Mordraud, Book One (51 page)

Pedestrians dodged to let him
pass, chattering in amusement. His face must have been particularly comical. He didn’t know where he could go. Gwern had finally left. Not Larois’s place, not for the life of him. That old hawk would work everything out in a flash. The only viable option was the dorm lads, who’d certainly already started on the wine.

“
I want to kill someone!”

The peasant woman in front nearly dived out of the way in fear.
Mordraud went on running, in the hope of expelling the tension that had burrowed into his stomach. It didn’t work.

“
Wine’s the only alternative...” he concluded, cursing. “Damn them... It’s going to be a horrendous night.”

***

“I’ve never seen you looking so lovely!”

“
It’s all for you, darling.”

Adraman
embraced his wife and kissed her in disbelief. Deanna didn’t put up the usual defences. To the contrary: she seemed unrestrained and more willing than usual. “Why don’t we go upstairs for a while?” he asked tentatively.

“
The dinner can wait,” was her reply. Distracted by enticing thoughts, Adraman didn’t pick up on the meaning of every nuance of expression on Deanna’s face. He was so overwhelmed by the welcome surprise that he couldn’t notice how cold and artificial she really was, like a splendid porcelain doll – perfect and yet fragile.

But
even if he had detected it, he probably wouldn’t have cared, caught up as he was in that rare occasion. He would have his ration of happiness that evening, at least for one night.

Deanna
gave herself without protest. It was quick, painless and even pleasant at times. Adraman was fearfully excited, and Deanna made sure everything went as best it could. Too much for him, too little for her. Not an hour had passed before he was sleeping soundly at her side, smiling and relaxed.

Deanna
could then slip out of bed, notify the servants that their masters wouldn’t be dining that evening, and finally enjoy her reading room.

To finish that long, extremely long book.

***

“
And so I did... THIS!” Mordraud lifted his tankard above his head and doused all those present with wine. When he crashed it to the table, he was left gripping the pewter handle while the body flew off and cracked against the wall of the room. “And him... WALLOP. Dead. Stone-cold.”

“
Great one, boss! D’you remember Ice’s face?! More or less... like this...”

Benno
threw his mouth open, tilted his head to one side and widened his eyes like a lunatic. Mercy and Giant laughed until bent double on their seats. Hammer was peeling the end of a salami with a large knife, chuckling coarsely at each new tale or quip his friends came out with. No tavern for them that night. Mordraud had joined them at the barracks with a large keg of wine on his shoulder, they’d locked the kitchen door after dinnertime and had got down to revelry.

“
Go on, Mercy, just for tonight...”

“
What is it, chief?”

“
Tell us why they call you
Mercy
!”

Mercy
’s face was suddenly overcast. His smile vanished. His hands stiffened on the table. The atmosphere turned icy in a flash.

“
Because I was looking for a good nickname. One of those that make people shit their pants.”

Mercy
spoke in extreme earnest and with conviction. They all nodded in satisfaction at the explanation.

“
Nothing more?”

“
No...” he returned in a glib tone. His hand slipped to the grip of one of his two daggers. “What makes you think that, boss?”

Mordraud
stared at Mercy in silence, a serious look on his face. Then, at the same time, they both burst out laughing, spraying wine and bits of bread.

“
Hey, Benno, and that time on the Rampart?” went on Mordraud, caught up in reminiscing. “
I’m scared... I’m crapping myself... I want my mum
...”

Mordraud
pretended to cry theatrically, but the pantomime cost him his balance. He came close to ending up on the floor, like a real dork. Giant, as usual, seemed as sober as if he’d taken a long draught of rainwater, and caught him in mid-air.

“
Boss, you really are a duffer... at drinking, I mean!”

“
Well,
you
must have a hole somewhere for the wine to drain out of... you friggin’ holey dwarf!” Mordraud touched the man’s face and shoulders with a concerned air, then grinned and slapped his hand on the table. “I’ve got it! Your arse is attached to your mouth! That’s why you never get drunk!”

A
nother excessive effort. That time Mordraud tumbled to the floor, and they all laughed until purple in the face.

“
Chief, I think it’s time for you to get to bed! Like a young kid, after dinner!” pronounced Mercy, spluttering. He was also at the end of the road, like all the others.

“
Bah, go screw yourselves. I’m not drunk!”

Mordraud
didn’t achieve the desired effect. His friends hooted even louder, and Hammer dragged him to the door without listening.

“
You’ve got to speak to Eldain tomorrow. If you blame us, we’ll be in trouble... Go to bed, boss. We’ll drain the rest of the keg toasting your health!”

“
Bastards...” groused Mordraud, staggering off on dangerous legs.

The
night was warm and veiled with a slight mist. The town was livelier than usual, thanks to the Empire’s unexpected lull. Mordraud wondered whether it really wasn’t time to get to bed, but the idea of sleeping in that pitiful state didn’t entice him. He’d be sick, and then nauseous till lunchtime the next day.

“
I’ve got to work it off a bit...” he mumbled, heading towards the town walls. “The lads on guard might let me up to get a breath of fresh air...”

The
soldiers on duty recognised him at once and made fun of his state, but with no nastiness. Without realising it, Mordraud had become a minor celebrity. Survivor of the Battle of Fire, commander of his own regiment, killer of Lances. All in less than a year. An achievement that was obvious to all except himself.

The view from the walls was always
glorious. The countryside was brightened by the soft light of a moon concealed by fine clouds, and the breeze was cool and pleasant. His drunkenness gradually released its hold, and the reasons he’d sought that solace with such determination resurfaced with implacable niggling. In a now well-familiar ritual, Mordraud took out his pipe, filled it with a couple of pinches of tobacco and lit it with an ember from the brazier at the foot of the stairs. It was Adraman’s favourite blend, which the captain unfailingly stocked him with when they met in the mess tent of an evening. Since he’d found him wounded after the battle, Adraman had become a friend. They saw each other rarely, but never missed a chance for a smoke together to update one other on life at the front. Mordraud felt sick, and puked the contents of his stomach over the side of the battlements.

‘
You’re a bastard... a real bastard.’

The
wine had by now lost all effect on him. It only took a moment of thinking about Adraman to also conjure up Deanna in his head.

The
red dress. Her fingers toying with the laces. And, above all else, her bare legs clutching him.

Adraman
who offered him the pipe. Adraman who taught him how to fill it, and light it.

Deanna
, naked and writhing in his arms. Her skin in his hands. Her rounded breasts swaying in his face.

Adraman. Deanna. Adraman. Deanna.

Mordraud threw up what little remained in his stomach, in the hope of also spitting out a sliver of his soul. But that bitch wouldn’t show itself.

***

When the door opened behind her, she was ready that time.

“
Didn’t I tell you to leave this house?”

Mordraud
didn’t utter a word. He was soaking, from head to foot, but his clothes were dry.

“
Did you throw yourself down a well? Did you want to kill yourself?”

“
More or less.”

Mordraud
locked the door and swooped down. Deanna put out her arms to keep him away, but he grabbed her hands and flung her onto the upholstered armchair.

“
I told you there wouldn’t be a second time, you bastard!”

“
Say it again!” he snarled.

“
You’re a bastard!” whimpered Deanna.

Mordraud
seized the hem of the red dress and tore it. Beneath, Deanna was completely naked. She was panting, but wore the same look as on that afternoon. Spurning. Contempt.

“
I don’t want you to!”

“
Oh yes you do.”

Mordraud
parted her legs, planted himself between them to prevent her from shutting them, and yanked off his shirt, whipping off the row of buttons, which tinkled on the floor like mute rain. The sword and the strain had done a marvellous job with his muscles.

“
Because you have the heart of a bastard too. Like me. We’re the same, we are... Weren’t you aware?”

Deanna
dug her nails into his chest and dragged them down to his belt. Eight tracks of blood, but no pain. Mordraud pushed her thighs wide and pulled her up to balance on the armchair.

“
Do it again.”

Deanna
began slowly scratching his back, neck and sides. Sometimes gently, others with all her strength. Mordraud consumed her. He just had to be careful not to devour her. No love. They were just two animals locked in a cage.

“
Fuck me...”

Deanna
squeezed her legs around him and crossed them. Mordraud clutched her head and took her hair between his fingers. The armchair squeaked and rocked, on the verge of breaking. So he picked her up and threw her on the desk, steadying himself with a hand against the wall.

“
You’re a bastard... That makes two of us...” murmured Deanna, slowly passing her tongue across her lips. Mordraud considered biting it off. The table creaked under his thrusts, and a leg collapsed.

“
Not... too much noise...”

“
BE QUIET!”

They
fell to the floor. Deanna pinned his arms down and took control of the movements. The world was upside down. Mordraud felt the aftermath of his drunkenness return with a terrifying violence. Deanna went on scratching him and biting his neck, as she continued writhing and pounding him against the cold stone slabs.

Mordraud
came close to fainting, and Deanna had to cover his mouth to prevent him from shouting. In the end she crumpled too, slumping on top of him. They fell asleep like that, embracing on the floor, united by the blood that trickled from Mordraud’s chest onto her breasts.

***

The rope was taut, and bent the plank it was tied to. The six dangling corpses swayed in the wind, knocking each other like chicken carcasses left to dry in the shade. The crowd was breaking up, content with the spectacle. The soldiers had taken the rostrum away, and only the hangman remained, next to his handiwork, admiring this with satisfaction. The Emperor’s justice had run its course.

“
One less threat to worry about,” Asaeld pronounced, entreating him to go home. “And if there are any more like these, they’ll think twice before attempting something of the sort.”

The Lance
commander had been diligent and swift. With men sent to root around in every hovel or brothel, and hidden in every well-known or minor watering-hole or den, he’d met little difficulty in routing out the plotters, who were unaware of what was about to happen. How he’d really found them, and where he’d dug up proof of their guilt, Dunwich didn’t actually know. But Asaeld was in a position where he had no margin for mistake or flippancy. Dunwich was convinced he’d done the best job possible.

But
killing them was perhaps extreme. They’d gone from judgement day to the gallows before the full moon had waned. The six condemned men were certainly no lambs. They’d already had their rubs with gendarmes, some for murder, others for brutal theft or usury. Sinister figures who everyone wanted to see hanging in a noose. The years of war against the rebels had made people suspicious and paranoid. Instead, Dunwich hadn’t enjoyed a single moment of that public execution.

“
Did we at least find out what their plan was?” he asked, standing still and observing the swaying bodies. “Who paid them, or who was behind it? There’s always someone behind it all...”

“
Cambria’s too big a city, with too long a shadow...” replied Asaeld. “And everything is concealed within its shadow. The war and the Empire are inconvenient, they are a hazard to business, besides draining in terms of manpower. Criminality prospers. Loralon tightened the strings on the net, by throwing several men with corrupt dealings into prison. I saw to it personally not even a year ago.”