Revenge (6 page)

Goth wished they could have stayed to witness more of that fine theatre. He had wanted to see Gynt’s corpse cut down from the cross, perhaps even to touch it to be sure Gynt had died. Xantia had laughed at him then and mocked him. ‘Who could live after that, you fool?’ she had snarled.

Fool. Goth turned the word over now in his numbed brain. He did not like to be laughed at. And no one had ever called him a fool before. But Xantia was not scared of him. He could hate her for that. She saw through him, knew his weaknesses. Once she had even brought him an eleven-summers-old girl for his sport. But the girl had cried too much and, anyway, what was the point in his condition? If only he could be within spitting distance of that golden-haired Kloek once more…Even with his own hands tied and his ankles manacled, Goth knew he would find a
way to rip the man’s throat open with his teeth…and he would wallow in the blood.

He was fantasising again, but simultaneously he could feel the welcome numbness of the stracca wearing thin. So thin that his greatest fear was re-emerging: someone was watching him, spying on him. He would run back to the King and ask for a reward for revealing the whereabouts of the fugitive Goth.

Goth inhaled on the long glass tube again and relaxed into the drug’s reassuring embrace. Too much use took away the sense of taste; removed all feeling, in fact. It was said a man could drink bubbling hot water straight from the pot and not feel it, such was the numbing ability of the stracca. Goth was not ready to test that theory yet, even though it appeared his life was over.

Xantia did not think so though; kept talking about some mad god, hell bent on revenge. He did not understand any of it but he humoured her. She made sure he got high-quality stracca. He had to stay on the right side of Xantia. Sometimes he thought she was actually running the den. ‘Patience, patience,’ she would coo in his ear. ‘I have the good stuff for you tonight.’ And he would do as he was told.

What did she want from him? Why did they remain in this flea-infested pirate town when they could climb aboard the first available ship to the Exotic Isles? He thought harder and through the stracca haze managed to recall that it had been Xantia’s idea to use the stracca den as a hideout. ‘We can lie low for a full
moon or two,’ she had persuaded him. But how long had it been now? He could not remember.

Goth knew he was hallucinating now. He had to be, for through the window he could see the hated Kloek staring at him.

He rolled over and closed his eyes tightly. If only it were true. If only Saxon the Kloek were this close. He could take his vengeance. He inhaled once more and passed out.

Saxon wanted to crash through the window and end the miserable sod’s life. It was Cloot who prevented him making a rash move. Goth looked as if he was unconscious.

The contraption next to the bed of faded cushions gurgled away; a thin stream of purple smoke drifted up and clouded at the ceiling. The Chief Inquisitor was a shadow of his former strutting self; his face was so gaunt it was almost unrecognisable. But he could not hide the twisted flesh and the incessant twitch which marked him as the person they sought.

Saxon considered his options. Goth was useless for the time being. Instead of risking an error, he could make his way back to Tal and inform Herek, who by now would already be heading back south to the capital, of his find. At the same time, he could warn Alyssa of this new discovery. She must be told, even though he dreaded confirming for her that Goth lived. Then he could return with a full complement of
soldiers, re-capture this lowlife and deal with him once and for all, not to mention his nasty accomplice. Saxon nodded. It was a wise decision.

He heard Cloot’s warning shriek but it was already too late. Whatever it was hit him hard and he collapsed outside the window.

Saxon came to, groggy and disoriented. He could hear a familiar voice yelling through the darkness. It was a voice he despised. Xantia.

The man holding him hissed near his ear. ‘Stay still, stranger, or I’ll slit your throat from arsehole to appetite.’

Saxon had a mad urge to laugh at the nonsensical statement, but he also had the sense to remain silent as commanded. He peered through blurred vision and realised he had been dragged around to the side of the stracca den where it was virtually pitch black. Xantia looked like a demented ghoul, lit up in the open doorway as she shouted in their direction.

He realised they were just silhouettes to her and thanked whichever lucky stars were protecting him. She thought they were drunken revellers. She had her say, issued a nasty threat if they were still there in two minutes, then slammed the door.

‘You don’t plan on making any trouble for me, do you, tall man?’

Saxon spat. He tasted blood as he shook his head. His attacker struck a flint and held it up between them.

‘Now we’ll remember each other’s faces. It pays to know who might want me dead.’

Saxon took note of the livid scar which crossed the man’s face where an eye used to be; now there was only a blackened socket. He shrugged, momentarily thinking about taking on ‘One Eye’, but remembered the blade poised near his throat and figured this was a fight better lost and fought again on another day.

‘Where is my falcon?’

It was the first time One Eye had heard his distinctive voice. ‘A Kloek? My, my, you’re far from home, Goldie.’

Saxon hated the nickname but he did not bite. ‘My falcon?’

‘Ours now,’ the man said, pointing to the bushes where Saxon could make out another fellow. Cloot was held firmly in his grip.

Saxon swung back to stare at One Eye. ‘You can have all my money—’

‘Already got it,’ One Eye said, shaking a purse and grinning.

The light inside the building went out. All was quiet.

Saxon spoke softly this time. ‘You must give me that bird or I will kill you.’

‘I hold the knife, and my friend over there will break your bird’s neck if you so much as raise an arm against me, Kloek. Now, do as I suggest and leave Caradoon.’

Saxon tried a different approach. ‘What would you want with a falcon?’

‘Birds of prey are rare where we’re headed. This one’s a beauty. He’ll fetch me gold for sure in the Exotic Isles. Her majesty has a passion for falcons. She loves to watch them kill.’

‘I meant what I said, pirate.’

‘About killing me, you mean?’

Saxon nodded slowly, watching for the next move. He was surprised to hear the one-eyed man laugh.

‘Shaking in my boots, Kloek. Until the next time we meet then.’

He laughed again, pushed Saxon hard in the direction of the town and wagged his finger at him. ‘Go now, Goldie. I’ve spared your life because I can see I have taken something from you which matters to you greatly. But don’t push your luck. My name is Janus Quist. Remember it.’

Saxon did not hear it coming but he saw Quist’s eyes flick to whatever was behind him. Something hard and unforgiving hit his head and the Kloek dropped to the ground like a stone.

‘Get him as far south from here as possible. Dump him as close to the capital as you dare. I don’t want him returning,’ Quist ordered.

Cloot had been so intent on getting into a position where he and Tor could see Goth sucking on his stracca pipe that he had not heard the man creeping up on him. Careful fingers extracted him from the net which had been thrown about him whilst other members of the gang dragged Saxon around to the dark side of the building. The man then bound his beak with a fine thread…but not before he had gouged the man’s flesh, Cloot thought, although it was very cold comfort.

Don’t struggle any more, Cloot. It will just weaken you. Let’s wait and see what they want,
Tor cautioned, sounding braver than he felt at this moment, remembering his body so far away.

They felt their combined hopes sink as they realised what their fate at the hands of Quist and his pirate gang was to be. They shared distress as they heard the pirate give the order to remove Saxon and
watched helplessly as the Kloek was dragged off down the street.

Now all Cloot could think of was their own precarious situation and the dire need to ensure Tor’s escape.

Forget me, you fool!
Cloot spat at him.
We have no time to waste on anything but you…getting you away from them.

I will not—
Tor began but was cut off fiercely by his friend. He could feel the anger coursing through Cloot’s fragile web of light bones and feathers.

You will not put yourself in any further danger than you already have. Now use that powerful mind of yours and conjure up a solution, Tor. There is no more time. Quist is about to stuff me into a sack; I’ll lose all sense of direction and then we’ll find ourselves on a boat to somewhere in the Exotic Isles and that will be that. You’ll die inside me and I’ll die of a broken heart and of my failure to fulfil my task as the Second. You cannot do this to me. You will do as I say…NOW!

What do you expect me to do?
Tor yelled, feeling the stirring of real fear.

Something that will magic you away, Tor! Now think. Think hard on everything you know. The answer is within you. Lys has always told you that you have the answers. You just have to know how to ask the right questions. Do it now. Save yourself.

Save us,
he added softly before falling silent.

For a moment Tor felt lost, helpless. Growing up, it was not just the love and support of his parents
which had made him feel safe; it was knowing he possessed a power way beyond anything anyone else understood. There had never been anything he could not do. Even when Merkhud had suggested the Spiriting, Tor had trusted he could achieve it. But now, many years later, he felt doubt creep in. His own life was his to lose…if he so chose. But with Cloot it was different. Cloot was his closest, most beloved friend; he knew the falcon would die without a second’s hesitation if he thought it might save Tor. He steeled his resolved. He would not lose Cloot. He would not let a drug-intoxicated bully, a scheming woman and a one-eyed pirate beat them. He remembered how, years ago when they were children, Alyssa had taught him to turn shame into strength, misery into determination and fear into anger. Now he would display that same courage.

Tor withdrew and summoned the Colours. Cloot seemed distant now. The Colours roared and instantly he felt connected to where his body lay with Solyana and Arabella keeping vigil over it. He needed no guiding star to find it. He had only hours left before his body would die and then Cloot would surely be lost—and so would the Trinity. His anger swelled and the Colours roared brightly in answer to his call.

Trust yourself.
Who had spoken? Tor did not know but he repeated it in his mind. Trust yourself.

He leapt.

Cloot called across the link, brave as always.
Travel safely, child. Don’t forget me.

Cloot,
Tor whispered,
I love you.

I know.

The link snapped shut and he was travelling alone. Speed was all he could grasp. He felt nothing else. Emptiness enveloped him and he hurtled through the blank. Where were his Colours? Did they blaze behind him? Perhaps he had become the Colours. Faster, faster. No sound.

How long had he been travelling before it happened?

Cold hit him like a slap. He slowed. He was confused. What was it? A sense of foreboding permeated his consciousness; at the same time he sensed that whatever was reaching for him must not be allowed to touch him in the depths of his haven.

Travel!
called voices. They were urgent.

He thought he recognised them but recognition disappeared, to be replaced by fear.

And then another voice. It was wintry. It was the source of the cold.

Ah…so this is Tor,
it said icily.

Who are you?
Was his voice shaking from fright or cold?

I am he.

Panic gripped Tor. He had stopped moving. He was dying with each second he remained here but he felt impaled.
Orlac?

The voice laughed. Still no warmth in it, but there was genuine mirth.
I am not Orlac, though I am as interested in him as you are.

Where is he?

Before it could reply, another voice, frosty with menace, came crashing into Tor’s head.
Get away from him!
Lys said.

It laughed again.
He was passing. I am lonely.

Quickly, travel on,
Lys commanded.
Time works against you
.

Tor picked up speed again through the blankness, worrying at the sinister coldness of that voice until he heard the friendly voices again. All of them singing to him.

It was the Flames. They echoed his Colours and rushed towards him, dancing around him, begging him to follow swiftly and he did, racing with them.

Suddenly Tor hit his own body with such speed and force that it convulsed. He heard Arabella scream but he could not open his eyes. He could hardly breathe. Did he still fit his body? It all felt so wrong. Breathe.

Solyana growled into his mind.
You frightened us.

He tried to sit up. Arabella helped him, cradling him in her arms.

‘I told you not to take chances, Tor.’ Arabella snatched at tears and moved away from him quickly, disappearing into the blur which was now his vision. He was seeing through his own eyes again.

The Flames had quietened and were glowing softly white once again.

Darmud Coril was present. ‘I am glad you are back with us, Torkyn Gynt.’

‘Thank you for sending them,’ he was able to say, his voice gritty.

‘They came of their own accord,’ the god replied.
‘They fled to you, my son. They were very frightened for you. They told me they must guide you home.’

Tor stroked one of the Flames and it chimed its pleasure. He reached out silently to them all, using his own Colours, which it seemed only they understood. ‘Thank you, my friends.’

Solyana padded away. Her posture told him how relieved she was.

Tor could not move very quickly. He was not wearing his body with ease yet but he caught up with her awkwardly.

I’m sorry.

I know,
she said sadly.
We have all come through so much. It is terrifying to think we could lose you before you have achieved what you must.

He hated it when any of them talked openly about his personal destiny—whatever that was.
I have lost Cloot.

I gathered.

How?

He is not with you. Cloot is your first-bonded Paladin; he would die before he left your side.

He is not dead.

He may be. But that would be his choice.
Her voice was even sadder. Tor rounded on the silver wolf.
Don’t speak so, Solyana!

Death releases us, Tor. You must understand this.

I
don’t
understand it. I don’t understand any of it,
he said, limping awkwardly.

Move around as much as you can. Feeling will return soon.
She was matter of fact again.

I shall be walking a long way,
he said.

Do you wish for company?

To Caradoon?

Arabella had returned. She heard his last words.

‘You’re going back?’ She was shocked.

‘Yes. I leave immediately.’

‘You cannot,’ the priestess said.

‘I must find Cloot.’

‘Stop him, Solyana. Tell him.’

Tor stopped. ‘Tell me what?’

Solyana, calm as always, spoke quietly.
We believe the Tenth is failing.

‘How long?’ Tor asked flatly.

‘We don’t know.’ Arabella’s voice was filled with frustration and fear. ‘That is why you cannot leave the safety of the Heartwood.’

Tor sighed. ‘Arabella, that is every reason why I must leave the safety of the Heartwood. I do no good here. I am the prey, remember.’

He stepped towards her and she allowed him to give her a brief, hard hug. He kissed her lips softly. ‘I promise you, I will take no more chances but I must find my falcon. He belongs to me—and I to him.’

He looked into her smoky, dark eyes and finally she nodded.

The Heartwood will guide you once again, Tor, the wolf offered.

Tor stroked Solyana’s thick, shaggy fur and took a
moment to marvel once again at its silvery tips which seemed to shimmer as she moved.

Solyana, can I cast myself to Caradoon as I did when Alyssa and I left Caremboche?

No, Tor. You can only bring yourself back to the Heartwood in such a manner. You will have to journey to Caradoon by more traditional methods, though the trees will make it as fast as they can.
If it was possible for a wolf to grin, Solyana did so and it puzzled Tor.
Enjoy your journey,
she said.
Everything you need will be provided at the edge of the Great Forest.

Tor stood by the stream where he had first made love to Alyssa. He kneeled by its gently passing water and drank from it, trying to conjure up the vision of that moonlit night. As he swallowed, he tasted her once again, briefly, and he thanked the stream for such a gift.

Running through the wolf’s instructions once more, he straightened, put his hands by his sides and closed his eyes to wait for the sign.

He had learned to trust the Heartwood implicitly. It would never harm him.

Tor felt the branches around his ankles and heard the rustle of their leaves. He opened his eyes and felt a surge of excitement. He steadied himself as the foliage entwined, then took a deep breath before the bent trees catapulted him into the air. Travelling again. He felt
the exhilaration of flying once more, this time in his own body, and howled with the joy of it.

Another tree caught him deftly and, before he had a second to let out a breath, he was thrown again. This happened repeatedly. Each time the trees cradled his fall and catapulted him on to their companions. Tor began to laugh. He could swear the trees were laughing with him and he realised he was sending out his Colours towards them, thanking them as he tumbled closer and closer towards Caradoon.

He arrived on the Great Forest’s outskirts a day later. The trees had been kind, refreshing and encouraging him throughout the journey, finally setting him down just half a day’s walk from his destination. Solyana had spoken true. A small pile of items had been left for him on the fringe of the northern finger of the forest. They had been chosen carefully. Fresh clothes, sufficiently unremarkable that he could pass for any transient in the pirate town. A leather satchel, which he slung across his body, contained a few curios which no doubt would explain themselves later.

Tor cast to Cloot but found nothing. So, with no reason to linger, he turned to the Great Forest, bowed reverently to the trees in thanks, heard their gentle whispers and started forth on what he sensed was going to be a long journey.