Apparently believing Astryd’s pleasure was directed at him, Saerle shuffled all three bottles into his opposite hand. He ran his fingers up her arm, caressing her shoulder briefly before dropping to her breast.
The touch made Astryd’s skin crawl. She shivered free, then, realizing her mistake, covered neatly. “Not so eager, handsome. We have all night.” It required strength of will not to follow the words with a grunt of abhorrence. She selected an open bedchamber at random and gestured him through the portal.
The room contained a cot with a straw mattress softened with coverlets and fluffed pillows. A tall chair framed of wood stood in the farther corner, pulled away from the wall. Dark green linen stuffed with down stretched over its seat and back. A sturdy end table sat at the opposite side of the bed. Above it, a lantern hung from a ring in the ceiling, its flame flapping light through the windowless confines.
Saerle set the wine bottles on the table. Stepping around the bed to face Astryd, he poised to sit on the edge of the mattress.
Astryd closed the door. She whirled suddenly, causing her skirt to flip partially up her thigh. Having captured Saerle’s attention, she invoked her life energy for a spell. Silently, the bed swung around so its side was flush with the wall. “Sit,” Astryd purred.
Eyes locked on Astryd, Saerle sat where the bed had stood a moment before. He crashed to the floor, sprawling beside the mattress.
Astryd ran to his side, suppressing a snicker behind an expression of concern. It lacked the sincerity she intended to convey, but Saerle seemed too shocked to notice. His head flicked from side to side as the new location of the bed registered and he tried to figure out what had happened. Catching his forearm, Astryd helped him to his feet. “I know you’re eager, handsome, but let’s do this on the bed, shall we?”
Saerle nodded absently. Seizing on his confusion, Astryd unobtrusively used her magic to slide the wine-laden table out of sight behind the chair.
“How?” Saerle started. He broke off, apparently realizing there was no way to ask the question without appearing insane. His gaze wandered to the site where the table had stood and froze there. He looked at Astryd, then suddenly back at the empty space where the table should have stood.
“Is something wrong?” Astryd reached out, massaging his shoulders seductively. “You feel tense.”
“I ...” Saerle went even more rigid beneath her touch. “No-o,” he said, voice cracking halfway through the word. He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.” He emphasized each syllable, as if to convince himself as well as Astryd.
“Here, let me help.” Astryd sat beside Saerle, her side touching his. I hope Shadow appreciates what I’m doing for him. She seized the lacing at Saerle’s throat and gently tugged it free. Using two fingers, she loosed the tie at each eyelet. While his attention focused on her, she quietly slid the table to the end of the bed, behind him. Her life aura flickered dangerously, and she knew she could only afford one more spell if she wanted to save enough energy for a transport. Catching the hem of Saerle’s shirt, she pulled it over his head and flung it over her shoulder. At her command, the homespun hovered.
Saerle jerked backward with a startled noise. “My shirt!”
Astryd stared into Saerle’s widened eyes. She wrapped her fingers around his ribs, trying to draw him closer.
Saerle resisted. “My shirt. Look at my shirt!”
“What’s the matter? Did I tear it?” Astryd released her magics, saw Saerle’s gaze fall as she turned. The fabric lay in a rumpled pile on the floor. “It looks fine to me.” She twisted back to Saerle, clamping her hands to her hips in mock offense. “Are you trying to avoid me?”
Saerle groaned.
“Here.” Astryd pushed him to the coverlet. “Have some wine. It’ll calm you.”
“Wine?” Saerle’s voice had fallen to a whisper of its former resonance.
Astryd allowed herself a giggle, and it was only the weakness of having tapped most of her life energy that saved her from breaking into a torrent of laughter. “The wine you brought.”
“Where?”
Hiding a grimace, Astryd caressed Saerle’s damp forehead. She smothered the urge to wipe oily sweat from her hand. “On the table where you put it, handsome.”
Saerle glanced wildly toward the end of the bed, and the sight of the table with its three bottles of wine induced a guttural moan.
“I’ll get it,” Astryd said helpfully. She leaned across Saerle’s prone form, watching the dark glow of her remaining life aura wash across him, making his olive-skinned features appear more ashen. In the flickering light of the lantern, her aura seemed to disappear into the shadows. Frowning, she grabbed the bottles with both hands and dragged them onto the bed. Fumbling the knife she used for eating and odd tasks from her pocket, she jabbed it into a cork and twisted it free. She offered the opened bottle.
Saerle accepted the wine eagerly. Without bothering to sit up, he poured. Liquid sloshed into his mouth, across his naked chest, and trickled into the mattress. He drained a third of the bottle before offering it to Astryd.
Astryd shook her head. “You need it more than I do.”
Obligingly, Saerle reclaimed the bottle. Three more gulps emptied it, and Astryd handed him the next. She waited while he drank, her patience thinning. That meeting could have started already. I can’t waste all my time with this idiot. She clamped a hand to the crotch of his breeks, felt him soft and unresponsive against her palm.
Restlessness made her movement more sudden than intended. Saerle jumped in surprise, the bottle startled from his grip. Purple wine splashed across Astryd, Saerle, and the coverlet, and the bottle thunked to the floor. The room went silent except for the steady trickle of liquid on the planks.
Gracefully, Astryd rescued the remainder of the wine, returning the bottle to Saerle. She raised a hand, making certain he noticed it before replacing it on his genitals. She fondled more carefully, felt the first hint of reaction as the wine relaxed him. Her antics had rattled him, put her fully in control, and Astryd felt reasonably sure he would agree to anything she suggested. “Ever been conquered by a woman?”
Saerle shook his head, whiskers sticky with wine. “No. How does that work?”
Astryd caught interest in Saerle’s tone that went beyond sexual desire. I wonder if he hopes I’ll say it involves a third person rearranging the furniture. “I’ll show you.” Astryd unbuckled Saerle’s belt. Pulling it from around his waist, she looped it around his wrist and lashed it securely to the leg of the cot beneath the mattress.
Saerle finished the last mouthful of wine from the second bottle. “I’m not sure about—”
Astryd cut him off with a finger to his lips. “Relax. Enjoy it.” She uncorked the last bottle and pressed it into his free palm.“Drink.”
Saerle obeyed while Astryd cut her own sash in two, using the pieces to tie his ankles. She pulled the lacing from his shirt and returned to the bed. Taking the now empty wine bottle from Saerle, she bound his other hand, wincing at what she was about to do. She knelt at the bedside. Softly, she turned his face toward her. “That’s not so bad, is it?” Before Saerle could reply, she swung the bottle down, as hard as she could, against his temple.
Saerle went limp instantly, and Astryd hoped he hadn’t seen the blow. A sudden thought ground fear through her. I hope I didn’t kill him. Until that moment, it had never occurred to her that she might have the strength to take a life. She had never killed before, and the idea of doing so as a punishment for seeking paid sexual favors repulsed her. She watched Saerle, and the deep rise and fall of his breathing relieved her conscience.
“Sorry,” Astryd whispered. She spread the coverlet over Saerle, carefully hiding his bindings from anyone who might peek into the room. Crossing the room with as little sound as possible, she opened the door a crack. Footsteps filled her ears. She heard a gruff male voice, his words indecipherable, followed by a high-pitched giggle. Then a door slammed and the hallway fell silent.
&nb
sp; Astryd slipped from the room. Most of the doors were closed. At the far end of the hall, the storage chamber doors overlooking the bargaining rooms stood ajar. It must be approaching sundown. Astryd winced, aware her friends would soon begin to worry about her. Where would Harriman hold a meeting? Probably not up here; he’ll need these rooms for business.
She edged toward the stairs. At the top, she took a surreptitious glance into the main conference area. Three women and a man sat in discussion. Beyond them, Astryd caught a glimpse of one of Harriman’s Norse bodyguards disappearing into a bargaining chamber. The door slammed shut behind him.
Astryd retreated, scarcely daring to believe her luck. Everything was falling into place. She still had enough life energy for a transport, should it become necessary. And Harriman had chosen to hold his assembly in the one place Astryd knew she could observe without being seen. She scrambled to the end of the upstairs hallway, and slipped through the gap into the room above the one the Norseman had entered.
A bar of light from the hallway penetrated a room devoid of furnishings. Astryd stepped into the center where knotholes and cracks between the floorboards gave her a view of activity below. Her aura was nearly lost in the darkness, no brighter than the light leeching through the doorway. Alone, without the nervous enthusiasm of Saerle’s challenge, her head buzzed and her limbs felt heavy. She sat, cross-legged, on the paneling, hunched forward for a complete view of the chamber beneath her.
The six grim-faced warriors perched on chairs and stools. Before them, Harriman stood with his arms folded across his chest, flanked by Halden and Skereye. Astryd had to strain to hear his words. “I know ... location of that ... traitor ... Medakan.” Every few syllables, his voice fell too low for her to comprehend.
Suddenly alert, Astryd realized the importance of catching every word. A choice confronted her, and she felt too tired to make it. If I enhance my hearing, I won’t have enough energy left for an emergency escape. The word “murder” wafted clearly to her, and she made her decision. She shaped her magics to listen, feeling dizzy and emptied as the spell wrung vigor from her. She waited until her head stopped spinning, and Harriman’s speech became clear.
“... female, so he has only one fighting friend to help him. A team of women should be able to handle that.” Harriman’s gaze traveled over each of the men before him. Briefly, he glanced upward.
Astryd went utterly still.
Harriman’s eyes never stopped to fully focus, and he continued without a pause or signal to indicate he had seen anything. “Bring him in alive, it’s worth a thousand weight in gold. Dead, it’s a hundred.” He hesitated, allowing time for the mentioned fortunes to register in every mind. “If you don’t bring him back, I’d better find out he killed you all. And if he can do that, you’ve gone softer than my mother.”
The warriors met Harriman’s statement with grunts of amusement or denial. One cursed Harriman beneath his breath, and his words floated, garbled even to Astryd’s heightened hearing.
“I’ll get to the plan in a moment,” Harriman continued. “But first, I’ve had a couple too many beers.” He made a gesture Astryd could not see, and the men laughed. She watched him open the door, slip through with Halden and Skereye, and close the panel behind them.
Astryd leaned forward with a sigh. Every moment she held the spell cost her life force, but it was still far less than recasting. She waited, not bothering to focus on the warriors’ conversations about weaponry. Shortly, she heard the pounding of footfalls on the steps, and terror drove her to her feet. She measured the distance to the door, aware she could never make it back to Saerle in time. Loki’s evil children! The words seemed as much description as blasphemy. Rummaging through her pockets, she discovered the cleaning rag she had stuffed there. She wrenched it free. The movement flung her knife into the air. Desperately, she grabbed for it, juggled it once, then crammed it back in place. Hurriedly, she went to work dusting a corner as the door creaked fully open.
Astryd whirled, not having to feign her startlement. Har-riman and his bodyguards stood in the doorway. The hall lantern threw their shadows across Astryd. “What are you doing here?”
“Cleaning,” Astryd replied sweetly.
“Cleaning?” Harriman repeated without accusation. “In the dark?”
“There’s no lantern in here. And there was enough light from the hall—” Astryd broke off, abruptly realizing her mistake. Taziar had told her the spying rooms were left dark. With the bargaining rooms lit, it accorded a perfect view from the upper room down, but did not allow the people in the lower room to see up between the boards. But I left the door partway open. Apparently, Harriman saw. I’ve used my last spell, and now I’m in trouble. She covered quickly. She reached for the knife in her pocket, closing her hand over the hilt. “The door was ajar. That means I’m supposed to clean it, right?”
“Usually,” Harriman agreed. “But right now you’re supposed to be with a client.”
Astryd hesitated, exhausted. She knew too little of warfare to dream of killing a man with a single stroke of a knife. Even a lucky stab at Harriman would not rescue her from the berserks. “He’s asleep. So I went back to work.”
“He paid for the night.” Harriman’s tone betrayed no anger or suspicion. “Asleep or not, you stay with him.”
Astryd nodded, not daring to believe she would get off this easily. Once Harriman returned to the meeting, she could still sneak away and warn Taziar, Larson, and Silme. “All right. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Harriman stepped aside. Astryd wandered around him, tensed for an attack, but he made no movement toward her. Instead, he watched her stagger to Saerle’s room.
Astryd released pent up breath in a ragged sigh. Catching the handle, she pulled open the door, unable to recall the panel feeling so heavy before. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Harriman’s gesture, and his harsh voice followed. “Skereye, stay right by the door and make certain she doesn’t leave until morning.”
Horror crushed down on Astryd, and she tottered awkwardly into the room. The door crashed shut, leaving her with a comatose client tied to the bed and awash in panic that drained life energy nearly as fast as a spell. Harriman must know who I am. Why else would he trap me in this room?
Astryd’s life aura faded, its edges invisible, and need alone kept her conscious. Her eyes dropped closed, and rational thoughts scattered or disappeared. Got to warn Shadow. Enemy trap. Can’t go through the door. Window. Window? Blindly, she stumbled toward the window. She dragged her limbs onward, her mind and movements thick, as if wading through water. After what seemed like an eternity, her hand struck wall. She forced her lids apart and only then realized she was crawling.
Reaching up, Astryd caught the sill. Movement drove her to the edge of oblivion. Curtains fluttered into her face, filmy and clinging. Unwilling to waste a gesture removing them, she peered through. A full story below her, a packed earth alleyway reflected the red rays of sunset in a glow that put her life aura to shame. The black shapes of rain barrels and garbage rilled her vision, then spread to engulf her sight in darkness. Astryd collapsed on the whorehouse floor.
* * *
CHAPTER 8 : Dim Shadows of Vengeance
The land of darkness and the shadow of death.
—Job 10:21
The last rays of sunlight slipped past the inn room window, leaving the chamber awash in the red glow of the fire. Half-sitting, half-crouched on his pack, Al Larson wondered what it would be like to be a father. The oldest of three children, he tried to recall his siblings’ infancies. His sister was scarcely two years younger, and his brother’s babyhood faded into a muddled remembrance of wet burps and diapers. I doubt Silme and I will have plastic bottles and jars of mashed peas. The thought made Larson smile. He glanced at Silme, perched on the logs by the hearth, eyelids half-closed as she rehearsed some meditative technique too softly for him to hear. The hearth fire accentuated rosy cheeks and unlined features. Hair swept around her sho
ulders in thick, golden waves. The firelight carved a spindly imitation of perfect curves in a shadow on the floor beside her.
Larson looked away. Memories swept down on him then; though they lacked the nightmarish reality of the flashbacks, they seemed every bit as cruel. He pictured Silme’s bumbling, raven-haired apprentice, Brendor, and recalled how he and Silme had planned to raise the boy as a son, until an enemy’s magic had turned Brendor into a soulless killing machine. Larson could still feel the pressure and warmth of the boy against him as Brendor wrenched him to the ground with the inhuman strength of the sorcerer who controlled him. The child’s grip seemed permanently impressed on Larson’s flesh, the knife the boy plunged for his throat a constant in his mind’s eye.
Remembrance of Silme’s magic tearing apart the body that had once housed Brendor’s spirit still brought tears to Larson’s eyes, and the image of the child’s glazed blue eyes and blood-splattered features drove him nearly to the madness that had engulfed him at the time. Then the incident had sent him flashing back to Ti Sun, a Vietnamese boy with whom he had shared conversation and chocolate. Now, it came to him in fragments: the hidden grenade in the boy’s hand that Larson had not seen, his buddy’s gun howling, bullets tearing through the child, one moment so alive, the next as empty as his stained and tattered clothes, the rage that had churned up inside Larson and spurred him to batter his companion in a wild, irrational frenzy.
Larson winced, gritting his teeth against a memory too deeply engraved to keep from sliding into his mind next. Again, he saw Silme, blood trickling from a corner of her mouth, driven to her knees by his blind and misdirected attack, out of time and place. And all of it because we dared to subject a child to my insanity and our enemies.
Mickey Zucker Reichert - Shadows Realm Page 19