Blood and Memory (9 page)

He headed downstairs into the common dining room, marveling at how easily Faryl slipped into a masculine stride. His mind turned hungrily toward the lamb stew. With a practiced gaze he swept the chamber without being obvious, taking in that the common room was busy, particularly with a group of men, some of them Legionnaires.

Wyl’s heart skipped but again he settled his nerves. None of these soldiers could possibly know him. He did recognize one, a man older than himself whom he had never had much time for when he had been general. Wyl remembered the fellow to be lazy, the sort who looked for short cuts and was always onto some form of shirking or another. He was loud of personality, though, and tended to impress the younger soldiers with his wit and confidence.

Wyl took a swallow of ale, deliberately looking away and around the room as he tried to remember the fellow’s name. It came to him—the man was called Rostyr. He had always been good with the ladies, Wyl recalled as he watched the man give one of the serving girls a brash, knowing smile. Wyl busied his eyes elsewhere and fiddled with his beard as he waited, trying not to think of his breasts, which had sounded a fresh ache, threatening to ruin his appetite.

“Lamb stew, wasn’t it, Master Bentwood?” a plump young girl asked, startling him, as she set down a huge clay plate. He nodded distractedly and she smiled. “I’ll be right back with some bread. Can I bring some more ale, sir?”

“Please,” he replied, relieved that his hunger remained intact as he eyed the deliciously rich and sticky stew. Vegetables and even some dumplings floated amid the dark gravy.

“Perfect,” he said quietly, and began eating. He became lost in his pleasurable chewing and the food gave him something to focus upon…So focused was he, in fact, that the meal was gone very quickly. It had been a large portion and he realized he must have been extremely hungry to wolf it down so fast. He pushed his plate aside, hardly noticed when it was cleared or the new ale deposited before him. He felt sated and peaceful at last. Leaning against the wall, he surreptitiously watched the rest of the room. His attention was drawn back to the soldiers. There were only three of them, yet they sat among five civilians clearly known to them. The civilians looked dusty and road weary. They were travelers. He wondered at the easy connection between the two groups and their increasingly loud behavior. Wyl noticed there was not just ale but also wine flowing freely. Money must be plentiful. All had eaten here, and if the night wore on much longer, he believed they might even be staying here. Legionnaires did not normally stay at Grimble Town, and if they did then they would be part of a small company passing through, certainly more of them than this trio.

He puzzled at it and could come up with no answer other than a vague suspicion that the soldiers were not meant to be here and so were here in secret. Furthermore, there was no officer present, which was further damning. Three foot soldiers in a tiny town? He let it go. Right now he was Thorn Bentwood and he had a mission. What these members of the Legion were up to was not his business any longer.

Wyl finished his ale. As he drained his mug he noticed one of the men in civilian clothing watching him. The man was big. Built like a bear. The man averted his eyes immediately, rejoining the merriment around the table, but he somehow did not seem to belong. Not that it mattered to Wyl. It was time to go. He stood and felt momentarily light-headed. Too much ale on top of the wine earlier. He noticed that he had managed to down two jugs of the liquid.

I need some air
, he told himself, and against his original plan decided to step outside the inn for just a few minutes before retiring. He waved his thanks to the girls, left some coin at the table, and made his way to the main door. He did not even glance toward the group that had previously held his interest.

As he stepped outside, the freshness of the night hit him and he felt sobered and brightened straightaway. He allowed himself the luxury of a short stroll up the street, planning to head back upstairs just as soon as he could settle his large meal. Turning to walk back down the darkened street—he was barely fifty paces from the door of the Four Feathers—he noticed a figure. He recognized the man’s hat. It was one of the men from the group. Wyl wanted to believe the fellow was doing the same thing as he—merely taking some fresh air—but all his soldier’s senses were on instant alert, blended with Romen’s and Faryl’s ever-suspicious and world-wary ways.

Wyl walked back briskly toward the inn. He was not daunted by the presence of a single man and farther down the street a few locals mingled, going about their business…closing up for the night, walking home, perhaps even headed for the Four Feathers.

As he drew close, confident now that he would pass without incident, the man began to whistle tunelessly, softly. It was too obvious, and as Wyl’s body clenched in anticipation, his fears were confirmed as several more shadowy figures melted out of an alley and Wyl found himself manhandled and bundled back into the same unlit area.

They dragged him around the corner, behind the sheds of the inn. There would be no help here, so he allowed his body to go limp rather than fight it—he counted five of them, one of them Rostyr, who obliged Wyl with one of those bright, fake smiles Wyl had hated so much. “What were you doing watching us?”

One of the men had brought a candle. He held it close to Wyl’s face now. Wyl shook his head, faking a look of confusion. “I don’t know what you mean. Get these men off me,” he said, using what he hoped sounded like the haughty tone of an offended merchant.

“Oh, yes you do, friend. You seemed far too interested in us back at the inn.”

“Good fellow,” Wyl spluttered, realizing he should have allowed Faryl’s instincts to rule. She would not have allowed herself to be noticed. “My name is Thorn Bentwood, I am a merchant, and I have never seen you or your companions before. You’re a soldier, anyway. What in Shar’s name could I want with you?”

“My question entirely,” Rostyr said with unnerving calm. “Perhaps we should help his memory along,” he added, and Wyl felt the first blow land and his breath whooshed out of himself, leaving him struggling to fill his lungs.

He coughed. The next blow, delivered with precision, doubled him over. These men, it seemed, were in no hurry. The third blow put him on his knees.

“Pick him up,” Rostyr ordered.

Wyl was hauled back to his feet, where he hung between the two men who held him, sucking in air, his face battered, all of him hurting. He realized his beard had gone askew. His tormentor noticed as well; at first he looked baffled and then he began to laugh.

“It’s a lad,” he said, reaching low beneath Wyl’s jacket. “Let’s hear you squeal the truth now, boy,” he added, gripping between Wyl’s legs.

It would only be much later that Wyl would enjoy the memory of the look of shock on Rostyr’s face. Expecting to squeeze the truth from the impostor, Rostyr found that his large hand gripped nothing.

“What the—” He jumped back. “Pull his breeches down!”

“Are you mad?” someone asked, then laughed. “Do it yourself!”

Rostyr, angry now as well as confused, reached for Wyl’s waistband. “Bring the candle here.”

Wyl closed his eyes. He had not thought he could despise Myrren or her gift any more deeply, but right now he was plumbing new depths of hate. His trousers were torn down to reveal the truth of what he had become.

“It’s a woman,” a dismayed voice said.

Rostyr’s expression coalesced into something new and horrible in the glow of the candlelight.

“This bitch will give us the truth, all right. Hold her down.”

Wyl watched with horror as Rostyr snarled menacingly while he freed himself from his clothes. Some internal defense forced Wyl to close his eyes. He felt the abomination of probing fingers, then something else pushing, and from deep within he began to scream. It was Faryl’s true voice this time, primal and angry. A filthy hand clamped itself over his mouth. He tried to bite it and succeeded for a moment. Wyl filled Faryl’s lungs to scream again, but someone hit him on the head and his world filled with sparks of light and he was plunged into her memories.

Scenes emerged from buried hurts of youthful years. Faryl’s eldest brothers—twins—raped her regularly. Her father too. The younger boys knew of it but were too intimidated by their burly elders to do anything about it except come to her later when the vile couplings were done and help her to the brook nearby to wash herself clean of them. Her youngest brother, just twelve, would cry as he dabbed at her bruises and she would weep for him having to share this atrocity.

He learned that Faryl’s mother also knew of the rapes but was helpless to prevent them, for she had been long cowed and battered by her brutish husband. And so the rapes continued until Faryl killed her father. She used a blade that she stuck into his stretched throat as he took his pleasure. She had relished the sight of his blood gushing over her before she pushed his corpse from between her legs. She walked to the brook, as she had done on so many previous occasions, but this time she was not weeping and she was not scared. Her twin brothers had come then, trembling in fury and fright. She had defiantly raised her catlike eyes toward the handsome, perverted pair.

“Watch your backs, boys,” she had threatened. “One day I’ll be coming for you.”

It was her calmness and the demonic look in her eyes that stilled their tongues and rattled their minds. Neither moved, too shocked at sighting the bloodied corpse in the empty stable.

“I’m leaving now,” she had said, climbing out of the water and, not even bothering to dry herself, pulled on some clothes. “You’re evil, both of you. I hope Shar finds a way to take you soon,” and then she spat on the ground between them.

Picking up her cleaned blade, Faryl of Coombe, just fourteen, had walked away from her life of despair, vowing never to desire a man. She had enjoyed the sensation of killing her father and in her bitterness looked forward to doing the same to other men. The smell of his blood still in her nostrils, the girl on the verge of womanhood framed her future life.

Wyl returned from the blur of Faryl’s memories to an altogether different scene than what he had been expecting. Rostyr’s body was arched but it was not from the anticipated release. Rather, it was because a knife had just penetrated his lung. He spasmed and then coughed, spattering Wyl’s face with dark blood. His body was hauled up by a huge shadow and flung like a rag doll. Wyl looked around. The others were dead, one still dying. The candle had been extinguished. Wyl was certain he was about to be run through with the knife too.

It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought darkly. The figure stepped over him and finished off the person groaning. Someone nearby was breathing short and shallow. Wyl realized it was, in fact, him.

A face appeared close to his own. “Come,” the voice said, and he was lifted as if he weighed nothing.

“Who are you?” Wyl slurred.

“Aremys.”

The dizzying mist returned and this time it enveloped him. Wyl blacked out.

When he woke he was in a bed. He opened his eyes slowly. The man sat in a corner watching. Wyl remembered now. It was the bear from the dining room. He realized he was naked beneath the sheets—a fact he found deeply disturbing. He dimly recalled the man’s name.

“Aremys?” he said, careful to use Faryl’s real voice this time. It was obvious the man knew he was a woman.

“I’m here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like women being attacked.”

Wyl could not have agreed more. “You were one of them, I thought. The Bear.”

The man smirked as though such a title had been leveled at him often. “Not really one of them.”

Wyl remembered how the huge man had seemed distant from the others. He nodded, let it pass. “All dead?”

“Yes.”

“The bodies?”

“Taken care of,” the bear reassured.

“Taken care of?” Wyl could not keep the incredulity from his voice. “Five corpses!”

“Seven actually.”

Wyl took a sharp breath. The man had been with seven companions. He had killed them all.

“Why?”

“That seems to be a favorite question of yours,” Aremys replied, a suggestion of a smile behind his words.

“It’s a good question under the circumstances!” Wyl countered, a suggestion of anger behind his. He moved stiffly to sit up.

“May I have some water?”

Aremys moved smoothly for a big man. He took his time lighting a second lamp before pouring a mug of water, which Wyl gratefully swallowed before falling back on the pillows. Faryl ached everywhere.

“Tell me what happened…please.”

Aremys gave a reluctant nod. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The man’s mouth twitched as if to smile, but he sighed instead. “Let me pour myself a glass of wine.”

“Where are we?”

“My room. The other inn.”

“I see. Whose side are you on?”

It was a loaded question. “Yours, it seems.” He leaned over to pour himself a cup of the wine from a nearby carafe.

“Who undressed me?”

“I averted my eyes,” Aremys said, and then a smile did ghost across his face.

Wyl could not remember a moment in his life when he had felt more embarrassed.

“You took my clothes off!” It came out with a girlish shriek attached, which he hated even more.

“You’ve got lovely tits,” Aremys added, fueling Wyl’s discomfort, making his cheeks burn.

The big man laughed. “Couldn’t help myself.”

It felt somehow good to share a joke, despite the awkwardness. Wyl smiled. “I’m glad you appreciate them.”

The mood became serious again as Aremys attempted to apologize. “I’m sorry I didn’t arrive in time to stop them…well, you know.”

Wyl closed his eyes at the distressing memory of the violation and the revelation of Faryl’s early life. “I know,” he said, softly now, wanting to put it behind him, wondering how women who were attacked in this way ever could. Faryl had never succeeded. She had hated men for the rest of her life. “Is that why you killed them?”

The man sipped from his cup. He looked over its rim at Wyl. “No. But your plight made it easier for me to do it.”