The Colour of Vengeance (21 page)

The animals so far north tended to be of a different kind than in the southern wilds. Apart from the giant land lizards there were huge herds of shaggy-coated beasts with long, curled horns that chewed on the short grass and let out the occasional
bleating
noise. Many of the herds were tended by shepherds; young lads for the most part who watched the criminals and their escort pass through pitiless eyes. There were other animals about to be sure, Betrim spotted a small group of northern elephants at one point; they were half again as tall as the southern kind and with much smaller ears. More than once he saw a shadow pass over head as one of the giant Carrok birds trailed them. The winged nightmares wouldn't attack a group so large as this but a man or two on their own could make easy prey for the flying beasts.

The Boneyard snuck up on Betrim. One moment they were trudging along staring at a land bleached of colours that seemed to stretch on for just short of forever and the next they were descending down into a dry, dusty valley full of bones.

The Boneyard was, Betrim had to admit, an apt name. The valley was full of the things. Some old and half buried, others a lot fresher and just lying discarded on the ground, some even had the tell-tale red stain of blood left on them while most were bleached white by age and the weather. Some rose up out of the ground to end in curved, jagged spikes and others curled back on themselves and clashed with yet more bones to form strange sculptures in the dust.

Skulls of creatures lay everywhere, many Betrim could name but just as many he could not. He spied a pile of bleached skulls that looked as though they could have been human but as they moved closer he saw that they belonged to the giant monkey beasts that inhabited some of the southern forests. How so many of the skulls made it this far up north was a fair mystery but one he doubted he'd ever learn the truth of.

One of their escort, an ageing man with more wrinkles than hair, turned in his saddle to look at the captives. The man ignored Betrim and Henry and spoke to Anders. “Bringing back any memories yet, coward?”

Anders let out a weary sigh, glanced around and then up at the man who had spoken. “You know I do seem to recall bringing your wife here once, Semon. Such a dexterous thing was Selfy.”

Semon's face darkened. “Selfy is my daughter.”

Anders grinned. “Ooops.”

Semon gave the rope attached to Anders' wrists a violent tug and the blooded fool went down amidst the dust and the bones. Betrim hurried forward and hauled Anders back to his feet; a trickle of blood ran from his hairline down past his nose and dripped from his chin to be swallowed by the ground below.

“Is there anyone back in Crucible you didn't piss off?” Betrim asked Anders quietly.

“Umm... No. I don't believe so.”

They continued deeper into the Boneyard, trudging a winding path through the bones. Semon gave Anders' rope the occasional tug but after his second time face down in the dust Anders got wise and learned to cope with it much to Semon's annoyance. At some point the Carrok bird that had been trailing them for the past day disappeared and then a short time later two shadows appeared in the sky. Betrim looked up to see two of the birds circling, watching and waiting. It was a far from comforting sight.

They stopped amidst a small clearing of bones. A giant elephant skull stared at them from the left; the eye sockets two dark voids, and an even bigger skull mimicked it on their right though Betrim couldn't guess what animal it came from. In the centre of the clearing there was no cover or shade from the sun and eight large wooden stakes were set into the ground.

The soldiers from Crucible dismounted and set about readying the area. Before long Henry and Betrim were pushed off towards the centre and fastened with their hands tied firmly behind them and around the stakes. It was not a comfortable position. After the soldier had finished tying Henry's hands he stepped in front of her and gave her a firm backhand to the face. Her head snapped to the side and her hat floated to the ground. The look she turned on the soldier made him take a step backwards. She spat out a mouthful of blood.

Next the soldier approached Betrim. He had a good set of teeth on him did that soldier. Betrim was just imagining knocking them out when the first fist connected with his gut. The thing about being tied to a stake is it makes it hard to double over. Instead Betrim just hung there with no air in his lungs, gaping like a fish.

“That...” he managed after a few more seconds of gaping followed by a quick gasp. “That it? Try again. Harder.”

The soldier obliged. Two more fists thundered into his gut and Betrim spent some more time trying to remind his body how to breathe.

“Go on,” he said to the soldier. “Once more fer luck.”

This time the man punched Betrim square in the face. There was a crack and Betrim tasted wet blood, felt it running down his face. Not to mention the intense pain that always accompanied a broken nose.

“Alright,” he coughed and sputtered. “I'm startin' ta see ya point.”

The soldier snorted out a laugh and walked away leaving Betrim bleeding and thankful that the rope around his wrists was tied tight. Otherwise he might have collapsed and that was not something the Black Thorn should ever be seen doing.

When Betrim looked up he saw that Anders was having an even worse time of it. The soldiers had obviously been instructed not to be gentle. He was down in the dust curled up in a ball and taking a kicking from two men almost twice his size.

Then the woman he had called Lisha swung down from her horse and approached with a small and particularly shiny knife in her hand. When she got close the other two soldiers stopped kicking and backed away a step.

“Anders,” the woman said staring down at the blooded drunk like he was something she'd just stepped in.

“Lish,” Anders managed through bloody lips. “It's always a pleasure, of course. I would bow but I fear the ground is just a little bit too comfortable at the moment. Perhaps you'd like to join me down here.”

The woman waved the knife at him. “I was thinking of cutting off your stones as a trophy.”

Betrim saw Anders smile. Took some real guts to smile at that sort of threat, he reckoned. “I'm sure your husband would love that. Mine were always so much bigger than his own.”

The woman lashed out with her boot and kicked Anders in the face. He rolled onto his back and lay there groaning.

“My husband gave me strict orders. You have to want to live. Right up until the end. I'm not allowed to take anything from you that will make you give up.”

“Quite right,” Anders said. “It would be terribly rude...”

“Hold him still!” the woman ordered and three soldiers moved forwards and secured Anders on the ground. One of them took his right hand and held it out in front of him, splaying his fingers wide.

“Wait,” Anders shouted a note of panic clear in his voice. “WAIT! What are you doing? Lish? Wait!”

The woman ignored him. She rested the knife across Anders' little finger, just above the first knuckle joint, and waited, made sure he could see, made sure he was watching.

“No...”

The knife went down and Anders screamed.

The woman picked up the severed finger and shoved it toward Anders' face. The noise he made sounded something like a longing whine to Betrim. Then the woman threw the finger away.

“That's one for Elise. Four more to go, Anders.”

Betrim grit his teeth, spat out some more blood and spoke before the situation got any worse. “Wouldn't do that if I were you.”

The woman looked up at him. “Or what?”

“Dunno if ya noticed,” Betrim continued. “But I got some experience with losin' fingers myself an' ya might be surprised by how much they bleed. Ya chop many more o' them an' Anders there ain't gonna be conscious ta see whatever end it is ya got planned fer us.”

The woman paused and looked at Semon. Semon just shrugged. “Fine. Just tie the bastard up with the others. I just wish I could be here to see it.”

Anders managed a weak smile as he was hauled to his feet. “Feel free... to take my place... if you're so desperate.”

The woman punched him in the neck and Anders started coughing and gasping, struggling for air. It wasn't long before he was tied to one of the stakes along with Betrim and Henry. A soldier went round behind them, checking the ropes to makes sure they were secure and then Lisha approached one last time. She pulled out a skin and took a mouthful of the liquid inside then spat it in Anders' face.

“Francis wanted you to know this was here as you die. So close, but so far away.” She put the skin down on the ground not more than ten feet away then mounted her horse and they were away. In less than a minute Lisha and her soldiers were nothing more than a dust cloud in the distance leaving Betrim, Henry and Anders to die.

“Water?” Henry asked.

Betrim saw Anders lick at his lips. “Better. Wine.” The fool gave a weak struggle at his bonds then went back to hanging limp.

“Said it 'fore, Anders but ya da's a cunt!” Betrim said.

Anders laughed. “Not at all. He's a bit soft underneath it all really.”

“Umm...”

A haunting laugh floated into the clearing. Betrim knew that laugh and he knew it well. It was cold, inhuman, mocking. It came from a laughing dog.

The sight of blood was one thing, and there was plenty of that lying around in the dust, the taste of blood was something completely different; wet and metallic and thick. Henry fought the urge to gag and spat again.

Another laugh floated into the clearing from somewhere, could have been the same dog, could have been a second, impossible to tell as things were. Certainly made the situation start to feel a bit more urgent, being torn apart by a pack of starving dogs was not how Henry wanted to go out.

“Anyone loose? Able ta get free?” Thorn asked with a grunt as he struggled against his bonds.

Henry wriggled her hands, twisted them, pulled against the ropes then shook her head. Anders gave it a quick try, screamed in pain and then dropped to his knees. Henry couldn't say she'd ever lost a finger, or a toe, or any part of her body but it was fair to say it probably hurt... a lot.

“Times like this I miss Swift,” Thorn said from Henry's left. It was possibly the last thing she wanted to hear. Made her blood boil, her leg ache and it made the rage inside of her want to stab something.

Henry leaned as far forwards as she could, her shoulders ached at the pain of pulling in their sockets. Then she placed her left foot against the wooden stake, then her right foot just above it. Gritting her teeth against the pain Henry took her left foot away and placed it above her right and then leaned backwards, hopped up a foot and leaned forwards again. Her shoulders screamed in agony and threatened to pop out of their sockets but they held fast and she started the process again.

“Fuck me,” she heard Thorn say through the haze of pain.

Henry glanced at the Black Thorn to find him staring at her with his mouth well and truly open but she couldn't spare the concentration to care. Hot sweat ran freely down her face, mingling with the drying blood and dripping down to the ground.

She started the process again. Left foot. Right foot. Lean back. Hop up. Lean forwards. Looking down it seemed as though she was barely off the ground. Left foot. Right foot. Lean back. Hop up. Lean forwards.

“How much further?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Just a few more feet, my love.” There was a note of hope in Anders' voice. It sounded good after three days of nothing but whining and despair.

Left foot. Right foot. Lean back. Hop up. Lean forwards. Henry heard something crack and a moment later the pain became unbearable. Great, panting breathes rushed out of her mouth and she tasted tears along with the blood. Her left shoulder was a burning mess of agony that flooded her entire body with pain. It took every bit of determination she had not to collapse and fall back to the ground below.

“Come on, Henry. Jus' a bit more!” Thorn said from somewhere below.

Henry just shook her head. The pain was too much. She was too tired. She screwed her eyes shut and considered passing out.

“Swift could do it.”

Funny thing about anger, it was one of the best anaesthetics there was. Henry felt her heat rise, her tears dry, her pain drown and her tiredness flee before the wave of rage that swept over her.

She opened her eyes and readied herself for another hop. She'd bloody well prove to them all she was better than that bastard Swift.

Left foot. Right foot. At the edge of the clearing a four-legged grey shape emerged from an eye socket of an elephant skull. The laughing dog was maybe two feet tall and sleek with hungry eyes and a wicked-looking grin. It laughed at them.

Lean back. Hop up. Lean forwards. This time there was no tension, there was no wooden stake. Henry pitched forwards into eight feet of air and the dusty ground rushed up to greet her. She twisted in mid-air and landed back first. Her left shoulder screamed again; pain mixed with pleasure as the landing popped the joint back into position. New tears sprang forth from her eyes but Henry didn't have time to force them to stop. She pulled her knees up and wriggled her bound hands below her arse and her feet until they were in front of her.

Lurching back to her feet Henry stumbled towards her hat and picked it from the dust.

“Not the time for that, Henry!” Thorn growled, staring ahead at something that no doubt had a nasty set of sharp teeth and the will to use them.

Henry ignored the Blackthorn and pulled free the hidden dirk she kept secreted away in the hat. She reversed the grip and began to quickly work at the rope around her wrists. The laughing dog charged.

The beast ignored Henry and Thorn and raced towards Anders. Henry felt something in her chest go tight. The knife sliced through the last cord of rope and her hands came free. She started into a sprint, rushing to intercept the animal.

The laughing dog leapt at Anders and Henry leapt at the laughing dog. They collided in the air its teeth snapped shut just inches from her man's face.