Kingmaker's Sword (Rune Blades of Celi) (3 page)

He ran across the yard to the barracks, his belly quivering in excitement and rage. The muscles of his legs and back ached and burned at the exertion, but he did not stop running until he came to the wall of the barracks. Except for the two guards at the front gate, and the few who stood guard within the main house, all the guards would now be asleep in the barracks. Mouse dropped to one knee and pulled the flint and steel from his shirt.

The barracks was a long, low building, built of timber rather than stone. Within, rows of bunks lined the walls, providing little privacy for the guards, but far more comfort than afforded by the slave quarters only a short distance away. The roof was thatch, and dry after a long, hot summer.

Mouse’s hands shook so badly, he could not strike a spark from the flint. He sat back on his heels, rubbed his hands against his thighs and clenched them into fists for a moment. Coldly, deliberately, he closed his eyes and thought about Rossah lying on the dunghill, discarded like a broken ewer. He thought about how her warm, silken flesh had taught him the glory of all the ways a man and a woman fit so delightfully together. She had given him the only love he had ever known, and in return, he had eagerly and joyously given her all of his. He thought about how she had screamed and screamed and screamed at the brutal use the guards had made of her body before Drakon released her to death.

It was enough. Calm and steady now, he struck flame to the tinder and lit the lamp. He waited with patience until the wick caught fully and burned well. Then he stepped back and tossed the lamp up into the thatch.

The thatch caught immediately. At first, only a small flame flickered in the straw and reeds, but as the oil spilled out of the lamp, the fire spread, slowly at first, then more quickly as it grew. The slight breeze fanned it as it fed on the dry thatch. Mouse heard a loud
whuf
, and suddenly the whole roof exploded in one huge, bright burst of flame. Seconds later, the ancient, dry timber caught, and flame engulfed the whole building.

Mouse ran back and ducked behind the laundry shed. The door of the barracks burst open and two or three half-naked guards stumbled out as the first startled shouts rose into the stillness of the night. Moments later, a man staggered out into the yard, his clothing burning like a torch. His bubbling screams rang loud even over the roar of the flames as he fell and rolled feebly in the dirt.

Mouse watched in grim satisfaction. “Burn, you louse-infested sons of whores and vermin,” he muttered. “Burn and die in agony, and may maggots feast in your charred flesh. Hellas take your black souls.”

The roar of the fire and the shrieks of the dying guards roused the house servants and the slaves. Pandemonium erupted in the yard as men began running out to see what was wrong. Lights appeared in the windows of the manse. Lord Mendor leaned out of an upper window, shouting orders at the running figures in the yard.

“Come down,” Mouse whispered fiercely, the strength of his need knotting his fists. “Come down so I can kill you. You and that slimy maggot you call a son.”

But Mendor remained at the window, shouting orders; he did not come down.

Mouse recognized the two guards from the front gates trying to organize a bucket brigade to douse the blazing barracks. Watching the disorganized confusion in the yard, it occurred to him for the first time that he had a very real chance of escaping, that there was a possibility he could steal a horse and make a break for the gates. Dressed as he was in Drakon’s clothing, there was even the likelihood that he might not be recognized. In the dark, no one might notice the red of his hair that uniquely identified him.

He saw the half-dressed Stablemaster running with a bucket from the watering trough. That was all he needed. He turned and sprinted for the stable.

The first box stall contained Lord Mendor’s blooded stallion, the one called Strongheart, and the swiftest horse in the stable. Mouse opened the door to the stall, led Strongheart out and guided him to the door of the tack room.

In a metal bracket on the tack room wall, he found a torch, the end wrapped in pitch-soaked rags, and fumbled with the flint and steel. The torch sputtered and smoked, but gave enough light so that he could find what he needed in the black interior of the tack room.

Strongheart snorted and tossed his head as Mouse slipped the bridle over his ears. He held the horse firmly, gently scratched the long, aristocratic nose as he murmured soothing words. Strongheart submitted without further fuss and stood obediently docile while Mouse finished saddling him.

Mouse grabbed the torch and turned for the door. As he led the horse out into the stable yard, Strongheart shied violently and laid his ears back at the sight and smell of the burning building. Men burned too. The stench of roasting, charred meat blowing about on the wind knotted Mouse’s belly with nausea, and unexpectedly, made his mouth water.

A sudden shout made Mouse spin around. Drakon and one of the stable slaves ran across the open ground toward the stable. Drakon shouted again, drawing the dagger from his belt, and leaped at Mouse. Mouse used the only weapon he had. He swung the torch with a strength born of anger and desperation. The flaming end slammed into the side of Drakon’s head. Drakon’s hair burst into flame and he fell while the young stable slave gaped in frozen shock. Mouse left Drakon there, screaming in pain and clawing at his head, and pulled Strongheart into the open.

He pointed the horse in the direction of the gates, which the guards had left wide open in their rush to see what the confusion was about. Seeking safety from the fire, the horse was already moving when Mouse vaulted up into the saddle and clung like a cocklebur as the horse’s stride lengthened to a full gallop.

A figure appeared out of the gloom ahead of Mouse. Heart beating wildly in his chest, Mouse leaned closer to Strongheart’s neck, determined to run down both horse and rider if he had to. But at the last moment, the stranger pulled his horse to the side of the track, allowing Mouse to pass unimpeded. Mouse had just time to get an impression of a big man wrapped in a brightly coloured cloak, astride a big, dark horse, and a glimpse of hair turned to flame red by the reflected glow of the fire behind him. As Mouse swept past, he thought he heard the echo of laughter behind him.

Mouse did not look back as Strongheart found the road and turned north toward Isgard.

Six
days
later, a cold, autumnal downpour found Mouse only a league or two from the border between Falinor and Isgard. Once he was clear of Mendor’s Landholding, he had sold the horse and saddle where they would not be recognized. The coin he got for them not only procured a much less distinctive horse, but left him enough to buy a little food. His time in the stables was not ill-spent. The horse was thin and bony, its coat unkempt and scruffy, but it had a good breadth and depth of chest which spoke of stamina and strength, if not blinding speed. He liked the look in its eye. It stood its ground, wary but calm, as Mouse ran his hands over its rough coat, then carefully opened its mouth to look at its teeth. A sound-winded and willing horse, even if not a handsome one, it was an inconspicuous mount, but he thought it would prove reliable.

The fine clothes Mouse had stolen might have made him conspicuous even on the sorrel, but the days of road dust and being slept in soon reduced them to the same scruffiness as the big gelding. Although Mouse had little doubt Mendor knew who burned the barracks and stole the horse, he hoped he would not be recognized without Strongheart.

The inn was small and cheap, an inn where men with little to spend on luxury might find shelter on a wet, stormy night against the misery of the cold rain. The sign over the door, depicting a bell and hammer, hung askew on its rusting pins, the paint cracked and faded. The tables in the common room were deeply scarred and crusted with spilled food. A thick miasma of stale drink, old cooking odours and rotting vegetation from the too-long-unchanged rushes on the dirt floor mingled with the stench of a midden far too close to the kitchen. Mouse wrinkled his nose at the smell, but the light that gleamed though the open door was welcoming, and it looked warm and reasonably dry inside.

For a copper coin, the innkeeper, who smelled nearly as bad as his common room, allowed Mouse to stable the sorrel and throw him a handful of oats and an armful of hay. Two more coppers bought him a corner near the littered hearth where he could sleep wrapped in his cloak beneath the low, soot-blackened beams of the ceiling. Another copper brought him a heel of dark bread, a wedge of cheese and a flagon of sour ale served by a ragged and dirty child of indeterminate gender. It was not much, but it was enough to ease the ache of hunger in his belly, and the ale returned the warmth the rain had stolen from his body.

He finished the sketchy meal quickly. The rain stopped while he ate, but the air blowing through the unglazed windows was still heavy with damp. The second horn of ale went down quickly. Between the ale and the heat of the fire, Mouse let himself relax. Wrapped in the unaccustomed comfort, he leaned his elbows on the table and drank more slowly.

So, he was a little drunk and hardly noticed the bounty hunter until he was well into the room. The man stood a pace or two from the door of the common room and looked around. He was not tall, but he was solidly built and powerful looking, and he wore a longsword on a silver-studded baldric at his left hip, two daggers arranged in leather sheaths at his belt. His lank black hair and black eyes marked him as a Maeduni. His presence silenced what little conversation there had been in the common room. The Maeduni were known for their willingness to kill and the pleasure they took from it. Mouse tried to shrink down into invisibility within his cloak, berating himself for allowing himself to become a little drunk and a lot careless. The bounty hunter’s gaze came to rest on him, and he began walking across the room toward him. The Maeduni towered over Mouse as he huddled on the bench.

“You’ve had a good run, boy,” he said sourly. “Almost worth the reward Mendor will pay.” He drew the sword and held it lightly in his right hand as he stood sneering down at Mouse. “Stand up. We’re starting back to the Landholding right now.”

Despair turned to scalding anger. Mouse came off the bench like an arrow from a bowstring. Too late, the Maeduni brought up the sword to slice at the boy’s head. Mouse ducked under the arm and his shoulder sank deeply into the bounty hunter’s unprotected belly. The breath left the man’s body in an explosive grunt. The sword clattered to the earthen floor as Mouse’s weight bore the Maeduni back toward the stone hearth. The man went down heavily on the flagstones and Mouse rolled free. He bounced to his feet, spun and snatched up the fallen sword.

The Maeduni had already pulled one of the daggers and come to his knee when Mouse whirled back to face him. But even as the bounty hunter drew back to throw the dagger, Mouse lunged forward and sank the blade of the sword into the man’s belly. The bounty hunter slumped back, wild astonishment on his face, and groped for the steel buried deep in his flesh. Then his face went blank and empty, and he sagged back onto the blackened flagstones.

Mouse yanked the sword free, bent to snatch up both the dagger in the bounty hunter’s limp hand and the one still at his belt. No sound came from the small cluster of men at a table in the corner. None of them moved as Mouse straightened up. They watched him for a brief moment, then all of them deliberately turned their backs, unwilling to involve themselves in a quarrel that was none of their making. There was no sign of the innkeeper or the urchin who had served the meal and the ale. Mouse thought they might be crouched behind the serving bar. He thrust both the daggers into his belt and, still holding the sword, ran for the door. He flung it open and ran out into the muddy courtyard.

And slammed right into the waiting arms of Dergus Keepmaster, head steward to Lord Mendor.

The Keepmaster grabbed Mouse’s arms, spun him around and shoved him backward into two Falian border guards. The sword fell into the soaked weeds with a muffled splat. Mouse sagged in the grip of the guards, sickened by the knowledge that Dergus had, after all, a little magic. He must have used it to track him. Mouse still smelled the stench of it on him, and revulsion knotted tight in his belly, raising every hair on the back of his neck. He shivered, trying not to retch.

Magic. He hated magic. It made his skin crawl.

Dergus Keepmaster carefully wiped his hands on a silken handkerchief. He hated to soil his own hands by actually touching a slave, even to kill him for Lord Mendor. Hence, the bounty hunter, Mouse reasoned, still dizzy from the reek of magic.

“Bind him,” Dergus ordered distastefully. “And chain his legs.”

“Now what’s the lad done to make you so upset with him?” a new voice asked.

Mouse shook the hair out of his eyes and saw a man framed in the light of the doorway behind Dergus. The newcomer was tall and broad, and seemed to fill the doorway. His face was in deep shadow and Mouse saw nothing of his expression, but there was laughter in the voice. Mouse frowned. He had seen the man before. He was certain of it, but he could not remember where.

“Seems to me to be a shocking waste of manpower,” the man continued, amusement lilting through the words. His Falian was slightly accented but fluent and correct. He stepped out into the courtyard. The light behind gleamed on hair turned to a blaze like flame in the dark. “Three men just to hold one scrawny boy?”

Dergus straightened his tunic. “The boy is an escaped slave,” he said coldly. “He burned half my lord’s manse and killed several guards in his escape. He also badly wounded my lord’s son, and for that, Mendor will have his head.”