[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers

by Morgan Howell

  Yim reached the far end of the hall and grabbed a rope at random. Like the surrounding ropes, it ran from a pulley on the ceiling to a brass ring in the floor. There was no clue whether it was the one that suspended the skull. The sense of purpose that had galvanized Yim only moments before departed as quickly as it arose. It was replaced by desperation as she struggled to cut the thick rope. Before she could sever it, the dark man bounded up. Yim whipped around to face him, dropping the knife so she could grasp her spear with both hands.

  The man’s pale eyes stood out in his darkened, leathery face. They shone with triumph and malice. He reached into the folds of his black robe and produced a short bronze sword. “Stupid girl,” he said in a low, hypnotic tone. “Why would you face me with a stick? Was it for him?” The dark man grinned. “Then you shall watch him die. The steam always wakes them. It makes for quite a show. You’ll twist like a pale worm when it’s your turn.”

  Yim kept her spear pointed at the man, but his voice befuddled her. Then the dark man’s sword slashed out with what seemed to her to be lightning speed. The spear point she had so carefully whittled became a shower of splinters. Yim was staring stupidly at her spear’s blunted end when a second blow shortened it farther. The man was raising his sword for the third blow when he staggered back with a gasp. He swayed as if dizzy or sick. The sword fell from his hand and clattered on the floor. “You!” he croaked out in astonished anger. “You released them!”

  The spell that had stupefied Yim lifted as the dark man sank to his hands and knees. His power gone, he looked withered and truly seemed three centuries old. He reached out and grabbed his sword with an unsteady hand that appeared incapable of lifting it.

  “Yes,” said Yim. “I threw the skulls into the fire.” She stood triumphant over her decrepit foe. Her ruined spear still made a stout club. One blow would cave in his skull. Yim fought off the temptation. “I won’t kill you,” she said. “But I’ll free the remaining spirit. If that ends your life, so be it.”

  “Please,” said the man, as he crawled toward her in supplication. “Please.”

  Yim stood firm. Then with a quickness that seemed beyond his capacity, the man swung his sword at her legs. Yim jumped upward and sustained a slight nick on her foot. She angrily raised her spear like a club. “Why, you snake! I should…” Her words were cut short as numbness rapidly traveled up her leg from her tiny wound. The leg lost all feeling and buckled. Yim collapsed to the floor. She tried to pull herself up, but her body was swiftly passing beyond her control. From the waist down, she felt nothing at all. The paralysis traveled up her spine and spread to her arms. All she could do was lower her head to the floor before she became completely helpless.

  Through unblinking eyes she watched the man slowly rise. He stepped out of her field of view. She heard him laugh. “Little fool, I still have a few tricks.” Then she heard him shuffle away. Yim lay on the floor, made captive by her useless body. Then sensation began to gradually return. She felt the cold stones against her skin. A tingling spread throughout her muscles. She began to twitch and thought that soon she might be able to move again. Before that moment arrived, the dark man returned with ropes to bind her. He rolled her over on her chest and tied her wrists together. Afterward, he bound her ankles. Next, he arched her feet back and poured a liquid into her wound. It stung, and as the stinging spread, Yim’s paralysis dissipated.

  The man pulled Yim upright so she sat on her heels facing the caldron. Then he wound a rope between the bonds about her ankles and her wrists to insure she would remain in that position. “You shall watch what happens to your friend,” he said. His voice sounded frail, but its malice was stronger than ever. “Before I’m through with you, you’ll envy him. You hurt me, and you’ll pay dearly for that. I require your spirit, so you must go into the caldron alive. Yet you need not go intact. Each day I’ll do some cutting—a piece here, a piece there. Before I’m done, you’ll beg to be boiled.”

  Yim shuddered as the man placed his hand on her thigh in the mockery of a caress. “Until that merriment,” he said, “there are other games I can play.” He took a long brass needle and slowly pushed it deep into Yim’s thigh. The needle was coated with venom that mimicked a thousand wasp stings as it passed through her flesh. Despite herself, Yim screamed from the pain. The man grabbed her face and looked into her anguished eyes. “That was just a taste of your suffering.” Then, he slowly walked toward the rope attached to Honus.

  Yim tried to think despite the searing pain in her thigh. It was nearly impossible. Only a bit of the long needle protruded from her upper leg, which was swelling rapidly. Nevertheless, Yim was aware that she was more clearheaded than she would be once her torment began in earnest. It might be her last opportunity to think rationally.

  Yim forced her thoughts upon the voice that prompted her to action. She was convinced it had been Karm’s. Why would she tell me to do such a thing? Yim couldn’t believe that the goddess had not foreseen its outcome. Perhaps she cared more for the imprisoned souls than for Honus and me. Yim imagined that five spirits might easily outweigh two upon Karm’s Balance. Now, those five are beyond that man’s reach. A thought arose: Yet he’s not beyond theirs.

  Yim instantly knew what she must do. Just as she had summoned Mirien’s spirit to comfort Mam, she could bring the newly freed spirits from the Dark Path to confront their murderer. While her enfeebled captor struggled with the rope, she concentrated all her powers on that task. Anxiety and pain made it difficult to concentrate, and for a while, she feared that she would be unable to summon the ghosts. Yet calmness gradually came to her, and she was able to send her mind toward the Sunless Way. The room before her open eyes seemed to fade and the vaporous forms of agitated spirits became apparent. With her thoughts, Yim beckoned them and led them to the living world.

  The air grew frigid as darkness drifted over the stone floor to form a black pool before Yim. Its inky surface appeared stirred by a storm. Waves rose up. When they broke, misty shapes emerged. They sped through the air toward the black-robed man tugging at the rope. The first ghost collided and merged with him. The man gave a startled cry and released the rope. Four more spirits entered him, and he began to scream in an eerie, high-pitched voice. He staggered and jerked as if covered with stinging insects. He dug his nails into his cheeks and began to claw off his flesh. His scream became a series of rasping gasps as he shredded his face. Then, with a final shriek of unmitigated terror, he fell to the floor. His skull made a sickening crunch as it struck the stones.

  The air warmed. The only sounds within the hall were the crackling of the fire and the bubbling of the caldron. Inside Yim’s head, the sobs of the last imprisoned spirit echoed.

  Yim looked around and saw the knife lying on the floor only a few paces away. She began to slide toward it with excruciating slowness. Each time she moved her wounded leg, the needle within it caused fresh spasms of pain. The short journey seemed interminable. Yim wept in agony and frustration, halting until the pain became bearable, only to renew it with fresh movement. Once she reached the knife, she had to pick it up and saw through the ropes that bound her wrists. This proved maddeningly difficult and every motion aggravated her throbbing leg. In her torment, she lost all sense of time. Late-morning sunlight poured through the hall’s high windows before her hands were free and she could finally pull the needle from her leg. Trembling, she cut the ropes that bound her ankles. Yim was free at last. She rose unsteadily to her feet and hobbled toward Honus to see if he was still alive.

  Honus lay still. His face bore the look of one frozen in a nightmare. Yim pressed her head to his painted chest and was relieved to hear a faint heartbeat. The strain of events finally overwhelmed her, and she began to shake and weep. Yim clung to Honus’s inert form as she might to a rock in a stormy sea. Her tears flowed until they smeared the cursed symbols painted on his chest. Throughout this, Honus might as well have been a rock. He was as stiff and silent.

  When Yim ceased crying, s
he felt the calmness that comes from exhaustion. Wearily, she thought of all she must do to hide her powers from Honus. First, she went over to a small pile of clothing and found her tunic. She put it on, then gathered up Honus’s garments. Beneath them lay the discarded possessions of the man’s previous victims. An infant’s smock, simple and tattered, made Yim recall Tabsha’s missing child. There was a warrior’s rusty chain-mail shirt. Upon a beggar’s rags lay a lady’s brooch, the kind used for fastening a cloak. It looked old, and its workmanship was exquisite. Each item suggested a tale of a life that ended in unspeakable terror.

  Yim felt better when she was clothed, and she turned to freeing the last imprisoned spirit. With time to figure out the tangle of ropes, she determined which one suspended the skull, and cut it. The skull smashed on the floor, and the spirit was at peace.

  Yim devised a story to explain what happened to her foe and considered what evidence she might plant to confirm it. With that in mind, she approached the dark man’s corpse. As hideous as he was in life, his final moments had rendered him even more gruesome. The man had clawed his face to shreds, exposing bone in places. Yim imagined his final visions were likely the experiences of his victims turned against him.

  The man’s face told too much about his death, and Yim realized that Honus shouldn’t see it. Overcoming her revulsion, she pulled the corpse into a slumped, sitting position, then limped to get Honus’s sword. Like her knife, it still faintly tingled from a spell. Yim returned to the dark man. She gripped the sword with both hands, and after much hesitation, swung at the corpse’s neck. She shut her eyes before the blade struck and only felt it hit. The sword stopped abruptly.

  Yim opened her eyes. The blade was wedged partway through the dead man’s neck. When she tried to pull the sword out, he moved. Yim shrieked and jumped back. The dark man fell backward, the blade still in his neck. When Yim saw that the blow had not revived her enemy, she found the nerve to extract the sword from him.

  She pulled the corpse into a sitting position again, aimed at the gash in the back of its neck, and swung the sword. This time, she didn’t close her eyes. The blade severed the dark man’s spine, but not his neck. The result was ghastly. His head flipped forward so his ruined face pressed against his chest. Yim’s stomach churned when she realized that she would have to slice through the remaining flesh to remove the head. She was gagging by the time it tumbled to the floor.

  Yim pushed the headless corpse over and dropped Honus’s sword close by. Picking up the head seemed harder than severing it, for she was loath to touch it. It took time to summon the nerve to grasp the wispy hair. When Yim did, she seized it, limped to the boiling caldron, and tossed the head into it. For a while afterward, all she could do was shudder as she struggled to regain some composure.

  When Yim felt able to act, she was still frantic to finish and depart. First she had to wash the painted runes off Honus. She cut his bonds and threw them into the fire. The dark man had a bucket of water and a rag with his painting supplies, and Yim took them to wash Honus. After determining that the runes were painted only on Honus’s front, she set to work.

  Yim had never seen a naked man before, and as she began to pass the thin rag over Honus’s body, she felt both curious and shy. His muscular leanness reminded her of a goat, while his skin’s smoothness contrasted with that impression. That smoothness was broken by his scars. Yim was amazed by their quantity. White lines crisscrossed his flesh, forming a chronicle of injury and a testament to his service to Karm. One jagged gash ran from his collarbone down past his navel and looked like it should have been fatal. It was intersected by an angry red scar partially covered with scabs. It was one of several wounds that were only partially healed. Yim washed these especially gently as she slowly cleaned her way downward. When she gingerly washed his manhood, the possibility that he might regain consciousness made her extremely uncomfortable. As soon as she had cleaned Honus’s upper body, she dressed him in his shirt before washing his legs and feet.

  When the painted runes were removed, Yim finished dressing Honus. Although the magical symbols had been erased, he remained unconscious. She shook him and shouted his name to no effect. He was still under a spell. Yim pondered the situation and concluded the spell had already accomplished its task. Honus’s spirit had become ensnared in preparation for his body’s destruction. Yet Yim knew that it remained in this world, bound by magic. If Honus’s spirit were to once more animate his body, Yim would have to free it.

  The intensity of Yim’s encounter with the child’s spirit made her wary of contacting Honus’s. She knew that she would have to take special precautions if she wanted to hide her powers from him. The Wise Woman had taught her how to obscure her essence when contacting malevolent ghosts, and Yim thought the same skill would be useful in this instance. She sat on her heels before Honus, and ignoring the pain in her thigh, proceeded to meditate. Only when she felt disguised did she venture forth into the nether realm. Yim neither saw nor touched anything, yet these were the closest terms for her experiences. She recognized Honus’s presence immediately. He was struggling within a web of confusion, separated from all his senses. Without moving, she drew near him and reached out.

  There was no flesh to touch, no barrier between him and her. As soon as Yim contacted Honus, she also entered him. He was naked to her in the most profound sense. The intimacy of their contact made Yim instinctively pull away. Yet even that brief glimpse had been nearly overwhelming. All the contradictory thoughts and feelings that formed his spirit were laid bare to her. It was too much to absorb and far more than she ever wanted to know. As Yim retreated, Honus followed her back to existence. He opened his eyes the same time she did.

  Honus looked about with startled confusion, then stared at Yim blankly for a long moment before he spoke. “Yim?”

  “Master! You killed him!”

  Honus looked puzzled. “Killed who?”

  “The man who kidnapped me. You cut off his head.”

  “I remember only a flash of light…and a dream. A very disturbing dream.”

  “Don’t you recall saving me? You told me to run away.”

  Honus thought awhile. “Yes,” he said at last. “I remember. I cut your bonds and turned to face a man in black.”

  “You must have killed him with your first blow, but you never came back. I waited so long.”

  “You came back for me?” said Honus with a touch of surprise. “That was brave.” The dullness left Honus’s eyes, and he began to glance about. “Where’s the man’s head?”

  “I threw it in the pot.”

  A slight smile came to Honus’s face. “Why would you do that?”

  “He…he frightened me.”

  “I’d think a severed head would frighten you more.”

  Yim saw the feebleness of her deception. It was already unraveling, and she realized that she would have to do something fast. Without responding to Honus’s remark, she rose and limped over to retrieve his sword. Before she returned, Yim forced herself to sob. “Ma…Ma…Master, please ta…take me a…a…away from here! I’m so fr…frightened!” Yim caused all her fear and pain to well up again and soon she cried in earnest. Although it chagrined her, she clutched Honus like a hysterical child. Between sobs, she pleaded, “Can we go now?”

  Honus wrapped his arms around Yim and tried to calm her. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “There’s nothing to fear now.” Yim refused to be comforted. Finally, Honus said, “Come. We’ll leave this fell place.”

  Yim’s sobs diminished, and she whispered breathily, “Oh thank you, Master.” She rose and hobbled from the hall as quickly as her throbbing leg permitted.

  Once they were in the castle courtyard, Honus asked, “What’s wrong with your leg?”

  “The man stuck it with a needle.”

  “Let me see,” said Honus, as he knelt down before her. He raised Yim’s tunic to reveal her upper leg. It was so swollen that the skin was stretched tight. A small, black dot marked
the needle’s entry point. A circle of discolored skin surrounded it—purple nearest the dot, shading to a sullen red. He softly touched the mark. Yim winced. “I’m familiar with such wounds,” Honus said. “You shouldn’t be walking.”

  “Am I poisoned?”

  “You needn’t worry. This venom is short-lived. Rest and bathing in cold water will restore your leg. I’ll carry you to our campsite.” Honus grasped Yim’s uninjured leg and placed his shoulder against her stomach. Then, he rose, throwing her upon his shoulder.

  “I can walk,” protested Yim.

  “You’re light enough. Besides, I need you to heal quickly.”

  As Yim was borne down the path, she reflected how goatherders similarly carried injured animals. She wavered between believing Honus bore her solely out of practicality and supposing he had tender motives. Her brief glimpse into his spirit hinted at the latter, but she didn’t wish to dwell on it. His emotions were contradictory, Yim told herself. It’s impossible to know how he feels. He certainly doesn’t. She was sure of only one thing: Whatever Honus’s feelings were, they would complicate her life.

  TWENTY-TWO

  EXCEPT FOR moaning whenever her wounded leg was jostled, Yim was silent as Honus carried her. Still, her body spoke to him. He sensed her exhaustion by the way she slumped over his back. The crusted blood on her cuts and scrapes, the hotness of her swollen thigh, and the rope burns on her ankles told of her pain. Honus tried to carry her as gently as possible, though he was still shaky from his own ordeal. He approved of Yim’s stoicism, so he respected her silence and didn’t ask why she had lied to him.