Along the way, Long passed the time in second-guessing himself, which seemed as familiar a practice to him as eating, sleeping or breaking wind. Still, he’d rather be second-guessing himself on tactics and strategy than on the life choices he’d made over the years, particularly with regard to his wife and daughter. He understood that there had to be better ways to resolve his differences with this Gorivar creature, but a large part of him was done with being pushed around by other people and forces; a large part wanted to hurt someone beyond the point of treatment. To his way of thinking, this Gorivar was in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to shake down the wrong son-of-a-bitch.
Gorivar had extorted the last shim he’d ever see.
There was a brief commotion up ahead. For a moment, Long thought they’d frightened a deer out of the underbrush, but it turned out to be Spirk, panting furiously and white as the snow at his feet.
“What is it?” Long asked impatiently.
“Golibar’s got all ‘is men outside!” Spirk breathed. “Lined up around the cabin!”
“Mahnus’ balls!” Yendor muttered. “Now what?”
Sometimes, timeliness of inspiration is the only difference between a leader and a follower. As it happened, Long suddenly got an idea. “Let’s go into the camp and stir up some trouble.”
His companions looked at him quizzically, and then Yendor said “I think I’ve got wind o’ ya.”
“Sorry,” Long replied. “That was last night’s dinner.”
Long instructed his crew to remain silent until they reached the camp’s central bonfire, at which point he’d begin spinning a lie with Rem and Yendor’s assistance. He was adamant that Spirk and his friend Ron stay out of it, no matter how badly they might wish to participate. “This has to be done just so,” Long cautioned. “One wrong word and we may as well throw ourselves in the fire.” Judging by the grave expressions on the two younger men’s faces, Long’s words had hit their mark.
The bonfire burned day and night and attracted a crowd at all hours, largely because it provided better warmth and light than any of the camp’s private fires, but also because, snowed in as they were, the camp’s denizens had little else to do. They were not the reading sort, for the most part, and those few who could read had long since finished, traded or sold whatever materials they’d brought with them. Card games were a popular pastime, but required a goodly amount of consistent light, whereas dice required a hard surface, and the snow was uncooperative. Wagon beds were best for dicing, but, again, only if there was sufficient light. Absent these options, those around the fire resorted to boasting, singing, drinking or brawling. It was the brawling Long hoped to encourage and to fan, like the fire before him, into a roaring, ravenous conflagration.
He began by stumbling into the back of the biggest body he could find within the bonfire’s radius.
“How?” a bearlike voice grunted in irritation. The face from which that voice came was equally bearlike, and before Long could lose his nerve, he launched into his lie.
“Sorry, my friend. Deeply sorry. It’s just that I’ve been runnin’ from Gorivar’s men…”
“Ha!” the Bear Man barked. “Forgit t’pay yer rent, did ye?”
“Could be,” Long replied. “But then, I go up to the fella’s cabin, and what do I see?”
Bear Man looked from Long’s face to Yendor’s and Rem’s. Finding no answers there, he asked, “What do ye see?”
“He’s got his whole gang lined up outside his cabin, like he’s fixin’ to attack the camp!”
“I heard one o’ his men boastin’ o’ the lootin’ he planned to do down here!” Yendor added.
By now, Long’s lie had attracted the attention of the men on either side of the Bear Man, and more were getting drawn in with every passing second.
“I heard tell o’ rapes they’re plannin’,” said Rem, assuming a dialect his audience could trust.
“Rapes?” cried the man to the Bear Man’s left. “And what’s to rape down ‘ere but us?”
“I ain’t gettin’ raped!” yelled a man on Bear Man’s right. “I’ll do the rapin’ afore I get raped!”
“Stow that!” the Bear Man growled before turning his full attention on Long, Yendor and Rem. Squinting his eyes, he then noticed Spirk and Ron, just at the edge of the fire’s light. “Who’s them with ye?”
“Those boys? Just stable boys. I’m s’posed to be teachin’ ‘em a trade, but they’re duller ‘n whorehouse bathwater.”
The Bear Man let loose a tremendous laugh in response and then slapped Long on the shoulder. “You certain they comin’ fer us?”
“Can’t think of another reason a man ‘ud have his private army assembling so late at night…”
Bear Man’s eyes took on a dark, steely aspect that spoke of violence brewing. “Murfin, Deaks, you two go and check out my friend’s tale. If he’s right, you run back here as fast as you can. We won’t have much time to git ready.”
The men on Bear Man’s left and right groused and griped but followed his orders nonetheless. In seconds, they vanished into the darkness. “Now, you boys,” Bear Man said, throwing his arms over Long and Yendor’s shoulders, “had best sit with me ‘til my men return.”
Long offered an awkward smile and motioned for the rest of his crew to join the throng ‘round the fire. Worst came to worst, his five would have to battle with Bear Man and his two friends. Long imagined that might get the whole camp involved, and the subsequent chaos could somehow be turned against Gorivar. But his primary hope still rested in getting the mob at the fire to act with him.
A large bottle of…something…was making its way around the fire, and Long kept a close eye on his friend, Yendor, for he knew too well the dark, seductive allure that liquor held for such men. He’d been one himself once upon a time, or as near as makes no difference. Just as the bottle was about to be passed into Yendor’s hands, Long reached across the Bear Man’s chest and flicked his friend’s ear, eliciting a yelp of pain and surprise from the other man.
“I’ll have your share!” the captain stated.
Bear Man guffawed at this and said “And I’ll take both o’ yourn,” which was secretly more than fine with Long. Bear Man quickly snapped up the bottle and took a mighty swig, followed by a second and, at last, a third. He then wiped his bearded face with his forearm and let out a lusty belch. “An excellent stout!” he declared. “By Frumda, a most excellent stout!”
Yendor licked his lips, and his lone eye took on the shrewd and shifty quality of a man calculating risks and rewards. Again, Long reached across Bear Man and flicked his friend’s ear.
“Ow!” Yendor wailed. “Will ya stop that, Long? I’ve done nothin’ wrong!”
“’T'ain’t what you’ve done, but what you’re thinkin’ o’ doin’ worries me.”
“And what’s ‘e thinkin’ o’ doin’?” Bear Man intruded.
“Stealin’ your drink is what!” Long replied. It may or may not have been the truth, but the captain wasn’t about to let his friend sink back into an endless stupor if he could help it.
“I didn’t…I wasn’t…” Yendor protested.
Until Bear Man thumped him on top of the head with the bottle and Yendor fell over backwards into the snow.
Long leapt to his feet and scurried around Bear Man, fervently praying that his friend hadn’t been killed by the big stranger’s surprising move. Why did every little choice so quickly degenerate into pandemonium? Why did every little action so reliably lead to disaster? Falling to his knees, Long reached down and cradled Yendor’s head in his lap. There didn’t seem to be any blood anywhere, but that didn’t mean…
Yendor groaned. Without opening his eye, he cracked, “Doubt I’da felt worse if I’da drunk that whole bottle, Long.” He opened his eye and sought out the captain’s face. “In tryin’ to save me a deadly headache tomorrow, you’ve given me a worse one tonight.”
“My apologies, old friend,” Long chuckled. “Let’s pack some o’ th
is snow on top o’ your head and see if we can’t keep the swellin’ down.”
Behind him, Bear Man said “I didn’t mean to hit ‘im s’ hard. Guess I…”
“The whole cabin’s surrounded by armed men!” came a voice from the shadows beyond the fire’s reach.
“That you, Deaks?” Bear Man asked. “Where’s Murfin?”
“Comin’,” answered a voice clearly gasping for breath.
“We run all the way back, once we seen ‘em,” Deaks said, drawing nearer the fire. “Big crowd of ‘em, all carrying swords ‘n axes ‘n whatnot.”
“Strange thing to be doin’ after midnight, no?” Murfin added, finally staggering into the light.
Bear Man looked sternly at Long, Yendor and the others. “Seems you was right. “Can’t see no other reason that Gorivar’d ‘ave ‘is men out like that.” So saying, he put his head down for a moment, nodded, and then announced in a booming voice, “There’s gonna be a fight. Question is: do we wanna be getting’, or givin’?”
There were twenty or thirty immediate answers to that query, and though they were all different, their meaning was the same: it was better to give than to receive.
Long’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.
*****
The Creature, In the Forest
She was drawn from the forest by the odor of wood smoke, a sensation she recognized but could not name. In the distance, black against the snow, stood a small cluster of buildings, a farmstead. The creature, the Wretch, made her way from the shelter of trees out into the open, where only the darkness offered protection. The scent of that smoke pulled at her, though, promising things – nameless, mysterious, wonderful things – and she could not resist.
Her progress towards the farmstead was slow and always painful, made all the more so by her fear of discovery and further hurt. If she could only make the nearest building, she –
Sharp noises assaulted her, made her pull back. Something was lurking in the shadows of that building, something growling and…and barking. The Wretch was frustrated. She knew what the barking thing was. She knew what it meant, but somehow could not put her thoughts together in any useful way. As the thing – the animal – continued to bark at her, she grew frightened, panicked. If she could not make the animal stop barking at her, eventually they would come. Who they were, what they wanted was of no interest to her. They were bad. They had caused her great pain, and she wanted nothing to do with them. But…
The wood smoke continued to promise comfort and well-being.
The Wretch rushed at the animal, which snarled and barked more frantically than ever. When she was within reach, it snapped at her, struggling against the rope that restrained it. It barked a final time and then sank its teeth into her arm. The pain was significant, but having suffered much, much worse, she was not distracted by it. With her free hand, she gripped the beast’s head, still fastened on her flesh, and began to squeeze. Within seconds the animal whined and let loose of her. In the next moment, she felt its bones crunching in her hand and the warm, wet sponginess of its brain as it oozed through the fissures in the creature’s head.
A voice called out into the darkened yard, and the Wretch, still holding the animal’s corpse, vanished into the shadow of the nearest building. Then someone tugged on the other end of the rope. The Wretch tore it free from the animal’s neck and watched as it seemed to crawl away, around the corner of the building. After several heartbeats, she heard the same voice cursing loudly, in words she was tantalizingly close to understanding. One thing she did comprehend: the owner of that voice was angry. She was afraid of that anger and wanted someplace to hide.
She looked down at the tracks she’d left in the snow. They’d be a problem when the sun came up. For now, she crept back along the wall, away from the voice, and around the building’s far side. It was only when she’d reached the opposite side that she realized she still held the animal’s – the dog’s – body. Can I eat this dog? She wondered. It did not look like something she’d eat, but then she was terribly hungry. As she hadn’t heard the angry voice in a while, she dared a quick peek around the nearest corner.
Across the snow-covered yard stood a small cottage. Yes, that was the word: cottage. The cottage was the source of the wood smoke that had beckoned her from the safety of the trees. She breathed in deeply through her nose. She stood, hungry, naked, and cold in the darkness, and still the wood smoke seduced her with its vague promises. She leaned her head – her aching, throbbing head – against the weathered planks of the barn – it was a barn! – and struggled against the temptation to steal or take by force what the wood smoke offered. That path was certain to bring more pain and suffering.
But this time, the suffering would not be hers.
*****
Arune, In Teshton
Arune could not find Aoife. The Shaper had taken too long in deciding to follow the A’Shea, and now the woman might be anywhere. Of course, her stated objective was Lunessfor, but Arune wanted, needed, to intercept her before then. She couldn’t risk the possibility – no matter how remote – that Aoife might run into Vykers, or, more likely, that he’d see and make himself known to her. In a city the size of the capital, such a thing seemed implausible, but Arune couldn’t afford to be careless. Not where Vykers was concerned. There were forces at work whose desires were as enigmatic as they were ambiguous. That fact alone gave the Shaper pause.
Reviewing everything she knew about Aoife’s Here-There, Arune decided the A’Shea would end up on foot well before reaching Lunessfor and probably even its outer villages. Using her Shaper’s Jump, Arune could leap into one of these – say, the drab little hamlet of Teshton – and await any news of Aoife’s approach. Convinced that further planning was less effective than action, the Shaper willed herself across the leagues in an instant.
And was surprised at how much had changed in Teshton. In such villages, decades and on rare occasions even centuries could pass without the apparent disturbance of a single leaf. The streams ran where they always had, the cows lay in the same shade, the old barn cats chased the same mice. Farmer So-and-So was replaced by Goody What’s-Her-Name, and everything ran its usual course…forever.
Except this time. Granted, it was still hours before sunrise, but the place seemed smaller, dingier, sadder somehow. Walking around in her mercenary guise, Arune noticed the town’s three inns had become two, neither of which was open for business – a strange state of affairs in and of itself. But the third inn, which had always been Arune’s favorite, was undergoing extensive renovations. The old inn’s sign had been taken down and replaced by a new, crudely painted one that read Tharn’s Knackery. The Shaper couldn’t conceive of a worse fate for the old building and wondered what had befallen the innkeeper and his family.
With little else to do until the town woke up, Arune walked to the bridge, leaned against the rail, and sent out a Questing Ear. If Aoife were nearby, Arune would hear of it.
*****
Kittins, In Lunessfor
A light blazed in the darkness. “What sort of man sleeps in his clothing?” a voice sneered.
Kittins sat up in bed, squinting the sleep from his eyes and working the kinks from his neck and shoulders. He didn’t bother to look over at the Shaper when he replied, “Kind o’ man who’s got Shapers poppin’ into his bedchamber without leave and wakin’ him the fuck up.” He jumped to his feet, a mean-looking knife already in hand.
Glancing at the blade, Cindor remarked, “That’s quite a trick…for a brute. You came by my rooms, so I assume you’ve got something for me?”
Kittins laughed, a cold, ugly sound. “Oh, aye, I’ve got something for ya.”
Cindor laughed in return, a sound no less appalling. “Alas, the Queen’s already got a fool, though truth be told, neither of you is very amusing. I was referring, of course, to proof of completion of the task you were given.”
Kittins’ eyes flitted to a small cupboard in the corner, from which a trace amount of
blood had leaked.
“Crude,” Cindor observed, “but effective. Tell me that’s his head and not some other, less useful piece of his anatomy.”
“I think he found them all useful. But, yeah, that’s his head.”
The Shaper waved a hand and the cupboard opened. The alchemist’s eyes seemed to be staring at the mage. Cindor shrugged this off. “You might’ve made a living dressing store windows, if you hadn’t become…whatever it is you are.” Without pausing to give Kittins room to respond, Cindor went on, “I’m guessing that explosion in South Shore was your clumsy attempt at destroying the evidence of this murder?”
“First of all,” said Kittins, “as you commanded me to do this, it was an assassination, not a murder. Blood’s on both our hands. Second, what explosion are you talkin’ about?”
Cindor offered a sarcastic smile. “Oh, come now. You, with your penchant for setting things on fire? You ask what explosion?”
The captain had heard something on his journey back to the castle, but it was none of his doing. “Yes. I’m askin’.”
Now, the Shaper’s smile was the widest and most malevolent Kittins had ever seen it, which told him his nemesis was about to strike.
“Let us see how much you love fire!” he said, whereupon flames leapt from Kittins’ head, shoulders and torso. In a heartbeat, he was enveloped in a vast robe of fire, trailing off his fingertips, running up and down his legs, sprouting from the tops of his feet. And the pain! The pain was incredible.
Kittins dropped his knife and staggered backwards. Eventually, he fell to his knees. Though his eyes were closed, he could hear the Shaper stepping closer, hoping to get that last, biting jibe in before the captain was completely incinerated.
Like a serpent, he suddenly snapped to his full height, startling Cindor, and latched his hands around the Shaper’s neck. Now, Cindor was burning as well.
Corpse Cold (Immortal Treachery Book 3) Page 10