The Guardian (18 page)

N
estor gestured at what he’d made. “These shall find Ellyn.”

“Marriage with Ryadne would be easier.” Talan paced the confines of the building that had once been a temple, now given over to Nestor’s dark machinations. He found it difficult to look at the Vachyn sorcerer’s creations. “What are they? How shall they find me Ellyn?”

“Come, look.” Nestor set a hand on Talan’s shoulder, propelling him toward the closest of his creations. “You gave me men and dogs, no? And I have melded them into one creature. They’ll find Ellyn wherever she is.”

He touched the creature and it rose snarling from its bed. Talan sprang back, horrified. The thing wore the outlines of a man, but altered, the body massively muscled and thick with hair, the eyes sunk red beneath overhanging craggy brows, the nostrils wide and flaring. The jaw extended so that the lips parted over long yellow fangs. Nestor gestured and it sank onto its haunches like some obedient dog. Talan saw that its fingers ended in long claws, and that its feet were similarly weaponed. It panted noisily, looking from him to the Vachyn as if it awaited Nestor’s order to attack.

“By the gods, what have you made?” Talan backed away from the snarling beast.

“The answer to your problem.” Nestor chuckled. “They’ll not harm you, only Ellyn and whoever guards her. Trust me, eh?”

E
llyn lay sleepless and despairing on the cold ground. She could hear Gailard’s steady breathing, and wondered how he could find slumber’s refuge when so awful a fate awaited him. It seemed as if he were resigned to death, concerned only for her safety and willing to trade his life to that end. Almost, she could rage against his fatalism—was tempted to shake him awake and demand he find them some avenue of escape—but that would be tantamount to questioning his
courage, and
that
was a commodity she could not deny. So she only stared at his supine form and struggled to hold back her tears, wondering what she could do.

Her mother had promised her she owned the magical talent: she screwed her eyes tight shut and clenched her fists, endeavoring to summon that power.

She would call up magic to spirit them both away, sending thunderbolts raining down on Eryk and Rytha as she went. She’d flay them as they threatened to flay Gailard. She’d … Feel nothing, and open her eyes to find the tent night-dark and cold, and Gailard still asleep. She moaned, burgeoning anger ebbing as despair flooded back. There was nothing she could do. She was helpless. She was caught surely as a partridge in some poacher’s net, and these Devyn savages would execute Gailard and trade her to Talan.

Tears came again, running silently down her cheeks, unstemmed now that all hope was lost. She reached out a hand to touch Gailard’s shoulder, anxious for what small comfort that contact might bring. Then held back. He would need all his strength come the morrow, and the least she could do was allow him a sound night’s sleep. Though she could not understand how he could sleep when such an awful fate awaited him.

He was, she thought forlornly, a most unusual man. Then she drew up her knees and curled her arms around her breeches and sat staring at him as the night aged and the day’s horrors drew closer.

T
he gates were broken down and Chorym’s walls were jagged and wrecked. Fires burned, ignited by the catapults and magic, and frightened folk filled the streets. Talan’s men entered the city, and Ryadne saw her commanders fall. Danant’s soldiers raged like some bloody flood tide, slaying at will, careless of whether they put their blades into armored warriors or terrified citizens.

She met Talan on the ramparts. She had a dozen guardsmen around her—all that were left now—and she wore
golden armor that echoed that of her dead husband. To her left stood a section of broken wall tumbled down like sad, old dreams onto the conquered ground below.

Talan said, “Lady, only agree that I am the rightful conqueror and I shall marry you and make you great. You shall be queen of both Chaldor and Danant.”

She said, “Will you let my people live?”

“As my subjects,” Talan said.

“And these?” Ryadne gestured at her last defenders.

“Do they lay down their blades and swear fealty to me.”

One of Ryadne’s men said, “I’ll not do that.”

Another said, “I cannot.”

Egor Dival said, “Your city is lost. You fought bravely, and do you surrender you shall be treated well—my word on that.”

A man said, “Danant’s word? Did you treat our people well?”

And Talan gestured, and archers stepped forward and put shafts through the guards’ armor so that they fell down around Ryadne like chaff under the sickle even as Dival shouted, “No!”

“What other choice was there?” Talan asked his general as Dival fumed and protested. “They’d not surrender, and I’d have this woman for my bride.”

Ryadne said, “You’ll not, and I pray that the gods curse you and damn you.”

Then, before any could halt her, she stepped onto the broken ramparts of her defeated city and flung herself away and down into the oblivion she hoped might reunite her with Andur.

I
slept not at all that night; I could not, for fear of the dawn. It was not so much fear of my own fate—I had faced death before—as concern for Ellyn, and the guilt my failure to protect her brought. True, it should be a shameful way to die, but that shame belonged more to Eryk and Rytha than to me, and whilst I knew it should be painful I also believed I could bear it as a Highlander should. What I could not bear was the knowledge that I had failed Andur and Ryadne and Ellyn, and that the latter would become a helpless pawn in Eryk’s grandiose (and, I thought, insane) plan. I contemplated prayer, but decided that Andur had been right when he said the gods forsook us and so only lay still awhile, long enough that I heard Ellyn’s breathing soften and guessed that she slept, then crept about the tent, checking its fastenings as my mind raced desperately in search of escape. I could find no hope: the tent was secure, and I knew that watchful and armored men waited beyond its confines. And even did I find some way past those watchmen, still we should need to circumvent the camp’s dogs, find our horses, and even then flee weaponless and unsupplied to the very clan Eryk intended to conquer.

Ellyn slept restlessly. She tossed and turned and spoke brief fragments of sentences as if she conversed with
someone. I heard her say my name, and her parents’, and her grandfather’s, and it was as if she then received answers, for she’d lie silent awhile, then nod and mumble unintelligible words, and sometimes smile. Finally, she slept, and I envied her that respite as I lay staring into the shadows.

Then, slowly, the shadows departed and I heard the camp awake. Horses nickered and dogs barked; I heard voices, and the crackling sounds of fresh logs and turves set on the morning cookfires. Soon the smells of tea and porridge and charring meat filled the tent. Then the entry flap was unlaced and light flooded in. Rurrid and Athol stood there, flanked by a dozen men. I supposed it was their privilege to escort me to my execution. I hoped I disappointed them when I rose and bade them good day and stepped toward them as if I were not at all afraid.

Ellyn cried out and sprang from her bed to clutch at me.

I said, “Put on a brave face. Don’t let them see you weep.”

She answered, “How can I not?” and held me tight.

“Live,” I whispered to her, stroking her hair, “and do you get the chance, revenge me.”

She nodded and gave me back, “I shall, Gailard.”

Then Rurrid pricked me in the buttocks with his sword and aped apology. “Forgive me for such interruption, Gailard, but your presence is required at our ceremony.”

I turned to face him, ignoring the pain. “Were you a man, Rurrid, I’d challenge you to combat. But you’re not, so I only curse you for a coward and a traitor.”

His face blanched at that and he raised his blade. I hoped he’d strike and slay me, delivering me an easier death, but Athol stayed his hand. “No, brother, no. We need him alive, eh?”

Rurrid nodded and lowered his sword, turning a leering smile on me. “That’s true—alive for the crows. Whilst she”—his gaze swung to Ellyn—“shall be our guest awhile. She’s what—fifteen? Old enough to know a man, eh, Gailard? Have you not had her, perhaps I shall make her a woman.”

Ellyn spat and shrieked, “I’ll die first! I’d sooner lie with dogs than such as you!”

I sprang at Rurrid, and kicked him hard between the legs. He squealed like the pig he was and fell down, and before the others reached me I landed two more hard kicks. I felt ribs snap and shouted my satisfaction even as the sword-hilts thudded against me and I was forced to the ground, pinned under shields, my wrists bound and a loose tether set about my ankles.

Thus was I brought before my brother and his wife, Ellyn dragged—howling furiously—behind. My head spun from the blows, but I enjoyed the sight of Rurrid, who was held upright by two men, his face mightily pale, his legs loose, one hand pressed tight to his breeches and the other clasping his side. I wished I might deliver the same drubbing to Eryk.

But I was bound and my brother sat well guarded, resting back in his fur-swathed chair, a bowl of porridge in his hand. Rytha sat beside him, sipping from a horn cup, her eyes alight with speculation.

“So even now you offend us,” Eryk said. “Can you not accept your just fate with good grace?”

“What do you know of grace?” I snarled. “You and your fat wife?”

Rytha started at that, and flung her tea in my face. It was somewhat cooled, and so it did not burn me too much, and I was able to smile and say, “Aye, lady—fat like some sow stuffed for eating.” I managed a laugh. “You and my brother deserve one another.”

She began to rise, snatching at the dagger on her belt, but Eryk restrained her.

“No, wife, no. Not so swift a death, eh? Better that he suffer as we planned.”

Rytha seethed like a scalded cat, but allowed Eryk to reseat her. He smiled malignantly and beckoned men forward.

“It was to be Rurrid or Athol who dragged you, Gailard, but as you’ve unmanned Rurrid it shall be Athol’s privilege.”

He motioned again and men held me fast as Athol smiled and stepped forward, loosening my clothes until they lay scattered about me and I stood naked before all the camp. I caught Ellyn’s eyes on me, and saw her pale face grow red. Then the cords holding my wrists were cut and my hands bound before me with a length of strong rope that was lashed to the saddle of a black horse.

Athol mounted and Eryk said, “Three times around the camp. No more, lest he not feel the whip.”

Athol laughed and urged the horse forward.

For the first few steps I was able to keep my feet, but then Athol lifted the horse to a swifter pace and the tether on my ankles tripped me so that I fell down and was dragged behind. Thoughtful of my manhood, I contrived to twist onto my back, and watched the camp go by in a blur that became increasingly hazy as hard ground and stones and tussocks struck me. I saw faces. Folk struck at me with sticks, some flung rocks or clods or handfuls of dung; some—not many—merely watched, and I thought I saw pity and shame in their eyes. Then all was a bouncing, pain-filled blur. Athol dragged me through fires, and over the hardest ground he could find, and through the pasture where the two clans’ horses grazed, so that I was bespattered with dung and a great pack of dogs chased me, barking and snapping.

The world grew distant then, until cold water doused me and I felt myself hauled upright. I struggled to stand on my own feet, shrugging off the clutching hands, and stared at Eryk from between swollen lids. I could taste blood in my mouth and spat, fearing I should vomit and that be construed as weakness. From the corner of one bloodied eye I saw Ellyn held by two warriors. She was weeping and I saw her mouth moving, but I could not hear what she said, only Eryk’s words.

“Now take him to the tree and beat his bones bare.”

I was dragged away and tied face forward to a windblown hemlock. Its bark was rough against my face as my arms were stretched out and lashed to two outflung
branches. I braced my feet, praying that I owned the strength to stand firm.

Then my head was pulled back and I smelled my brother’s breath as he put his face close to mine and held something before my eyes. It was hard to focus, but I recognized what he brandished, stroking it obscenely against my cheek.

“Five strands of plaited bull’s hide, Gailard; and its end all sewn with metal pellets. It shall take the flesh off you, brother. It shall lay your ribs bare and spill your blood like a newfound spring. You’ll know pain now.”

I mumbled, “Damn you,” and he laughed.

“Beg me for mercy, and perhaps I’ll have you slain quicker.”

“Damn you! The gods curse you and your fat wife.”

Eryk struck me. It was a weak blow that I barely felt. Those that followed were far harder.

I leaned against the tree and clenched my teeth. I’d not cry out, could I resist it; not give them that satisfaction. But it was hard. The first blow was a knife-cut across my back, the second a bludgeon to my spine, the third a spray of fire over my buttocks. Tears sprang from my eyes and I felt my body jerk and jump involuntarily, twitching to each swing of the whip. I felt warmth trickling down my legs and wondered if it was blood or urine. I closed my eyes—that, at least, was not hard to do—and ground my teeth so hard together I feared they’d break. I believe I whimpered, but I do not think I cried aloud for all I longed to scream. The pain went on until I dimly felt my legs give way, my body slumping so that all my weight was supported by my bound wrists and I feared they might dislocate. And then it went on longer, until I could no longer feel it—only ride away into the red shadows that filled my eyes.

I woke again, gagging on the taste that filled my mouth, choking and gasping as I saw Rytha standing before me. She held a cloth soaked in water and vinegar, which had restored me to my senses. That, of course, was her intent, and
I loathed her for it; I’d sooner have gone away into that red darkness. My body burned as if consumed in fire, and it was very difficult to focus on her smiling face.