Everything hurt. Her lips were swollen, her cheek cut and bruised. There was a knife cut in her right buttock and another on her left thigh. The guard moaned again. Sigarni could not believe the man could still be alive. Taking hold of the jutting knife with both hands she wrenched it clear of his back, then knelt forward to slice the razor-sharp blade across his throat. Blood gushed to the stone floor. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she rolled him to his back, slashing the sharp blade again and again across his lower body. At last, exhausted, she stopped, her hands drenched in blood.
“You’ve got to get out of here,” she told herself. “You’ve got to find them.” She had feigned unconsciousness at the end, even when two of them had stood and urinated over her. She had heard the small man, Relph, talking about the Blue Duck tavern. She knew it—it was close to Market Street.
Knife in hand, Sigarni walked from the cell and out into the dungeon corridor. Her legs had no strength, and she fell to her knees and vomited once more. “Don’t be weak,” she scolded herself. “You are Sigarni the Huntress. You are strong.”
Rising unsteadily, she managed to reach the stairs and started to climb up into the darkness. Halfway up she heard footfalls. Pushing herself back against the wall she waited. Then a man called out from some distance above, “Hey, Owen, I was on my way home when I thought it would be worth a second tilt at the bitch. You fancy a double, eh?”
From out of the darkness he appeared, a looming shape with a protruding belly. Sigarni rammed the blade into that belly, ripping it up toward the heart. He grunted and fell back to the stairs. “Oh, God! Oh, God!” he screamed. Sigarni pulled the blade clear and stepped in close.
“You want to ride double with me, Outlander? You want to enjoy Sigarni?”
“Oh, please! Don’t kill me!”
“You left teeth marks in my breast, you fat bastard. Now bite on this!” The knife slid between his teeth and Sigarni slammed it home to the hilt. His fat arms began to flail, but she knelt on his chest and cut his throat. Only when he was still did she mutilate him in the same way she had the first guard. Slowly she climbed the stairs, pushing open the door at the top. The courtyard was moonlit and deserted, save for a sentry sitting under the arch. He was facing out into the town. Sigarni stepped into the open air and walked across to the arch.
The sentry was not even aware of dying . . .
Blood-drenched and weak, Sigarni moved on into the silent town.
Abby was dead—killed trying to save her. And I am dead, she thought. They will kill me, for I have not the strength to find them all. Somehow the thought of dying held no fear for her. All that kept her moving on tottering feet was the need for vengeance, a need as old as the Highlands themselves. Clan laws were not subtle, precedents were rarely cited, and there were no glib-tongued lawyers to represent the factions. Wrongdoers were punished by those they had wronged, or in the case of murder were hunted down by clan warriors selected by the Hunt Lord. Justice was sudden, harsh, and final.
But Sigarni had no family, save old Gwal who had raised her after the Slaughter. There were no men to seek blood revenge.
Only me, she thought. Only Sigarni. The knife slipped from her fingers and clattered to the street. Stopping, she picked it up, then fell heavily. “Damn!” she whispered. Twisting around, she sat for a while with her back against a cool stone wall. The stars were bright, the night cool with the promise of autumn. Some distance away she could hear the sound of revelers, and knew she was close to the Blue Duck tavern. What will you do? she wondered. Walk in, covered in blood, and move from table to table until you see them? What kind of a plan is that? And if you wait past the dawn they will find you anyway, and drag you back to that cell, and who knows what torture. Are you mad, girl? Leave this place. Get back into the Highlands where you can gather your strength.
Two of them are dead, she told herself. One more, at least, is in the tavern.
One more . . .
Forcing herself to her feet, Sigarni groaned. Blood was trickling down her leg. She licked her lips with a dry tongue and tried to blank out the pain.
“Women are made for sport.”
The words flashed back into her memory. The short soldier had said them at some point during her ordeal. Laughter had followed his words, then more pain. Suddenly she remembered the little Census Taker and his revulsion and fear as Abby pecked at him. What was it he had said: “I prefer the hares”? Hares are made for sport, Sigarni had told him.
Everything is made for sport, she realized, in a world ruled by Outlanders.
The rest had given her fresh strength and she walked on.
The Blue Duck tavern was an old building with frayed timbers and white walls. There were four windows on the ground floor, two either side of the old oak door. One of the windows was open and through it she could hear the sounds of the drinkers. Moving to the wall beside it, she glanced in. The place was packed and her keen eyes scanned the faces within. There were none she recognized, but then she could see only a section of the crowd. Dropping to her knees she crawled under the window, then rose and glanced in from the new angle. Two men were walking toward the door. Her heart, and her anger, lifted. Transferring the knife to her left hand, she wiped the sweat from her right, rubbing the palm down her leggings.
The door opened. “That’s it, Will, one foot in front of the other. That’s the way to go, son.”
“Shut the bloody door!” said someone inside. Relph pulled shut the door as Will Stamper leaned against the wall.
“Be right with you, mate, but I’ve got to piss,” said Relph, opening the front of his leggings and urinating against the wall. Sigarni moved silently alongside the drunken Will and sliced the knife back across his throat. The skin flapped open, blood bubbling clear. Then she ran forward and plunged the blade into Relph’s back. He reared up and grabbing his hair, she rammed his head against the wall. Falling to his knees Relph struggled to turn. Wrenching the knife clear Sigarni, still holding to his hair, dragged his head back to expose his throat. “Women are made for sport,” said Sigarni, slashing open his jugular. Relph fell back, his arms and legs thrashing. Sigarni stepped clear and moved to where Will stood leaning against the wall, his blood gushing over the front of his tunic. Slowly he toppled to his knees and looked up at her. There was no hatred in his gaze, and no fear. He tried to speak, but could only mouth two words. Sigarni almost laughed. Then she leaned back and kicked him in the head and his body fell to the stones.
Only one more now, she thought. The captain.
But where would he be?
“Are you insane, woman!” came a voice inside her mind. “Leave now!”
“No!” she said aloud. “I’ll find him.”
“Leave and he’ll find you. I promise you! Stay and you will die and he will live. I promise you that too!”
“Who are you? Where are you?” she asked, spinning around and scanning the shadows.
“I am with you, girl, and I want your trust. Leave now. Believe me, you won’t like being dead. I know, I’ve tried it. Now go!”
Confused, Sigarni obeyed, cutting down through an alley toward the north gate.
The bastards have unhinged my mind, she thought. Now I am hearing ghost voices.
From the Citadel keep came the sound of clanging alarm bells.
I’ll never get out now, she thought.
“Yes, you will,” said the voice. “Your people need you.”
Baron Ranulph Gottasson groaned. The pain had moved beyond pleasure to a burning point of agony that bordered on the exquisite. Narcotics flowed in his blood, and his waking dreams were vivid. He saw again the fall of the Kushite cities, refugees running panic-stricken from their burning homes, heard again the wailing of the soon-to-die, the piercing screams of city dwellers staring into the brutal faces of the conquering soldiers, feeling the cold bite of their blades into soft, yielding flesh.
Days of blood and glory, marching his men across inhospitable deserts, iron mountains, and lush foreign
plains.
And then it was over. No one left to conquer.
At first it had not seemed so onerous: the triumphant return to the capital, the cheering crowds choking the streets, the nights of celebration at the palace, the orgies . . . The Baron groaned again. He felt someone lift his head, and a cold metal goblet was placed against his lips. He swallowed and sank back.
Then had come the day when the organization of the empire was reshaped. Plessius was made Governor General of Kushir and the east—a bumbling fool of a man with not an ounce of ambition in his fat head. A hardly surprising choice to rule a land three thousand leagues from the capital. The King had chosen wisely; there would be no rebellion from that quarter. Ranulph had let it be known he desired the north. There was nothing here of any worth, save cattle and timber. The climate was harsh in winter, perversely changeable in what passed for summer. A little coal was being mined, but there were no deposits of gold or silver, nor even iron. The people were poor and defeated.
Ranulph had waited for his appointment, sure in the knowledge that he would be offered anything but the north. The King possessed a mind of astonishing cunning, and would never offer any general the true object of his desires.
Ranulph’s mind swam on a sea of delicious pain . . .
He had a spy in Jastey’s household, and knew well that the Earl desired the west. Seventeen rich cities, scores of mines, seven ports, and a thriving commercial network. Together they created the perfect foundation for an assault on the King. Wealth to buy mercenaries, ships to ferry armies and keep them supplied.
Oh, how Ranulph had laughed when Jastey had been made High Sheriff of the Capital. Despite being a position of great influence, bringing immense wealth, it meant that Jastey was always at court and close to the King.
But Jastey’s handsome face had worn a smile the following day, when Ranulph had been summoned to the palace. The memory brought a fresh spasm of agony. Ranulph had walked down the long aisle in the Chapel of the Blessed Blade, to where the King waited with his courtiers around him, Jastey at his right hand. Ranulph knelt before his sovereign, then gazed up into the dark, reptilian eyes.
“It is reported to me that you desire to govern the north, my good and dear friend,” said the King. “Your services to the kingdom merit great rewards, and I can think of no greater reward than to bestow upon you that which you most desire. Rise, Baron Ranulph Gottasson, Earl of the North, Governor General of the Highlands.”
To his amazement Ranulph had managed a smile. It did not match the grin on Jastey’s face. The west had gone to the King’s new favorite, Estelm.
The feast that followed had been bitter hard for the new Baron. The King seated him next to Jastey, and that alone made the food taste of bile and ash.
“My congratulations, Ranulph,” said the Earl. “I know we do not see eye to eye on many issues, but I would like you to know that I argued most strongly for you to be given the north. I thought it would perhaps ease the animosity between us.”
Ranulph looked into the man’s dark eyes and saw the humor glinting there. “Animosity, cousin? Surely not. Friendly rivalry would be more apt, I believe?”
“Perhaps,” agreed Jastey. “However, that should now be behind us. You have your own kingdom, as it were, while I must remain in the capital making laws, sitting in judgment, surrounded by clerics. Ah, how I envy you!”
Ranulph smiled, and pictured sliding a red-hot dagger into Jastey’s belly.
Returning to his town house he had walked into his library and stood gazing at the map stretched out on the far wall. The empire filled it, from ocean to ocean. Ranulph’s mouth was dry, his hands trembling with suppressed tension. The skin of his back and buttocks was still tender, but he knew that he needed the release of the whip. Summoning a servant, he ordered him to fetch Koris.
The man’s face paled. “I am sorry, my lord, but Koris packed his belongings and left this morning.”
“Left? What do you mean left?”
The servant swallowed hard. “He has taken up a new . . . appointment . . . lord.”
The shock hit him like ice upon hot skin. Koris, whom he had trusted above all men, and loved better than any woman. And he knew, without a shred of doubt, where the boy’s appointment had taken him.
Jastey!
Dismissing the servant, the Baron moved to the window, opening it wide and breathing in the cold night air.
“I don’t want to go north, Ranulph. It’s cold there—and there are no amusements.”
“We will not be going north, sweet boy.”
“But isn’t that what you want?”
“Be patient and all will be revealed.”
“You don’t trust me!”
“Of course I trust you. Now don’t sulk! I hate that.”
And he had explained his plans, talked of his dreams, secure in the knowledge that he was with the one person in all the empire who loved him.
Two nights later, bound, gagged, and hooded, Koris had been carried down to the secret room below the town house. Ranulph had his arms tied to posts, his legs chained to the wall. Dismissing the soldiers who had brought him, he pulled the hood clear of the boy’s beautiful face.
“Oh, Ranulph, please God, don’t hurt me!”
The Baron drew his dagger and pushed the blade into a brazier of hot coals. “While the blade heats,” he said softly, “we will talk of love and trust.”
Semiconscious now, the Baron felt the terrible stabs of fire in his eye socket, lancing their way through the opiates in his blood. Koris had been allowed no opiates throughout that long, long night.
Kollarin the Finder was comfortably asleep between the two whores when he heard the frenzied hammering at the tavern door below his room. He yawned and stretched, his right arm touching the fleshy shoulder of the plump young woman on his right. She moaned softly and turned over. The slender girl to his left awoke.
“What is happening?” she asked sleepily.
Kollarin sat up. The room was cold, the fire long dead. “I don’t know, but someone is anxious to get in,” he said. He heard the innkeeper tramping down the stairs, cursing as he moved.
“All right! All right, I’m coming, damn you!”
The sound of bolts being drawn back drifted up to the room and Kollarin heard his name mentioned. Now it was his turn to curse. Clambering over the slender whore he grabbed his leggings and began to climb into them. Just then the door opened and a soldier entered.
“We need you, Finder,” said Captain Redgaer Kushir-bane. “There has been an attack on the Citadel cells.”
The fat whore woke with a start and screamed. Kollarin’s head was pounding. “Be quiet, please!” he said, squeezing shut his eyes. “My head is splitting.”
“Why is he here?” she asked, drawing the blanket over her large breasts. Kollarin smiled at this show of shyness. “Employment, my pretty,” he said. “This gentleman has come to offer me coin, with which to pay for your expert services. Now go back to sleep.” Kollarin continued to dress, pulling on a pair of brown leather boots over his green leggings. His shirt was of wool, dyed dark green, and over this he donned a sleeveless leather jerkin lined with fleece.
Moving past the captain, he descended the stairs. Two soldiers were idling there and the innkeeper was standing by, his expression cold.
“I must apologize,” said Kollarin, “for the ruination of your rest, my friend. It appears there has been an emergency of some kind. I am sure the captain will reimburse you.”
“Fat chance of that,” snapped the innkeeper, walking to the door and holding it open.
Out in the street Redgaer started to explain, but Kollarin cut him short. “No need for words, Captain. Merely take me to the scene.”
They moved swiftly through the town up the short hill to the arched gateway where a corpse lay on the cold stone. Kollarin knelt beside the body, laying his right hand just above the gaping wound in the man’s neck. “This is not where it began,” he said, and rose to walk acr
oss the moonlit courtyard to the dungeon stairs. Here was a second corpse. Kollarin paused, laid his hand on the man’s head, then walked on.
The soldiers and the captain trooped after him and Kollarin entered the small dungeon. On the floor was the last corpse. Kollarin stood for a moment staring down at the man. He had been castrated, and then the genitalia had been pushed into his open mouth. Kneeling beside him, Kollarin touched his hand to the cold stone floor and closed his eyes. Images poured into his mind. He let them flow for a few seconds, then closed them off. Remaining where he was for a moment more, he gathered his thoughts and rose, turning to face the captain. “What do you wish to know?” he asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“How many were involved in the attack? Where are they now?”
“There was no attack, Captain,” said Kollarin softly. “The raped woman lay where this man is now, pretending to be unconscious. When he too desired a piece of the vile action she stabbed out his eyes—as you can see.” The captain did not look down. “She used her fingers. Then she took his dagger and killed him with it. She was in great pain herself at the time—but then you know that.” Kollarin turned. “She fell to her knees and vomited there, then sat for a moment or two upon the cot.” Moving past the captain, he stepped out into the dungeon corridor. “Still holding the dagger she made for the stairs. The other guard was returning. He said something, but it is unclear to me. She killed him, then made her way up the stairs.” Kollarin followed in her footsteps and found a smear of blood upon the stairwell wall. Touching his fingers to it he closed his eyes once more. The captain and the soldiers were pressing in close. “Ah, yes,” said Kollarin. “Here she paused for a moment. She is thinking of three men, two soldiers . . . and you, Captain. She has decided to seek them out and kill them. But she is weak, and bleeding. She castrates this guard too, but has little energy to spare. She is thinking of a tavern, trying to remember where it is. She has heard the men speak of spending the evening there.”