by Robert Beers
Cccrraaaakkk! Another jagged fork of lightning traced a pathway to the earth against the gray-black sky to the West of them. A short time later, the thunder came booming in, washing over them in waves.
“How far away was that one, Mommy?” Sari looked up at her mother.
Ellona rubbed the long, tawny hair of her daughter's head. “That was about five miles away. Remember what I taught you? When you see the lightning, start counting the beats. It's one beat for each mile.”
“Ok, mommy.” Sari settled back against her mother's skirts to watch the storm.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Jonas?”
“Is it raining on Ethan?”
Ellona watched the storm. It was over the mountains. The sky to the South and the East of Berggren was clear, and a large, butter-yellow moon was rising over the sea of roofs and chimneys that spread out before her eyes.
She thought of Ethan and of all the times he'd shown her how to do things in the woods she'd never dreamed were possible. Whatever the weather was doing to the land around him, he would have a way of dealing with it.
She looked down into Jonas’ large brown eyes. “No, dear one. It isn't raining on Ethan.”
* * * *
A thick covering of clouds hid The Mountain's peak. The wind that swept down from the heights was winter chill in spite of it only being early fall. Cloudhook stood high enough to make its own weather. There were those, mostly in the more isolated regions of the land, who said the mountain was a living thing. Ethan usually smiled at those who told such stories. His feeling was, if Cloudhook was a living thing, then it was as contrary as a woman coming upon her time.
The boy's tracks climbed the mountain. Ethan wondered what Circumstance could be thinking. This was no country for a lad, even if he was half elf.
He shook his head as he began to climb the steep trail. He'd been lucky by guessing right and taking a chance that Cloudhook was the boy's destination. There was no guarantee Circumstance would have taken the angle he chose. For that matter, there was no guarantee he'd have kept on in the same direction Ethan thought he would when that first set of tracks had been stumbled upon.
Bardoc, luck, or whoever looks on fools with favor had been kind to him.
The climb eased as the path began to level out into one of the many switchbacks that inched their way up the Mountain's flanks. He pulled out his gloves and put them on as he walked. The air grew colder. The clouds now looked heavy enough to be carrying snow.
“Snow.” He thought ruefully. “Before the feast days. There's a sign for the priests and their prophecies. Wonder what they'd make of that?”
Small pines, twisted into tortuous shapes clung to the poor soil on the rocky slope. He used them to help him in his climb up to the next level area.
His eye caught sight of a footprint in the leaf and sand litter on the plateau floor as he pulled himself up over the rocks that ridged its edge. It was near to the same size as the boy's boot print, but it showed four toes with talons instead of a foot sheathed in sturdy leather.
“Bardoc preserve him.” Ethan breathed. “The lad's being stalked by Garlocs.”
He followed the tracks, but with far more care than before. Garlocs could hear a meal breathing half a bowshot away if the wind was right.
It looked to be a small foraging clique, according to the trail sign. Circumstance's prints led around the plateau and along a ridge that would lead him up to the high valleys. The Garloc tracks stayed right in line with the boy's.
At the top of the ridge, Ethan narrowly missed putting his foot into a pile of Garloc droppings. The stone beneath the mass still smoked where the corrosive feces ate into it. He puffed out his breath in sigh of relief. The stuff would have eaten right through his boot, fresh as it was. Funny how, once it settled down and aged, it would make a fine, strong fertilizer.
He stepped over the pile and continued on. The land dipped away into a shallow valley filled with hardwoods mixed with pine and thick with underbrush. Now the trail was fresher and blindingly clear. Garlocs always left a swath of trampled grass and broken twigs in their wake.
The valley narrowed to a point as it rose to meet the next. Ethan decided to cut to the far right and pass the Garlocs and their prey, if he could. It meant running, uphill, and he did not want to attract the beast's attention. He had no doubts as to his ability to kill them each in turn, but all it took was one scratch.
Again, fortune was in his favor. The valley floor rose slightly as he made his way over to its right side. The leaf litter grew sparse, allowing him to place his feet onto quieter ground. He quickened his pace until he was up to a steady jog, dodging to the side on occasion in order to pass by bushes or branches protruding beyond the edge of the wood.
He heard the guttural, growling chatter of the Garlocs as he passed their portion of the valley.
“Bardoc, please let Circumstance be well ahead of them.” He sent up a quick prayer as he ran. A part of him in the far back reaches of his mind chuckled at the prayer, finding humor in how often men who think themselves unreligious suddenly feel differently when their spine is against the wall.
It was becoming harder to keep from panting, so he slowed his pace, contrary to those emotions which clamored for him to run faster.
The valley was beginning to narrow sharply, and he slowed his pace further, eyes half on the ground, searching for signs that Circumstance had passed this way.
The wind was behind him, which was another good stroke of fortune. It meant he could move a bit more freely in his search. The end of the valley came into a stair-like arrangement of stones climbing up to form a pass into the next. Most of the ground around the base of the stones was rock, and it gave few clues as to who or what came through there.
“Where is that flickin’ boy?” Ethan ran his hand through his hair as he searched the ground. He'd have to hide soon. He could hear the Garlocs now, and the trees wouldn't hide his presence long.
“Ethan.” The whispered call whipped him around, as relief washed over him strong enough to weaken his knees.
“Circumstance.” The boy peered at him from over the edge of the larger stones at the top of the pass. “Get back, son. There's Garlocs coming this way.”
“I know.” Circumstance maintained his whisper. “Come up here. I found something that might help.”
Ethan scrambled up the stone stair. Circumstance had pulled back from the edge, and was running into the wood that covered that valley. He turned and beckoned Ethan to follow.
He caught up with the boy as Circumstance was passing the first line of trees. “What are you doing out here, lad? There's things in the wild worse than those Garlocs.”
Circumstance held a finger to his lips and pointed into the trees.
Ethan looked over his shoulder. The Garlocs hadn't made the pass yet. Thank Bardoc for small favors. He nodded once, and followed the half-elf boy deeper into the wood.
Circumstance stopped at a bush that grew into a ball-like shape with silvery green, thinly curled, leaves. He stripped off a handful and began rubbing them over his face arms and hands.
He nodded to them with his chin, indicating to Ethan that he should do the same.
Ethan could smell the resin from the leaves as it mixed with Circumstance's sweat and body oils. His nose curled in reaction. The stench would hide them from the Garlocs, all right. Not even they went after skunk.
He looked at the boy and grinned at him even as he held his nose. Deity, but he stank. How did the lad learn this trick? Was it some kind of elven racial memory?
The guttural croaking of Garloc speech broke in on Ethan's thoughts, and he pulled Circumstance behind the skunk leaf bush with him.
It was a foraging clique of three. Their mottled hides sprouted hair like a discouraged lawn and they used their fatty tails to brush through the leaf litter, flushing out small prey. One of the three, the largest, stooped to grab a ground squirrel as it bolted from under a bark hideaway. A muffled sque
ak, and the little creature became a tidbit. The other two glanced the lucky one's way and then continued their search for food. Sharing was not a word in the Garloc vocabulary.
The group passed within ten yards of Circumstance and Ethan's bush just as the wind shifted. The two smaller ones caught the scent first, and stopped their searching, mewling and pawing at their noses.
“It must be worse for them than it is for us.” Ethan thought. He heard Circumstance chuckle under his breath as he watched the results of his plan unfold.
He looked down at the boy. The leaf juice stains were darkening into an olive green blotchiness, which added camouflage to the covering of the scent. This plant would be a good one to remember.
Circumstance felt Ethan's eyes on him and he returned the look. Ethan smiled and gave the boy a thumbs up signal, which Circumstance returned along with the smile.
All three of the Garlocs were showing distress from the stench wafting off of the two travelers behind the bush. Ethan could see tears coming from their eyes, and saliva dripping from their mouths.
Eventually the idea should filter into their tiny little brains that if they moved away, the smell would diminish. All he and the boy had to do was sit it out and stink.
* * * *
McCabe dreamed. This one was both pleasurable and exciting. He dreamt he was entertaining children, an entire classroom full, young ones, just past the age of diapering. His suite was decorated with just the right amount of hanging hooks and braziers for his irons.
It was a good dream. Oh, yes, a good dream, indeed.
“All right, you. Get up. Gods! He's done it again. Bring the bucket and sponge, Lifetile, he needs another cleanin'.”
The guard glared down at the groggy McCabe. “Listen, you. I'm sick of havin’ ta clean up yer stinkin’ hide. You do this again, an’ I'll put me fist down yer gob so far I'll be able ta yank yer balls off from th’ inside.”
McCabe smiled up at the guard.
The guard dismissed him with a wave. “Aww! Yer a total whittle. Useless. I don't see whut the’ Duke sees in you. Lifetile! Get yer lazy arse over here!”
Lifetile hurried as quickly as he could, dragging both the heavy bucket and a lame leg. His matted black hair hung into his eyes, and he smelled strongly of dirt and sweat.
The other guard, frustrated and angry at McCabe's mess, met him halfway, and tore the bucket out of Lifetile's hand. “Gimme that.”
He stomped his way back to McCabe's cell, muttering, “Damn lazy mute ... don't know why I even bother, some days. Doesn't do half whut you ask of him ... can't do the other.”
McCabe submitted to the scrubbing with indifference. He was trying to recapture his dream. It wouldn't come back. By the time the guard was done, his mood had soured from indifference to a sullen anger. If they weren't going to play,and they wouldn't let him go back to his dream, then he had little use for them. The guard had no idea how much he owed to the shackles that pinned McCabe's hands to the cell wall.
Lifetile slouched into the cell with a bundle under his good arm. He handed the bundle to the guard along with a note.
The guard scanned the note and looked at McCabe. “Well, it looks as if his nibs has decided ta have a little talk with yer pleasant self.”
McCabe didn't answer him.
The guard shrugged. It was out of his hands now, so he could not have cared less what McCabe thought of him.
Three armsmen with their swords drawn came down the stairs that curved along the dungeon wall. The one with a pair of chevrons sewn on to his surcoat walked up to the cell and indicated McCabe with his chin. “The pervert ready?”
“He's ready.”
This change raised McCabe's level of interest. These guards were going to take him somewhere. Maybe he was going to be allowed to play with his friend who wore the black hood once again. He decided to not kill the guards, or even the ill-tempered one, at least for now. Maybe tomorrow would bring something new.
The armsman with the chevrons braced himself, and held his sword ready. “Ok, let him loose.”
McCabe allowed the guard to release the shackles unmolested, and stood away from the cell wall for the first time in several days. He bounced on his feet, testing the spring in his legs.
The guard, untrusting of the armsman's ability to keep him safe, backed out of the cell, and stood well away from its door. He fingered his truncheon nervously.
“Come on, you. The Duke wants you for something.” The armsman took McCabe by his arm and guided him out of the cell.
McCabe looked up at the man. He topped him by a head and a half. “What does he want me for?”
The armsman kept his eyes to himself. “His Grace didn't deign to tell me. You'll have to find out when we get there.”
“Fall in, you two.” He ordered the other armsmen standing at attention outside the cell as he took the bundle out of the guard's hands.
They fell into place behind McCabe, and he was escorted out of the dungeon and into the castle proper of Bilardi, the fourteenth Duke of Grisham.
The dungeon guard looked at Lifetile and released his breath in a whoosh. “Can't tell if yer knows it, but you an’ me just squeaked through.”
Lifetile knew.
The armsman trio led McCabe through the castle hallways and up two flights of stairs until they reached the door to the west tower. A small archtop door inset into the interior Castle wall lay to their left. The Sergeant pointed to it as he thrust the bundle into McCabe's arms.
“Go in there and scrub the stink off of you. When you're done, put on these clothes. We'll wait out here.”
McCabe took the bundle and passed through the door. He found himself in a room just slightly larger than the tub it held. The tub was filled with clear tepid water. He found the temperature disappointing.
A cloth and a towel lay on a shelf attached to the wall, along with a large bar of lye soap.
He took the soap from the shelf and began scrubbing the accumulated grime that a week's stay in a dungeon cell left on his body. He had to admit it felt better being clean. It became a bit more intriguing what the Duke wanted him for besides the slight disappointment he wouldn't be playing with the torturer again.
After a final rinsing, he climbed out of the tub and toweled off. His fingers had to suffice as a comb for his hair.
The new clothes surprised him. The quality was beyond good, and he ran the fabric between his fingers to feel its softness. Silk, if he was any judge, of the highest quality. The color was a black deep enough to be startling. Soft ankle boots of black suede and a belt of the same material finished his ensemble.
The armsmen were waiting for him, as they said they would be. Men who kept their word were boringly predictable.
The sergeant inspected him as if he were on parade. “Acceptable. Follow me,” he said as he turned into the stairwell of the tower.
Intrigued, McCabe followed him up the stairs. They spiraled up the inside of the tower wall with a small landing every twelve feet. The Armsman Sergeant passed each of them in turn until they reached the final landing at the top of the tower.
The door to the top room stood open. Bilardi sat behind a small ornate desk, his huge belly making a convenient resting-place for his hands.
He straightened in the chair when McCabe made the landing. “Ah! My guest has arrived. Come in, come in. Have a dainty.” He indicated a plate of sweetmeats nestled on a silver tray.
McCabe reached out and plucked one of the sweetmeats from the tray, and popped it into his mouth.
Bilardi grinned at him. “Good?”
McCabe chewed the sweetmeat. “Not bad. A bit too sweet, but not bad. Could use a light dry wine as a follow up.”
Bilardi reached behind his chair and lifted a bottle and a glass off of the wall unit that lay there. “A man of exacting taste, I see. Try this. It should mix nicely with the sweetmeat.”
McCabe poured himself a half glassful, and sipped. He nodded at Bilardi. “Nicely, indeed.”
He sat down in the chair across from the desk and leaned back in it. “You aren't going to let me play any more in your dungeon, are you?”
Bilardi's face grew slightly paler. “Yes ... I've never seen anything like that before in my life. How did you do that?”
McCabe sipped more of the wine. It was a pale green in color. “Do what?”
“You know.” Bilardi gestured aimlessly with his hands. “That ... thing you did when he used the hot poker on you.”
“Oh, that.” McCabe smiled at the memory. He wished he'd thought of that technique before. “I suppose I'm a little different from other people, that's all.”
Bilardi gaped. “A little!? You acted as if the pain was your lover.”
McCabe's smiled broadened. “She is.”
“You call pain ... she?” Bilardi reached for a sweetmeat.
“Of course.” McCabe nodded. “Women are the source of all pain. I learned that as a child, and I've seen nothing since then that would cause me to change my opinion.”
Bilardi sipped some of the wine. “Do you feel about women as you do pain, then? Do you love women?”
McCabe looked thoughtful and then he shook his head. “No ... I don't love women, I love me.” He tapped his chest. “Women are useful, they make for an interesting plaything, but they're not as much fun as children.”
“Children?” Bilardi put his glass on the desk.
“Their screams. They're so much more primal, so much more ... real.” McCabe shuddered with the pleasure of the memory.
Bilardi swallowed his revulsion. This man was perverted beyond his comprehension, but he suited his purpose perfectly.
He picked up his wineglass, and peered at McCabe over the rim. “I have a proposition for you.”
* * * *
“Pass me another handful of that Soapweed, will you?” Ethan reached out a hand toward Circumstance while he scrubbed furiously at his face and throat with the other.
The boy's idea of using the Skunkbush, Ethan's coined name for the plant, worked like a charm. The Garlocs discovered the benefit of moving rapidly away from the source of the stink, and did so, with alacrity.