by K. G. McAbee
He couldn't help it. Valerik didn't want to die.
But why should this woman—without a doubt of noble blood, richly dressed, on a valuable horse and with a blade at her side—why should she risk her own life to help a slave being hunted to his death?
"However," continued the woman as she looked up the bank that Valerik had so lately slid down, "sometimes…just sometimes, mind you…Daemon will allow a passenger. Come."
The woman kicked one boot free of a stirrup and stretched down a long-fingered hand. Valerik looked once in her eyes, once again over his shoulder. Was this another trick? Would she kick him in the face if he reached for her outstretched hand?
The hounds sounded almost at his back.
Valerik thrust his naked foot into the empty stirrup and swarmed with clumsy haste up behind the woman.
The woman shrugged out of her cloak, whirled it about Valerik's shoulders with one hand and spoke four words—two for him and two for the stallion.
"Hold on. Run, Daemon."
The baying of hounds died away in the distance as the great horse, disdaining the weight of its double burden, galloped easily down the rutted road.
***
Valerik didn't like to hold too closely to the woman who had rescued him, but he had little choice in the matter. The huge stallion flew over the rough road, its mighty legs churning as it slowed for nothing, charging through deep puddles to fling muddy water onto its riders, dancing around tumbled stones. Once it threw all three of them into the air to clear a fallen tree. Valerik clung through handfuls of cloak to her sturdy shoulders; even in their present situation, he found time to relish the interplay of muscles as she directed the great horse.
"Not much further!" shouted the woman as they hit the ground with a rattling jar.
Valerik inched infinitesimally closer, the saddle hard and rough against his crotch, his bare legs pulled back to miss being mauled by bright metal stirrups.
Behind them once, through a break in the trees, echoed the long doleful wail of disappointed hounds. Valerik grinned to himself, barely able to keep from hugging the woman.
He had done it—with a stranger's help, aye, but he had done it. He had escaped the ravening hounds, the heartless riders. Whatever happened now, wherever he ended up, no one could take that immense pleasure away from him.
He had escaped the hunt.
Chapter Two
The sun was a globe of molten iron sinking in the west behind them when the heavily laden black horse rode into the inn's enclosed courtyard.
Valerik slid from the horse's broad back as the gate closed behind them with a crash; he watched as two servants maneuvered a heavy beam across the structure, doubtless as a latch. He clutched close the cloak that was his only covering save for the rag wrapped tight around his loins. It would not do to let anyone see how near naked he was; it would proclaim his position as clearly as if he had shouted it to the thatched rooftop of the inn that loomed before them.
***
Earlier that day, Valerik had tried to make use of some of his rescuer's spare clothing, but though almost long enough in arm and leg, the shirt and breeches were far from being big enough for his husky chest or heavy thighs. Madryn was nearly as tall as he, but as lean as whipcord.
Madryn. She had introduced herself when they had stopped after a hard fast ride that had lasted until past midday. Madryn—no matronym or title, just that one word.
It was ridiculous, of course. Valerik had known that when first she said her name.
A single name would make her a commoner, or, more unbelievable yet, a slave like Valerik. This woman could not be a slave any more than she could be a commoner, not with her rich clothing and priceless steed, and especially not with the sword she wore at her lean waist, the dagger whose silvery hilt showed in the top of one fine leather boot. A slave in possession of a blade of any kind would be put to death at once, or set loose for the hounds to track. Gladiators in the arena, fighting to the death, were armed for their contests. But blades were taken from them as soon as they stepped from the dusty, blood-drenched arena and went to their cells.
No one knew these things better than Valerik
So Madryn had said her single name and though he knew she must be lying, Valerik had had no interest in asking further questions. He had torn with ravenous hunger into the bread and dried meat she had pulled from a well-stocked saddlebag and held out to him with a mocking bow.
Madryn had asked nothing of him but his name as she watched him eat, and then downed her own smaller portion of food with a contemplative air. But Valerik had watched her eyes dance over him, never settling for long in one spot, now regarding his broad bare chest matted with hair and filth, now calculating the length of a scarred thigh or the circumference of a thick bicep. Those silver gray eyes had lingered longest, not on the scars from the slave collar that he had worn for so long about his neck, but on his face, plain and broad and broken-nosed. He had reached up a hand and felt the raw, scored flesh of his neck; it was a time-honored jest, to remove a slave's collar before a hunt, as if to taunt him with the hopelessness of escape from a pack of dogs and riders.
He could not understand her intent regard. It was not as if she were deciding whether to buy him; that particular regard, Valerik was familiar with from many occasions in his past. He could not remember how often a potential buyer had inspected him. But Madryn's inspection lacked the cold-bloodedness of his previous owners. He tried to pin down the difference as he gnawed in ravenous hunger.
Then he had it. It seemed almost that Madryn might be trying to remember if—or when—she had seen him before.
But she had said nothing else as they ate at the side of a rushing stream…perhaps the same one in which Valerik had taken an inadvertent swim at the beginning of the hunt. He made good use of it once more, washing the mud and blood from his shivering body. He no longer had his fear to keep him warm, and the day had not fulfilled its early promise of warmth.
Madryn dragged out a handful of clothing from her saddlebag as he twisted a fine black cloth about his loins.
"I can go now, milady," Valerik had growled, his head down as he sneaked brief glances through his lashes at her. "If they catch us and…and find that you have helped me, it would go bad for you."
"It would indeed. I know," was her reply, in a tone as unconcerned as if they had been discussing the weather. "But I cannot allow you to go without clothes. You'll be picked up as an escaped slave at once, especially in nothing but a loincloth. Here, try this."
Valerik had tried to squeeze into a pair of her fine breeches, but they would not rise above his calves as he hopped on one foot, feeling as ridiculous as he knew he looked. He had quite made it into a flowing shirt of sheer linen—an instant before it split across the breadth of his shoulders.
At last, they both gave up the effort.
"Well, you will just have to keep well-wrapped in my cloak," said Madryn with a shake of her head as she repacked her damaged belongings. "There's an inn at the edge of the forest, where we'll stop for the night. We can no doubt find you something more suitable there."
After refilling a leather water bottle, Madryn had remounted the huge Daemon. Valerik stood below, looking up at her.
"Well, come along," Madryn ordered with no little impatience. "I don't want to sleep on the ground tonight." She held out a hand.
Valerik took it, scrambled up beside her, and they had ridden on through the rest of that day that had started out so strangely and had gotten even stranger, to arrive at sundown here at this busy inn on the edge of the forest.
***
A distant range of mountains rose up around the setting sun's shoulders like a misty cloak, as Madryn strode towards the stables on long booted legs, her shadow an inky mass before her. Daemon followed close behind her, though she had tossed his reins over his head when they'd dismounted. Valerik trailed behind, with the saddlebag over his shoulder and the cloak clutched tight around him. He eyed the courtyard and i
ts surroundings curiously in the dimming light.
The inn consisted of a series of long, low buildings comprising two sides of a square, with the stables making a third side, and a log fence with the heavy gate being the fourth. The courtyard thus enclosed was churned by the passage of many feet and hooves, and there was the comfortable smell of hay and hard-ridden horses emanating from the several open stable doors.
A hostler shambled out from one such door, detoured around a pile of hay under an overhand, then tugged his forelock at the sight of the new arrivals. He offered them a friendly, gap-toothed grin of welcome.
"Milady. Sir."
"Take your best care of my horse, if you please. He's had a long day," said Madryn, a clinking sound coming from the heavy bag at her waist. She reached for the ends of the reins and tossed them to the hostler's outstretched hand, as though conveying some great honor upon him.
Valerik knew that the man was unused to such a politeness in an arriving guest; his more usual greetings consisted of kicks and blows, no doubt. He eyed the ridged scars about the hostler's bare neck—a former slave, marked forever by the wearing of the leather collar.
The bent and twisted man nodded in eager agreement as he stroked the great head that towered above his stunted frame. "A beauty he is, milady, a beauty indeed," offered the man over his shoulder as he led the unresisting stallion away. "We're a bit full up tonight, but I'll care for him like he was my own son, that I will."
"Probably beats and starves his son," murmured Madryn sardonically as she and Valerik watched Daemon being led into the stables. "Still, no danger of that for Daemon—he'd never allow such treatment. Come along, Valerik, let's see what they can offer us for our own supper."
Valerik stumbled along behind Madryn as she stalked towards the rough wooden double doors at the front of the inn; his bare feet sloshed in muddy puddles and he was too tired to make any comment, even if he'd thought of one. Just as they reached the broad double doors, they opened wide from the other side. A stout person of indeterminate gender, draped in voluminous shirt and baggy leggings, beamed at them from within the threshold.
"Welcome to the Dancing Toad, my lady and gentleman, welcome indeed. Come out of the evening, I pray you. I am your host, Frague. Frague of the Toad, you see, ha ha. A joke of my old dad's, an' it please you, gentles. Frague of the Toad, ha ha." A burbling laugh rose up from an impressive belly, past a series of overlapping chins and out a wide red mouth. A pink tongue peeked coyly from within the redness.
Valerik followed Madryn and their host over the threshold and into the inn's taproom. A wave of solid sound hit him just before a rush of smelly steamy heat. He gazed in wonderment about a room packed to the age-darkened rafters, where each and every inhabitant was yelling at the same time for ale, for wine, for beer and food.
Madryn took the five paces across the uneven floorboards to reach the bar, a long stretch of wood polished and stained by years of tankard rings and leaning elbows. Frague followed her, rubbing his thick hands together and studiously ignoring Valerik's lack of boots on such a chilly evening.
Valerik could see that the new guests intrigued their host, from the gleam in Frague's eyes as he studied the obvious richness of the fur-lined cloak that Valerik clutched so close about him and contrasted it with the filthy bare feet that peeked out below its hem.
A cross-eyed barkeep stood on the other side of the long expanse of battered wood; one of his eyes was focused on the rag he was wielding with great skill between the many mugs and tankards that littered the ancient surface, the other watching the innkeeper with a questioning air.
"We'd like some supper and a room for the night, Master Frague," said Madryn just as Valerik reached her side. "And two tankards of ale, barkeep, if you please."
"I greatly fear, milady, that we're all full up," said Frague. "All full up, the Toad is tonight."
Two overflowing tankards appeared before them on the bar as if by magic. A coin appeared just as magically in Madryn's fingers, a thick bright silver coin that gleamed in the murky light. She laid it on the wooden surface, took one tankard and pushed the other towards Valerik, then turned to their host.
"Quite full, Master Frague?" she asked with a lazy grin, then took a sip of the rich amber liquid.
Valerik slurped a mouthful of the sharp ale and at once felt a glow begin to spread throughout his exhausted body, and much needed heat coursing through his veins.
Frague laughed his burbling laugh, his barrel-shaped belly shaking. "Well, perhaps not quite filled up, to be sure," he replied as his eye took in the silver filigree of Madryn's sword hilt. He added the decoration to the thickness of the coin he had just seen and calculated to a nicety the value of her boots, the fineness of her jacket cloth, and the cost of the hint of lace that peeked out at her throat. "Let me just see what I can do, while we find you and your friend some supper, shall we? Come, I'll show you to a private dining room."
Valerik drained the rest of his ale in four hefty swallows and set the empty tankard down on the bar. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he followed Madryn and their host through a door to the right of the bar. The door opened onto a hallway lined with many other doors, through one of which Frague gestured them into a snug small room with a round table and three chairs. A fire crackled cheerfully in the tiny grate, sending out waves of warmth and sparkling on a shiny pewter plate that sat in lone majesty on the snowy cloth.
"This room was reserved, but the gentleman has not appeared. I'll send the potboy along with another setting and some dinner for you," promised Frague as he began maneuvers to remove his massive bulk back out the narrow door.
"Master Frague?" Madryn said before he could shut the door.
"Milady?" A faint crease appeared in the approximate middle of their host, the only sort of bow possible to such a stout and impressive figure.
"My friend here has need of some new clothing. Thieves on the road…you understand," she waved a negligent hand, as if to say how common it was for her or indeed anyone at all to be traveling with a near naked man wrapped in a cloak.
"Or mayhap the gentleman has left his breeches beside a bed somewhere?" asked Frague, with a good-natured leer at Madryn and a wink to Valerik
Damn the man, thought Valerik—he gave a ghost of a grin as he considered his naked and scarred state—he thinks I'm some sort of traveling bedmate-for-hire. An uneasy memory of his former mistress, now deceased, ran across his mind with icy feet.
"You are speaking of my friend," said Madryn, her tone frigid.
"Certainly, milady. Of course, milady. Your pardon, I'm sure, sir and milady. No-offense-intended-and-none-taken, I hopes. I have a servant who is about the noble gentleman's size and will have something he can put to use, I do not doubt, until he reached his no-doubt fine estates. I'll send Radisin along with some clothes and your supper, just as soon as ever I can."
The door closed behind the flustered innkeeper.
Madryn gave Valerik a wry smile of relief as the latch snapped home.
Chapter Three
Valerik slid the saddlebag under the table and dragged one of the chairs closer to the fire. He sank into it with an almost inaudible sigh of contentment and held out frozen hands to the blaze. The black cloak bunched about his broad shoulders.
Silence, broken only by the crackle of flames. He chanced a glance at his companion, wondering for the hundredth time that hectic day why she had risked her life for him.
"Why are you helping me?" Valerik jerked out at last, unable to put off the question any longer. He had been half expecting to be denounced as an escaped slave since they'd arrived at the Dancing Toad, and he still could not fully wrap his mind around his getaway from the hunt. And now this mad woman—for mad she was, he had decided—had called him, naked and filthy as he was, her friend. What was wrong with her? Had she no sense of the proprieties? No concept of the danger in assisting a slave escaped from the hunt?
Madryn unbuckled her swordbelt and hung it on the
back of a chair, then settled herself into the third with a sigh of relief. She stared at Valerik for a long moment as she drummed long fingers on the linen cloth, and then said with a shrug, "I don't like hunts, slave or animal." She cocked her head to one side and watched him from narrowed eyes.
"You're the only one I've ever met who did not, then, except for the slaves—and no doubt the animals—themselves," Valerik replied gruffly. The trembling was lessening now, his cold hands warming at last. But he could not, would not believe Madryn. He had never met a noble he could, or would, trust. Another image of his late mistress rose in his mind…her bloody hands wielding a whip…her surprised eyes staring into his as the light of life died from them…her blackening tongue lolling from her slack mouth…
"There are others who do not like it, I assure you, and not only slaves," Madryn continued, interrupting his reverie. "But I have a more personal reason than most to disapprove."
"Worried about the horses getting hurt?" Valerik suggested with a faint sneer and a passing thought for Daemon. He remembered hearing nobles express concerns about their steeds, even as they rode down women and men, trampling them to lifeless pulp beneath galloping hooves.
"A good enough reason, to be sure," said Madryn with a slow smile, as though she could see what was passing through his mind.
"But not your reason?" Valerik couldn't resist asking.
Madryn's eyes locked onto his. Valerik could see that hers, which he had thought gray, were shot through with the oddest tendrils of violet against the smoky background. "I don't like to see people killed," she said at last. "Yes, even slaves, as you were about to remark. I have been too close to my own death to enjoy the sight of it. Especially in the name of sport."
She thinks they were chasing me for sport, Valerik thought uneasily, tearing his eyes from her violet gaze. What will she say when she finds out why they were really after me? What will she do then, when she discovers the real reason I was on the run? What will she do, when she learns that I…she's staring at me, waiting for a reply…