by J. L. Doty
He took Mortiss’ reins and walked her across the ford, feeling no need for any great hurry, and wanting to delay the moment when he must look upon the young girl’s body. Mortiss picked her way between the bodies of the Kulls he’d killed, and among them lay Felina where she’d been dropped. She lay sprawled with her limbs at an odd angle, her body desiccated and shriveled much as Jack the Greater’s had been.
Morgin bent over her and straightened her arms and legs carefully. He glanced about for something in which to wrap her, but he’d saddled Mortiss hastily, hadn’t bothered with saddlebags or a blanket. And the only alternative was one of the cloaks of the dead Kulls strewn about the riverbank. He would not bring Felina home wrapped in a Kull cloak, so he stood and pulled off his sand-colored, Benesh’ere robe. Knee length, it would provide a good burial shroud for the child.
He wrapped her in it carefully, then lifted her into his arms. He didn’t want to strap her across his saddle like a sack of potatoes, so he held her in his arms as he walked back across the ford, Mortiss following behind him. His Benesh’ere friends parted quietly as he walked through them to find Baldrak. He handed the girl to her father and said nothing.
~~~
As the Benesh’ere carried away the wounded warrior and boy, Rhianne turned toward her hut and began walking. Dusk had already arrived, and night would soon be upon them. At least the nights had grown warmer, and didn’t require as many blankets or as much coal for their small hearth.
As she approached their hut she noticed that no light leaked past the shutters of their small window. Braunye should be preparing dinner, and she wouldn’t do that in the dark. Perhaps she’d gone out on some errand.
Rhianne pulled the rope latch on the door and opened it. The only light in the room came from the dim glow of their small hearth, and it provided no more than a faint reddish illumination. But the dying light of dusk that splashed through the door showed her that Braunye had fallen asleep in one of their two rickety chairs, her back to the door, her arms on the table, her head resting on her arms. She hadn’t bothered to light a lamp, probably because it had still been daylight when she’d fallen asleep. The poor girl had been badly traumatized by such a violent assault on the man and boy, and must have been exhausted by the experience. Rhianne herself stifled a yawn, for the afternoon’s events had stressed them all.
When she stepped into the hut the smell hit her: the stench of blood and feces and urine. She gasped, left the door open so she had some light by which to see, rushed across the room and gripped Braunye by the shoulders. She shook her. “Braunye, what’s wrong?”
The girl remained totally unresponsive, so Rhianne pulled, needed most of her strength and grunted with the effort to raise the girl’s shoulders. When she succeeded, Braunye’s face peeled away from her arms with a sticky, sucking sound. She pulled the girl’s shoulders upright, though her head remained tilted downward.
“Braunye, girl, what’s happened?”
She pressed the palm of her hand to the girl’s forehead and raised her head. But when she got it upright, the girl’s head fell back to an angle beyond anything humanly possible, almost tumbling from her shoulders. Her hair stuck to the side of her face, glued there by blood, and her open eyes stared blankly at nothing. Someone had cut the girl’s throat so viciously and deeply that only her spine connected her head to her shoulders.
The door slammed and a deep, grumbling voice growled, “She ain’t going to wake up,”
Before Rhianne could react, an arm wrapped around her throat with crushing force. She struggled, kicked and spit, tried to scream, but the vice-like clamp on her throat only tightened. Then a hand slapped something against her forehead and she felt a strange magic wash through her, though in some way it felt oddly familiar.
“Stand,” her captor said, “make not a sound, and do not move.”
The arm about her throat slackened, allowing her to breathe again, but though she wanted to, she could not cry out. He released her completely, and her first thought was to run, or cry out or scream, but her muscles refused to move or respond in any way. He’d left her standing in the middle of the floor, the door to her hut on her right just barely visible in the corner of her eye. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy figure as it approached the door, but try as she might she could not turn her head to look his way.
She heard him pull the latch, heard the door creak open, though only a crack. She saw enough to know he peered out into the night, checking the street carefully. Then he said, “Good,” and threw the door wide.
He gripped her by the collar of her dress and said, “Come with me.”
Her legs obeyed without any conscious volition on her part, but she didn’t move fast enough for him and he dragged her stumbling out into the street, then around to the back of her hut. There, he marched her into the forest and led her along a small game trail. She stumbled and landed painfully on her hands and knees, her dress tangled in the undergrowth.
“Blast you, woman. Stay on your feet.”
He picked her up by her collar again, choking her. She coughed and struggled to breathe as he dragged her further into the forest. She stumbled again, and again fell to her hands and knees in the brush.
“By the name of the Dark God himself,” he snarled. He gripped her around the waist, lifted her as if she weighed nothing and tossed her over his shoulder. She tried to struggle, but he snarled, “Lay still and be quiet,” and her muscles went limp.
He carried her to two mounted horses tied to a tree deep in the forest, then hoisted her into the saddle of one. He tied her hands to the saddle horn, then mounted the other horse. And holding the reins of her horse in one hand, he nudged his gently forward, leading her deeper into the forest.
Consciousness seemed a distant thing as she remembered the feeling of this magic. Valso had done something similar to her when she’d tried to kill him with a poisoned needle in Castle Elhiyne. As awareness and sanity eluded her grasp, she remembered this magic well, for it tasted of Valso’s corruption.
Chapter 19: Spinning, Spinning, Spinning
The Benesh’ere built a small pyre for Felina. Morgin, and the smiths, and the members of her family, and those close to her, each contributed a piece of wood to the pyre until it stood about waist high. Baldrak laid her wrapped corpse gently upon it, then turned and strode to the Forge Hall. He returned, carrying a hot coal from one of the forges in a pair of metal tongs. He placed the coal on a small pile of kindling at the base of the pyre, then knelt down and blew on it carefully until flames licked upward.
He stood beside Morgin as they watched the pyre burn, watched it consume the wilted husk of her body in fire from the blood of our kin. Morgin couldn’t suppress the tears that streamed down his cheeks. But the whitefaces stood stoically, and looked upon the fire without sorrow or tears, just that determination he’d seen before.
When the pyre had burned down and nothing but ash remained of Felina, Baldrak used the same tongs to retrieve a hot coal from the embers, then turned and carried it to the Forge Hall. Other whitefaces followed his queue, retrieving burning embers in various ways, some carrying them on a bed of leaves in the palms of their hands, some with tongs like Baldrak’s. Morgin understood then that the whitefaces were adding them to their cook fires and forge fires so that Felina’s fire would burn with the fire from the blood of their kin.
The Benesh’ere retreated to their cooking fires while Morgin stood alone and watched the pyre cool and slowly dwindle to mere ash. He could not put the Kull’s message—Valso’s message—out of his mind, that wherever he went someone would pay the rent of his freedom with the lives of the innocent. He could not escape the fact that Felina had died a most horrible death because he lived among her people. He struggled to think of a way he might continue to do so without paying that horrible price. But no matter how vigilant the Benesh’ere might be, Valso’s Kulls would always find a way to make someone pay.
“Come, Elhiyne,” Baldrak said. In the dark
, and with his concentration wholly focused on the ash of the pyre, Morgin hadn’t noticed him approach. “Come and eat something.”
Morgin couldn’t look away from the remains of the pyre. Baldrak cleared his throat and said, “If you are like me, or my wife, or any number of us, you’re trying to find many ways to blame yourself for this. But this is the life of the Benesh’ere, the heart of the Benesh’ere . . . the heart of the sands.”
Morgin got a little drunk that night, knowing he’d have trouble finding sleep and hoping the alcohol might help. But when he climbed into his blanket he lay there awake and relived time-and-again the events of the afternoon. If he could discover in those events a way he might have prevented it, then perhaps he might stay with his Benesh’ere friends. But as he struggled with that thought, he realized it didn’t matter. Aethon’s tomb called to him. Something remained unfinished there, and he knew now that he must answer that call.
Once he made that decision sleep came easily, and he dreamt of the blade and its hungry, demanding power. When he thought of killing Valso, the blade hungered to help him do so. And when he thought of more pleasant things the blade still hungered, but without a specific target for Morgin’s anger, it merely hungered to take life, any life, friend or foe.
He dreamt of Felina laughing and skipping out the door of the Forge Hall to go to the plainface town. At that moment, he could not have believed that such a day would end in such tragedy.
He dreamt too of Aethon’s tomb and it pulled at him. He knew now that his destiny demanded he backtrack up Morddon’s trail and find the ancient crypt. “I’m waiting for you,” the skeleton king told him in his dream. “One last time you must come to me.”
“But why?” he asked in the dream. “Why now?”
The skeleton king turned the black pits of his eyes on Morgin and said, “Because the time is now right for the forging.”
Morgin awoke tangled in his blanket, groggy, his stomach twisted in knots. He’d turned and struggled so much in his sleep he had trouble extracting his feet from the snarled mess. But after a few moments of effort he pulled free, stood and walked down to the lake. He splashed water on his face, hoping the chill would clear the fuzzy thoughts clouding his mind, but Felina and the sword and the crypt refused to give him peace.
When he stepped into the Forge Hall, Chagarin took one look at him and said, “You look like netherhell.”
“Didn’t sleep well.”
“No,” Chagarin said. “None of us did.”
“I’m leaving,” Morgin said.
Chagarin nodded. “I know.”
~~~
Rhianne awoke, her head resting on the ground, the embers of a small campfire still smoldering. As the sun rose in the east it cast long shadows across the ground on which she lay. She recalled a collection of fragmented memories, her captor telling her what to do, her body obeying him under the control of a powerful compulsion spell. She struggled to remember that he’d dragged her out of her hut, lifted her into the saddle of a horse and tied her hands to the saddle horn. Then he’d mounted another horse, and they’d ridden for quite some time through the dense forest.
South, she thought. We rode south—or was it east?
The spell muddled her thoughts, made it impossible to think of anything more complex than simple bodily commands: raise her hand, lower her eyes, walk, stop, sit. Her forehead felt odd, so she reached up and found some sort of medallion attached there. She tried to peel it off, but it defied her efforts and remained attached to the middle of her brow.
“Sit up,” a gruff voice said, the same voice that had assaulted her in her hut.
She didn’t recall going through the motions, but she now found herself sitting on the ground, her legs crossed, facing the smoldering fire. A piece of wood landed in the embers of the fire, sending sparks flying, then another, and another. A man in simple livery stepped into view, bent down with his back to her and began blowing on the wood. It took three or four huffs of breath for the wood to catch, then it crackled and flames fluttered upward.
The man straightened, stood tall and blocked the rising sun for a moment, then stepped around the fire and sat down facing her. Recognizing the sparkling blue eyes, the long blond hair and heavy blond mustache waxed at the tips, she gasped and said, “France?”
The man grinned, the kind of unpleasant grin she’d never seen on the swordsman’s face. “Well now, pretty one,” he said, this man who was France, and yet not France. “I wear him well, do I not?”
He said it as if discussing wearing a suit of clothing. When she looked more closely, she saw that the sparkle in the swordsman’s eyes had been extinguished. His eyes remained blue, but flat and unflattering. She’d seen such eyes before, the night Valso had given her to his Kulls. “You’re a halfman.”
“Aye, but not just any halfman.”
She shook her head frantically, trying to keep one coherent thought connected to the next. She snarled, “France would never have consented, and it takes the consent of the man to make a halfman.”
He nodded, agreeing with her. “And yet, there is one exception.”
She had heard of an exception, hadn’t paid attention at the time, never thought she’d need to know such details. The man’s consent was not required for the most powerful of the demons that made a halfman. She gasped, and couldn’t stop herself from hissing, “Salula!”
His grin broadened. “Not only pretty, but smart. And that’s a good thing.”
Instinctively, almost as a reflex, she called forth her power and reached for it. But it burned her, seared a hole into her soul and the contents of her stomach spewed forth, splattering bile down the front of her simple homespun dress. She choked and coughed as her stomach heaved, though nothing remained to disgorge. She lay on the ground, panting as the spasms slowly diminished.
“Not so smart after all,” Salula said. “But still, a lesson well learned.”
He stood abruptly and barked, “Stand.”
Again, her body obeyed with no conscious thought on her part, and she stood up immediately. He stepped around the fire toward her, and she started to step back away from him but he snarled, “Stay.”
Like a dog ordered to heel by its master, she froze in place. He stopped less than a pace away, leaned forward and sniffed at her neck. “I’ll not forget your scent, pretty one.”
He leaned back, gripped her by both shoulders with his hands and said, “Now close your eyes.” Again, she could not have disobeyed. Then he gripped her shoulders and spun her, spun her about her own axis, spun her like a top. She twirled, could not stop herself from doing so, felt the spell washing through her, and she became acutely aware of the blade. It seemed to be spinning about her, circling her rapidly, but she knew the blade remained stationary while she spun, conscious of its direction, most conscious of it each time she spun to face it, and then spun on. Her spinning slowed, then finally stopped altogether with her facing the direction from which she sensed the power of the blade, for this spell had not allowed her to face any other direction.
“Good,” Salula said. “Due north. He hasn’t begun to move yet. But he will.”
~~~
JohnEngine waited in silence while Brandon read the parchment carefully. When he finished he put it down on the table in front of him, then ran his fingers through his hair tiredly. “ErrinCastle writes that BlakeDown has repeatedly overridden his choices for border patrol lieutenants.”
JohnEngine crossed the room, reached down and picked up the parchment, scanned it as he asked, “And this Lewendis?”
Brandon turned away from the table between them, crossed the room to a small table against one wall and filled a goblet from a pitcher of wine. JohnEngine’s cousin usually drank only in moderation, had never really joined in when the rest of them went whoring and drinking, but now he gulped at the wine hungrily.
He turned and faced JohnEngine. “ErrinCastle writes that Lewendis is a hothead, just as you surmised. They’ve kept him on a short leas
h on the Tosk border for years for exactly that reason. With Tosk sworn to Penda he could do no harm there. BlakeDown’s intervention worries ErrinCastle; it’s as if someone is counseling BlakeDown to assign command of the patrols to the worst possible leaders. It makes me wonder if someone truly desires war between Penda and Elhiyne.”
JohnEngine joined his cousin at the small table and filled a goblet for himself, saying, “The Decouix wouldn’t mind seeing us ripping each other’s throats out.”
“Agreed,” Brandon said angrily. “But Valso has very little influence in Penda. And I can’t believe BlakeDown would be stupid enough to let the Decouix drive a wedge between us.”
Brandon frowned and asked, “Who’ve we got on the border now?”
“DaNoel,” JohnEngine said.
“Good,” Brandon said. “He’ll keep a calm head.”
JohnEngine dearly hoped Brandon was right about that.
~~~
Morgin gathered up his few belongings while the smiths’ wives packed his saddlebags with twelve days of compact trail rations. As he saddled Mortiss and packed up his gear, a continuous stream of whitefaces came to see him: Jerst, Harriok and Branaugh, LillianToc, Jack the Lesser, Baldrak, Delaga and Fantose. They all tried to talk him out of leaving, but he’d made up his mind somewhere in that dream, and his dreams rarely left any room for argument.
Angerah and Merella came to him last, and they did not try to dissuade him from leaving. They said their farewells, and Merella finished by saying, “We know you must leave.”
Angerah said, “And we know you must return.”
He said a quiet farewell to Chagarin and Baldrak, then rode out of the Benesh’ere camp.
~~~
Rhianne spun like a top, spinning, spinning, spinning, conscious of the blade and its malevolent power, conscious only of the blade and its direction. When Salula spun her like this her will evaporated completely. Each morning she awoke, and each morning she resolved not to aid him, and each morning he spun her. He spun her at dawn, midday and dusk, and each time he spun her she betrayed the man who now carried that blade.