by J. V. Jones
Alysha mouthed a few words and the force withdrew, becoming air once more upon her tongue. “The hymen is intact,” she said. “The girl is still a virgin.” As she stood up, her legs faltered and she was forced to steady herself against the wall.
“Are you sure?” asked Fiscel.
“Of course I am,” Alysha snapped. “The girl has a hymen as tough as old leather. She will need quite a breaking.”
“There will be plenty of blood?”
“More than usual.”
“Good. She will fetch a high price.” Fiscel’s smile was warm with anticipation. “My southern beauty never lets me down. You have so many talents, my dear, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He poured a glass of nais and handed it to the woman. “Why, your hand is shaking, Alysha. What is the matter?”
Alysha looked quickly toward Melli. “There is something about that girl, Fiscel,” she whispered.
Melli was trying very hard not to fall asleep, but she felt so weak. Her eyes had stopped focusing and her thoughts had followed suit. Slowly, despite all her efforts, her eyelids began to close.
“What do you mean, my precious?” asked Fiscel.
“Her fate is strong. It fought against the sorcery, nearly forcing it back upon me before I was ready. And her womb . . .” Alysha shook her head.
“Her womb waits for a child who will bring both war and peace.”
• • •
Traff spat out the wad of snatch. It was not a good blend, too bitter by far. He spat a few more times for good measure. A man needs a clean mouth.
He watched the shadowed cottage. The lights had gone out some time ago. The old woman would be fast asleep by now. Still, he would wait a few minutes longer, just to be sure. Surprise was as good a weapon as the keenest knife.
He passed the time by grinding the chewed snatch into the snow with the heel of his boot. Perhaps he might give up snatch all together. He’d heard that it rotted the teeth. In the past he wouldn’t have cared one way or another about rotted teeth. Bad breath and toothache were for women and priests to fret over. But now he had other things to consider—his pretty young bride-to-be for instance.
Lady Melliandra, daughter of Lord Maybor and once betrothed to King Kylock, was to be his. Her father had sold her to him, along with two hundred pieces of gold. The great lord had struck a lame deal. He, Traff, had given away a little information, nothing more. Lord Maybor, however, had given away his only daughter. The old fool was in his dotage. So desperate had he been to hear about Baralis’ scheming that he’d lost his powers of judgment. And as a result, the delicious Melli was his.
All he had to do now was to find her.
That was what brought him here tonight, to a small cottage set back from Harvell’s eastern road. A cottage that was owned by an old woman who was a pig farmer.
The old crow deserved a beating just for the fact that she’d not turned her farm over to the authorities like she was supposed to. An old widow woman had no business running a farm, depriving a man of making a legitimate livelihood. She would be hanged if the word got out—and make no mistake, the word would get out—only by then she might be too stiff for a hanging.
Traff stepped out from his hiding place in the bushes and made his way toward the cottage. His blade was tucked in his belt and pressed against his thigh like a second manhood. He drew the knife from its resting place and his body mourned the loss. It was a fine knife, long and thin-bladed. A knife for fighting, or for killing.
He approached the cottage from behind, slipping between the barn and the sty. The smell of pigs filled his nostrils, and Traff found himself wishing he still had a mouthful of snatch, bad or otherwise. The pigs caught his scent and grunted nervously.
He fell under the shadow of the cottage and made for the door. Pushing it gently, he tested its strength: good hinges and a firm bolt. He moved away. Moving toward the front of the building, he tried every window shutter until he found one with rusted hinges. Breaking in was going to be noisy. Traff shrugged. The woman was old and probably deaf. He shouldered into the shutter with all his strength. The hinges cracked like kindling. The shutter fell into the cottage, taking the linen curtain with it. It crashed against the floor. Wincing at the noise, Traff climbed into the cottage.
Borc, but it was dark! He stood for a moment allowing his eyes to grow used to the blackness. He was in the kitchen. On the far side lay the door to the bedchamber. He adjusted his grip on the knife and then made his way across the room. The door was not bolted and swung back to his touch. In the darkness he could make out a white figure on the bed. It took him a moment to realize that the old woman was sitting up and that she had a knife in her hand.
“Don’t come any closer,” she said. “I bought this knife last week, and I’ve a hankering to test the blade.”
Traff laughed. It really was quite absurd. Did the old crow have no idea just how ridiculous she sounded? The woman made a quick movement and then he felt something tear into his shoulder. The bitch had thrown the knife! Anger flared within Traff. He crossed the room in one leap. Grabbing the woman by her scrawny neck, he pressed his thumb into her throat. The feel of old flesh repulsed him. Blood sprinkled onto the covers and the floor. His blood.
“Not so brave now, old hag.” Traff pushed his thumb against her windpipe. With his other hand he performed a showy maneuver with his knife, making sure the blade caught what little light was in the room. The woman’s eyes glittered in unison with the blade. Traff was beginning to feel more relaxed now that he was back in charge. The wound on his shoulder didn’t feel too deep. He had been wearing his leathers and they would have taken some of the bite from the knife.
“Now then, all I want you to do is answer a few questions for me. You’ll be all right as long as you tell me the truth.” Traff’s tone was that of a parent admonishing a naughty child. “I’ve been talking to a friend of yours. He told me that you had two visitors stay here about five weeks back. Is this true?” Traff eased his grip on the woman’s throat to give her a chance to confirm what he was saying. The woman didn’t as much as blink an eye. Traff jabbed the haft of his blade into her chest. The woman coughed and spluttered. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said.
“Were their names Melli and Jack?” Another thrust of the haft. The woman stifled her coughs this time. Traff was quickly depleting what little store of patience he’d been blessed with. “Look here, bitch, you answer my questions or I’ll cut off both your hands and set fire to your precious pig sty.” To illustrate his willingness to perform the former of these two threats, Traff drew the blade against her wrist. Dark blood welled to the surface in a thin line. She bled well for an old one.
“Now then, let’s move along.” He was the indulgent parent again. “What I need to know is where they were headed.” Traff eased the point of the blade into the woman’s open wound and absently drew back the skin.
“They headed east.” The old woman sighed as she spoke. A single tear glistened forth in the darkness.
“Good, but not good enough.” Traff scraped his blade against the intricate bunching of bones in the woman’s wrist. “Where in the east?”
“Bresketh.”
“No such place, old woman.” One quick flick of the knife and the tendon connecting one bone to another was severed.
The woman cried out. “They told me Bresketh.”
Traff got the distinct impression the woman was telling the truth. He tried a different tactic. “They might have told you Bresketh, but where do you think they were headed?” No reply. “Answer me, old woman, or your pigs will be crackling before the night is over.”
“Bren. I think they were heading to Bren.”
Traff smiled. “One last question. Did the boy Jack ever lay a finger on the girl?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Traff was pleased to note that the old woman now sounded afraid. “Let me explain, then,” he said. “Melli is my betrothed, and it would make me very angry if s
he was as much as touched by another man.” Traff continued working his knife into the open wound on the old woman’s wrist. “Very angry, indeed.”
“He never laid a finger on her. I swear.”
“Good.” Traff brought the knife to the woman’s throat and slit her windpipe.
He wiped his hands and knife clean on her nightgown and then stood up. He was sorely tempted to put a flame to the sty, but he’d promised her “friend” that he could have the pigs, and he was a man of his word. When it suited him.
Now all that remained was to find a candle and then ransack the place. The old crow was bound to have a stash of gold somewhere. After a good night’s rest and a hearty bacon breakfast, he would begin the journey east. Melli was his betrothed, and he would track her down wherever she was.
Six
They were making their way toward the pass. The path began to narrow and steepen as it wound its way up into the mountains. To either side lay huge banks of snow; virgin white, they gleamed with silent menace. The air, which was already ice-cold, had begun to thin out, and Maybor’s damaged lungs had to strain for every precious load of oxygen.
Damn Baralis! He was responsible for this. Before the incident on Winter’s Eve, he’d had the staying power of a man half his age. His lungs had been the mightiest of bellows, and now, thanks to Baralis and his foul poisons, they were as full of holes as a cheese-maker’s cloth.
At least the wind was at rest. For the first time in this cursed journey the air was still, bestowing an unlooked-for blessing upon his weary bones.
If all went well and the pass was met by midafternoon, they would be in Bren in three days time. Maybor was impatient to gain the city. He was tired of traveling, sick of looking at snow and the back end of horses and, most importantly, he was anxious to be among civilization again. Bren promised all the delights of a modern city: fine food and strong ale, cheap women, and skilled tailors. He would find a tailor first. It was high time he had some decent robes made. His lungs had not been the only casualty of Winter’s Eve: his wardrobe had to be destroyed. Now he had barely enough clothes to impress a tavern wench. Baralis had a lot to answer for.
Maybor turned his horse, a treacherous move on so narrow a path, and headed back along the length of the column. It was time he and Baralis sorted out a few things. Confronting the man here, along the cliffs and drops of the Great Divide, would give him the advantage. There was no greater horseman than he; no man could guide and control a horse as well. Baralis possessed no such skill. If Maybor judged right, the king’s chancellor would be feeling just a little nervous at the moment, a little preoccupied with having to ride his horse along the hazardous snow-covered trail.
What better time to test the man’s verbal acuity? And if Baralis’ horse happened to lose its footing in the heat of debate, and plunge itself and its rider down into the snowy abyss of the mountain, that would merely be a regrettable accident.
The path was only wide enough to accommodate two riders abreast. Even so, Baralis chose to ride alone, or perhaps no one was willing to ride at his flank. Maybor had noted the way all the soldiers gave the king’s chancellor a wide berth; they were afraid of him, though they would never admit it. Maybor could understand their fear; he more than anyone else knew just how dangerous Baralis could be.
Moving down along the column caused considerable inconvenience to the riders as they were forced to make way for the man and his horse. Maybor eventually pulled alongside Baralis.
“So, Maybor, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Baralis was as calm and aloof as ever.
Maybor had to admire the way the man could speak in such low tones and yet have all his words clearly understood. “I think you know what brings me here,” he replied. “There are still some matters that need to be resolved between us.”
“Matters to be resolved, indeed! Since when did you become a statesman, Maybor? Last I heard, your talents ran to women and murder. I didn’t realize you were also an aspiring politician.”
“Taunt me not, Baralis. As you have just pointed out, one of my talents is murder.”
“Is that a threat, Maybor?” Baralis didn’t wait for a reply. “Because if it is, then it’s a naive one. You may have a little talent as far as murder is concerned, but you are merely a skilled amateur when compared to me.” A little of the sting was robbed from the man’s words as he was forced to rein his horse tightly to guide the creature around a sharp turn in the path.
“Not so great with a horse, though?” Maybor could not resist the jibe. He rounded the curve with the grace of Borc himself. One quick look to the left confirmed that the snowbank had given way to a sheer drop. To the right, the snow still rose like a mighty hillside. Maybor brought his horse closer to Baralis’ mount, forcing the man to ride nearer the edge.
“Enough of this quibbling, Maybor. Cut to the bone. What did you come here to say?”
“I came here to tell you that I will be the superior envoy in Bren. I am king’s envoy.”
“I didn’t know you could speak with the dead, Maybor.”
“What d’you mean?”
“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but you were appointed King Lesketh’s envoy. Lesketh, as we both know, is now cold in his grave, and unless you have developed a way to converse with his spirit, you have no rights in Bren.”
Baralis’ mocking tone raised a knot of fury in Maybor’s gut. How he hated the arrogance of the man! He edged his mount more to the left. The two horses were so close their bellies were almost touching. Baralis was forced to pull on his reins to slow his mount.
“What’s the matter, Baralis? Surely you aren’t afraid of a little drop?”
“Don’t play games with me, Maybor. You wouldn’t want to lose another horse.”
Maybor met the cold challenge of Baralis’ eyes. There was an unflinching insolence in their gray depths. Maybor sat back in his saddle. He couldn’t really believe what the man had said. He was claiming responsibility for killing his beloved stallion. And while he’d been riding it, no less! No, it couldn’t be true.
Suddenly a cold wind blasted Maybor’s face. A terrifying rumbling came in its wake. The mountainside was moving. A whole bank of snow was shifting.
“Avalanche!” someone cried.
The air was filled with the crashing of snow. Maybor rode forward in panic. The snow slid down in one mighty sheet, smashing into the path. The noise was deafening. There was chaos along the column. Men rode in fear for their lives. One man rode himself right off the cliffside. Chunks of snow and ice shot through the air like crossbolts.
Finally the snow came to rest, leaving a deadly silence as its obituary. White powder floated down on the party like a pall.
The column had congregated around the bend in the path. No one could see the damage done by the avalanche. They were short both men and supplies. The avalanche had caught the last of the column. Maybor looked around, suddenly hopeful. Baralis was still among the living. He cursed himself; he should have used the distraction to push the king’s chancellor from the cliff!
No one dared move. Maybor’s eyes were racing over the remaining supplies. Not one of the barrels had his mark upon it. Damn it! He’d lost three score casks of Nestor Gold. It was to have been his personal gift to the duke of Bren.
“My cider!” he exclaimed loudly. Maybe the men could dig it out.
“Crope!” The name was uttered with quiet anguish. The voice belonged to Baralis.
Maybor spun around. Baralis was moving toward the bend in the path, oblivious to the rest of the party. Maybor did a quick scan of the men. The huge lumbering idiot was nowhere to be seen.
“Lord Baralis!” shouted the captain. “You can’t go back there, it won’t be safe. Wait an hour or two and give the snow time to settle before we dig the men out.”
“They will be long dead by then,” murmured Baralis.
“I will send some men to accompany you,” said the captain, moving forward.
“I will go, too
,” cried Maybor. He wasn’t about to let Baralis pick through all the supplies with no one watching.
Baralis turned to face the party. His skin gleamed like polished marble. His gaze surveyed the men, meeting the eyes of each one in turn. “Ride on!” he commanded, his compelling voice carrying the authority of a king. “Ride on! I will deal with this danger alone!”
Such was the force of his voice that, after a short pause, the men began to turn their horses and make their way along the path. Maybor was powerless to stop them. The compulsion to obey was too strong. He watched as Baralis dismounted and made his way around the bend toward the avalanche site. Maybor was tempted to follow, but the threat of danger was too real and he didn’t like the idea of his hide being permanently buried beneath a mountain of snow.
The party rode for a few minutes before the path widened sufficiently to make camp. The men were silent, their faces grave and tense. The captain ordered a head count.
Maybor did not doubt where the thoughts of all the men lay. Everyone was wondering what was happening at the avalanche site. A few minutes passed and then something strange happened: a warm wind rippled through the camp. Maybor told himself he’d imagined it, but the puzzled faces of others confirmed its presence. Again the air gusted warm and fast. There was a cracking, shifting noise. And then the unmistakable aroma of cooking meat.
Even as Maybor was disturbed at the smell, his mouth betrayed him by watering. He looked up, but the face of every man in the party was cast down, all intent on keeping their own counsel. It was as if to look at someone else might cause the strange goings-on to solidify into reality.