He understood why she’d sacrificed herself, but it sat ill with him that she was going to die and he couldn’t save her. Even if he had the numbers to overcome Telvier’s cutthroats and the Guthlanders, he couldn’t violate the Free Company Charter. To do so would condemn his entire company and he couldn’t do that, not even to save someone he liked.
Death when it came would be a welcome release. She’d seen the Queen and the garrison safe, now she wanted the Guthani to just get on with it.
Thorgulsen’s snow-pale eyes glared at her from beneath his heavy brows. He folded his arms. Was he waiting for her to say something? Perhaps he thought she’d beg for her life. If so, she hoped he was holding his breath. He barked something in Guthani. A course noose was fastened around her neck. Her blood ran cold, pumped ice through her veins. She shivered.
“Any last words, Steelskin?” he sneered.
She looked him in the eye;—saw the hate burning within those pale orbs, and smiled. “You lose.”
Thorgulsen gave a sharp nod to the hirths holding the other end of the rope. The noose tightened. Panic gripped her as the rough cords bit into her neck and slowly closed her throat. Fighting for a breath she couldn’t draw, she was hoisted off the ground. Her lungs began to burn. Thunder roared in her ears, her head felt like it was going to burst. The world turned scarlet.
A cheer rang round the castle when they hung the Steelskin. Garuld would sing of how she’d whimpered like a whipped dog at the end. At least, that would be the version he’d sing for Kasper Thorgulsen. The yarn he’d spin in the inns and halls beyond the Thane’s lands would be different. Then he would sing of how the knight had looked Thorgulsen in the eye and laughed in his face before he killed her. Neither was the truth, not quite.
She had only smiled at the end, but for the sake of drama he would embellish that small detail, sew a little more colour into the tapestry. He didn’t think it would anger her spirit. The Talespinner pulled off his helm and ran his hand though his hair before wandering into the Arth to listen to what tales the stones had to tell him.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’ll never forgive you for this, Iris!” Prince Talin hissed at Lady Berwick who was dragging him along the narrow trail.
“I know, Highness, but I gave Lady Ali my word that I’d see you safe and as I have mentioned before—she scares me more than you do.”
“She’s going to die, Bear, they all are.”
She sighed, and shook her head. “I know. I’m sorry, Tal.”
Garian was keeping an eye on the Prince and his friend in case Lady Berwick misplaced her loyalty and let him go. If she did, he’d run straight back to the Arth and he’d have to go get him, and he did not want to go back there. Garian didn’t blame the Prince—he’d have done exactly the same thing if Suli was there, but then, he wasn’t the heir to the throne.
“When will we be turning north, Captain Tain?” the Queen asked.
“We aren’t, Majesty. The fighting near the border is too fierce.” And balanced on a knife’s edge.
Thea frowned. “But you said…You lied to Captain Stenna?”
The last thing he wanted was to explain his actions. He had more pressing concerns, like keeping her and her sons alive, but he couldn’t duck answering his Queen.
He kept his voice down. He didn’t want the Prince to hear; he was angry enough. “If the Captain is taken alive, they’ll try to find out where you are, Majesty. If she doesn’t know she can’t tell them, and—if pressed, she’ll tell them a lie that she believes to be the truth. It was a necessary deception.”
“I understand. So where are we going, Captain Tain?”
“We’ve been offered sanctuary in a place known only to the Vodoni. It’s very safe, Majesty. We should be there by nightfall.” He bowed. “If you would excuse me, I need to check the trail.”
Before she could question him further, he dropped back and scanned the trail behind them. He knew it was clear; Pytre and Lhazinia were circling the group as they moved and nothing would get past those two. He’d just wanted to avoid having to answer any more bloody questions. As much as it had been necessary, it didn’t feel right abandoning all those people. He rarely felt guilt over what he did because it was always for the greater good, to protect the kingdom. He just couldn’t forget the look on Stenna’s face—of seeing the moment when the knight’s hopes had died.
It took less time for the Steelskin to stop dancing on the end of the rope than Thorgulsen would have liked. When she went limp he ordered them to let her down. The hirths let go of the rope, it whipped through the portcullis. She hit the cobbles and lay there, as still as a corpse. He wasn’t about to let her off so easily, and ordered one of the hirths to loosen the noose. A moment later, she coughed and gasped for breath.
“You had me worried for a while there, Steelskin.” Thorgulsen laughed with his hirths as the knight fought her way back to life. “Send for the Priest,” he ordered.
The Priest picked his way carefully through the debris on the bridge. Thorgulsen noted how he held his robe clear of the filth with one hand, and pressed a kerchief over his nose and mouth with the other. Crossing the body-choked moat was not a pleasant experience, not even for a man who was as intimately familiar with death as the Priest.
“Of course I’ve heard of him; his work for the Brotherhood is well known…in certain circles,” said Telvier, as though Thorgulsen was interested in his prattle. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him in the flesh. I must say, his taste in clothes is rather drab. A good cut, and expensive cloth but the colour is… uninspiring.”
Thorgulsen shook his head. “You’re worse than a fucking woman.”
“Fucking women is precisely why I care about my appearance, Thane. In nature the male with the finest plumage attracts the most luscious mate.”
“Male sea drakes look like flying turds. The females are iridescent.”
“He has such a kindly face, don’t you think? almost saintly—like the Eklesiasti himself,” Telvier smiled.
Thorgulsen thought he looked particularly ordinary, as befitted a spy and assassin. His hair was close cropped and greying, age and overindulgence had comfortably, but not excessively, rounded his belly. He saw them and waved.
Telvier flourished his handkerchief. “I must say, this is a rare privilege. It isn’t often I meet anyone with a worse reputation than my own.”
Thorgulsen laughed.
“Ah, Thane Kasper,” said the Priest, dabbing his forehead with the neat white square. “The gods have smiled upon us; his eminence will not forget your co-operation.”
“Not at all, Priest. The information you gave me was good. Now I need to you to work your—” Thorgulsen was about to say ‘magic’ until he remembered what the Brotherhood thought about it. “…use your skills, to find out where the Queen is.”
“Of course, of course. It is the least I can do. Captain Stenna has been a most awkward fish to land.”
“I imagine the bounty his Holiness has placed on her head must be quite substantial to tempt you out of Suvia,” Telvier purred.
Thorgulsen watched them size each other up like two vipers meeting on a path. The Priest’s mouth curved into a tight smile.
“And this must be the poor misguided wretch.” The Priest went over to the Steelskin and toed her onto her back. He sighed heavily and shook his head.
“Call me old fashioned, but I like to hang people after I’ve questioned them, not before.”
Thorgulsen shrugged and smoothed his moustaches. “She annoyed me.”
The Priest prodded her bruised throat, she gave a ragged cough. “So it would seem. How long do I have?”
“Until this time tomorrow at the latest. After that it won’t matter what she knows.”
The Priest frowned, his lips distended in an ugly pout. He wiped his hand on her shirt. “That really isn’t very long. I may have to be unsubtle; results therefore may be less than precise.”
“Do what you have to.”
“Very well. If you could have her taken to the dungeon, I’ll get started right away.”
Alyda was dragged down a narrow flight of steps. The hard edges scraped her shoulders, her head bounced from one foot-hollowed depression to the next.
The dank old dungeon hadn’t been used for its original purpose in years, but it still retained some vestiges of a prison. A sliver of daylight squeezed through a narrow slit cut high on the wall—impossible to see out of even if she’d been on her feet. Seized by a sudden urge to vomit, she rolled over and retched blood and bile onto the slime-sheened flagstones.
A large fireplace stood dormant on the same wall as the stairs she’d just been dragged down. Set in the floor by the hearth was the rusted ring of a trapdoor. The room was cut in half by an old iron grill. Piles of crates and old barrels were stacked on the far side of it.
Flea poked his head out of the broken side of one of the crates and looked at her. Her heart sank. He shouldn’t be here; shouldn’t see this. As though sensing her displeasure, he ducked back inside the crate. She prayed that he stayed there.
Time passed. She drifted, semi-conscious, through dreams and nightmares until slow, deliberate footfalls echoed down the stairwell, bringing the world back into painful focus. She recognised the polished shoes peeking from beneath the hem of the black wool robe. It was the one Thorgulsen had called, Priest.
“This is their dungeon?” the Priest sighed heavily. “No rack, no implements—primitive. I’ll have to improvise.” He walked over to the fireplace and slid a poker from the dusty rack by the hearth.
“You there…” He pointed the poker at one of the Guthani who’d brought her down. “Get a fire going, and bring more torches. And you—” He waved the poker at the other one, “get some rope and tie her to that.” He gestured to the grill dividing the room.
Alyda was hauled to her feet and shoved against the grill. The hirth began to tie her, but the Priest muttered something in Suvian and huffily shooed her away.
“Not like that, you fucking oaf,” he snapped, oblivious to the venomous glare the hirth gave him.
Alyda didn’t have the strength to fight when he ordered her stripped. He explained in great detail to the bored looking warriors exactly how he wanted her bound and why. She knew the speech was for her benefit and pretended not to listen. A cold breeze squeezed through the narrow window. She shivered. The Priest gave a smug little grin, like he’d personally ordered the wind to blow.
“Yes it is a little chilly down here, isn’t it? Forgive my terrible manners, Captain Stenna. My name is Alden Barziner, you might have heard of me? No? No matter. Some people call me Priest, perhaps you’ve…No? Ah, well, never mind. You know, I’ve been following your exploits for quite some time, ever since his Eminence asked me to…redeem you. I’m only a lay brother of the Order, but, and I do not wish to sound boastful…” He gave an empty chuckle. “I have a gift, a way of helping sinners unburden themselves. I tried to lighten your mortal load in Weyhithe when you returned from Suvia. Alas, my agent failed me. So I was forced to come myself, do the job properly.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face; let his fingers trail across her cheek.
She refused to flinch. He smiled, evidently conscious of her effort.
“This has been quite a trial for me. I have a weak chest and the damp Antian climate does me no good at all. But now that we’ve finally met, in the flesh as it were, I cannot tell you how glad I am that I made the journey. Oh, listen to me! Chattering away and you’re shivering like a newborn lamb. Don’t worry, Alyda; I’ll soon warm you up.” The smile vanished like it was never there. He walked over to the fire and thrust the poker into the growing coals.
Alyda fixed her gaze on the wall above the fireplace and ignored the clank and scrape of metal. She forced herself to explore the landscape of cracks and fissures, the mottled patches of multi-hued damp that had colonized the dripping walls. There were a dozen shades of green, pale yellows and shining black. Barziner drew a blade from his sleeve.
Her gut reaction was to fight the ropes. He made a satisfied noise in his throat. She took a breath, stopped struggling. Hard as iron, cold as stone. You are the Captain of the Hammer. You will not give in to fear! The Priest came over, leaned against the grill beside her, so close she could smell the vinegary tang of wine on his breath. Don’t look at him. She fixed her gaze on the wall above the fireplace, caught the gleam of steel out of the corner of her eye. Do not fucking look!
“Captain, you and your knights were very brave; no one could have fought harder for their people. It was a truly heroic effort—given how these things are measured. But you’ve done enough.” He leaned closer, his hot breath washed against the inflamed skin of her neck. Don’t look…
“If you tell me where Queen Thea and her sons are, I give you my word—I’ll send you back to your company, alive, and intact. There is a small matter of confessing that you’re a witch, but all that I require for that is a signature. I’ll even take care of that rather painful looking knee for you. I must say, you show remarkable strength even to be standing on it.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “A good and bad thing,—being strong. Trust me; no one knows this better than I. Now, what say you?”
Her throat was raw and swollen. Just breathing was an effort, but she managed to find breath enough to hiss,
“Never.”
He laughed; it was a hard, ugly sound. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d say! I’m in the wrong business. I should have been a fucking seer. Oh, this simply won’t work. There you are, a little battered and bruised, but still a very handsome woman. I have to confess, ‘tis quite a distraction.”
Without warning, he slashed her across the face. It was such a casual act of violence, little more than a reflex that it took a moment for the pain to register. When it did—when the blood began to flow—it burned. She roared an animal cry of agony.
“That’s better.” Barziner wiped the blade on his robe. “Now, if you would excuse me for a little while, Alyda. I must speak with Thane Kasper. While I’m away, I’d like you to consider what else I can take from you, as I have your beauty. Hopefully it will encourage you to be sensible and tell me where the Queen is.”
For the first time in her adult life Alyda felt helpless. She fought the ropes, wild with pain and impotent rage. Time passed and her anger ebbed with her strength, leaving her drained. Her cheek throbbed and she desperately wanted to shift position and take the weight off her injured leg, but she couldn’t move an inch.
The bar of light in the narrow window turned black. The hirths were talking quietly by the fire. For the most part they’d ignored her after Barziner left, so it came as a surprise when one of them came over and tipped a water skin to her mouth and gestured for her to drink. The cold water stung her ravaged lip, but quenched her raging thirst. Speaking was too painful, so she nodded her thanks. The Guthani said something she didn’t understand before re-joining his companion by the fire.
Alyda would have fallen asleep had she not heard Barziner’s steady footfall on the steps. He came in carrying the handle of a woodsman’s axe. His affable smile twisted into a grimace when he saw a splash of water on the floor in front of her.
“Which one of you did this?” he snarled.
“I did,” growled the Guthani who’d given her the water.
“I ordered you not to even fucking look at her, let alone give her a fucking drink! What next?” He gestured grandly. “A comfy bed and a feather quilt? Go, get out! And send someone who can follow simple orders.”
The hirth strolled from the dungeon. Seeing him lose his composure was a small victory, but she’d take what she could get. Barziner forced a tight smile, but the flint in his eyes betrayed his anger. Perhaps he was angry enough to kill her? She hoped so—her dead were waiting and she was eager to join them.
“Please, forgive my outburst, Captain. It was most unseemly, but as you can see, these are less than ideal circumstances, and I do not thrive in cha
os.” The remaining hirth muttered something under her breath, earning a sidelong glare from Barziner. “Now, where were we, Alyda?”
She gathered her strength; she just needed to push him a little more. “I was about to tell you…to go fuck yourself.” Was that enough?
“Bravado! How delightful.” He wagged his finger and shook his head. “You’re trying to provoke me, but I’m afraid it won’t work. Only incompetence riles me to murderous levels of fury and you’re playing the part of ‘helpless prisoner’ with consummate skill. Now, where is the Queen?” He flexed his fingers, took a firmer grip on the axe handle.
Alyda stared over Barziner’s head, and fixed her gaze on the wall. A cluster of mould had spread across the old stone mantle; it looked like branching antlers, grey as old bone. Barziner rested the axe shaft on his shoulder.
“I imagine that strong legs are very important for a captain of cavalry. Now, where is the Queen, Captain Stenna?”
No, not just grey. The tips of the antlers were tinged with yellow…
Barziner drew the shaft back.
Above the antlers was a sky of shining black…
There was a soft whoosh of air.
The icy water shocked Alyda back to consciousness. She spluttered, coughed, every ragged breath was agony. She had no idea how much time had passed since Barziner had shattered her leg. That it was still dark outside was all she knew.
The pain was breath-taking, worse than anything she’d ever experienced and she couldn’t escape it. Not unless she gave him what he wanted, but as much as it hurt, she wasn’t remotely inclined to tell him where the Queen was. If anything, every blow he’d landed had only hardened her resolve. She just lacked the strength to tell him.
She watched Barziner dip a strip of cloth into a bucket of water and wrap it around his hand. He made a fist. Humming tunelessly, he went over to the fire and pulled the glowing poker from the coals. Steam hissed.
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