Murmurs and whispers, sometimes laughter, echoed out to him now as he moved ghostlike through the streets. A pair of guards passed by him, so close he could smell the leeks they had recently eaten. He could have reached out and smashed their skulls together and left them in the road. Instead, he sampled the fabric of a coarse-woven tunic with his fingertips, and savored the experience with a grin as the unknowing wearer continued on.
You are too bold
, the wind said to him suddenly as it rustled the hair under his hood.
I could blow your scent to them. Or I could flutter the folds of your cloak so their ears would hear.
But it was not really the wind, nor the Witch's voice, which sounded so like the wind. It was his own conscience, chiding him for his arrogance and warning him. He slunk back into darkness, determined to avoid anyone else who wandered abroad in the night.
The sound of horses alerted him. Well-hidden at the mouth of an alley, where the stench of slop promised to keep all others at bay, he watched a patrol ride by. Six men, two abreast, they all bore torches to light their way through the black streets. The brilliance of the fire pained Innowen's gloom-widened eyes. He bit his lip and peered through slitted lids, half-expecting, for reasons he couldn't guess, to see Vashni astride one of those beasts.
That was foolishness on his part. The clip-clop of the hooves faded. Innowen slipped from his hiding place and watched the torches and the soldiers disappear around a distant corner. Only then did he wrinkle his nose at the alley's horrid smell. He gave his cloak a sniff to make sure none of the stink clung to it. Satisfied, he hurried away.
A weak cry and a strange, unidentifiable thudding next alerted him. There was no light on the street, though, so no need to hide. He pressed himself against a wall and listened.
The sound came from around the corner. Again the moan of pain, very weak, over and over again. Sometimes sharp, sometimes a bare utterance. And
thud
. Pause.
Thud, thud, thud.
Pause.
Thud.
Then, an ugly laughter.
Thud.
Someone was being beaten. Innowen closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the hard stone, and let his breath out slowly. He didn't need to look. His head rolled forward until his chin touched his chest, and he drew a deep breath. Cautiously, he strained toward the corner, poked his head around the edge of a wall, and gazed at a scene that sickened him.
Plenty of light spilled through an open doorway. It shone plainly on three soldiers and a naked, broken old man half-conscious at their feet. The soldiers kicked the man repeatedly in the stomach, the back, in the face. A pool of blood gleamed wetly under the poor man's head. His eyes and mouth were horribly swollen and torn. But their victim barely responded now to their brutal blows, except with grunts and groans and a twitching that made Innowen want to vomit.
The soldiers showed no signs of stopping. They laughed, enjoying the torture they inflicted. They would kick the man to death.
Thud. Thud, thud.
Innowen slipped across the roadway and hurried on. There was nothing he could do. He was but one man, and they were three. The old man was probably already dead. If he wasn't, he would be shortly from those injuries.
He made it two more blocks before he turned back.
Thud.
Innowen stepped into the lighted street. This time, one of the soldiers chanced to look up and see him. Immediately, he reached out and caught his comrades by their sleeves. A look of fear crossed over his face, plain to see in the light from the open door.
"Lord Vashni!" the frightened soldier cried, tugging at his friends, pulling them away from the old man.
The name made Innowen freeze. He jerked around to see if Vashni was truly behind him. Then he understood the soldier's mistake. A trick of the night, the black hood, the black cloak...
The tallest soldier possessed better eyesight.
"That's not Vashni, you fool!" he muttered angrily, jerking free of his frightened comrade. To Innowen, he hissed, "Get your arse out of here, stranger, unless you want it carved," He brushed one hand over the hilt of the sword he wore at his waist. "You're spoiling our fun." He gave the old man another kick.
No sound came from the old man. He was unconscious or dead. He couldn't have seen through those swollen eyes anyway. Innowen touched the clasp at his throat, and his cloak slithered over his shoulders to the ground.
The tall one unsheathed his blade. Scowling, he stepped over the old man and advanced down the street.
Innowen's eyes sought the soldier's, and their gazes locked. Languidly, Innowen raised his hands. He shifted his ribcage right, then left, then in a slow, sensuous circle, never moving his hips until the movement with his chest was complete. Next, his hips described the same pattern.
The soldier's step faltered. He licked his lips with a darting tongue, never taking his gaze from Innowen. The point of his sword dipped. Yet still he came on.
Without breaking the gaze that bound them, Innowen rolled his head from side to side and around his shoulders. His arms snaked up and down in the air, weaving patterns. He made a graceful undulation and took a step sideways. He swayed and shifted to the left.
Dimly, Innowen heard the sound of running feet as one of the other soldiers fled. A loud moaning came from farther down the street, and another sound.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
Innowen gazed up into the taller soldier's eyes, and the sword between them lowered completely. They stood close enough now that Innowen could feel the heat of the other man's body, smell his sweat, hear his quick and shallow breathing. Standing directly before the soldier, he made another undulation, flinging his head and his arms back.
The soldier reached out slowly with his free hand. The tips of his fingers touched the flesh just over Innowen's heart.
Innowen steeled himself and gazed deep into the soldier's eyes. Horrors burned in those black pupils, like dancing visions that Innowen could see, and hungers. Hungers that had Innowen's face and Innowen's form.
Shocked, Innowen almost stopped his dance. Instead, he began to turn, slowly at first, then faster as he drew his arms in. One hand closed on the hilt of his sword, and as he came round the next time, he jerked it free and drew the edge across the soldier's throat.
A spray of blood fountained over him as he jumped back. The soldier continued to stare at him as one hand rose to close on the wound. Blood pumped richly between his fingers. Still, he gazed at Innowen, and a terrible sadness settled over his face. Suddenly, he gave a cry of despair. His knees buckled, and he sagged to the street, sprawling forward. Still watching Innowen, he convulsed and died. His blank eyes continued to stare.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
Innowen shuddered and glanced up. The last remaining soldier, the one who had mistaken him for Vashni, bent over the old man in the street. His right foot worked like a relentless hammer, smashing the corpse again and again, for it was surely a corpse by now. He seemed oblivious to Innowen. All that mattered to him was to kick the old man, and kick, and kick.
Innowen gave a wild cry, raised his sword, and ran down the street, slamming the hilt of his weapon down on the soldier's unprotected neck, sending him toppling with the force of the blow. A cry of pain and surprise issued from the soldier as Innowen straddled him. Twice he stabbed downward, plunging his sword deep into the man's back before his own rage was spent.
He stopped, breathing rapidly, his heart pounding like a furious, caged beast. He wiped a hand across his lips, then licked them. Suddenly, he spit with a gagging sound, his mouth full of bitterness. He stared at the hand he had used to wipe his mouth. It was black with blood.
He shot a glance up and down the street, then at the doors and windows of the upper-level apartments above him, fearful that someone might have seen. There was no light in any of the windows, though, and no sound. The street was eerily silent.
Maybe the sounds of the beating and the soldiers' cold-hearted laughter had driven everyone behind locked doors and shutters. But he couldn't count on that.
The old man was dead, as Innowen had known he would be. There was truly nothing he could have done, and nothing he could do now. All he had really managed was to exact a measure of vengeance for the old man's suffering. Kneeling by the corpse, he felt a flush of sadness. Under the swelling and the cuts and the bruises, there was a kind face. A man who had managed to live so long, he considered, should not have come to such a disrespectful end.
He rose slowly and stared down the street. One soldier had escaped, though perhaps
escape
was not quite the right word. He wondered what he had awakened in the man that had terrified him so. Grimly, he hoped it was something to rival the horrors of hell itself.
He picked the old man up and carried him through the lighted doorway. It was a small apartment with a half bed in one corner. Innowen laid him there and drew a s rough blanket up to his waist before he turned away. There was nothing to give a clue why the soldiers had come here, or why they had attacked the old man. The furniture was crude by any standard. There was no food or liquor to steal, no jewelry, not even a candlestick. Innowen shook his head at the senselessness of it and started to leave.
On a small, rickety table, he spied a folded piece of soft linen, the only thing of any possible value. He lifted it up and shook it loose. Plain linen, that was all. A large square. He shook his head again. It made a good enough towel to wipe the copious blood that had sprayed on his body. He wiped his sword, too, before he sheathed it.
He recovered his cloak from the street as he left and fastened it about his shoulders again. He drew it close, not just for its concealing effect. Though the night was warm, he felt quite chilled.
Chapter 16
A single guard stood at the mouth of the road that led up to Parendur's palace. Large and powerfully built, he stood at casual attention with a shield on his arm and a lance in his free hand. A small lantern and a waterskin rested nearby. Its scant light gleamed on his greaves and breastplate and on the helm with its short crest. He wore a sword, too, and a dagger. There was nothing of the ragtag rebel about him. This man was a disciplined mercenary, a professional soldier. Another Dardan, from the look of him.
The swelling moon had just begun its slow flight through the heavens. It shone like a drop of molten gold low on the eastern horizon, barely above the black rooftops. At its zenith it would spill a dangerous light on the city's shadows, and he would have to move cautiously, lest he be noticed. It reminded Innowen, somehow, of the visions he had seen in the tall man's eyes, cold and menacing, and he looked away from it.
Parendur squatted like a citadel on the summit of its low hillock. Gone was the glitter that the daytime sun brought out in the white stone. Hidden was the grace of the fluted colonnades and polished balconies. Now it was a harsh block, all sharp, black lines and cruel angles. The lamplight in the windows was inadequate to illumine the palace's beauty. The torches in the courtyards only mocked its daytime splendor by birthing the shadows and strange flickerings that cavorted on its walls.
Now it was a spider, and the city was its web.
Crouched in the darkened doorway of the building nearest the guard, Innowen whispered, his voice no louder than the soft stirring of the wind,
"Weary soldier, hear my song;
A soft and downy bed is sweet
With dreamy sweethearts to hold and greet
And love to dream of all
night
long."
The guard reacted at once. His shield snapped up. The point of his lance tipped forward. His head moved ever so slightly as he scanned up and down the street that ran before him. "Who's there?" he challenged with the barest hint of fear in his voice.
Innowen took advantage of the darkness and quickly slipped into another place of concealment. After a few moments, the soldier took a pace forward and stared with greater deliberation into the surrounding blackness. At length, he relaxed, lowered his shield, and returned to his post. Setting his lance aside, he picked up the waterskin, unstoppered it, and took a drink. Then he moved the lantern just a bit closer and resumed his watch.
When the guard was at ease, Innowen whispered again from his place of hiding,
"Heed the beat of slumber's wings;
Strange pleasures lurk in soft repose
To soothe us, like the wind that blows;
Dreams are haunting little things."
Once more, the guard snapped to alertness. "Who's there?" he demanded. This time there was a tremorous note in his speech, and under the rim of his helm, his eyes shifted back and forth, nervously searching the darkness. "Stand forth and show yourself! Are you a man?"
Innowen glided silently into yet another hiding place and pulled a piece of his hood over his mouth to muffle his quietly spoken words. "A shadow," was all the answer he gave.
It was odd to watch such a physically large man shrink in upon himself, yet that was sometimes the effect of fear. "A spirit, you mean!" the man hissed. "Did the Witch send you? Go away! Why speak of sleep? I'm wide awake!"