Besieged (62 page)

He limped over to three men, who were sitting under the tent’s awning, deep in conversation. They were scarred, dirty and dressed in stolen finery. None of them reminded him of the baron.

As they picked through a chicken carcass, they tried to outdo each other, telling crude jokes in Chalcedonian, laughing too loud and draining their wine. Their high spirits reminded him of naughty boys who had escaped their tutor for the day.

‘Tell your fortune?’ he offered as he hobbled up.

The one with a broken nose spat at him.

He persevered. ‘Tell the noble bandit’s fortune?’

‘If you value your hide, fortune teller, you’ll piss off,’ the skinny one said.

He was about to go when someone rode up behind him, jumped down from the horse and tossed the reins to one of the children who had run to meet him. As the new arrival strode past, Sorne caught a quick glimpse of a slender youth with long golden hair and striking features.

‘What did I tell you?’ The youth cuffed one of the men over the head. ‘Leave no survivors.’

‘We left no one alive.’ The fear in the men’s faces seemed absurd, considering the pretty youth’s slight frame.

The youth grabbed the big man’s shoulders, tilting the chair off balance. The man clung to the chair’s arms.

‘Then why are there fifty of the king’s men making camp in the valley below us?’ The youth shoved the chair and the man went over backwards.

The other two exchanged looks. Broken-nose stabbed a finger at Sorne. ‘He led them here.’

‘Yeah,’ the skinny one said. ‘It was the seer, Bazajaun.’

Bazajaun? This was not the baron.

The youth strolled over to Sorne, who was bent almost double, so that he had to look up at him. Most Chalcedonians had the kind of blond hair that turned the colour of dirty straw when they grew up. The youth’s hair was actually golden and the angles of his face were so perfect, he looked like a statue.

‘The seer?’ the youth asked.

Either Baron Bazajaun had died and this was his son, or the youth was using his name and his banner. Sorne was about to go into his spiel when, quick as a cat, the youth snatched the bandage off his head.

The moment he saw Sorne’s good eye, he caught a handful of his hair, jerking painfully. ‘A half-blood. He’s King Charald’s spy!’

There was a fraction of a heartbeat, when Sorne could have broken his hold, dropped the youth and tried to escape, but he was in the middle of the bandits’ camp, so he played up his weakness, and pleaded innocence.

The other three scrambled over, seeming glad their leader’s attention had been diverted.

He should have taken the she-Wyrd’s hair when he had the chance. Now...

They stripped him and found his orb of power, but nothing else, since he’d hidden his travelling pack in a rock crevice just off the path.

They hadn’t been gentle and, by the time they finished, at least one of his ribs was cracked, his mouth was bleeding and his good eye was so swollen he could barely see out of it. The dead wound in his stomach ached with a cold malignancy. Sorne let his body go limp as Skinny and Broken-nose held him between them.

The youth gestured to the tent. ‘Take him in there. And start moving the camp. We haven’t used the giant’s navel for a while. Lead the others up there.’

‘You don’t have time to play with him,’ Broken-nose warned. ‘We have to–’

‘I know what we have to do.’ The youth unhooked the lamp and led them into the tent.

The tent had been erected around a tree that had been cut off at about head height. The youth stood, tossing the glass ball from hand to hand, as Skinny bound Sorne to the trunk. With ropes around his shoulders and chest, thighs and knees, his genitals were exposed and his hands were free from the elbow down.

‘Wha...’ Skinny gagged as he spotted the open wound on Sorne’s stomach.

Even a veteran like Broken-nose was revolted. ‘That... that–’

‘That’s no ordinary wound. Bring that lamp closer.’ The youth used the tip of his knife to prod the dead white skin, watching for Sorne’s reaction. ‘The wound is open, but it does not heal. The skin is dead, but it does not decay. Does it hurt, half-blood? How did it happen?’

‘I played with power one too many times.’

The bandits drew back, making the sign to ward off evil.

But their leader was clearly fascinated; a sly smile lit his lovely face. ‘You can’t be all that powerful. Here you are, my prisoner!’

A wagon trundled past, followed by barking dogs, and a voice yelled for someone to hurry up and finish packing.

‘You’ll have to kill him quick,’ Broken-nose said.

The youth turned towards them. ‘Have I ever given you reason to think I’m stupid?’

Broken-nose cleared his throat. ‘We’ll pack up camp.’

As the two bandits left, Sorne wondered how the youth could have men twice his age terrified.

‘I didn’t lead the king’s men here, you know,’ Sorne said.

‘Of course not.’ The youth tossed the orb of power from hand to hand. ‘But you are a spy, and a Wyrd spy at that.’ He walked around Sorne. ‘A Wyrd spy with a wound that does not heal, covered in scars. This burn...’ He gestured to Sorne’s face, then tugged at the hair that grew from the right side of Sorne’s head. ‘White, not silver; you’re a half-blood.’

‘Where is Baron Bazajaun?’

‘Clearly, I am Baron Bazajaun. And just as clearly, you’re talking about my father. He was weak. We wouldn’t have survived the first winter, if I hadn’t taken over.’

‘How old were you when you gained the leadership?’

‘Thirteen.’

That made him around sixteen now. Sorne didn’t know how he’d done it.

Young Baron Bazajaun laughed. The sound made Sorne’s skin prickle. There was something very, very wrong with him.

‘I know who you are,’ Bazajaun announced. ‘You’re the Warrior’s-voice!’

Sorne tried to hide his surprise.

‘I’m right. I knew it,’ Bazajaun crowed, then leant closer. ‘They said you had visions. Is it true?’

Sorne nodded slowly, mind racing. ‘I saw things. Not all of them have come true yet.’

‘Did you see me?’

‘No... but then, I never looked for you. Do you want me to?’

He laughed. ‘Oh, no. You don’t get around me that easily. You’re being boring now, like the rest of them. The longer you prove interesting, the longer I’ll keep you alive. Shall I tell you my game?’ He tossed the orb from hand to hand. ‘I ask you questions, and if I don’t like your answers, I cut off bits of you. I could take my knife and see how deep that dead wound goes.’ He watched Sorne’s face as he spoke. ‘Or I could go a little lower...’

The youth’s gaze fell below Sorne’s waist, and Sorne felt his balls try to crawl up into his body.

‘Why would I care? My cock doesn’t crow. It hasn’t been able to crow since I took the stomach wound. It’s useless.’

‘Really?’ The youth shoved the orb inside his vest and drew his knife. He grabbed Sorne’s prick. ‘Why don’t we just cut it–’

‘Don’t! Don’t...’ Sorne cried in horror.

Satisfied, the youth let him go and put the dagger away. He retrieved the orb and began to play with it again.

‘See,’ the youth said. ‘I’m much better at playing this game than you are. Why are you here, Warrior’s-voice?’

‘Don’t call me that.’ Sorne hated the person who’d been the Warrior’s-voice.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not the Warrior’s-voice anymore. I’m...’ Who was he, and how could he appeal to this mad youth? ‘I’m on a sacred mission to right an old wrong. I came here tonight to retrieve something your father stole.’

‘Good answer.’ A smile made the youth beautiful. He tilted his head thoughtfully, then cast Sorne a triumphant glance and ducked out of the tent.

A few moments passed. Sorne could hear shouts, thumps, horses, creaking wheels, dogs barking.

The youth returned, with the banner, which he leaned against the wall. Taking his knife, he removed the long tail of copper hair. ‘You’re after this. Why?’

‘To right a wrong. She asked me to let her go, but I was arrogant. She died because of me.’

‘What do you mean to do with it?’

‘Return it to her, so she can rest in peace.’

‘So you can rest in peace, you mean.’

A blush crept up Sorne’s cheeks.

The boy saw he was right. ‘Too easy. You’re starting to bore me.’

‘No. You’re trying to trick me,’ Sorne said, desperate to divert him. ‘The hair’s the right length and colour. But it’s too thick for half a head. So it can’t be my she-Wyrd’s hair. Bazajaun divided her hair with Ferminzto.’

‘You’re right. They did divide it, but I won Ferminzto’s half from him.’

‘I bet you did.’ Sorne had to keep the youth talking. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He was weak.’

‘Is everyone weak?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘You think you’re smart, don’t you?’

‘I know I’m smart.’ He grinned. ‘Smarter than you. You’re the one tied up with his cock and balls hanging in the breeze.’

Sorne fought panic. If he could just work out his tormentor’s weakness... The youth was smart and focused, but had no empathy. It was like looking in a mirror at what he might have become, had Oskane succeeded in his indoctrination.

‘You’re interesting,’ the youth said. ‘You have a high tolerance for pain. I could make you last days. But we have to move tonight, thanks to King Dantzel.’

‘You could just give me the hair and let me go.’

‘Oh, I like you. I really do.’

He was going to kill him soon. Sorne could see the excitement glittering in the youth’s eyes. Fear made Sorne’s mind race. He glanced around the tent, looking for inspiration. No weapons, nothing within reach.

The youth tossed the orb from hand to hand, enjoying his desperation.

‘You shouldn’t let it come in contact with your naked skin,’ Sorne told him. ‘It’ll make you sick.’

‘Sick? In what way? It’s just a glass ball. You can’t trick me with your fake visions from the gods.’

‘There are no gods.’

‘Now that’s unusual. Very few people will admit it, even if they think it.’

‘No gods. But the visions were real.’

‘Father and Ferminzto swore they saw you interact with the gods. They saw strange lights, and objects disappearing.’

‘The light was a byproduct of the power shed when I opened the walls between this plane and the empyrean plane. The offerings disappeared when they were taken across. But the creatures that did this were not gods. They were beasts, nothing but hungry predators.’

‘Says who?’

‘The Wyrds. The T’En scholars.’

‘Oh, I have to keep you.’ He gave Sorne a sly look. ‘Maybe I could just cut the back of your heels, and then you’d hobble for the rest of your life. You wouldn’t be able to escape.’

‘You don’t want me to save you from the orb? It may have tainted you already.’

‘You mean this piece of pretty glass?’

‘It’s called the orb of power.’

His tormentor tilted the glass ball this way and that. ‘I see no power.’

‘Keep it next to your skin and all your golden hair will fall out.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘Prove it.’

Sorne lifted both his hands, palm up. ‘Watch.’

The youth placed the orb in his hands.

It began to glow, growing in brilliance.

‘See?’ Sorne said, triumphantly.

‘What is it?’

‘Trapped inside it is...’ – he had no idea, and no one had ever been able to tell him – ‘one of the beasts from the higher plane.’ It was as good an explanation as any.

The youth leaned over the orb and peered into the light, just as Sorne hoped he would.

Sorne lowered the glass ball ever so slightly, drawing him in, then lifted it suddenly with great force, smashing the thick glass ball into the youth’s face. The baron fell back just as Broken-nose entered the tent.

‘Clever half-blood.’ Broken-nose came over and crouched, to touch the youth’s throat. ‘He’s dead.’

And now Broken-nose would kill him. Sorne cursed his bad luck.

‘The little fecker’s dead.’ Broken-nose shook his head in wonder, then sprang to his feet. ‘I could kiss you.’ He took another look at Sorne. ‘Maybe not.’

Someone called from outside.

‘Hold on,’ he yelled and grabbed Bazajaun’s banner. ‘Time for a new baron.’

As Sorne watched, he went to walk out. ‘What about me? I killed him for you. Just cut me free. That’s all I ask.’

Broken-nose laughed, grabbed the lamp and left him in darkness. Sorne waited, hoping he could convince someone to let him go, but no one came to take the tent down.

The following day, fifty of King Dantzel’s men arrived in camp. They peered into the tent with great caution, as if used to finding traps. When all they found was Sorne and the body, one of them called for the captain.

This man studied Sorne, grimacing in distaste. Next, he examined the fallen youth. ‘Pretty as a girl. What a waste.’

‘That’s Bazajaun. I killed him.’

The captain snorted. ‘That’s not Bazajaun. The baron’s a full grown man with a broken nose. That’s just some poor boy.’

‘That poor boy tied me up and was going to cut off my prick.’ Sorne couldn’t repress a shudder. ‘A man with a broken nose took Bazajaun’s banner. He’s calling himself the baron now. But he’ll be easier to catch than the real Bazajaun. I know where they’re going.’ Sorne hoped they had taken the youth’s advice and gone to the giant’s navel.

‘Untie him,’ the captain ordered. ‘We’ll take him with us.’

One of them went around behind Sorne, while the other one dragged the youth’s body to one side.

The orb rolled away from him.

‘That’s mine,’ Sorne said.

The captain picked up the she-Wyrd’s hair.

‘That’s mine, too,’ Sorne said.

‘You’re mighty pushy for a hideous half-blood who’s tied to a pole, standing in a circle of his own piss,’ the captain said.

Sorne ignored this. ‘I’m a personal friend of King Dantzel. He’ll reward you for delivering me safely.’

They released him, and he tried to take a step, but fell to his knees. No one helped him as he rubbed the blood back into his feet and legs. At least he was alive and intact.

Chapter Fifty