The Malmillard Codex (2 page)

Better running, a surface free of trips and
traps for hurrying feet. But would it be easier for the hounds to
catch his scent? Or would his smell mingle with that of others who
used what looked to be a heavily traveled road?

Valerik wondered as he squatted on shaking
legs and strained to catch his breath, his mind jittering like a
mad thing. Did he dare use this route to try to throw the hounds
off his track? Would his fear-laced scent mingle with the others
that had passed this way?

A jingle of harness.

Valerik's heart froze within his chest, the
air stopped in his throat.

No. The fearful, familiar sound did not come
from behind him. Not hunters, then, not yet, not yet.

The sound, suddenly not so fearful, came
from the thick trees at the sharp eastern bend of the road. It was
the sound of a single horse, cantering down the road in his
direction, soon to be in full view.

In an instant, Valerik was sprawled flat on
his belly in the rank weeds that choked the roadside ditch, his
burly body half-submerged in viscid slimy mud. His heart unfroze
and began to race, galloping like a terrified horse. He tried to
quiet it, sure the pounding would give him away as the sounds grew
nearer. He drew in enormous silent breaths, mouth agape.

Without conscious thought, his hand
tightened over a convenient sliver of rock.

After an eternity that consisted of perhaps
a dozen rapid heartbeats, he saw the horse round the bend. Valerik
peered at it through the screen of tender weeds. A great ebony
stallion, it was traveling with high-stepping, well-fed,
early-in-the-journey cheerfulness. An ebony stallion, but with a
pale mane and tail tinged with gold—Valerik had never seen such
coloring on a horse before—it carried a rider muffled in a dark
cloak, with hood pulled up against the cool of the shadowy,
tree-draped road.

Valerik held his breath, aching body death
still, as the horse pranced ever nearer to his hiding place.

The great animal's pace slowed, from a
canter to a trot, then a walk. Almost, Valerik thought, as if the
beast had heard something that had startled…no, not startled, but
interested it.

Valerik stared at the huge creature through
the thick weeds, willing it to come nearer, to stop in a convenient
place, to not see him until it was too late. His eyes squinted with
the intensity of his desire.

Closer, closer…almost there…

The stallion stopped short of the ditch by
several body lengths, too far for Valerik to reach it in one quick
leap. He could feel the disappointment tear through his aching
limbs, like barbed whips on naked skin.

The faint bay of hounds echoed in the
distance.

A snort of interested interrogation blew
from the stallion's nose. It shook its huge head in an almost human
motion.

"A hunting pack," came a low husky voice
from within the hood, as if soothing—or answering—the horse. "Not
too far away, either, from the sound of them."

Valerik jerked to his feet, the sliver of
rock gripped like a dagger in one hand. He flung himself towards
the horse and rider, plunged his free hand into the folds of the
black cloak and gave a mighty heave, toppling the rider to the
rutted road. Then he scrambled into the saddle, mastered the great
horse in an instant, and rode away from certain death at a
gallop.

That, at least, was his hastily devised
plan.

As is the case in many such plans, its
execution fell somewhat short of Valerik's expectations.

The black stallion danced backwards at the
sudden appearance of a naked rock-wielding man; it snorted its
surprise as it shook its great head at him.

Valerik slammed a foot against a stone
half-hidden in a deep, mud-filled rut. He fell to his knees in the
puddle, splashing rank water into his eyes, effectively blinding
himself with the stinging, filthy spray.

Valerik spat out a long string of curses in
a low desperate voice, as his battered foot throbbed in agony.

"Impressive."

Valerik heard that same husky voice, a quiet
conversational tone with the faintest hint of humor in it this
time. The pain in his foot—and his curses—had taken away his breath
and prevented a reply…although he was sure that he could, at a less
stressful time, think of a number of suitable ones.

"Good thing you're not the prey of those
hounds Daemon and I just heard," continued the voice with somewhat
less evident humor, as the noise of baying grew noticeably louder.
"You'd hardly stand a chance, what with that vast fund of grace and
speed that you've just exhibited for us."

Dashing the filth water from his face and
eyes, Valerik glared up at the horse and rider. From his vantage
point at their feet, they seemed to go up and up forever…towering
over him and making even his large bulk feel insignificant. The sun
behind them cut into his bleared eyes as he struggled to his feet,
managing a bit more cursing under his breath and feeling like a
clumsy fool.

A terrified, clumsy fool.

"I need your horse," Valerik growled as he
reached out and tried to seize the reins a second time. He
brandished his jagged stone at the rider. "Give him to me and
you'll come to no harm."

"You're a slow learner," was the only reply,
coupled with a short laugh.

The square toe of a shiny black leather boot
kicked upward once—and the stone in Valerik's hand went flying over
his head, to land in a distant puddle with a despairing splash. The
great black horse reared up, pawing the air so close to Valerik's
head that he could feel the wind from those sharp hooves slashing
past his face. The steed danced backwards on two legs, out of the
desperate man's reach, then crashed to the ground with a jolt that
made Valerik's teeth rattle.

"I'm very much afraid that I can't let you
have Daemon," called the rider with another laugh. "He'd never
allow it, you see."

A commotion of dogs sounded in the woods,
from along the path that Valerik had been following. He could make
out individual animals now, as their yelps became clearer and
closer.
Damn
, he thought briefly as he turned, his heart in
his throat, and peered back through the trees as he tried to
calculate their distance from the sounds they made behind him.

Close.

Too close?

Had he time to run into the woods on the
other side of the road?

Valerik turned back in time to see a brown
hand fling the cloak back and pull down the hood. Tawny hair
spilled over black-clad shoulders, gray eyes with a sardonic gleam
gazed down at Valerik from a sun-darkened face.

Reckless, Valerik stared up into the face of
the woman on the horse, daring a blow in punishment for his
effrontery from the whip that hung from the saddle. A pleading
expression spread over his face, though he knew it to be worse than
useless.

He couldn't help it. Valerik didn't want to
die.

But why should this woman—without a doubt of
noble blood, richly dressed, on a valuable horse and with a blade
at her side—why should she risk her own life to help a slave being
hunted to his death?

"However," continued the woman as she looked
up the bank that Valerik had so lately slid down, "sometimes…just
sometimes, mind you…Daemon will allow a passenger. Come."

The woman kicked one boot free of a stirrup
and stretched down a long-fingered hand. Valerik looked once in her
eyes, once again over his shoulder. Was this another trick? Would
she kick him in the face if he reached for her outstretched
hand?

The hounds sounded almost at his back.

Valerik thrust his naked foot into the empty
stirrup and swarmed with clumsy haste up behind the woman.

The woman shrugged out of her cloak, whirled
it about Valerik's shoulders with one hand and spoke four words—two
for him and two for the stallion.

"Hold on. Run, Daemon."

The baying of hounds died away in the
distance as the great horse, disdaining the weight of its double
burden, galloped easily down the rutted road.

***

Valerik didn't like to hold too closely to
the woman who had rescued him, but he had little choice in the
matter. The huge stallion flew over the rough road, its mighty legs
churning as it slowed for nothing, charging through deep puddles to
fling muddy water onto its riders, dancing around tumbled stones.
Once it threw all three of them into the air to clear a fallen
tree. Valerik clung through handfuls of cloak to her sturdy
shoulders; even in their present situation, he found time to relish
the interplay of muscles as she directed the great horse.

"Not much further!" shouted the woman as
they hit the ground with a rattling jar.

Valerik inched infinitesimally closer, the
saddle hard and rough against his crotch, his bare legs pulled back
to miss being mauled by bright metal stirrups.

Behind them once, through a break in the
trees, echoed the long doleful wail of disappointed hounds. Valerik
grinned to himself, barely able to keep from hugging the woman.

He had done it—with a stranger's help, aye,
but he had done it. He had escaped the ravening hounds, the
heartless riders. Whatever happened now, wherever he ended up, no
one could take that immense pleasure away from him.

He had escaped the hunt.

The sun was a
globe of molten iron sinking in the west behind them when the
heavily laden black horse rode into the inn's enclosed
courtyard.

Valerik slid from the horse's broad back as
the gate closed behind them with a crash; he watched as two
servants maneuvered a heavy beam across the structure, doubtless as
a latch. He clutched close the cloak that was his only covering
save for the rag wrapped tight around his loins. It would not do to
let anyone see how near naked he was; it would proclaim his
position as clearly as if he had shouted it to the thatched rooftop
of the inn that loomed before them.

***

Earlier that day, Valerik had tried to make
use of some of his rescuer's spare clothing, but though almost long
enough in arm and leg, the shirt and breeches were far from being
big enough for his husky chest or heavy thighs. Madryn was nearly
as tall as he, but as lean as whipcord.

Madryn. She had introduced herself when they
had stopped after a hard fast ride that had lasted until past
midday. Madryn—no matronym or title, just that one word.

It was ridiculous, of course. Valerik had
known that when first she said her name.

A single name would make her a commoner, or,
more unbelievable yet, a slave like Valerik. This woman could not
be a slave any more than she could be a commoner, not with her rich
clothing and priceless steed, and especially not with the sword she
wore at her lean waist, the dagger whose silvery hilt showed in the
top of one fine leather boot. A slave in possession of a blade of
any kind would be put to death at once, or set loose for the hounds
to track. Gladiators in the arena, fighting to the death, were
armed for their contests. But blades were taken from them as soon
as they stepped from the dusty, blood-drenched arena and went to
their cells.

No one knew these things better than
Valerik

So Madryn had said her single name and
though he knew she must be lying, Valerik had had no interest in
asking further questions. He had torn with ravenous hunger into the
bread and dried meat she had pulled from a well-stocked saddlebag
and held out to him with a mocking bow.

Madryn had asked nothing of him but his name
as she watched him eat, and then downed her own smaller portion of
food with a contemplative air. But Valerik had watched her eyes
dance over him, never settling for long in one spot, now regarding
his broad bare chest matted with hair and filth, now calculating
the length of a scarred thigh or the circumference of a thick
bicep. Those silver gray eyes had lingered longest, not on the
scars from the slave collar that he had worn for so long about his
neck, but on his face, plain and broad and broken-nosed. He had
reached up a hand and felt the raw, scored flesh of his neck; it
was a time-honored jest, to remove a slave's collar before a hunt,
as if to taunt him with the hopelessness of escape from a pack of
dogs and riders.

He could not understand her intent regard.
It was not as if she were deciding whether to buy him; that
particular regard, Valerik was familiar with from many occasions in
his past. He could not remember how often a potential buyer had
inspected him. But Madryn's inspection lacked the cold-bloodedness
of his previous owners. He tried to pin down the difference as he
gnawed in ravenous hunger.

Then he had it. It seemed almost that Madryn
might be trying to remember if—or when—she had seen him before.

But she had said nothing else as they ate at
the side of a rushing stream…perhaps the same one in which Valerik
had taken an inadvertent swim at the beginning of the hunt. He made
good use of it once more, washing the mud and blood from his
shivering body. He no longer had his fear to keep him warm, and the
day had not fulfilled its early promise of warmth.

Madryn dragged out a handful of clothing
from her saddlebag as he twisted a fine black cloth about his
loins.

"I can go now, milady," Valerik had growled,
his head down as he sneaked brief glances through his lashes at
her. "If they catch us and…and find that you have helped me, it
would go bad for you."

"It would indeed. I know," was her reply, in
a tone as unconcerned as if they had been discussing the weather.
"But I cannot allow you to go without clothes. You'll be picked up
as an escaped slave at once, especially in nothing but a loincloth.
Here, try this."

Valerik had tried to squeeze into a pair of
her fine breeches, but they would not rise above his calves as he
hopped on one foot, feeling as ridiculous as he knew he looked. He
had quite made it into a flowing shirt of sheer linen—an instant
before it split across the breadth of his shoulders.