by J. V. Jones
The guards at the double doors ran from their post toward the officers. Jack slipped out from the timber and ran through the shadows of the arcade. His heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst. The double doors were unlocked and he was through them in an instant. What had Rovas said? Stairs on the right. First door you come to.
Up the steps he dashed, the door was only a few feet away. Jack paused on the threshold to catch his breath. He pulled the knife from his tunic, brushed the hair from his eyes, lifted the door latch and burst into the room.
She was floating on clouds so high that she'd reached the place where the sky joined the heavens. A thin blue line and then nothing but white. Pain had long since gone. She could feel herself being pulled from her body. Not from the eyes, or the nose or the mouth, but from the side. She was escaping through a gap between her ribs.
Shadows hovered below, words and deeds merging into one. Earlier they were frantic, irons and needles flying like dog fur. Now they were quiet, the dog long dead.
Oil on her forehead, thyme leaf on her tongue, blood drip-dripping to a bowl.
"She's leaving us, Your Grace. Too much blood's been lost."
A hand hard with calluses gripped hers. "Melli. You must prepare your soul for God. Now is the time to lay your lies aside. Heaven only waits for those who are willing to speak the truth."
The thin blue line grew thinner. The white was so close it brushed against her cheek. Hot and cold, hard and soft, safe yet dangerous in one.
"Speak, child. Tell us who your family is. Lest your body rot waiting upon a father to bury it."
The clouds bore her upward to her mother. Words were difficult to form. The thyme on her tongue was as heavy as lead. "Tell Father I'm sorry."
"We can only tell him if we know who he is."
What was left of the blue line began to shimmer and fade. She knew she must speak before it went. "Maybor, Lord of the Eastlands, he is my father." The white was all about her; it stole into her body through the wound at her side. It began to force out what little substance was left. "She must be saved at all cost. I don't care what you do: sorcery, devilry. Just save her!"
On the bed lay a man on top of a woman. Tears streaked down the woman's face. An imprint of a hand could clearly be seen on her cheek. Blood dripped from her mouth. "Help me," she sobbed.
Vanly sprang from the bed, pulling up his britches with one hand and reaching for his sword with the other. Jack lunged forward. His blade raked across Vanly's left hand.
The man let his britches fall to the floor. Jack had time enough to thank Borc that the captain's undershirt was long enough to cover his vitals. He didn't fancy fighting a man whose tackle- was on show. Vanly moved backward. He kicked off his britches, sending them flying toward Jack. Jack was forced to dodge them. This gave Vanly enough time to get a proper grip on his sword.
The captain leapt forward, blade in both hands, wielding it in the Halcus fashion. Jack jumped onto the bed. The woman screamed. Vanly's sword cut through the sheets.
Scrambling over the woman, Jack sprang from the opposite side. Vanly was forced to turn to defend himself. His legs were crossed and his weight was distributed badly. Jack used this to his advantage, forcing Vanly further round by a series of quick thrusts to his left arm. Angry at being taunted, unable to wield his mighty sword because his feet weren't placed far enough apart, Vanly lashed out wildly. Using his sword as a knife was a terrible mistake. It was too heavy to be used thus. Jack dodged the blade and found enough space to slice his knife down the captain's side.
Shocked, Vanly stepped back. Beneath his oiled mustache, the captain's mouth was a thin line.
Jack knew his best tactic would be to crowd the man close, not giving him enough space to use his weapon. He leapt after him. Vanly tilted his sword up and Jack was forced to halt his attack; he wasn't quite ready to be impaled on the end of a Halcus blade.
Jack felt something against his foot: the end of Vanly's britches. Parrying his opponent, he noticed that both of the captain's feet were planted firmly on the other end. Jack bent down and tugged with all his might on the cloth. Vanly lost his footing and began to stumble backward. In came Jack, knife ready. The captain lost his two-handed grip on his sword, as he needed an arm to steady himself. It was all over. A sword of that size took two hands to wield. Jack lunged forward and stabbed the man in the heart. Vanly's blade clattered to the floor. Vanly himself followed after.
Jack had no time to relish his victory. Shouts could be heard coming from the direction of the stairs. He closed the door and turned to the woman. "Help me move the bed."
She was too shocked to do anything but obey him. Wiping the tears from her eyes and the blood from her mouth, she came and stood beside him. Together they pushed against the oaken frame. It shifted with ease.
Underneath lay a raised square of floorboard: the trapdoor. Jack was so relieved he grabbed the woman and kissed her. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that," he said, quickly realizing she was probably scared sick of all men.
She leaned forward and brushed the hair from his eyes. "It's all right. It doesn't matter," she said, trying to smile. There was a loud knock at the door and a voice cried, "Captain! There's an intruder in the garrison. He's already brought one man down with a meat hook."
The woman took a deep breath and shouted: "Captain says he'll be with you in a minute. He's just finishing off his business."
The man grunted. "Best tell him to get a move on. This ain't no time to be wenching."
Jack and the woman listened as the man's footsteps moved away from the door. "Come on, then," she said. "Let's get this hatch open."
Jack nodded and they went to work on the trapdoor. It was heavy, but together they managed to lift it up. Peering down, Jack could see nothing but darkness. "Right," he said to the woman, "I'll lower myself first so I can gauge the drop. Then I'll stand below and catch you."
The woman shook her head. "I can't come with you."
"If you stay here, there's no telling what the guard might do."
"No," she said. "I've got to stay here. I can't go on the run like a criminal. I'll lose my livelihood. I'll tell the guards you overpowered me-if that's all right with you." The woman gave him a pleading look.
"You're taking a big risk. Come with me instead. I'll make sure you come to no harm."
She was firm. "No. You're wasting precious time. The guard will be back in a moment."
Jack had no choice but to leave her. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of knocking her out and slinging her body over his shoulder. No, he couldn't do that. She was too beautiful to hit over the head. He held his hand out and she took it, squeezing his palm.
"Luck be with you," she said. "And with you also," he replied.
Taking a firm grip on the timber surrounding the entrance, Jack swung his feet into the blackness. Hanging by his arms, he couldn't feel the ground below him. The woman, whose name he would never know, gave him one last smile. He smiled back, silently counted one, two three, and then let go of the wood.
Thud! He landed less than two seconds later. A sharp pain shot up both his legs and he fell onto his backside. Looking up, he saw the woman already beginning to draw the board over the top of the hole. The sight sobered him a little: they were both on their own now. Jack stood up and tested his legs; one ankle had been slightly twisted and both sets of muscles were sore. Above him a series of scrapes and bangs sounded and then he found himself in complete darkness. Time to get out of here.
The floor of the tunnel was boarded with rotting wood that cracked and splintered at every step. Its height matched his shoulders and he was forced to walk with his head bowed. His back, which had been through a lot earlier with the beer barrel, protested at every step. Hands held out in front of him, Jack scuttled along the length of the tunnel as quickly as he could manage. There was only one thing on his mind: Tarissa. She would be waiting for him at the other end.
The tunnel led downward for a while and then gradua
lly leveled off. Never had Jack been in such complete darkness; his nose smelled earth and his feet felt wood, but there was nothing for his eyes to see. Splinters from the side braces stabbed at his hands. Stopping for a moment to catch his breath, Jack heard voices behind him. He looked back. A pale light appeared in the distance. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of dogs baying. It filled him with fear. He began to run as fast as he could. Faster and faster. They were gaining on him. His breath was like fire in his throat. The pain of a stitch ran across his belly. On and on he ran, not bothering to keep his hands out in front of him anymore.
Then all of a sudden he slammed into something solid. His entire body was jolted to the core. One of his wrists snapped back. He heard the sound of all his knuckles cracking at once. His knee smashed into the mass, while his chin took the last of the impact. Reeling with pain and dizziness, Jack scrambled on the floor of the passageway, groping for a way around the obstacle. The dogs were getting closer. He could now see individual torches, swaying with the movement of men.
The obstruction was solid, packed earth. Someone had blocked the tunnel. There was no way round. Jack clawed at the soil with his fingernails. He was trapped.
Trapped!
Then the dogs reached him. Panicking, Jack raised his arm for protection. One of the dogs tore at his arm, another went for his leg. The noise was deafening. Blood hungry, the dogs snarled and howled. Jack felt a pressure building in his head. He knew what it was and he welcomed it. A dog leapt at his face and he punched it down. The tension grew and grew, demanding release. He felt the sharp tang of sorcery on his tongue. The instant before he let go, something hard rammed against his chest. There was pain so terrible he couldn't bear it. Looking down, he saw the shaft of an arrow jutting from his tunic. It didn't look real. The dogs crowded about him and then he knew no more.
TWENTY-TWO
"No, Bodger, the quickest way to bed a woman isn't to tell her she's got a fine pair of melons."
"But Longtoad swears it works for him, Grift."
"Then Longtoad's women must all be stone deaf, for that sort of remark don't work on any wenches I know."
"What does, then, Grift?"
"Sophistication, Bodger. Sophistication. You go up to a wench, smile right nice and then say: how's about me and you doing a spot o' rollickin'? I've had many women before and not one of them's complained. "
"Hmm. I can see that might work, Grift."
"Never fails, Bodger. A woman likes a man to put his cards upon the table. It does you no harm to hint that your manhood's a fair size, too."
"Won't she be able to tell that already, Grift?"
"I should hope not, Bodger. Generally speaking, it's best not to pull it out until she's said yea or nay."
"No, Grift, I was talking about the whites of a man's eyes. Didn't you say that's how you can tell a man's size?"
"Oh, aye, I did indeed. It's gratifying that you remembered my wisdom, Bodger."
"I never forget a word you say. You've taught me everything I know." Bodger frowned and scratched his head. "Come to think of it, Grift, since I met you, I've had no success with women at all. They won't even look my way."
"Aah, Bodger, you've got much to learn. When they won't look your way, it's a sure sign that they're interested." Bodger attempted a scathing look, failed miserably, and settled for a loud burp instead. "There's been a lot of coming and going in the palace these past two days, Grift. The duke's been dashing backward and forward from his hunting lodge, taking all kinds of doctors, priests, and supplies. I wonder what he's up to."
"Aye, it's mighty strange, Bodger. He took Bailor and his personal physicians with him yesterday, and now he's back again. The head groom says he was ordered to ready fresh mounts, so the duke's obviously intending to return to the lodge later."
"It must be something serious, Grift. I heard that it's a six-hour ride to the lodge."
"Aye, Bodger, a man like the duke doesn't ride twelve hours in one day unless it's a matter of life or death."
The sun slanted sharply across the room, fading the rich colors of the tapestries and sending a million motes of dust dancing into the air. Baralis was sitting up in his bed sipping on mulled holk. His hands ached as usual-even to stretch them around the cup was a strain but apart from that one, solitary complaint he'd never felt better in his life.
The burns to his chest had completely disappeared. The only sign that anything had ever been wrong was a pale, raised line, which ringed his chest like the seam of a dress.
He could feel where the sorcery had worked. Indeed, he could feel it still; its vestiges prompting old flesh to bond with new. The sensation was not unpleasant; a fertile burgeoning that tautened the skin and played upon the nerves like a fiddler, sending countless tiny impulses directly to his brain.
Three days he'd slept. Three perfect dreamless days where the only thing that he was aware of was the gentle hands of Crope. His servant was here now, stoking the fire as quietly as he could. He owed more than he could ever repay to the great hulking giant.
They met the year after he left the Great Plains. He had a purpose then and even knew his ultimate destination, the Four Kingdoms, but he wasn't ready to visit them yet. He needed to prepare, to learn, to plan. So first he went to Silbur.
Silbur, the shining jewel that sparkled at the center of the Known Lands. And that was exactly what it was: a jewel. A beautiful multihued city that had no purpose except for show. Religious councils met there, thousands made pilgrimage to visit the holy relics, He Who Is Most Holy sat upon his gilded throne, and every scholar who'd ever brought quill to parchment boasted about spending long hours on hard benches in its famous libraries. Silbur was a dead city, as much a relic as the bones and hair and teeth of long-dead saints and saviors that it depended upon for its income. There was no blood or flesh to the bone, no muscle to make it move. Great once, it had been unmatched in its arrogance and power. Towers were built taIl to pierce the sky, walls were built low to scorn invaders. Silbur had no equal except for God.
The vision of its leaders had shaped the Known Lands. No one, they argued, should have more power than the Lord. Systematically, their armies tore apart the kingdoms and empires that made up the map of the civilized world. Emperors were evil, kings had commerce with the devil; the might of country took away from the might of God. They had to be broken. Bloody, terrible wars, the likes of which have never been seen before or since, ripped the continent asunder. Wars of Faith. A hundred years later only city-states remained. Silbur was mother to them all.
Gradually, as the century turned and religious power declined, great lords began to challenge the power of the Church. Harvell in the northwest had been the first to forge himself a new kingdom, Borso of Helch soon followed his neighbor's example, spending a lifetime claiming the land that became known as Halcus. Silbur, now weak, rotting from the inside, its leaders a series of weaklings and fanatics, could do nothing to stop them. Not that they'd ever been that interested in the north.
Now, two hundred years on, Bren sought the same recognition. The duke would have a kingdom where a city had been before. Baralis smiled into his cup of holk. There would be no sovereign in Bren, no king upon a throne. For the first time in four centuries the Known Lands would have an empire.
Another sip of the holk brought him back to the pale sunny mornings of Silbur. His first meal of the day was always a cup of holk and a pastry baked around a peach. He'd taken lodgings in the scholars' quarter and paid his way by scribing and healing. In many ways it was the best time of his life. Up every morning at dawn, a long walk down to the library, and then a whole day spent in study. He went unnoticed, one of thousands of black-robed scholars who came to read the ancient texts. Just another young man engaged in that most noble of pursuits: scholarship.
At nights he would go healing. Silbur did not tolerate sorcery under any guise. Practitioners were burnt at the stake. He had to be careful: discreet in his employment of potions, restrained in his use o
f magic. One night, returning home from a house where a young girl lay dying, Baralis came across a group of youths beating up a man. The victim was on the ground, whimpering as he was kicked continually by the youths. A thin man with a stick was directing the beating.
This was none of his business. Baralis lowered his eyes and stepped into the road to avoid coming any closer to the scene. The person on the ground cried out: "Please stop. Me sorry, me sorry." The thin man stepped forward and brought the stick cracking down upon his face.
"Shut up, you half-witted bastard," he said. "It's too late for mercy now."
Looking back, Baralis couldn't say what made him tum and face the men. The arrogant voice of the one with the stick? The pathetic plea from the victim? Or was it something else: the gentle push of fate? Anyway, turn he did. Straightaway the beating stopped.
"What are you looking at?" said the stick-man. "Bugger off, this isn't your concern."
Baralis knew better than to look afraid. "Leave him be," he said, looking at each man in tum, using his flint gray eyes as weapons. Two of the youths backed away-even then his voice had that effect on people.
"What will you do if we don't?"
Slowly, Baralis put down the sack containing his potions and scrolls, careful to pick a spot that was free of dirt. "I'll bum the hearts from your bodies and leave the skin untouched." It was said simply, with no boast-and that was what made the men afraid.
The two that had already backed away ran off. That left two others: the stick-man and his friend. One last kick to the victim's groin, and the friend was off. Baralis raised an eyebrow. "I think you'd better follow your little playmates. It wouldn't be wise to face me alone."
The stick-man's gaze met his. Slowly he sneered, then walked away.
From the ground came a small, soft voice. "Thank you, master. Thank you." The man stood up and Baralis couldn't believe his eyes: He was a giant, broad as a wagon, tall as a building.