Rhapsody: Child of Blood tsoa-1

by Elizabeth Haydon

  "No. We need those for the trip along the Root."

  "Oi know, but this is all we got left."

  "What about the honey?"

  "We ate it yestaday."

  The Brother put down the rest of the meat. "Then tomorrow I'll hunt."

  They returned to their accustomed silence. After a moment Grunthor stretched out downwind of the fire. The Brother watched the giant as he fell asleep. He let his mind wander, and was lost in the memories that had brought them to this place in time.

  He recalled how he had walked across the devouring blackness that was the Deep Chamber of the F'dor. He could not stop his boots from sounding loudly on the polished obsidian floor.

  The walls of the chamber were so distant that even if the room had been lit, he would still have had a poor view of the black volcanic-glass surfaces, intricately carved with obscene patterns. Despite the braziers burning with black fire, there was no illumination within the cavernous chapel except the circle of light that the Dhracian assassin had approached.

  Within the circle stood the figure of a man clad in the crimson robes of the demonic priesthood, the man who had summoned him here, once human, now the human host of a demonic spirit, blended into one obscene entity. A man he would never have accepted voluntarily as a client.

  The Brother had clenched his teeth as he fought against his instinctual reaction to the place, and to the creature he approached. Needles seemed to run in his veins as he repressed his natural response to the perversions of nature that were conducted here. His ancestral hatred, born of generations of racial crusades by the Dhracians against all F'dor, revolted at being in the place his race's enemies had made their home.

  Both sides of his bloodline—the vibrationally sensitive Dhracian inheritance of his mother and the Bolg's love of the deep earth bequeathed to him by his unknown father—rebelled at the defilement of what had once been a holy site. Strongest of all was the disgust he felt towards the demonic spirit clinging to the no-longer-human figure that stood before him now. The Lord of a Thousand Eyes. The F'dor Tsoltan. His master.

  When he stepped into the circle of light he heard a soft voice speak, warm as honey.

  "I have a job for you."

  The dark priest's red-rimmed eyes searched the Brother for a reaction. The Dhracian's sensitive nerves screamed at the intrusion, a sensation similar to the prodding examination of a butcher searching for the best cut. The Brother did not answer. He was doing all he could to keep from breathing the same air.

  "Your hand," said the demon-priest.

  The Brother unclenched his fist and slightly extended his left palm.

  The F'dor chuckled in the darkness. "Your resistance amuses me still," it said. "By now you've learned there is no way to reclaim your true name. Your service is too valuable to me. There is no price for which I would ransom it back to you, nor will I reveal how I obtained it."

  Directly in front of the Brother a vine grew up from the glass floor. It seemed made of glass itself, spiked with obsidian thorns. A key was wrapped in its highest tendril.

  "Take it."

  With a decisive motion the Brother plucked the key from the vine. The obsidian tendril shattered like the stem of a fragile wineglass.

  He held the key up before his half-Bolg eyes, the night eyes of a people who had risen up from the caves, smiling inwardly at the increase in the rhythm of the demon's formerly human heart, the only outward sign of its consternation at his defiance. The key itself was unremarkable except that it was made from a dark bone, its shaft curving as a rib might.

  "You will take this key to the base of the failed land bridge to the northern islands. The foundation of this bridge contains a gateway unlike any even you have ever passed through. The fabric of the Earth is worn thin there; you may experience some discomfort. If you have passed through correctly, you will find yourself in a vast desert."

  "You will know the direction to go, and an old friend of mine will come to meet you. Once there, you will agree to the time and date when you shall serve as his guide through the gateway to this side. My only concern is that it be as soon as possible. Return to me, and I shall prepare you as his guide. Is this clear?"

  "Yes."

  "You will tell me of the arrangement, and carry any message he might send."

  "I am not a page."

  "How right you are. You are but a footnote." The talisman around the neck of the demon caught the light from a distant brazier and glinted, black, in the darkness. Within the golden circle of flame was a pattern of red stones that spiraled into the center of the amulet, in which was carved the image of a solitary eye. It bore the same piercing stare that now met the Brother's own.

  The F'dor approached him, and the Brother's nose wrinkled from the reek of burnt flesh on the demon's person, and especially its breath. It was a stench that accompanied all those of its race, but his master's malodor was particularly strong.

  "I want this done quickly. It will make whatever trivial catalogue of death you think yourself responsible for a mere jot, an afterthought of inconsequence. I am the true master, and you will be my thrall until you follow me willingly, or are swept away in my victory."

  He had done as the demon demanded.

  The Brother had no compunction about death, did not shirk in the presence of evil, but what he had encountered in the wasteland beyond the horizon defied any horrific description of which his mind might be capable. In the face of the destruction that would ensue, the devastation that would come over the world, he decided instead, for the first time in his life, to run, to abandon all he had, to risk an eternity of something worse than death. Even for him, anything else would have been unthinkable.

  The Brother shook off his thoughts at the stirring in the distance that had alerted his senses. The key was in his hand, glimmering slightly in the darkness, and he slipped it quickly back into the pocket where he carried it.

  He looked in the direction of the vibrations and felt the presence of approaching wolves. They were a long way off, but they were on the prowl. A discordant vibration indicated they were not ordinary lupines, but animals used as eyes by the F'dor.

  He made a soft clicking sound. Grunthor's eyes opened at once, and his hand went immediately to his weapons belt. He turned in the direction of the Brother without making a sound.

  The Brother made a few fast hand signals: six wolves, three on each flank. Grunthor nodded, and with one hand drew his great bow. With the other he placed a large metal lid on top of the fire, smothering it without allowing the smoke to escape. The Brother held his own odd weapon, the cwellan, at the ready, while Grunthor positioned his pike close at hand. They waited.

  The Dhracian's head tilted to one side as he concentrated on the animals. The wolves didn't even slow down. They continued on their prowl until they had passed over the horizon and beyond his senses. They had not noticed the small camp in the hidden dell. When they were well away, the Brother nodded and took a breath, exhaling deeply. Grunthor did the same.

  "They're getting closer," the Brother said.

  "No surprise really, is it, sir? They've got our scent, and we've got that key. They can probably feel it."

  "I know. We have to make haste to another city. Get lost in the crowd."

  "Lovely. Oi know how much you like cities."

  When the deepest part of the night had passed and the summer rain began, the two broke camp and headed for Easton ahead of the approaching thunderstorm.

  * * *

  "More soup, love?"

  "No, thanks, Barney." The young woman glanced up at the barkeeper hovering over her and smiled. "It was good, though." She returned her attention to the messy pile of parchment pages and odd objects that littered the table in front of her, scratching away furiously with a quill and humming softly to herself.

  Barney sighed and brought the soup tureen back to the bar, enjoying the physical thrill that always resulted from being the recipient of that smile. Then he glanced furtively about, hoping Dee
hadn't seen him grinning like a fool. Dee loved the girl too, but it was best not to rock the marital boat.

  Under the pretense of wiping clean the ale-spattered surface, he indulged in another look. The girl brushed a loose strand of golden hair out of her eyes and touched her throat absently, untangling a simple gold locket that hung from a delicate chain around her neck.

  She was still writing away at an intense pace, pausing every now and again to examine one of the assorted small things on the table before her, or to pluck a few strings of the shepherd's harp resting on her lap beneath the table. She was glowing with quiet excitement, and despite her being tucked away at her favorite table near the back of the bar, that excitement was radiating through the crowd of regulars and generating quite a din. Generally the middle of the day was a dismally quiet time at the Hat and Feathers; today it was as loud as a holiday night. No wonder Dee loves her, Barney thought, chuckling to himself. She's good for business.

  Few noticed the stranger enter over the clamor of voices and clinking of tankards. He made his way impatiently through the crowd, searching the tables until he came to hers. The man stood over her, waiting for her to look up, but she ignored him and continued with her writing, frowning as she scratched out the occasional mistake.

  Finally he spoke. "You're Rhapsody."

  She did not look up, but moved a few of the papers into a neater pile and drew forth a fresh sheet of parchment.

  "Well?"

  She still did not favor him with a glance. "Oh, sorry. Thank you for reminding me." There was a pause, and then she spoke again. "If you'll excuse me, I'm rather busy."

  The man swallowed, choking back the anger her dismissive tone raised in his gullet. He could feel the eyes of some of the patrons shift to him, and he attempted to keep his voice calm.

  "I am here representing a gentleman friend of yours."

  There was no break in her concentration or the focus of her attention. "Really? And who might that be?"

  "Michael, the Wind of Death."

  The hubbub in the Hat and Feathers died away, but the young woman didn't seem to notice or care. "Either they have redefined the words gentleman and friend in this language, or you're making very sloppy use of it," she said. "What does he want?"

  "Your services, naturally."

  "I'm not in the business anymore."

  "I don't think your professional status is of much interest to him."

  For the first time she stopped writing and looked up at the stranger. The eyes that met his contained no hint of fear and were such a startling green that he took a step backward. "Well, what he wants is not of much interest to me," she said evenly. "Now, if you will kindly excuse me, as I said, I'm very busy." She returned to her work once again.

  It took a moment for the man to recover his composure. As the look of rage spread over his grizzled features, the bar patrons began to exit or at least move to safer corners. His hand slammed down on the table, fingers spread wide to crumple the pile of parchment.

  He stopped in the nick of time, the blade of her dagger pressing between his middle and index fingers just before the point of drawing blood. The motion that had put it there was so quick and fluid that he hadn't even seen it.

  Rhapsody looked up at him for only the second time.

  "Now, I believe I've been polite, but you don't seem to be listening. If you have smudged one note of my work you will henceforth only be able to count to six, and you will need to drop your pants to do so. Now please, go and leave me in peace." With all eyes now on her she reinked her quill and returned to her work, her hand still on the dagger.

  The stranger glared at her, removed his hand gingerly from the table, and left the bar, jostling past a few of the remaining patrons and slamming the heavy wooden door behind him. Barney watched him go, and then came to Rhapsody's table, a look of concern wrinkling his kindly face.

  "Don't you know who he works for, darlin'?" he asked anxiously, watching Dee begin to gather the plates and debris left on the hastily vacated tables.

  Rhapsody was methodically stacking the parchment leaves and rolling them into scrolls. "Of course. Michael, the Waste of Breath. What a ridiculous name."

  "I wouldn't be talking so disrespectfully, love. He's become a lot more dangerous of late. And he has a lot more ears than he used to."

  "Oh dear. And he wasn't all that attractive to begin with." Rhapsody stuffed the roll of papers into her oilcloth satchel, and began to pack up the small items on the table, saving out only a wilted primrose and a scrap of vellum.

  She corked the inkwell and tied it carefully into the pocket she had sewn within the sack, wrapped her harp in its burlap cover and placed it in on top. Then she began to write again on the vellum scrap, methodically and slowly this time.

  "On second thought, Barney, I will have some more of that soup."

  The others were already breaking camp when Gammon reached the outpost outside the northwestern wall of Easton. He could tell by the tone of Michael's voice, barking commands to his henchman and berating the men-at-arms, that this was not safe news to deliver. His only hope was that the wild instability that had plagued their leader of late might cause him to forget the errand that Gammon had been sent out on. That hope was dashed with one look at Michael's face.

  "Where is she?" he demanded, striding to Gammon and shoving aside the lackey he had been abusing.

  "She's apparently out of the business, sir."

  Michael's eyes opened wide and Gammon saw within them a battle for self-control raging. "You couldn't find her? How could you miss her?"

  Gammon hesitated, then plunged ahead. "I found her, m'lord. She refused to come."

  Michael blinked, and it seemed to Gammon that his eyes darkened and grew calm again.

  "Refused. She refused?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Michael turned and watched the men packing up the horses and the weapons.

  "Perhaps you misunderstood my order, Gammon," he said calmly as the sour black smoke from the doused campfires billowed toward them and over the wide meadow, where it hung like dirty wool in the air. "I didn't want you to ask the wench if she would like to accompany us. I expected you to bring her back."

  "Yes, m'lord."

  "Now go back to town and get her. Gods, she barely comes up to your shoulder. Drag her by that beautiful golden hair, if necessary. Did you see her hair, Gammon?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I have thought about that hair for a long time, Gammon. Can you imagine what that hair feels like in your hands?"

  "Yes m'lord."

  "No, you can't, Gammon," Michael said, his voice cold and emotionless. "You can't because the pouch between your legs is empty. You have never had her, have you? I thought not. It is not something one such as you would survive."

  "Now I, Gammon, I have had her, and I have never experienced the equal of it. She's part Lirin, did you notice that? Lirin women have an especially sweet taste, did you know that, Gammon? Hers is particularly fine. And—well, let us just say that her hair is only the beginning of her charms, charms you could not even begin to imagine."

  "Perhaps, though, Gammon, if you remain in my good favor, I will let you try her out a little. Just enough to make your wretched life worth something while keeping you from any major damage, hmmm? Once I've had my fill of her—or should I say she's had her fill of me? What say you, Gammon? Would you like that?"

  Gammon knew this trap. "I'll go get her, m'lord," he said.

  "Good man," said Michael, and he returned to the field.

  Rhapsody had just finished the last penstroke on the scrap of vellum and was blotting it dry when Gammon returned to the Hat and Feathers. The tavern was now empty save for Barney and Dee, and they watched in dread as he strode to her table again and stood across from her. As before, Rhapsody did not look up at him as she finished her work.

  "You will come with me," Gammon said.

  "Can't today. Sorry."

  "Enough of this," Gammon snarled. He grab
bed with one hand for the long fall of golden hair held in place by a simple black ribbon; with the other he drew a short sword.

  The tavernkeepers watched him double over in pain as Rhapsody slammed the table forward into his groin and pushed him up against the wall with it. He gasped as she ground the corner of the table into his genitals, and his head bobbed down over the table board. She knocked his sword onto the floor next to him, retrieved it, and then leaned forward over the table and spoke directly into his ear.

  "You are a very rude man. Go and tell your commander that I said what he was planning to do to me he should do to himself. Do you understand?"

  Gammon glared at her, and she put her dagger to his throat before moving the table for him to pass.

  "One more thing." she said as she backed him toward the door. "I will be leaving right after you, and I won't be back. Either you and the other thugs you will undoubtedly summon to help you can bother these people, or you can try to catch me. I wouldn't waste the time here if I were you." She threw his sword into the filth of the street.

  Gammon spat at her as he left the bar for a second time.

  "A very rude man," Rhapsody repeated to Barney and Dee. She dropped a handful of coins onto the table, then gave Dee a quick hug. "I'll go out the front door. You should probably close up until suppertime. I'm sorry for any trouble I've caused you."

  "Be careful now, dear," said Dee, fighting back tears.

  Rhapsody pulled her cloak from the peg by the entrance and donned it quickly. She slung her satchel over her shoulder and onto her back, and made for the door. As she passed him she gave Barney the scrap of vellum along with one last smile.

  "Good luck to you, Barney," she said, kissing his cheek. "And if you should ever come upon a troubadour, get him to play this for you."

  Barney look down at the scrap in his hand. On it were graphed five straight lines and a series of musical notes. "What is this, darlin'?" he asked.

  "Your name," she said, and she left.

  Dee went to the table, pocketed the coins, and picked up the soup bowl and spoon, and the discarded quill. "Barney," she said, "come have a look at this."