In Legend Born (37 page)

"Eight of the Empire's Outlookers were murdered here, and supplies and property belonging to the Valdani were stolen or destroyed!" Myrell paused and looked around at the people of Malthenar. He had their undivided attention. "The penalty for these crimes is death by slow torture!"

He had ridden into Malthenar before dawn with two hundred Outlookers. They had dragged the villagers from their beds, hauled them out of their miserable stone hovels, and herded them into the main square. Commander Koroll, upon releasing Myrell from custody in Cavasar, had clearly explained the price of his life and freedom: secrecy and service. Since Myrell had no wish to advertise that the disaster at Britar had been his own doing, and since he burned day and night with the desire for vengeance, he had readily agreed to Koroll's conditions. He had also agreed with Koroll's assessment that they must launch a serious offensive against Josarian, taking his allies by surprise.

Malthenar had been quiet ever since Josarian had destroyed the Outlooker outpost here shortly after the battle at Britar. With his band of outlaws busy elsewhere, it seemed certain that an assault on Malthenar now would take Josarian by surprise. The village would be defenseless, and Josarian would be revealed as a very poor protector against the Empire's fury. Above all, Myrell would make his own mission clear: terrible suffering for every peasant in these mountains until Josarian was delivered into his hands.

Myrell studied the crowd, then selected a young man who looked at him with open hatred. Myrell had him hauled into the center of the square.

"What is your name?" Myrell asked.

The young man merely glared in stony silence. Myrell called Arlen to his side, a
shallah
criminal who served him in exchange for staying out of the mines. Arlen wore the shorn hair and tailored clothing of a city-dweller, but he still had the dark skin and scarred palms of a
shallah
, and the villagers instantly recognized him for what he was.

"What is this man's name?" Myrell demanded.

Arlen glanced at the villager's
jashar
. "He is Corenten mar Sarshen shah Emeldari," he answered, his voice wooden.

"Corenten?" Myrell said. "Well, you match the description we have of one of Josarian's men." So, of course, did most of the other men in the village; but this one would do for now. "I hereby arrest you in the name of the Emperor and charge you with the murder of eight Outlookers. Sentence to be carried out immediately."

Fear flashed in Corenten's eyes and he tried to break away from the Outlookers who had seized him.

"Ah," Myrell said, "then you
do
understand Valdan?"

The
shallah
said nothing, simply kept glaring.

"Just in case his Valdan is not as good as it should be," Myrell said to Arlen, "I want you to translate everything I say. Make sure the rest of the villagers hear it well."

Arlen nodded, his expression sullen. When he began translating, angry grumbles and murmurs filled the air, and the word
sriliah
was borne on the wind to swirl around Arlen, whose shoulders hunched against the shame.

"Corenten," Myrell said, "I will give you one chance to save yourself from what, I promise you, will be a truly horrible death. I want information about Josarian."

Corenten spat in his face.

Myrell pulled out his sword and slashed Corenten diagonally from shoulder to hip. The young man's knees briefly buckled as his face contorted with pain. A woman screamed. The crowd surged forward. Myrell gave the signal, and archers fired into the crowd. Screams of agony and outrage rent the air. A baby fell to the ancient cobblestones as its mother collapsed, blood pouring from her mouth as she tore weakly at the arrow piercing her chest. A brawny man broke through the crowd and flew straight at Myrell, his weapon of sticks-and-rope—his
yahr
, as Myrell had learned they called it—swinging wildly. One Outlooker tripped him, and another killed him as he fell. Milling in desperate, noisy panic, many
shallaheen
tried to break past the mounted Outlookers guarding the perimeter of the main square. They were driven back, some of them injured in the process, several killed.

It wasn't until the crowd was subdued that Myrell spoke again. "You had one chance, Corenten, and now you have lost it." He nodded to the men who held the bleeding
shallah
. "Prepare him for the executioner."

Corenten's pain-clouded eyes widened with shock, and Myrell could see that he hadn't truly expected to die. He struggled wildly, cursing in his guttural mountain tongue, until one of the Outlookers clubbed him over the head. Then, dazed and helpless, he was tied spread-eagle between two posts. As the hooded executioner approached, flanked by his two apprentices, Myrell spoke again to the horrified crowd while Arlen translated for him.

"There is one last chance to save this boy's life. If someone steps forward now with information leading to Josarian's capture, I will spare this brave young man."

People in the crowd shifted uncertainly, glances flashing back and forth, heads lowering in sorrow or in shame. Finally, a woman stepped forward. She was big-boned, strong, voluptuous, and desirable even in poverty and middle-age. Her face was streaked with tears, her pale clothing smeared with dust and splotched with someone else's blood. Emotion twisted her features with pain beyond measure. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and strained.

"This woman is his mother," Arlen translated for Myrell, since the woman spoke no Valdan.

Hope surged through Myrell. "Ask her what she knows."

The woman responded to Arlen's question without ever taking her watery gaze from her son. Arlen hesitated, staring at the woman when she was done speaking.

"Well?" Myrell prodded. "What did she say?"

Arlen looked a little pale. "She says her son swore a bloodfeud against the Valdani with Josarian."

"So we've got the right man," Myrell said impatiently. "So what? Can she tell us—"

"She says that she herself will kill the first person who dishonors Corenten's bloodpact by betraying Josarian."

Myrell swayed slightly, then looked around to see if anyone in the village intended to challenge this ridiculous threat. To his disgust, heads nodded, chins came up, shoulders squared, and all gazes fixed on Corenten.

What had Koroll told him they called it—their code of silence?
Lirtahar
... Myrell sighed inwardly.

Knowing it would be a long, ugly day, he signaled the executioner to begin the torture. Corenten's screams of agony filled the air. His mother's proud features tightened with horrified grief as tears coursed down her cheeks, but she would not look away. The whole village watched, silent, stone-faced, and unflinching, as one of their own endured three hours of the most gruesome death Myrell himself had ever seen.

Three Into One, how he hated these people!

"In the name of Dar and all that is holy..." Basimar said, her voice heavy with horror. "What
is
that?"

Less than a day from Dalishar now, they stumbled across the most gruesome sight Mirabar had ever seen. She lowered her concealing hood, heedless of who might come upon them unexpectedly, and stared in shock.

The fresh corpse of a man was spread-eagled between two slender trees which grew alongside the road, his hands and feet securely tied to keep him in place. Carrion feeders had been feasting on the entrails hanging from his open belly; Basimar's scream had frightened them away, but the swarm of insects remained, as did the stench.

"This looks like..." Basimar swallowed and gagged.

Mirabar took the Sister's shoulders and turned her away from the sight. "Like who?" she choked out.

"Like Valdani torture."

Mirabar's gaze flashed to Basimar's face as the Sister fought back her nausea. "You've seen this before?"

"Once," Basimar said, her voice thick. "Years ago. A local boy who'd been sleeping with a Valdani girl. When they were caught, she claimed... she said... "

"She saved her reputation by claiming he had raped her."

"Yes."

"And the Valdani did
this
to him?"

"It's their... most severe punishment. Death by slow torture." Basimar was breathing in shallow gasps. "For the crimes which most offend them."

"Touching their women," Mirabar said.

"Or killing a Valdan."

"Killing a..." Mirabar gasped. "We're so close to Dalishar!"

"Mira, no!" Basimar tried to grab her as she lunged forward to investigate the body.

"It might be one of... one of... Oh, Dar, it might even be
him!
It might..." Quivering with disgust, she picked up a stick and pushed away mangled, dangling entrails to get a good look at the dead man's
jashar
.

Trying to look at anything except at what Mirabar was doing, Basimar said, "No, it couldn't be. See how his hair is shorn, how his clothes are so immodest? Tight, almost like a Valdan's? He's a city-dweller, not a..."

"His palms are scarred," Mirabar argued. "He wears a
jashar
."

"There's another one!" Basimar said.

Mirabar jumped and looked around. "Where?"

"No, not a body. Another
jashar
."

Mirabar looked up and saw that a small
jashar
hung around the dead man's neck. She looked down again at the man's waist, then averted her gaze from the mess there. "He is Arlen mar—"

"So die all who betray their own kind," Basimar interrupted, interpreting the
jashar
around the man's neck. "So die all who betray Josarian."

Mirabar backed away from the corpse, gaping in horror, unable to form a coherent thought. Basimar started weeping. Appalled by the dawning realization of what her alliance with this warrior would cost them all, Mirabar fell to her knees and begged Dar for guidance.

Torena
Elelar mar Odilan yesh Ronall shah Hasnari emerged from her scented bath and began polishing her skin with the subtly fragrant oils that kept it sweet, soft, and reasonably fair beneath Sileria's passionate sun. No amount of cosmetics, of course, could make her as fair-skinned as the pale, bloodless women so prized by the Valdani, but at least their men did not seem to find her wanting in grace, delicacy, or beauty.

Faradar, her personal servant, began dressing her hair, twisting and weaving it into the elaborately coiled and braided style of a Silerian aristocrat. Then Faradar helped her don the clothes she had selected for the evening. She did not wear Valdani clothes, and she knew how the Valdani laughed at Silerians who aped their customs and fashions. Instead, her own clothes were so exquisite that she had instigated the new trend of Valdani women in Shaljir occasionally wearing Silerian clothes.

Now
she
laughed at
them
—but secretly. Yes, as she did everything in life—secretly.

Heavy footsteps outside her dressing room heralded the unexpected arrival of her husband a moment before he flung open the door without ceremony or apology. He stalked into the room, threw himself into a cushioned chair, glared at Faradar, and growled, "Get out."

Faradar glanced at her mistress.

Elelar nodded. "That will be all. You may go."

The girl bowed and made a dignified exit. Having entered Elelar's service seven years ago, two years before her mistress's marriage, Faradar was too accustomed to Ronall's tantrums to scurry away from him or cower beneath his angry scowl.

"I want to talk to you," Ronall said. His words were clear, but his eyes were glazed and unfocused. So it was Kintish dreamweed tonight, Elelar surmised, rather than Valdani liquor or Moorlander opiates.

"You're not dressed yet," she interrupted. "We'll be late."

"Then we can damn well
be
late!" He blinked, lost his train of thought, and asked, "Where are we going?"

"Your father's birthday celebration. Don't tell me you've forgotten?" She gazed innocently at him.

He flung himself gracelessly out of his chair and snarled, "It slipped my mind after I learned what you've been up to."