Lyrec (34 page)

“You’d better be wrong about that for everyone’s sake,” Lyrec replied as he dismounted. After tying the reins of his horse to a post, he pulled off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Here was the place where he had fought the soldiers, where he had first killed a man. The notion barely meant anything to him now—so much had occurred since then.

He opened the door and looked inside.

The interior was dark, the hearth containing ashes only although the early morning air was cold enough to make a man’s eyes water. Cups and bowls littered the tables, as if a breakfast feast had been interrupted and never gone back to. “Grohd?” Lyrec called out. Planking creaked beneath his feet. “Grohd, where are you?” He saw the blanket hanging closed behind the bar. He started toward it.

The blanket flipped up suddenly. Grohd peered out from the dark doorway. His face was haggard, his eyes red and puffy as if he hadn’t slept for many nights. “You!” he said. “Well. I wondered when I would see you again, if ever.” He went back into the dark, then returned, tying a length of rope around his trousers. His naked belly stuck out, rigid with muscle. “I’ve had nothing but nightmares ever since you left— and it’s all because of that
thing
there.” He pointed a stubby finger across the tavern.

“The
crex
,” said Lyrec.

“Is that what you call the monstrosity,” replied Grohd. It lay where he had left it, on the floor near the far wall.
 

“You tried to use it?” asked Lyrec, confounded by the implication.

“I
did
use it.” Coming forward, Grohd stopped and pointed with one big toe at a black scorch on the floor. “You see this? This smudge is all that remains of Fulpig. Bastard soldier wasn’t worth more than a smudge, but—”

“Oh my,” muttered Lyrec.

“And that’s hardly the half—that’s the half I can live with. His partner, the weaselly one, is running around here somewhere without a body because that damnable thing changed him into a big black ghost, and he’s been haunting me day and night. I’m afraid to sleep for fear he’ll pass through me in the dark and suck me right up.”

“Oh, he can’t do that, Grohd. He can’t harm you. He’s not truly here anymore. That is—I’m not sure I can explain this.”

“You needn’t bother,” said Grohd. “I want no more magic in my life, thank you very much.”
 

Lyrec shrugged. He picked up the
crex.
“So many times,” he said, “I thought I would never join with it again.”

“There’s also the matter of a bill for food and drinks for your friends. They used up your purse two days ago. Did they steal it?”

Lyrec shot him a glance that answered his question. “I had expected to be here sooner when I gave it to them. I’ll pay—you know that.”

Grohd’s tone became less severe. “Oh, yes, I knew that, but I tend to worry these matters a bit.” The tavern keeper paused then, finally acknowledging what he had been seeing for some minutes now. “Isn’t that a Secamelan soldier’s uniform?”

Before Lyrec could answer, a new voice spoke from behind him: “It is, yes—he likes uniforms. I think he collects them.”

Lyrec looked around. “Malchavik,” he said with delight. “You’ve recovered.”

The Kobach bowed slightly. To Lyrec he said, “I have been expecting you, though I cannot precisely say why. Perhaps it’s that weapon. Grohd told us what it does—graphic the first time, and more gruesome in detail with each recital. We’ve all seen the black ghost, so we know he speaks some truth. None of us can contact the shade, either.” He came in. A dozen or so people followed after him. Lyrec saw Nydien and smiled to her. She blushed and could not meet his gaze. The people seated themselves at the tables. Malchavik said, “You have turned true mercenary, then?”

Lyrec had to laugh. “No, not exactly, though I do work for all sides, I suppose. The time is close now for my battle. I must say your country hasn’t allowed me much time to prepare.”

“You still pursue the one I saw, the one who brought the krykwyres.”

“Him, yes. It was one of his creatures—the one following you as a matter of fact—that kept me from meeting you here originally.”

Borregad, tired now of being ignored, jumped up onto the table in front of Malchavik. “Delightful to see you again,” he said. He had forgotten that all present were not Kobach.
 

Grohd cried out in alarm and clasped his hands to his mouth. Then he lowered them, eyeing the cat askance. “Do that again,” he said.

“Do what?” asked Borregad, taking pleasure from the shock he caused. “Jump up on something?”

“He can talk, the cat talks.” His doubt re-aimed at Lyrec. “What manner of creatures are you?”

“Outsiders. But you’d do better to think of me as a soldier. It hurts less than trying to understand the real story.” He touched the
crex
and Grohd turned his eyes skyward.

“Where is the rest of your army?” Malchavik broke in.

“By now I should think they’ve nearly reached the place the Ladomantines call the
buttertub.
”

*****

Ladomirus lounged on a bed of down. With one hand he plucked small fruits from a stone bowl beside the bed, while the fingers of his other hand crawled between the buttocks of his concubine. The flaxen-haired girl lay on her face and, though awake, pretended not to notice her master’s explorations. It was all she could do not to draw away in revulsion.

A pounding at the door rescued her from further caresses. The fat king pulled his robe across his wide torso and propped himself up. “Yes,” he snarled out.

The door opened and Talenyecis strode in. She glanced at the concubine, who had rolled over to one side in order to see her as well. Advances had been made and not rebuffed. “Have you heard the news?” asked Talenyecis, and she might have been asking the girl.

Blind to this, Ladomirus asked, “And what news would that be?”

“The commander of Secamelan’s army has been murdered.”

“Wonderful!” He clapped his hands.

Talenyecis now devoted her attention to him, and briefly allowed him his delight, the more to enjoy the height from which he would plummet when she told him the rest. “It might be wonderful,” she added at last, “except that they believe you were responsible.”

The king’s glee slid like oil from his lips. “Who told you this? How did you hear of this?”

“A scout of ours at the outer perimeter was given that message along with a warning for us to pick our champions in battle.”

“He was given the message?” When she made no reply, he shook his massive fist. “Who
gave
him the message, damn you?”

Now she was satisfied with his fury. “The
new
commander of the army of Secamelan, which, coincidentally, happens to be less than twenty steys away. They should be entrenched on the hill by dusk with enough men to blockade our farm routes and starve us to death if nothing else.”

“Send for supplies. Despatch riders to the south immediately.”

“I have done, already,” she replied. “But they’ll not be back before the way is cut off.”

“What am I to do?” He stood, dropping his robe, unaware of his nakedness. “I haven’t prepared. This isn’t how he said it would go—it’s we who are supposed to ride into Secamelan and rout them. I must go. Go seek him out, no matter the consequences. He has to explain this.” He started to move, but Talenyecis kicked shut the door and drew her sword.
 

“No,” she said, with utter coldness in her voice. “You are insane—you believe a god holds council with the likes of you.
 
I have watched this for months. I’d hoped that perhaps some divine inspiration might actually make your stratagem bear fruit. But you’re simply nothing but a bloated mad fool.” The tip of her sword flicked up at his eyes. ‘We’re coming to war now and no quivering madman can lead us. You’re used up, I’m afraid, Ladomirus.”

The fat king’s eyes showed fear, but he scowled, “You want the kingdom, traitoress.”

She laughed in his face. “Would any sane woman work to rule this pestilent swamp? Ridiculous. Only a
man
could see this as a prize worthy of conniving.” She took a step toward him, forcing him back to the wall. “I care nothing for your kingdom. I want to survive.”

“And you suppose I want to die? Let me pass, that I can find out from Chagri how to carry the day.”

“You’re insane,” she repeated her verdict.

Ladomirus moved then with more speed than Talenyecis anticipated; he batted her sword away in the instant before she struck. She tried to draw it back for a riposte, leaping away for more room to move; but her elbow struck the door, hampering her. The fat king slammed the top of his skull into her jaw and smashed her between himself and the door. Dazed, she pounded at his head with the pommel of her sword. Ladomirus grunted, grabbed her arm and bent it back, then reached up and closed his hand over hers. Close enough to see the freckles on her nose, he snarled, “Did you think I was totally unaware of your greed for my kingdom, heh? And, knowing, do you think I’d be unprepared?” He produced a large dagger, seemingly out of thin air. “I’ve expected your treachery for weeks. Months.” He nicked her throat with the tip of the blade.

She strained to pull her neck away, struggling fiercely. He pushed harder, mashing her against the door. It was all she could do to breathe. He chuckled.

Something whipped through the air and shattered over the back of his head. Ladomirus’s forehead bounced off the door beside Talenyecis and he slid down, hands pawing her for support. A dozen cuts spouted blood on the back of his bald head. He rolled over onto his side, crushing a piece of fruit that squirted its juice halfway across the floor. The dagger spun in place beside him.

The concubine sat on her knees at the foot of the bed and watched her oppressor lying among the shards of bowl and pieces of fruit.

Half-conscious still, Ladomirus saw her there, as if in a dream. He watched her get up and plant her bare foot beside his face. Her toe rings glittered. A mist drifted between him and the world. The concubine’s face hovered high above him. Her mouth moved and made noises, but they made no sense to him, like the buzzing of an insect. He closed his eyes for what seemed no more than a minute.

When he opened them again, the gelatinous hem of a painfully bright robe hung where her foot had been. He studied its odd, leathery contours, his brain awash with fuddled ideas, none of which made much sense.

“Sit up,” a voice hissed. He recognized it and came awake as if cold water had been splashed over him.

“God,” he muttered.

The figure above him was not Chagri. It had no face. His attention was drawn to its one visible feature—its hand. Strange rough flesh, black as if it had burned. The hand sparkled as if flakes of gold were embedded in it.

The robed figure made a clucking sound. “No one seems to be able to do anything these days. However, in your case that is fortunate—for me. Had you killed Talenyecis, my battle plans might have been severely curtailed. I suppose I could exact promises from you that you wouldn’t repeat your attempt to murder her, but I know you too well. As I have said oh so many times before. I think I shall make a symbol of you that will remind your soldiers of the alternative to fighting against Secamelan. Nobody likes you, anyway.” The hand reached down as if to help him up. The cowl came close enough that he thought he saw within it two faint points of light, like two stars seen through a black cloud of noxious vapors. The hand closed on his wrist.

A moment later the halls of the entire castle echoed with a protracted keening wail. It raised the hair up the backs of a hundred necks and charged a hundred minds with distorted visions of the marrow of human torment.

Chapter 24.

“Wait!” shouted Pavra. She tugged sharply on the reins of her mount and the two men with her thundered past.

They looked back at her, then with annoyance at one another. Ronnæm believed he might have abandoned his grandson to some terrible evil, although he could not have remained or defended Tynec from that force. Similarly, Bozadon Reket felt that he had run away from a confrontation which he should have been able to win. Instead he had allowed himself to be swayed by one little girl and her wild proclamations.

Reading passages in Cheybal’s diary and having heard what Faubus said had convinced him of the unnatural circumstances pressing from all sides, but there were still moments when it was easier to believe that everyone else was just crazy. Nor was old Ronnæm someone he cared to be stuck with for days on end under the best of conditions.

The two men rode back to Pavra. She waited at the crossroads to which they had paid little attention—it led north to Dolgellum and they wanted to go east after the army. At least, that was where they thought they were going.

“What is the problem?” Ronnæm asked, barely civil.

Pavra had shut her eyes as if listening to something. “He has separated from the army—the one called Lyrec took
this
road. Earlier.”

“Now, what can that mean?” Reket muttered. “Faubus would never have allowed him to go free. Not by himself.”

“Faubus is a child with his hands in a fire,” responded Ronnæm. “He has no control over his situation at all. He should never had been made commander over more seasoned veterans, any of a dozen I could name. Child, you’d better be right about everything or we two will be laughingstocks and Faubus will be swinging by his chin.”

Undaunted, Pavra reiterated, “It’s this way, it is,” and nudged her horse onto the north road.

Ronnæm could not make up his mind. He wanted to be with the army, in the thick of battle; on this point Reket could empathize. “Let’s follow her,” he advised. “If she’s wrong, at least we will be on the right road for Novalok.”

The two men set off in pursuit of the child.

*****

Lyrec said, “We have to go immediately.”

“We would come with you,” answered Malchavik, and he stood. He looked over his people and all of them agreed. Grohd made a sour, dissentient face and cast his glance elsewhere. He had minded neither the company nor the money delivered by the Kobachs, but magic was evil—he had decided.