carsaris said, “I hope you’ll not be displeased, Your Majesty. It is a . . . difficult task.”
“Fear not, Carsaris,” Valso said magnanimously. “It is a near impossible task. But the near impossible merely takes more time. And you are one of my best, so I have every confidence that you will prevail.”
Valso waved a hand at one of the Kulls. “Wake him.”
The Kull lifted a wooden bucket and tossed its contents into the swordsman’s face. When the stream of filthy water hit him, the swordsman didn’t react at all. He didn’t splutter or cough or choke, but with his head still bowed he remained still and motionless for several heartbeats, the water dripping from his hair. Then he merely took a deep breath, his chest rising slowly. He released the breath, then just as slowly, he lifted his head, and the eyes that looked upon them bore no semblance of humanity.
The swordsman smiled and spoke in a voice no longer that of the swordsman. It was almost a deep, grumbling growl. “Your Majesty, I see that you are now king. My compliments to you. It will be a joy to serve you again.”
Valso stepped forward, though he carefully remained well out of reach of the monster in the chair. The snake took to the air and hovered above the swordsmen nervously. “My dear Salula, it is so good to see you again, though I do apologize we must treat you so.” Valso waved a hand, casually indicating the chair into which they’d tied the monster.
The monster shrugged. “He is a strong one, this swordsman, this France fellow. I wonder at times if he is perhaps more than he appears. He is—”
The monster stopped speaking, closed his eyes and trembled. Then his eyes snapped open, his teeth clenched so tightly Carsaris saw the muscles of his jaw bunched and straining. He grimaced and shook his head violently, then he threw his head back and screamed, a cry of anger and fear and hatred.
Valso stepped back fearfully, and the snake retreated with him as the thing strapped into the chair struggled against his bonds. But his hands and feet and arms and legs had been tied with thick lengths of knotted rope, reinforced with powerful spells. It took him the space of many heartbeats to realize the futility of his struggles. Only then did he cease his efforts, and an odd calm settled over him. The eyes that looked upon them were now quite human, and it was the swordsman, not the monster, who said, “I’ll fight you to the death.”
Valso shook his head patiently, as one might when instructing a child. “No, my friend, not to your death; at least not as you mean it. To the death of your spirit, yes. But my dear friend Salula has need of your soul and your body. So I’ll not allow them to escape so easily.”
Valso turned to Carsaris. “You have done well. I know it seems that little progress has been made, but patience is required in this matter.”
He looked at the swordsman. “And when Salula owns you, body and soul, we’ll let you go get that sword from the Elhiyne. That blade is the only thing that prevents my master from properly manifesting on the Mortal Plane. And after that, you can kill this ShadowLord.”
Valso laughed. “That’s funny, don’t you think. You’ll get to kill the man who killed you.”
~~~
Morgin allowed himself one tiny sip from the water skin, just enough to wet his throat and relieve the burning. The sun had reached midday, and out on the sand waves of heat danced silently in homage to whatever gods they worshiped, while inside the remnants of the patched-together lean-to it seemed the temperature was little better. He was burning up with fever, he realized, and so he was in no condition to pass judgment on the heat. The venom of the sixth claw had finally taken its toll.
He trickled a few drops of water across Harriok’s lips, but the young Benesh’ere made no effort to swallow, and he lay so silently that once again Morgin tested the pulse at his throat. He put the stopper into the water skin, then shook it carefully, listening to the water gurgle within. Perhaps only two or three mouthfuls remained.
It was quickly approaching the hottest part of the day, and out on the sand he spotted the same flicker of movement he’d seen every day now. Shebasha was on the prowl, darting across the dunes like a ghost in a children’s tale.
Every night and every day had been the same. Morgin pulled Harriok across the dunes through the night, pitched camp as the sun rose, though he hadn’t the energy to set traps. He would sleep for a while, dream of Aethon’s tomb then awake near midday to watch the great cat circle the lean-to carefully. Each night he broke camp and continued on.
“How many days?” he asked aloud, but there was no one there to answer him. Two, he thought, maybe three. The days were all the same, and the only thing that changed was the diminishing weight of the water skin, and his ever weakening strength.
Shebasha sat down on her haunches just outside the shadow of the lean-to and preened herself. “Good day, mortal,” she said.
“Good day,” Morgin answered. They had the same conversation every day. But again he wondered how many days.
“Do the days matter, mortal?”
Morgin shrugged. “I don’t know what matters. I suppose water matters.”
“All that matters is what matters to you. So what matters to you, mortal?”
“Getting out of this alive,” Morgin said. “Getting Harriok out of this alive. Will you kill me, and eat me?”
“Now why would I do that,” she asked, “when you’ve done so much to help me?”
“What did I do to help you?”
“Why, you killed me, and for that I am grateful.”
She stood then, and he saw the wound in her chest where he’d struck blindly with his sword when she’d leapt upon him in the midst of the storm. After that glimpse she drifted away like another wave of heat, and he slid deeper into his dreams.
He awoke shivering. The sun had set long ago and the night had come upon him.
That was different. In days just past he’d managed to awake shortly before sunset, in time to break camp and be on his way by nightfall. He tried to lift himself to his feet, barely managed to get up on one elbow, realized then he was hopelessly weak, that even if he got to his feet he wouldn’t have the strength to do more than just stand there.
He lay back down, hoped a little more rest might give him the strength to go on.
~~~
Rhianne looked at the old woman kneeling before her, realized she was not that old, just poor, and filthy, and underfed. And her husband was in no better shape. “Will you help us, Yer Ladyship?”
Rhianne sat in a chair in her room in the inn, while the two peasants knelt before her. “I’ll help if I can,” Rhianne told the woman. “But I can’t be sure until I examine the cow myself.”
The woman’s husband spoke up. “Our farm’s about two leagues north of here.”
Rhianne nodded. “Very well. Tell Fat John to have my horse saddled. I’ll join you shortly and you can lead me there.”
For the last few days she’d lived a precarious sort of existence. It had taken her two days to heal the innkeeper’s boil, and by that time she wondered where she would find shelter when that was done. She had considered trading her horse for more time, but beyond the clothes on her back, the animal was her only possession. But on the day she finished with Fat John’s boil the town’s smith brought his son to her with a broken arm. The man was quite fearful his son’s arm would heal improperly, and he would not be able to take up his father’s profession. So Rhianne set the bone, bound it carefully with a splint, gave the smith instructions on how to care for it, and told him to bring the boy back at six-day intervals while it healed. The smith had given her a chicken as payment for her services, and she’d given that to the innkeeper for another day’s room and board.
The word spread quickly that a witch-healer had taken up residence in the inn, and after her success at healing Fat John’s boil, and the smith’s son’s arm, every man and woman in the district with any kind of ailment had come to see her, and she now did a rather steady business. They paid her mostly with food and dead animals and goods and barter, and occasionally a few coins. Only the day before, she’d acquired a coarse shirt and a set of men’s breeches, along with a pair of small riding boots. None of it fit well, but there was a woman in the village with some skill as a seamstress. All of these poor people needed healing of one kind or another, so she bartered that for some alterations to her newly acquired peasant garb. It would have to do. She was about to change into the breeches when instinct told her these country folk might not understand the sight of a woman in men’s pants, so she decided to continue wearing her only dress over the breeches. The boots would come in handy for slogging through the mud and dung of a farm, and her skirt would keep them well hidden.
As she left the inn, the innkeeper showed considerable concern, and looking at the patrons of the common room, she realized she attracted a fair amount of business for him. It occurred to her then that she should negotiate some sort of contract with the man, perhaps a reduced rate on her room and board as long as she stayed in the inn.
The peasant couple walked and Rhianne rode her horse, its saddlebags filled to bursting with herbs and prepared potions. It was the first time Rhianne had ridden west from the lake toward the mountains, and the terrain grew steeper as they traveled. Just short of the couple’s hut, the road opened out into a large area cleared of all trees, with three, enormous open pits of blackened earth.
Rhianne had heard of the coalmines, knew that they and the iron mines drove the local economy. But she’d expected to see dark, forbidding tunnel mouths in the side of the mountain, not open pits with seams of black coal running through them. To one side the miners’ camp consisted of a large cluster of huts and tents, and she saw more than a hundred men scattered throughout the pits, swinging picks and bending their backs to shovels.
Rhianne stopped and commented to the peasant couple. “Quite an enterprise!”
“Aye,” the man said. “The iron mine is farther up the mountain. The coal feeds the smelters and the cokers, and together they trade coke and soft iron and pig iron to the clans.”
Rhianne learned that the couple grew vegetables on their small farm, and traded with the miners for other goods.
The peasant couple lived in a mud and wattle hut with one cow, several chickens, two pigs, and their two children: a boy and a girl. The boy looked to be about sixteen, the girl about fourteen, and while none of the family were well fed, it was obvious the girl got only what was left after feeding the couple, their son, and their animals. Daughters were evidently of little value to a peasant family, though it occurred to Rhianne that even among the clans, daughters were only considered of value if they could be married off to a rich or powerful family.
The cow was quite ill, running some sort of fever. Rhianne had never been taught about the healing of animals, so she must depend almost wholly upon her magic in this. But she didn’t want word to spread that a powerful witch had taken up residence in the small village, so she played down the magical aspects of her efforts.
She turned to the peasant woman. “Your cow is quite ill. Clear the hut so I can work alone with the animal without interruption. It would be best if you and your animals took shelter elsewhere.”
“Yes, milady,” the woman said obediently.
“Wait,” her husband said. “First, what’s yer price? If it’s too high I’d do just as well to butcher the animal.”
Rhianne shook her head. They really couldn’t pay the price of magic, but she had to charge them something. She had to survive, and she couldn’t afford the reputation of not demanding fair payment. “Oh,” she said. “I’ll take a couple of chickens.”
It was an extremely fair price, considering the value of the cow, but the man’s eyes narrowed in a calculating way. “I’ll give you one chicken and me daughter.”
The daughter gasped, and her mother pleaded, “No!”
That the man would consider his daughter of less worth than a chicken stunned Rhian
ne. And if she took the girl on, she’d have two mouths to feed. The girl started crying. “Shut up,” her father said, and he raised a hand to cuff her into silence.
“Hold,” Rhianne shouted, and the man halted with his hand in the air. “She belongs to me now, so you’ll not strike her without my permission.”
“Then we’ve a deal?” the man asked.
Damn! Rhianne swore inwardly. But she nodded and said, “We have a deal. Now clear out, all of you.”
The young girl’s name was Braunye, a stick-thin waif of a child. Late that day Rhianne led her back to Norlakton. The deal she struck with Fat John was that Braunye’s room and board would not cost Rhianne extra, and Braunye would sleep on a mat at the foot of her bed.
The poor girl was terrified of Rhianne, and seemed unable to adopt any expression but eyes wide and mouth open with fear. She jumped at every word Rhianne spoke, and constantly trembled like a frightened rabbit.
Rhianne retrieved the shirt and breeches she’d acquired, took the girl to a stream near town where Rhianne herself bathed frequently, made the girl strip, and instructed her to bathe herself. It was then that Rhianne discovered the girl didn’t know how to bathe, so Rhianne joined her in the icy water and showed her. Then she told her to wash her clothing, which was little better than rags, and made her put on the shirt and breeches. Only then did they return to the inn where they hung her clothes to dry.
Rhianne had a hot dinner brought up to her room, though it took some coaxing to get Braunye to eat. But once begun, she gobbled the food down with blinding speed and no regard for the quantity she ate and the size of her shrunken stomach. Rhianne stopped her before she made herself sick all over the room.
Later, while Rhianne lay in bed waiting for sleep, with Braunye curled up in her blanket on the floor, Rhianne heard the young girl sobbing quietly. “What’s wrong, Braunye?” Rhianne asked.