A Man Betrayed (4 page)

"So, Gamil,
are you saying it was the knight who did this?"

"Yes and no,
Your Eminence."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that
his hand might have been upon the blade, but his actions were not his own. His
distress when he found the body must attest to the fact that he was an
unwilling accomplice."

"Larn."
Tavalisk spoke quietly, more to himself than Gamil. "Larn. The knight was
there less than two months back. The elders of that island have long had their
own agendas, and the most ingenious ways for carrying them out." The
archbishop mustered his lips to a plump parody of a smile. "Bevlin has
finally paid the price for his interference."

"Larn bears a
long grudge, Your Eminence."

"Hmm, you've
got to admire them for that." Tavalisk settled back in his chair.
"Still, it seems a rather vindictive act. I can't help thinking that there
is more to this meal than flavor alone."

"How so, Your
Eminence?"

"Larn knows
too much for its own good. Thanks to those damned seers, it has a decidedly
unfair advantage when it comes to gleaning intelligence. I think that doddering
old fool Bevlin was up to something they didn't like."

"If you are
right, Your Eminence, then perhaps the knight has some inkling of Bevlin's
intent."

Tavalisk nodded
slowly. "Are we still tracking him?"

"Yes, Your
Eminence. I expect to know in a day or two where he was headed. Bren seems the
most likely of places at the moment. If he is there, our spies will keep us
informed of his actions."

"Very good.
You may go now. I have much to think on." The archbishop poured himself
another glass of brandy. Just as his aide reached the door, he called him back.
"Before you dash off, Gamil, could you do me one small favor?"

"Certainly,
Your Eminence."

"Close all
the windows and build me a fire. I am chilled despite the sun." Tavalisk
watched as his aide went about piling logs upon the hearth. "No, no,
Gamil. That won't do. You must first strip the logs of their bark. I know it
will be time-consuming, but there's no point doing a task if you're not
prepared to do it properly."

Baralis was among
the last to crest the rise. What little protection the slope of the hill had
afforded was snatched away, and the north wind cut deeply once more. Absently,
he massaged the gloved fingers that held the reins. This journey was yet
another toll upon them. The frost had worked its insidious trade upon his
joints, robbing him of precious mobility. It seemed that his hands always paid
the highest price for his actions.

His position on
top of the bluff did offer some consolation for the discomfort of the wind. It
gave him a clear view down upon the whole of the column. He spied Maybor
immediately. No drab traveler's clothes for him. Even on a long and hazardous
journey like this, the portly lord still insisted on being decked out like a
peacock. Baralis tasted bile in his mouth. He was not one to spit it out, so he
let it run its course upon his tongue, burning the tender flesh. How he hated
that man!

He sgcanned the
lay of the land. There were rocks beneath the snow; their jagged edges biting
through the white. The downslope was more treacherous than the rise. The path
twisted and dipped to accommodate the disorder of the rocks. Baralis could see
that the men ahead were picking their paths carefully.

The time was
right. Maybor was still only halfway down the slope. A fall from his horse at
such a place, amongst a setting of rocks and sudden drops, would surely lead to
death. The man's thick and hoary neck would snap like tinderwood when it hit
the cold hard earth.

Baralis checked
his own path There would be a short time when he would be in danger, too. Such
a drawing as he would perform required great concentration, and so_ he might
need some extra guidance for his horse.

He looked to his
flank. Crope was there; sitting miserably on a huge warhorse, hood pulled
forward for concealment, not warmth. Baralis knew his servant was hating every
minute of this journey. He was shy of people, a natural wariness springing from
the way he was usually treated by them. People were afraid of him when alone or
in small groups. Once they had a safe number, however, they began to despise
him. Even on this trip, the taunting had begun. They called him "the
stupid giant" and "scar features." Baralis would have enjoyed
burning the skin from their cowardly backs-no one demeaned anything of his-but
now was not the time to use indiscreet force.

Now was the time
for discreet force. He beckoned Crope forth and the huge man drew close.
Baralis motioned to his reins and his servant took them. Not a word was said,
not a question asked. They were at the rear with only the packhorses to tell of
what transpired.

Once confident
that Crope was in charge of his mount, Baralis felt safe to work his drawing.
His sight found Maybor and then dropped lower to the man's horse: a beautiful
stallion in its prime.

Baralis reached
deep within himself. The power, so familiar, yet so intoxicating, flared up to
meet him. He felt a wave of nausea followed by the unbearable sense of loss as
he forsook himself and entered the beast. The sour tang of horse sweat met his
nostrils. Gone at last was the chill of the wind. He knew only warmth.

Pulsing,
all-enclosing warmth. Through hair and skin and fat, through muscle and grizzle
and bone. Speed was of the essence: danger awaited those who lingered too long
in a beast. Quickly he bypassed the belly and all its beguiling intricacies. Up
toward the core. He felt the mighty press of the lungs and fought against their
powerful suction. The heart beckoned him forth, using its rhythm as a lure. The
rest of the body danced to its beat.

Bounded by muscle,
snarled with tubes, terrifying in its strength: the heart.

He fell into the
pulse of its contractions, became one with the ebb and the flow. Into the
hollow he went. A frightening rush of blood and pressure rose to meet him.
Through the caverns he traveled, along the channels he sped, until he
eventually reached the last. The beginning of the cycle. He found what he came
for: a stretch of sinew as tough as old leather, yet thinner, so much thinner,
than silk. The valve. He reached out, encircling it with his will. And then
rent forth.

Back he snapped
like a sapling in a gale. It was so cold and pale, and finally so dark. He
tasted the bitter residue of sorcery in his mouth, and then he knew no more.

Maybor was well
satisfied with the way things were progressing. He was at the head of eight
score of men, counting the attendants, and if he did say so himself, their
loyalty-bar only two-was unquestioningly with him.

He saw the respect
in the men's eyes and noted their deference to him in all matters. It was just
how it should be; after all, he did hold superior rank. He noticed the way the
men admired everything from his judgment to his fineness of dress. Not for him
a dull traveler's gray. No. He was a great lord and it was fitting that he look
the part at all times. Who could guess when they might chance upon someone in
this white wilderness whom he might need to impress?

Traveling had
definite drawbacks, though. The wind was a devil, and he was quite sure it was
blowing the very hair from his scalp. He'd awoken on several mornings to find
hair on his pillow. The thought of going bald terrified Maybor, and deciding
that it was indeed the fault of the wind, he had taken to wearing a large,
furry bearskin hat as protection. At first he had been a little worried about
how he might look to his men in such a girlish thing as a hat. But now he'd
decided that he looked like a legendary invader from beyond the Northern Ranges
and fancied that it added to his mystique.

Borc, but he
needed a woman! Three weeks celibate! It was enough to drive a lesser man to
perversion. Not him, though. If he couldn't have a woman, then he preferred to
drink himself into oblivion each night. Unfortunately oblivion had its price.
His head felt dull and heavy from too much ale, and he. had to concentrate to
sit his stallion in the manner that befitted a lord.

To add to his
troubles, the path they were traveling was steep and treacherous. He hated
riding downward. He preferred not to see the perils, just take them blindly.
However the way was so twisting and precarious that he was forced to bend all
his concentration to the task in hand.

They had just come
upon a particularly hazardous trail, and were forced to ride one man at a time,
when Maybor felt his horse grow skittish. He pulled hard on the reins. This was
not the time for the creature to misbehave. He advanced a few feet farther and
then he felt the stallion tremble and lurch. The creature tossed its head and
tried to buck the lord from his back. Maybor was having none of this and pulled
on the reins with all his might. The horse became frantic and broke into a
gallop. Maybor could feel the wild pounding of its heart beneath his thighs.
Down the path it sprinted, forcing two other riders out of its way. Maybor was
becoming scared. He held on as the horse picked up speed.

Then, suddenly, in
a scintilla of an instant, the horse dropped beneath him. Maybor was flung
forward by the force of his own momentum. He flew through the air and then down
the hillside. His body was thrown against rocks and stones. Pain burst into his
leg and back. Downward he careened toward a sheer drop.

He saw it coming
and knew what it meant. He sped toward his end with a prayer on his lips. Then
he hit a rounded boulder. The rock bounced him like a ball and altered his
course. Instead of taking the drop, he landed, crash, in the middle of a growth
of thorny bushes.

His head was
reeling, his leg splitting with pain. Thorns bit into his flesh, perilously
close to his vitals.

Then the men were
upon him, helping him up and fussing and squawking. "Lord Maybor are you
all right?" said one sap-faced boy.

"Of course
I'm not all right, you fool! I've just been hurled down a hillside!" And
then, as two others tried to pull him up, "Careful, you idiots. I am not a
wishbone to be pulled."

"Is anything
broken, my lord?" ventured one of his captains.

"How in
Borc's name would I know if anything is broken? Get me the surgeon."

The captain
conferred with a junior for a moment. "The surgeon is awaiting your
pleasure where the ground is more stable."

"You mean he
is too lily-livered to risk his neck by coming down here." Maybor slapped
hard at the man who was trying to free his leg from the bush. "Tell the
good surgeon that if he doesn't get down here this instant, I will personally
perform on him the only operation I know how to: castration!" Maybor made
sure his last word had enough strength to carry up the hillside.

Eventually he was
freed from the bush and placed on a litter. Two soldiers carried him back to
the path. The party had halted and tents were being raised. The first tent up
was the surgeon's and Maybor was duly ushered in.

"So tell me,
physician. Are there any bones a'broken?" Maybor was in considerable pain,
but was not about to betray that fact to anyone else.

"Well, my
lord, these things are hard to ascertain-"

"All you
damned physicians are the same," interrupted Maybor. "Mincing around
the facts. Never committing yourselves to anything more than a maybe.
Aagh!" The last syllable was uttered as the surgeon removed a long spiky
thorn from the lord's posterior. Maybor looked around in time to see a smug
expression quickly concealed. "Are they all out, then?"

"Yes, my
lord."

"Are you
quite sure you wouldn't like a conference to confirm that? It sounded
suspiciously like a straight answer to me."

The surgeon was
impervious to Maybor's sarcasm. "Perhaps my lord might like to try and
stand?" He helped Maybor to his feet, where, to the lord's astonishment,
he found he could walk.

"It is as I
thought," said the physician. "No bones broken." Maybor was
about to point out to the man that he had thought no such thing, when the
physician thrust a cup of foul-smelling liquid into his hand.

"Here, drink
this," he said.

Maybor downed the
concoction in one gulp. It tasted just like his first wife's holk: fishy and
lacking the sting of a decent drink. He yawned. "What's this foul brew
good for?"

"It's a
sleeping draft. It'll make you drowsy in no time." Maybor felt his lids
growing heavy. Suddenly worried, he hobbled back to the stretcher. Laying himself
down he said, "Am I that bad that I need to sleep like an old man on his
deathbed?" Maybor's eyes began to close of their own accord. Just as he
fell into a warm dark trance, he could have sworn he heard the physician reply:

"No, you'll
survive either way. But with this method I'll get some peace."

Bren, the fortress
city. The rock of the north. Set between the mountains and the great lake, Bren
was built only for war. The mountains flanked the west and south, the lake lay
to the north. The only clear approach to the city was from the eastern plains.
And never was there a more carefully constructed site than Bren's eastern wall.
It was designed with one basic function: to promote fear in the eyes of all who
approached. Its granite towers pierced the clouds, issuing an unspoken
challenge to God in his heavens. The mountains, from their position behind the
city, seemed to back up this challenge like sentinels.

The outer wall was
as smooth as a blade; the individual stones almost undetectable. The mason's
art had reached its highest pinnacle in Bren. The walls gleamed with arrogance.

They mocked all
who approached, saying "scale me if you dare." Cleverly designed
recesses caught shadows in the morning sun. A sharp eye could detect their
presence, but a keen mind only guess at their uses.