The Book of Kane (19 page)

Night was closing over the mountains on great raven’s wings. Shadow lay deep beneath the blue-grey pines and frost-firedhardwoods which shouldered over the narrow trail. Darkness hungrily swallowed the valleys and hollows that spread out below them—pools of gloom from which waves of mist rose to storm the wooded slopes and poor over the limestone ridges.

A battered, gut-weary handful of hunted men—ruthless, half-wild outlaws hounded by killers as remorseless as themselves. Shivering in their dirt and blood-caked bandages, they rode on in grim determination, thoughts numb to pain and fear—although both phantoms rode beside them—intent on nothing more than the deadly necessity of flight. Flight from the hired bounty killers who followed almost on the sound of their hoofbeats.

They were well mounted; their gear was chosen from the plunder of uncounted raids. But now their horses stumbled with fatigue, their gear was worn and travel-stained, their weapons notched and dulled from hard fighting. They were the last. The last on this side of Hell of those who had ridden behind Kane, as feared and daring an outlaw pack as had ever roamed the Myceum Mountains.

No more would they set upon travellers along the lonely mountain passes, pillage merchants’ camps, terrorize isolated settlements. Never again would they sweep down from the dark-pined slopes and lay waste to villages of the coastal plains, then dart back into the secret fastness of the mountains where the Combine’s cavalry dared not venture. Their comrades were dead, fed ravens in a forgotten valley countless twisted miles behind their bent shoulders. Their leader, whose infamous cunning and deadly sword at last had failed them, was dying in his saddle.

They were all dead men.

And night was upon them.

“Thoem! It’s dark as the inside of a tomb!” cursed Weed, trying to follow the shadow-hidden trail. He glanced uneasily at the blood-hued disk rising above the ridges of autumn. The moon cast no light this night.

“We’re almost there,” Darros promised him from the darkness ahead.

Moments later the trail rose over a gap, and he called back, “There it is! And there’s lights! The inn hasn’t been deserted, after all.”

Not quite, Weed observed. Even in the thick gloom, he could see that Raven’s Eyrie lay half in ruins. The grey stone and black timber structure crouched on the edge of the deep valley below them, rising from a bluff overlooking the River Cotras. By the dim-eyed rows of windows, Weed noted that the main building of the sprawling caravanserai stood at least three storeys . The outlying wings of the inn appeared no more than fire-gutted walls. River mist hung over the blackened walls of Raven’s Eyrie, and in the darkness below the limestone bluff, the Cotras thundered its unseen rush to the western coast.

Cautiously they urged their exhausted mounts down the twisting path that descended the ridge from the gap. The last grey ghost of twilight died away as they emerged from the pine-buried slope and reached the river road. Though wider than the path they had been following, the river road showed signs of neglect. New saplings speared through its hoof-beaten surface, and older trees reached out from the looming forest on either side. Men and horses had ridden by, and smaller hoofprints marked the passage of an occasional drover, but wagon ruts were few, and these old and eroded. Weed reflected that the depredations of Kane and his men probably explained the near abandonment of this once heavily travelled trace.

In darkness they approached the inn. Only a few of the outbuildings remained standing, but they could catch the smell and soft noises of horses and livestock. Several lighted windows of bull’s-eye glass stared dimly toward the road. A pair of smoky lanterns hung beside the front entrance, but the thick timbered door had the look of being bolted. A wooden sign hung out above the lanterns, swinging slightly, though the wind was less raking here in the valley. Its paint was charred, and the panel bore blade scars, but Weed could make out the blocky Lartroxian letters: “Raven’s Eyrie.” On the sign above the letters perched a huge raven, in bas-relief and painted black. Someone had set a bit of red glass into the bird’s eye, and lamplight glinted there. The raven seemed to watch their approach.

“How many would you say?” Weed asked Darros, after the other had ridden ahead for a closer look.

“Not very many, by all signs,” the crossbowman replied. “Looks like just a few people are keeping the inn going. Them and maybe a few travellers , I’d guess. Strange their dogs haven’t scented us.”

“Shouldn’t be much trouble, then.” Weed turned in the darkness to give orders. Frassos did not respond when he called his name.

“Frassos?” he called again.

No reply. His riderless horse wandered forward instead.

They conferred in startled bewilderment. Frassos had ridden behind, guarding their rear. No one had heard him cry out; no onehad heard the sound of a fall.

“We’re all of us done in twice over,” suggested Braddeyas. “Maybe he passed out and fell.”

“We should have heard him if he did,” Weed pointed out.

“Should we go back and look for him?”

The red moon burned down on them from the misty ridges. Weed shivered under its rusty glow, remembering the mountainlegends he had heard of this night.

“Does anyone want the job?”

It was too dark to see their eyes, but Weed sensed that no one met his face.

“If Frassos is all right, he can catch up to us at the inn,” muttered Seth. There was no confidence in his voice.

For the space of a dream, Klesst drifted in the restless sleep of fever. Shaken front her half-sleep by sudden angry stridor , she flung herself free of covers in frightened awakening.

The moon’s burning eve stared at her through the rippled panes of her window, and Klesst threw her hand to her lips to stifle air outcry. From below in the inn, angry shouts, splintering clamour of overturned benches, a raw scream of pain.

Had the black hound at last found her? Had it broken past the door? Was it even now climbing the stairs to her room?

But the angry voices continued. The words were indistinct to her, but their tone was clear. Now more carious than afraid, Klesst decided she must see what had happened.

Dizzily she dropped her feet to the floor and held fast to the oak bedstead until steadiness returned to hot limbs. The night’s chill pierced her thin cotton shift, and she hurriedly wound about her shoulders the woolen coverlet Greshha had woven for her. For the moment, her fever had left her, andthough suddenly cold, she felt a certain shaky strength in its wake. Her teeth chartered; the fire in her room had almost died, and no one had filled the woodbox .

The angry shouts had subsided by the time Klesst tiptoed down the narrow halfway to the balcony overlooking the inn’s common room. Cautiously she crept through the shadows to the pine log railing and peered from behind a gnarled post.

She darted back in fear—then, certain that the shadows concealed her, risked a longer glance. Her eyes grew wide with a child’s wondering stare.

The front door of the inn was flung open. Cold gusts slanted the lantern flames, spun curled leaves across the threshold. Strangers—wild, dangerous men—had burst into Raven’s Eyrie.Death had entered with them.

A burly, black-bearded man held a cocked crossbow; his eyes searched the shadows of the common room and raked the balconywhere Klesst crouched closer to the log railing. Another man with gangling limbs and mousy, straw-colored hair brandished a narrow blade of unusual length. He seemed to be in charge, for he snarled commands to someone outside the inn.

The inhabitants of the inn and its few guests stood frozen against the long bar. There was Mother, her expression unreadable, with Selle, the scrawny serving maid, cowering against her. Pot-bellied Cholos, who served her mother as tapster, licked his lips nervously and glanced sidelong at the hulking Mauderas, who kept the stables and saw to such heavy work as was ever done at Raven’s Eyrie. Mauderas’s eyes were sullen as he pressed a hand to his crimson-sodden sleeve. Two guests, apparently drovers, were backed against the bar as well. Another guest, whose green tunic identified him as a ranger, lay crumpled beside an overturned table, a crossbow bolt through his back.

Bandits!Klesst realized with a shudder, recalling the many lurid tales she had listened in on, safely crouched by the corner of the fireplace. The murderous outlaws who held sway over the mountain wilderness—who had laid waste to Raven’s Eyrie one awful night before her birth.

There was a disturbance at the door. Two more bandits appeared, staggering under the burden of a third man. One was a wiry figure, partially bald and gap-toothed, though his hair was barely greyed . The other was a husky, swarthy-faced tough with cropped ears and battered nose. The man they shouldered between them was as large as the two together. His clothes were filthy with dirt and caked blood; matted red hair bung over his bearded, brutal face. Klesst remembered the stories she had heard of ogres and trolls that were said to haunt the mountains, lairing in hidden caves and creeping forth at night to pull down travellers and steal little girls from their beds. Klesst had thought the big man unconscious. But as the outlaws supported him into the room, his knees suddenly straightened, and she heard him say, “I’ll sit over there.”

Somewhat impatiently he pulled free of their grasp and half fell onto a low-backed oak chair next to the fire. The crop-eared bandit righted the overturned table and shoved it before him, while the blond procured a thick bottle of brandy from the trembling Cholos and crossed the room. The red-haired giant mutely accepted the bottle and tilted it to his lips for a long swallow. When he thudded it to the table, the dark green glass was empty to half its depth.

Gingerly he brushed the tangled strands of hair from his face and settled his wolfskin cloak about his shoulders, his manner at once domineering. Fresh blood soaked crude bandages along the slashed side of his leather hacton , and a crusted wound on his scalp had streaked his face with dried blood. Beneath the rust of beard and caked gore, his face was white with fever.

His eyes seemed to glow with a strange blue light by the fire. Perhaps it was the fever. Almost casually his gaze wandered about the room, touched the shadowed balcony where Klesst crouched. For an instant his eyes met hers, and Klesst froze with fear. There was something unnatural about his eyes, she instantly realized—and something familiar. But while he must have seen her, his gaze did not pause in its quick surveillance of the common room.

Instead, his stare halted on her mother’s face. Thoughtfully he studied her, as if searching for a memory.

“Good evening, Ionor,” he greeted her then.

Mother’s lips were a tight line, and Klesst could sense the tension in her unsmiling face. “Hello, Kane,” she whispered, and quickly turned her eyes from his stare.

Klesst sucked in her breath, recognizing Kane from the countless tales she had overheard of the dread bandit leader. No wonder they stood frozen in fear at the bar…

Then she heard Kane ask, “Weed, did you check to see if there was anyone else in the upstairs rooms—other than that kid up there by the railing?”

The lanky blond outlaw started to reply, “Just checked the outbuildings so far—going to search the inn right now. They said there wasn’t anybody else here…”

“Be certain,” ordered Kane. “And stick that kid in bed.” But Klesst had already fled to her room.

“How are you feeling?” asked Weed, more than a little surprised that Kane had regained consciousness. But then there always seemed to burn some last reserve of strength within his huge body.

Kane grunted noncommittally. “Damn fever comes and goes. Hard to know where I am part of the time. Could swear I wasn’t wounded that bad—unless that quarrel was poisoned.”

“Ought to have Braddeyas clean that hole in your side, Put on a fresh dressing. Likely it’s all festered along your ribs.”

“Later, maybe. Don’t want to start it bleeding again.” Kane rubbed his forehead wearily, wiping away dried blood and greasy trickles of sweat. “Feel stronger once I get some food down, catch some sleep. Can’t spare more than a few hours—Pleddis can’t be far back.”

“Figure we can risk it here till dawn. Darros says Pleddis will have to camp. Demonlord’s Moon tonight.” Weed paused, then added: “We lost Frassos coming down the ridge.”

“No point looking for him,” Kane concluded simply. “Not this night.”

Seth came stomping down from the rooms overhead. “Nobody else here,” he reported. “Just a skinny girl, and I locked her in her room. Second floor’s pretty near empty, but there’s a big room with a fire going on the third.”

Kane nodded. It was hard to concentrate, and he could feel his strength ebbing once more. “Put a guard where he can watch outside, Weed,” he ordered. “Another man stay awake to watch things here. There’s a big storeroom past the kitchen there. Tie the men and lock them inside it—no point killing them if they stay in line. Toss that body in with them.

“Leave the women out to clean up this mess. Doubt if anyone else will come along tonight, but if they do, we don’t need to give alarm the instant they walk in. Then they can put together some food for us. Watch them closely, though.”

His eyes returned to Ionor’s drawn face. “But you wouldn’t try to poison me, would you, Ionor?”

“It’s a cleaner death than I’d wish for you, Kane,” came her strained reply.

“Bring me another bottle,” Kane told her mockingly. “And one of those hens I smell roasting.” Grudgingly she complied. Kane watched the sway of her body as she stiffly came toward him; memory of her drew his lips in a cold smile.

“Sit down,” he said. Since it was not an invitation, loner sat down across from him, taking the chair his boot dragged forward.

“Are your memories so bitter, Ionor?” Her voice was cold, drained of anger—deceptive, for hate edged its timbre. “You and your bandits raided my father’s inn, slaughtered our guests, murdered my family, looted and set fire to Raven’s Eyrie. You gave my younger sisters to your men to rape until death was a mercy! I could hear their screams even as you had your way with me. I can still hear them. No, Kane! Bitter is too sweet a word for the memories I have of you!”