The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1)

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The Scarecrow (Master of Malice Book 1) Page 39

by Peace, Cas


  Othal tried to resist. The tendons and cords in his neck stood out as he strained to make his body obey him. The tremor of his muscles grew more pronounced as he struggled and sweat sprang out all over his face. His fists clenched repeatedly, drawing the amused gaze of the scarecrow, who eyed his minion meaningfully.

  Finally, Othal succeeded in moving one foot an inch away from the figure before him. Reen raised his brows in astonishment, passing breath in a shocked gasp. “Ah, such strength! Would that I’d known your qualities earlier, my brawny friend. I could have used you well. But no matter. You are already mine and I will have what I require.”

  The scarecrow’s consciousness entered Othal’s mind, penetrating easily, subsuming the man’s will. Briefly, feeling the stirrings of lust swell in him at the man’s terror, Reen considered taking his pleasure as well as the vibrant life force. But he needed to concentrate on the business at hand and leave the slaking of such desires until he had leisure to savor them. He was nearing the culmination of his preliminary plans and speed was of the essence. One slip would see it all go to waste. If it did, at best he’d have to try again, contending with heightened caution. At worst, he’d be discovered too soon. And that would never do.

  The act he intended to perform tonight was one he hadn’t attempted before, although his stolen knowledge told him it was possible. All he required was the strength to reach so far, and he didn’t intend to fail for lack of it. He forced the intense physical desire away and fixed his ruby eyes on the horrified features before him. Holding the man immobile with his gaze, the Baron raised the dreadful cane, the desiccated flesh of his claw-like hand merging horribly with the slimy gray wood. Its tip pulsated menacingly in the gloom. The swordsman gibbered in fear, but Reen’s iron will grasped the cords of his throat, and the best he could do was whimper pathetically.

  Reen grinned. Gone were the days when he needed to gag his victims. Now he held their souls with the power of his eyes and drank avidly of the terror that flowed like a river of life toward him. The silent, tearing scream as the cane came to rest over the swordsman’s heart sounded only in the abyssal depths of the scarecrow’s mutilated mind.

  + + + + +

  The castle in Loxton was still shrouded in darkness when the kitchens began preparing the morning meals. Bread was baked and trays made up for those who chose to break their fast in their rooms. The lesser nobles who had apartments at the castle usually ate together in the dining hall, where a selection of meats, bread, and fruits was laid out fresh each morning, and a large copper kept boiling over the breakfast hearth for tea and fellan. But the senior ministers, lords, and the King’s household all had their meals taken to them at the same hour each day, unless there were orders to the contrary.

  This made it easier for the vagrant to carry out the next part of his master’s plan.

  He waited just behind the door to the east wing, which he had already unlocked. The torches burned low in their sconces and the lamps were dim. They would not be tended until the breakfasts were delivered.

  First to receive his food was always the King himself, but as he was absent the nursery was the destination of the soft-footed servant who passed the vagrant’s hiding place. He carried a laden tray on which balanced two meals: one for the Princess and one for Bessie, her nursemaid. The Princess ate lightly at breakfast, preferring fruit, a little bread spread with honey, and milk. Bessie, on the other hand, liked to build up her strength for the day ahead and preferred cooked meats, eggs, freshly-toasted bread dripping with honey, pastries, and a huge pot of tea. The serving man who carried the nursery tray was one of the strongest in the kitchens.

  He had already passed the east wing door and didn’t see the ragged figure slip into the dimly-lit hallway. The first he knew was the soft touch on his arm and the quiet whisper in his ear. It was so gently done the man looked into those ruby-tinted eyes and was mesmerized before he knew it. The touch on his arm burned, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t see the dirty, nimble fingers crumble brown powder onto one of the platters he bore, and he was held enthralled until the figure disappeared and those terrible eyes ceased to grip his soul.

  The servant stopped in his tracks. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Had someone spoken to him? Hadn’t he felt a touch on his arm? But that couldn’t be. He was alone in the hallway and there was no sound. He wrinkled his nose, wanting to sneeze. But it wasn’t done to sneeze when carrying food. Palace servants risked dismissal from indoor service should it happen. So he controlled the urge and moved on. If he delivered a cold tray he would be ordered to return for a fresh one. And he still had Lord Levant and Colonel Vassa to serve.

  He reached the nursery and tapped on the door. Hearing Bessie’s usual sleepy call, he entered and deposited his tray on the table in the center of the main nursery room. Then he walked back to the kitchens, still puzzling over the strange feeling in the hallway, rubbing absently at an irritated spot on his right arm. He hoped he hadn’t picked up lice from someone at the market. He had no time to worry about it now; the cook had Lord Levant’s meal ready and he took it up, making the same journey as he had countless times during the course of his service.

  This time, he didn’t even register the lapse. The soft voice and light touch didn’t impinge upon his mind, so subtly was he attuned. The vagrant could hardly feel his master working through him, and the servant had no suspicions and no defenses against the violation. The Baron was growing in confidence and strength, the wastrel thought as he crumbled yet more powder onto the hot food. He smiled as he released the servant and watched him continue on his way, completely oblivious.

  A faint sound alerted the vagrant and he sprinted for the door to his refuge as someone emerged into the hallway from farther down. His heart racing in terror, he pushed the door shut as soundlessly as he could and rested his back against it, panting.

  + + + + +

  Robin was also up early that morning and left his chamber before the servants arrived with the summons for breakfast. He had slept well enough, reasoning Lerric wouldn’t dare allow anything to happen to them under his roof. Nevertheless, Robin and the General had shared watches during the night while Elias slept, and there were two of their own guards outside the door to their rooms. Robin nodded at them as he passed, descended the staircase, and strode on toward the east tower door.

  He passed the dining hall and heard the murmur of voices. It seemed Lerric and his daughter were both early risers, and they were talking together over their meal. Robin didn’t stop to eavesdrop. He had more important things on his mind, and besides, one of Lerric’s serving men stood near the door and had seen him. He nodded to the man and continued on.

  The barracks was noisy, and the smell of warm food greeted his nostrils. There seemed to be some sort of argument going on, but all sound ceased as he entered through the door. The swordsmen stood to attention, saluting smartly, all except two sorry figures lying slumped and green-faced in their beds. Robin stared around the men, noting their grim expressions and stiff backs.

  “Stand easy, men. I haven’t come to reprimand you.”

  There was an almost audible sigh of relief, although no one actually made a sound. They relaxed their rigid stance and Dexter came forward as Robin moved toward the sick men.

  “How is the King, Major?”

  Robin heard the unspoken query behind the innocent question. “He’s willing to reserve judgment, Dex, as is the General. How are Col and Pen?”

  “Not good, sir.” The Captain looked worried as he accompanied Robin. “They’ve been throwing up all night and they’re very weak. They can’t seem to keep any liquid in their bodies, not even their own water, and they’re becoming very dehydrated.”

  “Are they lucid? Can they remember what happened?”

  “We haven’t been able to get any sense out of either of them, but they’ve both had terrible nightmares judging by the noises they were making.”

  “Nightmares? What kind of alcohol sickness brin
gs nightmares?”

  “None that I know of, sir.” Dexter’s expression was grim. “No one’s ever seen anything quite like this before.”

  Robin looked down at the two stricken men. Both were green and pallid, both sweating unpleasantly, both had buckets by their beds to cope with the vomiting. The smell around them was none too savory and Robin could see the damp cloths that had been used to cool their skin during the night. He looked up at his captain as he sat on Col’s bed.

  “None of you’ve had a restful night, have you?”

  Dexter shrugged. “We took it in turns to watch over them. But they weren’t peaceful, it’s true.”

  Robin looked down at Col’s fever-damp face and took up the man’s clammy hand. Col moaned and opened his eyes. Robin frowned at the filmy appearance of his pupils. They had developed a milky sheen the likes of which he’d never seen. He murmured the man’s name and Col frowned, as if trying to place his voice. “Major?”

  The swordsman’s voice was faint and raw, and Robin glanced up at Dexter, who shrugged again. “Col,” Robin repeated, “do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened? Can you tell us?”

  The young swordsman’s eyes darted to and fro as if he couldn’t see. But then the mist cleared as if a veil had been drawn aside, and he took a shuddering breath.

  “Look out, sir!” called Dexter. Robin only just moved aside as Col heaved forward and vomited violently into his bucket. “They’ve been doing that all night,” said Dex, his nose wrinkling at the smell. He took one of the dampened cloths and held it to Col’s lips, wiping away the foul-smelling bile which was all the man could bring up.

  Once the groaning swordsman was back on his pillows, he seemed more in control of his faculties. He stared at Robin in embarrassment and shame.

  “Major, I’m sorry I’ve let you down.”

  Robin shook his head, still unwilling to judge. “Can you remember what happened?”

  Col glanced at the unresponsive man lying next to him, then back at Robin. “I can’t tell you very much, sir. All I remember is talking to two of Lerric’s men and sharing a tankard of ale. I remember thinking it tasted different, but the room was full of that weird smoke and it got everywhere. Pen didn’t seem to think his ale was strange. I remember feeling a bit lightheaded, and I was going to suggest to Pen we go outside to clear our heads. And that’s all I remember until I woke up in the middle of the night, not knowing where I was.”

  Robin heard the note of fear in the man’s voice. He was about to reassure him when Pengar, lying on Col’s right, groaned, heaved himself noisily over the side of the bed, and unfortunately missed the bucket.

  There was frantic activity whilst the floor was cleaned and the buckets emptied. The stench was raw and vile, and Robin wondered why. This was something more than alcohol poisoning, that much he knew. He had dealt with drunken men before and never come across such extreme reactions. Especially as, by all accounts, the two men had drunk no more than two tankards of ale apiece. Although there were those empty spirit bottles in the barn.

  Once Pen was comfortable, Robin sat again on Col’s bed. The two sick men eyed each other, clearly fearing the direst of consequences from their actions. Robin spent a few moments questioning Pengar, whose memories were similar to Col’s. He recalled nothing of the ale tasting strange, but he’d been troubled by the narcotic smoke that had permeated the tavern’s atmosphere. When Robin asked how it had affected him, he turned white.

  “Nightmares,” he whispered, as if he was afraid to remember. Col glanced at him as he said the word.

  “Can you remember what they were about?” pressed Robin.

  Pengar couldn’t meet Robin’s gaze, his expression guilty and shamed. “Eyes,” was all he said, and his voice was barely audible.

  Col gave a great gasp, drawing Robin’s attention. “Yes!” he breathed, his own eyes troubled and fearful. “Eyes, red eyes, staring at us—compelling us. Gods, they were dreadful.” He shuddered again.

  Robin glanced at Dexter, who could throw no light on the revelation. Reluctantly, Robin stood, moving away with Dexter, leaving the other men to gather round their sick comrades.

  Robin kept his voice low. “I don’t think there’s any doubt these two have been the butt of some malicious prank. They’ve been slipped something to make them appear drunk, probably in the hope Elias would be forced to discipline them in front of Lerric’s men. We’re fortunate more weren’t affected. I’ll be reporting my conclusions to the General and the King, and I doubt any further action will be taken. That’ll be my recommendation, and you may tell Col and Pen. They’re excused from further duties until they’re fit. And remember we’re due to leave this evening. See if you can have them on their feet by then. I would rather they rode out, even sitting double, than carried in litters. We’ll put it about they’ve got the flux. It’s partially true, in any case.”

  Dexter nodded, his expression indicating he appreciated the weak joke. Robin smiled. “Don’t look so glum, Dex, you did well yesterday. You noticed they were missing and you found them in good time. You didn’t let me down. I never expected you to watch all of them all the time. They were all given the same instructions and were trusted to carry them out. By your own words, Col and Pengar were doing just that. I can hardly fault them for being slipped a forbidden substance. There’s no shame, Captain, and there’ll be no reprisals. Let’s not give whoever thought this up the satisfaction of seeing us rattled.”

  Dexter smiled tentatively, still troubled by the whole event and not wholly reassured by Robin’s lack of censure. Robin clapped him on the back before leaving him to organize the morning duties.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Jinella awoke afraid, shivering with cold, and tearful. She’d seen and heard no one all through the interminable hours of the day before, and her screaming and beating upon the door of her prison had done her no good. All she had accomplished was to further inflame her already painfully sore throat. As darkness came again, she wrapped herself as closely as she could in the comforter and cried herself to sleep.

  Now, as she woke scratchy-eyed and aching after an uncomfortable night of frightening dreams and tearful prayers to be rescued, she realized it was daylight again. Her insistent bladder wouldn’t allow her to return to sleep, although she badly needed rest, and she straightened painfully from her cramped position on the hard, narrow shelf.

  She used the bucket she’d found beneath the shelf, wrinkling her nose at its contents. Fortunately, it had a lid, though ill-fitting, and the worst of the smell was contained. She moved over to the tiny fire, which she had just managed to keep going during the night by waking frequently to tend it, and poured a small amount of her remaining water into one of the bowls she’d found. She used it to splash her face and rinse her fingers. Then she drank some, to clear the dust and the ache of crying from her throat.

  She eyed the remaining water, wondering if it was a clue to when she might be released. About half the original amount was left; she’d had the wit to ration herself and not gulp it all down. She also still had a small amount of dried fruit and bread, now slightly stale, although it had been fresh the day before. Some cheese, too, nibbled during the night by mice she hadn’t seen or heard. Well, that was one mercy. Solitude she could bear; sharing her prison with brazen vermin was something else.

  Tears pricked at her eyes. What on earth was she doing, worrying about mice? They were the least of her problems. She had a tiny amount of food and water, and not much wood left for the fire. If she was reduced to burning the dirty straw on the floor, or the wood of the shelf-bed, she would be in dire straits. She didn’t know whether to hope for her captors to return before that, or to hope they never came.

  As she had the day before, she huddled miserably on the cold floor beside the fire, wrapped in the grubby silken comforter. Tears running down her face, she strove with all the strength of her heart and mind to reach out to Taran. She’d convinced herself she could make him hear her
if she only had the strength. He must be looking for her. Surely he had heard of her disappearance by now? And surely someone had found poor, dead Alice? One of the servants must have tried to rouse her the day before to see why the kitchen was cold. And Seth would have noticed something wrong when he returned to the house. Or had the tale of Alice’s murder been a lie, told to cow her into submission?

  She had no answers to her questions, only more uncertainty. The eerie phenomenon of hearing her dead uncle’s voice from another’s mouth now seemed like a distant nightmare. She had convinced herself it was a figment of her frightened imagination. She must have been kidnapped for ransom. Someone with a grudge against her had sent that filthy vagrant to spirit her away and lock her in this cold, lonely hut while they demanded money for her return. She could only hope the King or Taran would pay the ransom swiftly. She simply couldn’t bear another night in this place.

  Cold, alone, and frightened, Jinella gulped back tears as she lay down and tried to will herself to sleep.

  + + + + +

  Despair pressed down on Taran, shutting his mind inside a prison of recrimination. Images swarmed around him like flies on a corpse. Jinny’s angry tears when he had told her why she hadn’t conceived. Ravening flames dancing around him, refusing his attempts to dampen them. The bleak, burned ruins of Jinny’s house and her wretched skeletal remains. A flash of silver as he found the box he had bought for her, back when she believed he loved her. Through these images her figure flitted; loving, gentle, smiling, passionate, proud. All the things he loved about her came to taunt him, showing him how his actions had thrown her love back in her face.

  The heat of shame swelled in him, echoed by the nightmare flames surrounding him. He heard Jinny calling, crying out for him, begging him to save her. Her voice sounded so real, her terror visceral. In his torment he strove to reach her, stretching arms impossibly heavy, urging leaden legs to run. Her piteous image wavered as he struggled to move, heart floundering, blood pounding. A shattering cry ripped through his throat as she faded from sight and he lost her all over again.

 

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