Chained By Fear: 2 (27 page)

“I’ve never seen anyone fight like that,” she said. “Did we face a god?”

“He issss no god,” the queen said. “But he’s almost as dangeroussss as one.”

“Unless he can fly as well as he fights, I believe he’s still somewhere within our walls,” the captain said. “My soldiers can find him before night arrives. Shall I order a full search of the city?”

“No,” the queen said.

“Master, we must avenge this blasphemy.”

“We will do no such thing. I answer to a higher power—she who gave birth to my kind. And she has ordered ussss not to pursue.”

The captain sighed. “I don’t understand, but the Sāykans will do as you command.” Then she bowed and left the chamber.

Jākita-Abhinno watched the captain depart. Afterward, she stared forlornly at the blood and gore, the shattered barrels and the lifeless black specks on the cream-colored floor.

The dead
undines
looked like seeds that would never sprout.

“I don’t understand, either, but my orders are clear,” the witch whispered to herself. Then she bowed before the dead. “I will avenge you, my ssssisters. Some day. Somehow. The Death-Knower will perish at
my
hands.”

The door to one of their rooms on the third floor was ajar. Torg tried to be silent, but the old wood beneath his feet refused to cooperate. It creaked so loudly, he might as well have alarmed an army of chipmunks. At least it felt that way to him. But several different styles of snoring—from Ugga’s bear-like growl to Rathburt’s sniveling whimpers—concealed his approach.

Torg crept into the entryway and peeked around the door. He saw Bard sprawled on a couch, drool dripping into his thick beard, and Elu on a rug on the floor, wrapped in his cloak. Torg stepped inside. Near the window were two sturdy beds with wool-stuffed mattresses: Ugga had claimed one, Rathburt the other.

The strangers had to be in the adjacent room.

A small door connected one room to the next, and it also was ajar. Torg began to push it open, but apprehension stayed his hand. Whoever was on the other side of the door wielded great power. Rather than feeling threatening, though, the aura appealed to him like exotic perfume. Instantly, his breath quickened, and his heart raced. Torg, to his surprise, experienced a wave of dizziness. He wondered if he could find the courage to look inside.

Torg debated waking up Rathburt and asking him what he knew of their visitors, but he remembered the innkeeper saying that she had let the strangers in after his friends had returned from their gallivanting. It was possible—even probable—that they were unaware anyone else was with them. Torg could not depend on Rathburt or the others for support.

Ever so gently, Torg pressed against the door—and as he stepped inside, the aura nearly overpowered him. When he gazed across the room, a single tear slid down his cheek. His reason for existence was just a few paces away.

She was the woman in his dreams—the moon, incarnate. The other half of his soul.

She sat on a bed, facing away from him. A cascade of long blond hair reached all the way to the mattress. A man pressed against her, with his arm around her shoulders. Torg felt an intense surge of jealousy, and it took all his will to resist breaking the man’s neck, which he could have done with little effort.

But he would not. Out of respect for her.

Besides, he could sense that this man meant her no harm. The way the man held her made it obvious that he loved her
 . . .
too.

Torg approached the bed, silent as air. But the creaky floor gave him away, causing the man to bolt to his feet and spin around. The woman sagged backward onto the mattress.

Torg’s eyes widened. The man looked like a slightly older version of Invictus. He was larger but had the same yellow hair, brown eyes and square jaw.

“I was told you could help her,” he snapped. “She’s dying. You must save her.”

“I don’t know who she is or who you are,” Torg said, trying to appear calm. “Why do you say she’s dying? Is she injured or ill?”

When Torg looked at her again, his heart performed a crazy dance in his chest. He wanted to hold her—and never let go. The yellow-haired man obviously sensed something in Torg’s demeanor that he didn’t like, and his face became red and puffy. Then he sat back down and took the woman in his arms, as if she were his possession.

Torg again had to stifle a desire to throttle the Invictus look-alike.

“Never mind who she is,” the man said. “If you’re a healer, then surely you can recognize that she’s sick. Will you help her or not? If not, then tell me quickly so that I can leave this stink hole and try to find someone who can. I’ve wasted enough time listening to their snoring. I was tempted to slit their throats to shut them up.”

Torg felt a sudden urge to slap this arrogant stranger. He took a step forward, but the woman on the bed moaned, causing him to freeze. It broke his heart to hear such a desperate sound pass through her lips. Once he regained his composure, he said, “I
am
a healer, and you’ll find none better. Whoever brought you here was right to do so. But before I help her, you must tell me who led you to me.”

“Who are you to give me orders? I’ll tell you nothing beyond what I choose. Either help her or don’t. But be quick, one way or the other. I’ll strike down anyone who hinders us.”

As he spoke, the man hugged her even tighter. She moaned again.

Torg’s face flushed. “Very well,” he said. “But you must move away and give me some room. I can’t heal her while you’re clinging to her as though she’s some kind of doll.”

The man grunted, then reluctantly stood and backed over to the window. Torg sat on the bed and looked at the woman. She wore a plain brown dress, clean but threadbare. When his left thigh pressed against her leg, a jolt of energy blew into his flesh, causing him to gasp. He already loved her so much it was suffocating. And they had yet to speak a single word to one another.

“Why must you sit so close?” the man said suspiciously.

“Do you always whine so much? Now be quiet and let me concentrate.”

The man grunted again, but otherwise held his tongue.

As gently as he could manage, Torg lifted her into his arms. Her eyes were clamped shut and her cheeks smudged with soot, but her beauty overwhelmed him, nonetheless. In his dreams, and also in the ice at the waterfall, he had seen her face—in intimate detail. In reality it was every bit as lovely.

“Yes, she’s pretty,” the man said. “But are you going to help her or just stare at her? She could die at any moment.
Hurry
!”

“Hush!” Torg said.

Still gazing at the woman’s face, he placed his right hand on her abdomen. Instantly, energy sparkled at his fingertips and crept along the wool of her dress. She jerked spasmodically and then yelped.

The man charged over. “What are you doing to her?”

Torg glared. “I won’t harm her. But I must be allowed to concentrate. Stop annoying me.”

“Get on with it, then!”

Torg sighed and returned his focus to the woman.
So very lovely
.

Then he lifted her face within a finger-length of his and pressed his mouth against hers, spreading apart her lips with his tongue—and exhaling.

“Stop that!” the man said, but Torg could barely hear. His life force blew into the woman’s lungs, filling her with healing energy. As her body convulsed, her eyes sprang open, and she flung her arms around his back. A blue-green shimmer emanated from Torg’s flesh. From hers came a white glow. The two sheaths of energy intermingled, slowly at first—as if exploring each other—and then eagerly
 . . .
delightedly.

They had found each other, at long last.

Somewhere in the far reaches of his awareness, Torg could sense the yellow-haired man tugging on his arms, but it meant little. An infant could not have done less harm.

After a long while, she let go of him and slid a couple of finger-lengths away on the bed. When their bodies no longer touched, their intertwined energies winked out, but she continued to stare at him with blue-gray eyes. Her face looked so familiar. He knew her not just from dreams, but also from somewhere else.

How many lifetimes have we spent together
?

Torg heard noises behind him—kicking and stomping. At first he barely registered them. On the old wooden floor it sounded like drums.

“Here! Here!” came a loud voice. “There’ll be no fighting in my inn. I’ll call my men and have you all thrown out if you don’t get control of yourselves.”

Torg turned and saw the fat innkeeper standing in the doorway, her cheeks ablaze and her mouth coated with spittle. Nearby, Ugga and Bard were holding the yellowed-haired man’s arms. He was kicking and flailing, and his face was as red as a dragon scale, but the woodsmen were too strong.

“What should we do with him?” Bard said to Torg. “We found ya with the whore, and this man was trying to beat ya up or rob ya or something. Would ya like Ugga to crack open his head?”

“
No
!” said the woman on the bed, startling them all. “Do not harm him. He’s my friend. He’s only trying to protect me.”

“I don’t care if he’s the
One God
come to cleanse our souls,” the innkeeper said. “If you don’t quiet him down, my men will.”

“Please, Lucius!” she said. “Don’t fight them—if not for your own benefit, then for mine.”

At the sound of her voice Lucius calmed down, though his face remained swollen. Reluctantly Ugga and Bard released him.

The man rushed toward the bed. “Are you
 . . .
healed?”

The woman sighed and gazed at Torg. “I believe I am.”

“Good,” Lucius said, ignoring Torg. “We must be on our way. Quickly, come with me.” He held out his hand to her.

Ugga was confused. To Torg, he said, “Did ya bed the man’s wifey?”

“I met her only a few moments ago,” Torg said. “She was ill and came to me seeking aid.” Then he looked at her again. “But you are not healed, entirely. For reasons I don’t understand, your life force had been drained beyond anything I have ever encountered. If you go now, the sickness could return.”

“He’s just saying that to frighten you,” Lucius said. “We have no idea who these people are or what they’re about. Let us flee the city, you and me, while we still can.”

“If you wish to flee,” Torg said, “then you would be wise to join us. We are leaving the city, as well. When you are far from the walls and safe from harm, you can go freely wherever you choose.”

Then Torg turned to the innkeeper. “My dear lady, do you have the clothes you offered me earlier? It’s time for us to go.”

“What do you mean?” the innkeeper said. “I offered nothing. I haven’t spoken to any of you since last night.”

Torg eyed her suspiciously.

“What did happen to your clothes?” Rathburt said to Torg, peering over the fat woman’s shoulder. “You look like a fool, all dressed in pink.”

“
I’m in no mood for jests
!” Torg snapped, with enough force to split the wooden door, causing the innkeeper to squeal.

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” she said breathlessly. “All you had to do was ask.”

“I thought I already had. Bring me a black tunic, breeches, and boots
 . . .
please
. And arrange food and supplies.”

Then he turned to Ugga and Bard. “I don’t suppose you have any coins left to pay her for her kindness.”

Ugga smiled and pounded his chest. “I won lots of money at the card tables, I did. We are rich. We spent many coins on the Blondies and Brounettos, but there’s still plenty left.” He handed the innkeeper two gold pieces. “Will that be enough?”

The fat woman’s expression changed from frightened to pleased. “More than enough. And in exchange for your generosity, let me give you some advice from one who knows the ways of Kamupadana. When it comes to supplies, take only what you can conceal beneath your cloaks. Just before I came upstairs, I was told the soldiers are stopping people and asking questions. This day has a strange feel.”

Torg agreed they needed to be cautious. “If we try to rush out now, it will look suspicious. Let’s take the time to eat a meal in our rooms before we go. If we have to fight, we’ll need our strength.”

Then he gestured to the innkeeper. “Will you serve us here?”

“With pleasure,” she said, and left them.

Elu walked to Bard and tapped him on the leg. “Can we trust the fat lady?”

Bard looked down. “I thinks so. How about ya, Ugga?”

“She has never done us wrong before,” the crossbreed said.

“I don’t trust
her,
or any of you,” Lucius said, and then he wagged his finger at Torg. “Least of all, you.” The yellow-haired man reached for the woman’s hand again. “Will you heed my advice and come with me?”

“I want you by my side,” she said, “but I need this man
 . . .
these men
 . . .
as well. They have promised their protection. We should accept it.” She turned to Torg. “But we have nothing to offer in payment for your service. Will you have us as traveling companions, even so?”

Torg’s heart leapt with joy, but he was careful to appear calm. “We would be honored.”

“Wait a minute,” Rathburt whined. “This woman is sick and weak and will slow us down. What have we to gain from taking her with us? We don’t even know who she is.”

“If I say she comes, she comes,” Torg said. “Does anyone else object?”

“I likes the lady,” Ugga said. “But the man with her is a meanie.”

“Where I go, Lucius goes,” she said to the crossbreed and the others. “If you don’t want him to join us, then we should part ways now.”