Lady Of Regret (Book 2) (17 page)

Rathe’s teeth clicked together on a retort. He had seen the woman, she had been at his elbow. Yet the unnatural way she had moved from the forest to his side, without sound or motion, made him doubt. And since he was in a doubting mood, of a sudden, could it be the shadow-man had been no more real than the rest?

“You need a mug of ale and a bed,” Loro said lightly, easing off a bit. “All this adventuring is hard work. Fearsome warrior that I am, even I’ve need of a hearty meal and a buxom wench to dandle on my knee. And ale, of course. A barrel of it, mind, to cut the dust and the haunts of the road.”

Not sure what to believe, Rathe said, “Perhaps you’re right.”

Horge had listened to it all, never making a peep. At mention of an inn, he perked up. “The Gelded Dragon, where my, ah,
friend
waits, can provide your needs. Women, wine, song, the best of all can be had at the Dragon.”

“Surely you mean the
Gilded
Dragon,” Loro said.

“Not at all. Master Gilip’s great-great-great-grandfather on his mama’s side lured a dragon into an old mineshaft up north, and gelded the beast with naught but a rusty cleaver …… or mayhap it was a belt knife?” Horge shrugged, as if details were of no matter.

Loro snorted. “A fine trick, that, as dragons are tales for children.”

Horge tilted his chin defiantly. “Master Gilip has the dragon’s crimson skull hanging above the hearth. He’ll tell you about it.”

“Oh, I’m sure if I put enough coin on his bar and guzzle enough ale, he’ll fill my head with all manner of foolery.”

Horge took Samba’s lead rope in hand. “Follow me,
outlander
, and I’ll prove you wrong.”

“Lead on,” Loro said, after a final concerned look at Rathe.

Rathe glanced once more back the way they had run. The woman’s shout still rang in his head, but his companions had not heard her cry any more than they had seen her. He thought again of the fire mage’s power, how it had nearly burned him to ash from the inside out. Sorcery was not unknown in the lands south of the Gyntors, but he was too unfamiliar with such to know what lingering effects spells and the like might have on a man.

Troubled, Rathe caught up with Loro, and they trailed Horge into Wyvernmoor, a village with more towering evergreens than high-peaked thatch roofs. Candlelight shone through the cracks of shuttered windows, and upon a few stoops bearded, hard-eyed men reclined in crude chairs. Puffing long-stemmed pipes, or whittling, or drinking, to the last they all watched the trio pass with an air of mistrust. Propped near to hand, most of these men kept bows or axes.

“A pleasant lot,” Rathe said, nodding to one smoking fellow, but not receiving any friendliness in kind.

“You wear the robes of monks,” Horge said quietly. “As much as they protect you, they mark you out for scorn.”

“Then we should be rid of them,” Loro advised, “sooner rather than later.”

“Hard looks are better than knives in the back,” Horge said. “You outlanders need all the protection you can get, hereabouts. Besides, these folk are just cautious of strangers, most who end up being men running from troubles the folk of Wyvernmoor want no part of.”

Instead of coming to finer homes the farther into Wyvernmoor they went, the village became more ramshackle. Rathe saw a handful of houses that had burned in some forgotten year, leaving behind charred timbers leaning all aslant, and chimneys that poked up like black fingers. Wagons listed on broken wheels at every turn, rotting middens stood the height of a man down dark alleys and side yards. Flea-bitten dogs sniffed or growled at them, scrawny cats watched from abundant shadows. Despite the uninviting air of Wyvernmoor, the sounds of distant merriment drifted on the cool night air. Horge assured them again that the Gelded Dragon would be warm and welcome. Rathe kept his doubts to himself.

They rounded a bend and, far ahead, saw a lively celebration on the village green. Under poles strung with colorful ribbons and hung with bright lanterns, men and women danced. Keeping time with the music of rattles and drums, lutes and pipes, those gathered at the edges of the green clapped and sang and cheered.

“A wedding,” Horge said excitedly. “There’ll be dancing and singing, all through the night.”

A gleam came into Loro’s eyes. “Aye, and show me the wench who does not become more loving at a wedding.”

Before Loro could forget their purpose, Rathe said, “We’re not here for celebration. There is a debt that needs paying. The sooner done, the sooner we can be out from under Jathen’s boot.”

“
Your
honor,” Loro drawled, “
your
debt.”

“To which you obligated me,” Rathe answered, losing patience.

“Had I known you meant to hold it over my head,” Loro mused, “I would have spared myself the trouble of saving your life.”

Rathe pushed down his irritation. “After we speak with Horge’s companion, you can celebrate as you will. However,” he cautioned, “we set out at dawn.”

“Won’t be the first time I’ve marched with a head full of wine,” Loro laughed.

Between the three companions and the gaiety, a foursome of burly men detached themselves from the darkness along the street.

“What makes you think you’ll be joining
our
merriment?” a man asked, his hulking figure matching his deep voice. He stepped into the thin light, spun a woodcutter’s long-handled axe in his hands, planted the broad head between his feet. Even in shadow, the scars running through his short dark hair, down over a puckered socket, and ending at his jaw, were hard to miss. As he had spoken first, Rathe marked him the leader.

“We aren’t looking for trouble,” Rathe said, hand falling lightly to his sword hilt. They had moved beyond sight of any occupied houses. He guessed these men had planned the place of their ambush. “Unless you are, then let us pass.”

“Look, Wull! Methinks this wee brown monk fancies himself a swordsman.” This man was tall and slender, but Rathe noted a wiry strength in the easy way he hefted the iron maul in his hand.

“Shut your gob, Ander,” Wull said, the scar-faced man. He did not raise his voice, but Ander flinched like he’d been given a smart whack. “Mardin, you and Fedik get their backs.”

With a casual air, Rathe watched the two men circle round them. One was middling height, with a thatch of stringy red hair and squinty eyes—Mardin, if the way he had jumped at Wull’s order was any indication. He walked unsteadily, as if deep in his cups.

Fedik, the last, was bald as an egg and had a disturbingly empty face. He stood a head shorter than Horge, but was wide as a bull, and not an inch of his girth looked like fat. Of the four, Rathe counted him as the most dangerous. Not just for the breadth of his shoulders, but for his striking lack of emotion. His was the face of a man who would dash a newborn’s head against a rock at a single word from his leader. Rathe decided Mardin would be the first of the four to fall.

“I advise you to move aside,” Rathe said now, knowing full well Wull had no intention of agreeing to his demand. Still, the game must be played. “Do not, and I’ll be forced to defend myself. Should it come to that, your days of celebration will be over.”

Wull came a stride closer, again thumped the head of his axe down between his feet. “And I advise you to give over Horge, afore you run on back to Skalos. ‘Course, you’ll have to get by Mardin and Fedik, first. Might escape Fedik, drunk as he is. Mardin though … well, he swore off drinking a goodly stretch back. He don’t hold to sobriety so much, but he does keep oaths to his dear dead mama, even when they make him touchy. Ain’t that right, Mardin?”

Mardin stared at Rathe, pulled two curved daggers from his belt. He held them with a keen familiarity.

“You’ll have to forgive my friend’s silence,” Wull said. “On account of losing his tongue to one of your brothers when he was still tugging his mama’s apron strings, he’s not been one for talking since.” Wull laughed softly, and Rathe guessed the hard-toned and well-used jest was meant to arouse fear in followers of the Way of Knowing.

He debated telling Wull they were not who they seemed, but knew it was a waste of breath. He had dealt with such men before. Wull and his ilk held fast to hate, no matter the face they gave it, and there was no amount of water in the world could put out that fire. Blood was all such men knew. And death, of course.

Mardin stepped closer, eyes lifeless as a rotting snake’s, daggers glinting coldly with the distant light of the wedding festivities. Fedik tugged a bung-starter from his belt, twisted his fingers round the heavy mallet’s wooden handle.

Rathe said, “I would not hand you Horge, my guide and companion, any sooner than I would lay my sword at your feet. But, I am curious as to why you wish him harm?”

Wull gestured to his fellows, freezing them in place. “You monks, with your questions and edicts, sicken me. But, if you want answers, then you’ll have them. Horge is a—”

Wull cut off with a start, looked about. “Fedik, Adner, did you see where that slinky little cock got off to?”

While the toughs peeped into nearest shadows, Loro glanced from Samba to Rathe, and whispered, “I looked away, for but a moment. When I looked back, the craven wretch was gone.”

Dismissing Horge’s talent for vanishing whenever trouble arrived, Rathe flicked his gaze to Fedik, who had bent over to peer under a wagon. A light of understanding lit Loro’s eyes when Rathe drew his sword and spun to face Mardin.

The barrel-shaped man was quick, stunningly so, but Rathe’s backhand stroke fell like lightning. His blade sang as it smashed away one of Mardin’s daggers. Still turning, Rathe drove his fist against the man’s stony chin. Mardin retreated a single step, shook his massive bald head, and charged. Rathe rolled under grasping fingers, came up in a crouch. Mardin had already turned about, and now crashed against him. Blades locked together, they fell to the dirt, each vying for an opening.

Without warning, Madrin snapped his head down. Rathe twisted, taking the brunt of the blow on a shoulder. Madrin tired again. Rathe twisted the other way. This time, the brute’s forehead slammed against Rathe’s ear. The glancing strike dazed him. Another would render him unconscious.

Trying to heave the man off his chest was akin to shoving against the weight of a mountain. Struggling for breath, the side of his skull throbbing where Madrin had butted it, Rathe did the only thing left to him. He rammed his knee into the man’s groin. Madrin reared up with a roaring gasp. Rathe caught the wrist of the man’s dagger hand, and toppled Madrin off his chest.

Uttering a high wheeze, Madrin rolled into Fedik’s heels. Loro crushed the pommel of his sword against the red-haired man’s temple at the same instant, and he fell bonelessly atop Madrin. Growling like an enraged bear, dark robes flapping around his bulk, Loro raised his broadsword and set upon them both.

Rathe came up as Ander rushed in, swinging his heavy iron-headed maul overhead as effortlessly as small hammer. With a snarl, Rathe swept his sword up, and the blade hacked through flesh and bone. Ander fell one way, his mouth gaping in a soundless scream. His arm and the maul fell the other way. Rathe paid neither any more mind, and went for Wull.

As Rathe closed, the man’s surprise at the unexpected reversal shattered. He blocked Rathe’s attack with the handle of his axe, and chips of seasoned ash flew. Rathe’s blade whirled, and he struck with a blurring backhand. More chips flew, but Wull held his ground.

“Keep at it monk,” Wull taunted, “and you’ll dull that pretty sword.”

Rathe did not waste a breathe to speak. He heard sounds of struggle at his back—Loro, by the voice, but could not chance a look. He circled warily. Wull matched him step for step.

“If I’d known you wanted a dance,” Wull chuckled, the scarred side of his face moving from shadow to light, “I would’ve let you pass.”

With a blinding flurry of strikes and counterstrikes, Rathe pressed in hard. Until the very end, Wull held his own, grinning and taunting. Rathe unexpectedly spun, arm and sword extended. The last inch of his blade scored a fine cut across the base of Wull’s neck. The man’s laughter became a bubbling hiss, his axe fell from his fingers. With shocked eyes, he staggered and fell to his backside. He pressed his palms against his throat, and a torrent of blood, black in the night, poured between his fingers. Wull tried to speak, but more blood washed over his lips in place of words. His hands fell slowly to his lap. He died slumped forward and sprawl-legged.

“You need to talk to someone about breaking your curse,” Loro panted, coming up behind. His sword ran red, but he seemed unhurt. Two unmoving men littered the ground behind him. Chewing his cud, shaggy coat ruffling in the breeze, Samba looked at the battle’s survivors as if nothing untoward had occurred.

“What curse?” Rathe asked. He knew full well what Loro was going on about, but he also knew he had never mentioned it to anyone. He glanced at the village green. The revelers had formed into a large circle made up of whirling dancers.

Loro straightened from cleaning his blade on Wull’s woolen trousers. “The one you speak of in your sleep. Khenasith, the Black Breath.”

“The way you snore, how do you hear anything?”

“Make your jests,” Loro said in a serious voice, “but there must be some truth to it.”