Authors: Julian May
The Lord Constable slashed the empty air, shouting obscenities, until his voice soared in a piercing shriek. Induna saw blood pouring from the back of his right boot, just above the heel. An invisible blade, perhaps wielded by someone lying on the floor, had hamstrung Tinnis Catclaw. He staggered, dropping his weapon, and crashed onto the slats, where he
writhed and roared until his own sword rose up like a living thing and smote off his head.
The spouting cascade of gore barely missed Induna in the skiff floating beneath. She retched thin bile and impelled the craft out from under the shambles into the open water of the pond, rendering herself clearly visible. After she caught her breath and cleared her mouth, she continued her resolute scrying of the ghastly interior of the blind. When Deveron needed her, she would come.
Sir Asgar, the corpulent knight, was on his hands and knees, so dumfounded at the uncanny carnage that he had yet to put hand to weapon. He scrambled toward the open door on all fours, uttering a frantic mewling sound, struggled to his feet, and lurched awkwardly along the dock toward the shore. Catclaw's flying sword plunged into his unarmored back and found his heart. Still impaled, the bulky body swayed, then fell into the shallows with a monstrous splash. The mounts tied in the thicket screamed and plunged in fear.
'BI FYSINEK. KRUF
All!' Speaking the Salka words that cancelled Concealer's spell, Deveron stood on the muddy shore, head hanging, splattered with blood, surrendering to the sigil's pain-debt and the greater anguish afflicting his own heart.
Induna sent the skiff speeding to him. She stepped out, took hold of one arm, and led him to a place where the ground was drier and grass grew. There she made him lie down, bathed his face and hands with pondwater, kissed him, and let him be. The sigil Concealer was a minor stone and its price, at least, would soon be paid.
Taking her fardel from the boat, she entered the blind and drew her small dagger, which served to cut Rusgann's ankle bonds. The unconscious woman's wrists were already free. After reassuring herself that the tortured victim yet lived,
Induna lifted the cloak covering the half-naked form and turned her carefully to examine the injuries. The fresh weals on her breasts and upper belly still bled copiously, while the older wounds on her back were scabbed and oozing.
Induna had loaded her fardel with medicines and bandages obtained from the healers at the Green village. Now, after cleansing the wounds with a solution of witch hazel and dilute spirits, she laid out squares of linen on sections of the floor free of gore and smeared them with thick unguents that would slow blood loss and promote healing. These she applied to the cuts, binding them in place. Then she wrapped Rusgann tightly again in the black woolen cloak.
Ignoring the dead bodies round about her, closing them off from her sight as though they were already enshrouded, Induna searched the small hut. She found another cape folded neatly in one corner, a rich and voluminous thing that might have been the property of the fat knight called Asgar. She made a pillow of it and eased this beneath Rusgann's head before beginning to chant ancient Tarnian invocations that she hoped might strengthen the sufferer and ease her pain.
Time passed.
Deveron appeared at the door, looking hollow-eyed and haggard, and wordlessly proceeded to haul away the remains of Catclaw and his men. She heard multiple splashes outside. When the grisly task was finished he used the old wooden bucket to sluice out the blind, sending bloody water draining through the duckboards. Finally he spoke aloud.
'How fares Rusgann?'
'Her color is not good, and her breathing is rapid and shallow, as is her heartbeat. She is in grave condition. In a moment I'll try to give her a potion, but she may be unable to swallow it.'
'I'll be just outside, sponging the worst of the gore off
myself. You'll want to clean up as well. I can dry our damp clothes with my talent. If we stink too much of blood, the horses may shy at carrying us. And ultimately, we'll have to be seen in public. I lack the strength to use Concealer again immediately, and three persons cannot readily be hidden by the distracting cover-spell.'
'So you intend for us to ride out, rather than use the skiff?'
He nodded wearily. 'We've still got to deliver the letter to Prince Dyfrig - or its content. I pray you can rouse Rusgann.'
'Her nether regions and legs seem unharmed, but I fear she is too feeble to sit a saddle or even ride pillion. She lost much blood.'
'I've found leather rain-capes in the saddlebags of the Lord Constable and the knight. I'll fashion a litter, using them and two poles, to drag behind one of the horses. She can lie in that, and you and I can ride ahead and behind.'
'The dead bodies -' she began.
'Stripped naked, bellies punctured to inhibit floating, and consigned to a part of the pond thick with rushes. Wild pigs, fitches, pike, and other swamp scavengers will dispose of them in a week or so. Their clothing, weapons, and other accoutrements are sunk in the pond. Let us hope the Lord Constable told few persons where he and his henchmen intended to go on this accurst night.'
He turned and went out the door.
'Accurst for some, may they freeze in hell,' Induna murmured, rummaging in her fardel for the needed tincture of burnet and tormentil. 'Blest for another - if she survives and is yet able to fulfill the important duty she was assigned.'
'If I don't live,.' said a cracked voice very slowly, 'then you must carry my lady's message to Prince Dyfrig. You, Induna of Barking Sands! I remember you.'
'God of the Heights and Depths!' the healer whispered, nearly dropping the medicines in her surprise. 'You're awake!'
Rusgann's eyes were half open. Her discolored, unlovely features brightened in a triumphant smile. 'I still carry the letter. Hidden. They searched me. Stupid whoresons . . . stripped me but never found it.'
Induna bent low to hear the indistinct words. 'Where is it?'
Rusgann blinked. 'Folded very small and encased in a sealed gold locket without a chain. Hidden. Take it! Take it now.' Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. 'The bastard Catclaw said my dear lady is dead. Burnt alive in a house fire. Alas - I prayed Dyfrig might free his poor mother from her long captivity. But at least he will have her precious letter as a remembrance.'
'Maudrayne dead?' Induna cried in dismay. 'But she lives, Rusgann! My husband and I were told by a friend of the Source - do you know who he is? - that she escaped from the Lord Constable's burning lodge. I know not where she may be, but she is certainly not dead.'
'Thank God! Then . . . give Dyfrig the letter. Take it from me now. It's a good thing you're a healer. A woman. No silly squeamishness.' Using an earthy term, she told where the locket was.
Induna gave a soft gasp. 'You mean -'
'The letter is safe.' Rusgann uttered a rattling breath. 'They said I was too old and ugly. Never raped me, so they never found it. . . damn . . . fool. . . men!’
'Oh, Rusgann, how clever of you!'
She smiled. 'Take it now. Take it! So glad . . . my lady lives.' Another hoarse sound come from her lips and then she was silent.
'Rusgann!' Induna took both of the woman's hands. They were like ice and utterly limp. 'Oh, no, no.'
She felt for a pulse, but there was none. The pupils of Rusgann's eyes were wide and black, staring into eternity. Induna shut the lids, blinking back her own tears. Then set
about retrieving the locket. She wiped it and studied it closely in the lantern light. It was gold, very flat and no larger than a double-mark coin, engraved with an ornate initial
M
. Some sort of dark cement had been daubed along the seam and hinge to render it waterproof.
She tucked it into her belt-purse, then re-wrapped Rusgann's body in the knight's fine cloak. Closing her eyes, she began the Tarnian Incantation of Soul-Departure.
'Duna? Wife, can you hear me? We dare not tarry here any longer.'
She found Deveron standing over her. All physical traces of the necessary slaughter had vanished from his person, but his face looked more ravaged and pallid than she had ever seen it before.
'I was praying for Rusgann. I did what I could, but..." Induna shook her head. 'She still had Maudrayne's letter with her. Hidden in a locket.' She told her husband where it had been.
'Good God!' he murmured. 'Did you open the thing?'
'It's cemented shut. I think the locket can only be opened by destroying it. Perhaps we should deliver the locket to Prince Dyfrig as it is.'
'I'll think about that. . . We must locate him without delay. My deep-scrying ability is presently too weak to penetrate the castle walls, but he's probably somewhere inside. When we're closer to Boarsden I'll try again. I did manage to wind-search about the army encampment a bit. Casya and Baron Ising are no longer with Duke Kefalus or anywhere near the town. I'll look for them again later, when my strength recovers.'
'But where could they have gone?'
'Zeth knows. At least they weren't found out and clapped in irons. I did find out something of vital interest while eaves
dropping on the nightwatch: the army is preparing to break camp within three days.’
‘Are they disbanding, then?'
'Nay.' His countenance grew more doleful. 'The news is very bad. The Salka horde is swimming toward the Icebear Channel - perhaps to attack western Tarn. The Sovereign has been forced to split his force in two, not knowing where they might land. The larger North Wing, some twenty thousand experienced warriors of Cathra and Tarn led by Conrig and Sernin Donorvale, will follow the Wold Road almost to its end and wait there to cross Frost Pass and defend Tarnian cities if the necessity arises. The smaller South Wing, ten thousand Didionites under Somarus and his son Valardus, and five thousand Cathrans led by Earl Marshal Parlian, will camp at the Lake of Shadows, in case the Salka objective lies further south, on the coast of Didion. Once the enemy landing point is confirmed, both wings of the Sovereign Army will converge there. However, King Somarus has refused to send his troops to Tarn. Even worse, nearly half of them are only armed yeomen with no battle experience, whose resolve and discipline is dangerously shaky.'
'How many Salka might be in this new invasion?’
‘No one in the camps seems to know. It was estimated that about fifty thousand of the brutes swarmed up the Beacon Valley. If that number assaults the west coast without adequate warning
'This is terrible! You must bespeak the Source at once, Deveron. Perhaps he can pinpoint where the monsters intend to go, and you can then inform Lord Stergos.'
Deveron's laugh was bitter. 'Duna, the Source is a supernatural creature trapped in a fleshly body, but he's hardly able to read Salka minds.’
‘Oh. I - I'm being foolish.'
'You've just undergone a shocking ordeal. It's no wonder
that your thoughts are muddled. So are my own. But I do know that we must leave this place immediately and find somewhere to rest until morning. Pack up your things. We'll have to take Rusgann's body with us in the litter until we find a suitable place to bury her. I won't leave her in this bloody marsh.'
Induna nodded dully. She began putting the medicines back into her fardel.
'I kept two nondescript horses that were tied outside and drove away the knight's courser, Catclaw's stallion and the mule after removing their harness. Come, now. You take Rusgann's feet while I lift her arms.'
Working together, they carried the body out to the waiting litter. While Induna tied it securely, Deveron returned to the fowler's blind and flung more water about, removing the last vestiges of the awful deeds that had been done there and quenching the brazier. As a last gesture, he took the lantern that had been brought by the Lord Constable's men and threw it far out into the pond like a shooting star. It sank without a trace.
A few other objects, visible to his nightsight, still floated low in the black waters, but Deveron could do nothing about them. He only hoped that no one would come to this remote spot before they vanished, in the natural order of things.
* * *
The inn outside the small city of Twicken looked to be a congenial hostelry, crowded but not overfull, so the fugitive wizards Niavar Kettleford and Cleaton Papworth decided they might stop there without being conspicuous. They guided their horses down to a thick grove of birches near the River Malle, and after making, certain they were not observed abolished the spell of couverture that had rendered them virtually unnoticeable during the flight from Boarsden Castle.
Both wore the garb of ordinary wayfarers of the middle class. The sorcery they had used to conceal their movements did not truly render them invisible; rather, it hid them efficiently from distant windsearchers and caused persons who were at least five feet away to pay no attention whatsoever to them and their mounts - a useful thing for thieves on the run, so long as they had no need for social interaction. But the enforced isolation had drawbacks if one desired to travel in comfort.
'I'd feel happier if we could keep the spell active,' Cleaton grumbled as they returned to the inn. Sounds of music and laughter coming from the place were audible at some distance, and a fine aroma of beef pottage carried on the breeze, 'By now our young friend must surely have raised a hue and cry over our absconding.'
His smaller companion gave a cynical chuckle. 'I rather think not. If I were Garon Curtling, I'd snatch up what likely loot I could find amongst our late master's effects and follow our wise example. He has no future in the court of Didion, any more than we did. And small reason to set the law on us if he does help himself to valuable magical items.'
'Well, I suppose it's all right,' Cleaton conceded. 'We're at least seventy leagues away from Boarsden. Not many Didionite wizards can scry that far. Garon certainly can't.'
'We'll be be safe enough unsorcelled for the short time it will take to have supper and hire a room. Don't fret, Clete. We can re-establish the cover-spell before going to bed.'
The pinch-faced wizard sighed. 'Zeth knows I'm ready for some hot food and a soft pallet. I didn't sleep a wink in that damp hedgerow last night. There were creatures.'