The Red Knight (55 page)

Kiri gave a head toss of acknowledgement. She made to drop the tent flap, but didn’t. Her face screwed up into a thoughtful frown. She took a deep drag on the pipe; scarlet bloomed in the clay bowl.

“Whassup?” he asked and offered her the bottle. She waved it away with the long stem of the pipe.

“I didn’t want to tell you. ‘Thought you might do somethin’ stupid.”

“Nice to know you have faith in me, Lieutenant. What didn’t you tell me?” he asked even though he really didn’t want to know. The brandy was making him comfortably numb, and he didn’t want to spoil it with bad news.

“They didn’t kill Stenna. Remoya was scoutin’ back, like you ordered. He saw ‘em cut her down. She was still alive. Sorry, Boss.”

“Why didn’t you…? Nevermind. Kon Stenna’s going to kill me.”

“Don’t go.”

“I gave her my word.”

“She won’t know.”

“I will. I might be a poor friend, but I’m no coward.” He finished the bottle, closed his eyes and saw red.

Half a horse was slowly roasting in one of the hearths in the Great Hall. Hirths diced for spoils, while they waited for the meat to cook. Thorgulsen paced, nobody bothered him. Even Gathorl had made himself scarce.
Wise man that Gathorl.
He wanted to go back to camp, crawl into bed with Bethanglyn and rut, and then he remembered.
She’s gone
. It felt like a stone in his gut, sinking deeper into him with every hour that she was missing.
Fucking woman.
She hadn’t taken anything with her—no spare clothes or coin; nothing. She hadn’t told anyone she was going either. He’d beaten seven shades of shit out of her servants, but they didn’t know anything. The mad cunt had just taken to her heels in the middle of enemy territory.

He wasn’t surprised she’d gone, not really. What surprised him was that she’d stayed so long.

Another scream died away, then nothing. He’d better go find out if the Priest had got anything out of the Steelskin, before the slimy little prick killed her.

The hirths in the dungeon stumbled to their feet and made a show of being on guard when he came in. Thorgulsen told them to go get some food, give their ears a rest. Barziner was sitting at a table, neatly folding creases into his bloodied kerchief. He inclined his head to Thorgulsen. The Thane grunted, but his attention was drawn to the bloody body tied to the bars. If he didn’t know it was the Steelskin, he wouldn’t have recognised her.

“It’s quite surprising what you can do with a fire iron, a fruit knife and an axe handle,” Barziner quipped.

Thorgulsen shrugged and took a closer look at the Priest’s handiwork. She was still breathing. “So what? I can mess someone up with a jagged rock. Breaking a body is easy, have you got her to talk?”

The Priest gave a sulky pout. “Almost, Thane Kasper, almost.” He steepled his fingers. “I sense the Captain is on the verge of unburdening herself. It has not been easy working in these conditions, I—”

“Fuck’s sake, Priest, we’re running out of time.” Thorgulsen was irritated as much by the man as the lack of results.

Barziner picked up his knife and marched over to the Steelskin. “I really wish we had more time together, Alyda.” He flicked her matted hair from her swollen and bloody face with the tip of the blade. Her eyelids flickered. “I don’t feel you’ve seen the best of me. It’s because I hate to be rushed.” He cut the ropes, she dropped. “Thane, if you would be so kind?”

Thorgulsen carried the Steelskin over to the table. The Priest sat down opposite them.

“If you could hold her, Thane Kasper, we’re almost there now.” He smiled.

Thorgulsen decided he really didn’t like Barziner; there was something about the way he was smiling, the flush in his cheeks, and the brightness in his eyes. He was enjoying his work in entirely the wrong way.

Pain ripped through her leg, dragging her back to consciousness. She was kneeling beside a table, arm outstretched, held down by…was it that pig-fucker Thorgulsen? She wasn’t sure; her vision, such as remained, was blurred.

She didn’t have strength left to dread whatever new torment Barziner was about to inflict. Pain was the only measure of her existence: when it began, and when it stopped.

“If you could hold the Captain’s hand down please, Thane Kasper. You are right handed, aren’t you, Alyda?” Barziner wiped the knife on his kerchief. Thorgulsen pressed her right hand flat against the table, scars against scars.

“Now, Captain, you may not be able to ride again, but at the moment you can still wield a sword. I know how important that is to a warrior. If you tell me where the Queen is, I’ll leave you your fingers. If not…” The Priest made a chopping motion with the knife.

“Don’t be stubborn, woman,” Thorgulsen growled in her ear. “You’ve proved you’re tough; now prove you’re smart.”

Alyda blinked tears from the eye she could still open and shook her head. Barziner dug the tip of his knife into the table and rested the edge of the blade against her little finger. She tried to move her hand, but Thorgulsen held her fast.

“Please, Captain. I urge you to think about this carefully. You’re still a young woman; is your life, everything you value—
everything you are
, behind you, or before you?”

Alyda struggled against Thorgulsen’s grip, but even on a good day she’d be hard pressed to beat him in a contest of strength, and this was far from a good day. She could hardly think past the pain that wracked her body or beyond the fear of what lay ahead. But one word remained clear in her mind. It was a small word, but contained within it all of the defiance she had left. She drew a long, painful breath and said,

“No.”

Thorgulsen held her. Barziner shook his head; like a parent who had failed to reason with a disobedient child. She looked in his eyes; saw nothing but her own bloody reflection.
Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t—

He severed the tip of her finger.

The pain was excruciating, and far beyond the limits of her failing endurance.
Enough! Gods, enough!
She begged him to stop.

The Priest put the knife down. “Of course, my child. Now, where is the Queen?”

Between great wracking sobs, the Steelskin told Barziner that someone called Tain had taken the Queen north to meet up with Daris in Cathlan. The Priest was very patient during what he called, ‘confession’. He gave her water and gently coaxed her back to consciousness whenever she passed out. When she began to repeat herself for the third time it was obvious that she’d told them everything. The Priest sat back and smiled at the Thane.

“Just one last thing,” he said, taking a parchment and quill from the pocket of his robe, “and then you can rest, Alyda.” He dipped the quill in the blood that had pooled around the severed digit. “Sign here, Alyda. Ah—let me help you.” He wrapped her mutilated hand around the quill. Fresh pain ripped through her hand as he scratched her name on the vellum. “There. That will make the Eklesiasti a
very
happy man. He had nightmares about you, Captain. You quite vexed his Holiness. All better now though. Thane—the Captain looks tired. We should let her rest, don’t you think?” Barziner tucked the parchment into his robe before going over to the trap door and hauling on the ring.

Thorgulsen carried the Steelskin over to the hole. He didn’t mind the Priest’s presumption—he’d got her to talk and dead was dead, no matter who ordered it. He peered into the darkness; he could just make out the rippling gleam of flowing water far below.

“You lose, Stenna,” he said, and dropped her in the hole. There was a distant splash. The Priest slammed the trap door closed.

“Well there you have it. I must be going now, Thane. If you could provide an escort to Brindport as we agreed, I would be most grateful. The roads are quite hazardous at the moment.” He put on his robe and patted the pocket with the parchment in.

“Of course. Safe journey, Priest.”

“And you, my son. Good luck with the hunt!” The torturer skipped up the stairs, humming tunelessly.

Thorgulsen took a last look around the blood-splattered chamber, his gaze coming to rest on the trap door. He loathed the Steelskin, but that was a poor death for a warrior. He wondered if her spirit would find its way to her gods, or if it would lurk here, trapped forever in the place where she’d met her sorry end.

Hanser’s cavalry charged off. They would hunt the Queen to Death’s Halls if need be, their dead Thane’s honour demanded no less. While his hirths feasted to their victory and sent lost comrades to the Land of shadows with fire and song, Thorgulsen watched the cavalry ride into the dawn. He didn’t rate their chances of tracking down a handful of people who could be anywhere between there and Cathlan. The battle had been won, at a price. The war…probably not.
Shit and blood, that’s how it always ends.

“Quite a talent, being able to torture and maim like Barziner,” said Telvier, his expression and tone of voice a study in ambiguity.

Thorgulsen grunted. “Do you want to extend your contract?”

“Ah, well. I’d like to, but I already have work lined up…elsewhere. We shall be moving out on the ‘morrow.”

“You sure?”

“Quite sure. Thank you, Thane.”

Thorgulsen eyed the Suvian, contemplated if it would be more trouble than it was worth to run him through and save his gold. While he was thinking about it, a hirth he didn’t recognise barged into the tent. Blood streaked his beard; the man looked on the verge of passing out.

“My Lord, I have a message from Thane Redbear,” he said and handed him a crumpled letter.

When Thorgulsen finished reading it he tossed it into the brazier. “It seems we’re going to Cathlan.”

“Prince Jerim has won?” Telvier asked.

“No, he’s crow food, and Redbear’s fighting for his life. I must go and either aid, or avenge my kinsman. You sure you don’t want to come, Telvier?”

“Quite sure.” He patted his stomach. “Too much glory for my humble tastes.” The mercenary chuckled softly. “So, Stenna held out long enough after all? One has to appreciate tenacity, even in one’s enemies. Don’t you agree, Thane?”

Thorgulsen didn’t answer. “Garuld!” he bellowed. The Talespinner stumbled into the tent. He looked half asleep.

“My Lord?”

“Rouse the camp, we march in an hour.”

“What kind of a name is
Iris?
” Pytre asked her, a teasing smile on his full, kissable, lips. He was a handsome fellow, a little on the wild side, but that only added to his appeal. There was something about him, a touch of something dangerous and yet, terribly familiar. He handed Bear a slab of hardly-cooked venison. Just how she liked it.

“It’s a family name, has been for generations, but my friends call me Bear.”

He nodded approvingly. “That’s much better. I’m going to scout ahead to the valley. You can come with me if you like? The others must be blindfolded, but there won’t be any point for you.”

Bear didn’t have the faintest idea what he was talking about, but she found him utterly captivating, and a welcome distraction from Talin’s hateful gloom. Damn his eyes, there was only so much she could take. It wasn’t her fault that everything had gone to shit, but he was as angry with her as if she’d caused the war. She tore off a mouthful of meat and tossed the rest before jumping lightly to her feet. “Lead on, sir.”

A knot of anger tightened Talin’s stomach as he watched Bear follow the Hadami into the trees. He didn’t care if he never saw her again. His heart was hardened to Bear Berwick for what she’d done.

Night was fast approaching and according to Tain, they were near their destination. His brother offered him a drink from a waterskin. Talin shook his head.

“You need to drink something, Tal,” Olin pleaded, “please?”

His brother had cheered up considerably since they escaped the Arth. Talin didn’t begrudge him the relief; he just couldn’t share it. Not while Alyda was still in danger.

“Olin, please untie me. If you love me, let me go. I’m begging you.”

Olin chewed his lip. “I can’t, Tal. I promised moth—”

“Please, Oli! For Asha’s sake, I’m your brother. I’ve always been there for you, now I’m asking you to do this one thing for me.”

Talin could sense Oli’s resolve starting to weaken. He tried to be patient while he waited for him to make up his mind. Oli stole a furtive look at the small group of fugitives. Talin did the same. Tain and his woman were talking with their mother, Bear had gone off with the male gypsy and the other Hadami was out scouting somewhere. Lady Beria was nursing her son and staring right at them. She put the child on a pile of freshly cut bracken, and much to Talin’s dismay, came over.

She ignored him and turned to Oli. “I know what you’re planning. You can’t let him go, Highness. If you do he’ll die. Do you want to kill your brother, Prince Olin?”

“Lady Beria, be silent, I command you!” Talin never spoke like that to anyone, but he had to get back to Ali and now was probably the only chance he’d have before it was too late. Beria looked at him with tear-washed eyes and snorted.