Bloodstone (17 page)

At least, for the moment. Shaken by the decimation of his army, Lord Malchion had withdrawn to Breimen. He yet had better than a quarter of his army and the greater part of its supplies. But even allowing for Dribeck's losses, Malchion was outnumbered, and to cross the Macewen in the teeth of Selonari's warriors was to invite massacre. Injured, and feeling the loss of his daughter more keenly than he evidenced, the lame Wolf began the dismal return to Breimen. There be meant to rebuild his army before beginning a second offensive. Meanwhile, Breimen must be protected, in the event Dribeck should attempt to march north against the city, an ill-advised strategy Malchion rather hoped his enemy might be rash enough to try.

But now no one would cross the Macewen, for the river rose high on its banks, mercifully sweeping the flotsam of war to its delta on the Western Sea.

Through the rain Dribeck's triumphant army slogged back to Selonari. Wagons were heaped to overturning with the plunder of battle--stacks of war gear, litters of the wounded. They had worked through the night despoiling the field, tossing the dead of Breimen into the river, burying their comrades in great cairns. The wounded were cared for--even, by Dribeck's order, those of the enemy--although in a battle such as this a man's injuries were generally either mortal or not crippling. Patrols grew weary chasing down the few remaining Breim fugitives. When Malchion's retreat became certainty, the bulk of Dribeck's army returned to celebrate the victory.

Laden with glory and plunder, the Selonari soldiers all but fulfilled Malchion's threat to raze the city to the ground. To fight alongside Death is heady wine for those who evade his sword, so that life becomes a new bride, to be sported with in full before dawn dispels the magic of the first night. Toasts were drunk to the fallen, sweethearts consoled by the survivors. Grief might underlie the gaiety, might come tomorrow when the wine of victory became a sour taste. But on the night of their return, Selonari belonged to the victors, and they overflowed streets and taverns in total abandon.

Teres kept her face an aloof mask and drank a little wine. The banquet table before her overflowed with choice fare, but the ache in her belly could not be warmed by food. She and her men had been marched through Selonari's streets, displayed before a hooting populace alongside the rest of the victor's booty. Still, they had not been abused--other than the insults and offal the people had flung. Her men were imprisoned somewhere in Dribeck's dungeons; thus far he appeared scrupulous in keeping to his word.

Teres was given the dubious honor of attending Dribeck's victory feast. Stripped of her weapons and mail, she sat with back straight at the high table, conspicuous in her battle-stained hacton and pants among the richly dressed gentry. Darkly Teres pondered the wisdom of her surrender. If someone would be fool enough to place a knife just close enough, she'd snatch it up and bury it in Dribeck's pride-flushed throat. But the attendants on either side were vigilant--coldly solicitous, but guards nonetheless. Teres sipped her wine and consoled herself with the thought that Dribeck at least respected her nerve, did not dismiss her as some shrinking girl hostage, who was crushed into meek subjection by her captor's magnificence.

Damn it, this wasn't going to help her escape, though. Maybe she should choke down her pride and whimper a little... throw them off guard. No, she would not further degrade herself. Let the greasy fools guzzle and boast to their sallow whores of their bravery! Dribeck would soon grow overconfident; then let him learn what fury he thought to hold captive!

Teres wondered again how she might speak with Kane without arousing suspicion. The hulking stranger was deep in his wine, seemingly--a brooding figure amidst the laughter and loud voices. Dribeck had spoken low to a court wench, who slipped to Kane's side, but found her wanton advances distractedly answered. Teres wished he might give her some sort of sign, some indication that he meant to help her. Terribly alone as she was in the citadel of her enemy, this enigmatic figure was the only friend she had.

For the most part, Teres was ignored by the others at the high table--Dribeck's captains, the more important gentry, their women, and a lady of haughty beauty she learned was Gerwein, high priestess of Shenan. Conversation was in the clipped language of the Southern Lands, of its dark-haired people who had settled here before the Wollendan migrations. Teres understood it well enough to follow their speech, if she were so inclined, but their main topic was painful for her. Dribeck's several efforts to engage her--he spoke fluent Wollendan--she coolly rebuffed. So despite their curious glances, her captors were content to grant her the dignity of silence. Probably they regarded her as only another of the battle trophies on display for their celebration.

One pair of eyes stared at her in open hostility. Ristkon, Malchion's old enemy, murderer of her kinsmen, traitor to Breimen in the past--and doubly so today. No more than a small girl during Ristkon's conspiracy to seize Breimen, she remembered his smiling face well. A gash through the left cheek had scarred badly, drawing that side of his mouth into a mirthless grin. He had been a vain youth, with a face as pretty as a girl's and a tall body of pantherish grace; the disfigurement had twisted more than his smile. After his defeat, he was thought to have fled the Southern Lands and sailed north beyond Malchion's wrath. Dribeck had evidently unearthed him in some ill-famed port along the northern coasts. Contemptuous, Teres considered it a measure of Selonari cunning that its lord would stoop to recruit such filth.

As the evening progressed Ristkon's glare grew bolder, returning to her more often. He had addressed her in taunting words a few times, insults she pretended not to hear. To his companions he spoke now and again in low tones-words that brought snickers and guffaws, turned speculative eyes toward her. Teres deliberately looked elsewhere, though her ears strained to catch his whispers.

"Teres," he called loudly after one outburst of private laughter, 'all these years I've heard tales of wild Teres, the Wolf's sharp-fanged whelp. Last time I saw you, you were just a skinny little brat, who liked to thrash the page boys and crawl around the tables on feast days like a hound looking for scraps. So I couldn't know then, and now that I see you again, I still can't be sure. I mean, your face is homely as a sergeant's, and you're husky enough to command a press gang, and by all reports you've never been seen in anything approaching decent dress for a woman. So I'm puzzled, and I hope you'll tell me-are you really a girl who doesn't know her sex, or just some beardless freak of a boy?"

Teres looked him in the face and curled her lip in unvoiced contempt. Her sneer mimicked the twisted set of Ristkon's features. The table began to grow quiet.

Riskon flushed, making a pale streak of his scar. "Well, I have to know for certain, Teres," he said in strained civility. "You know there's a blood feud between our lines. Now, if you're a man, honor demands we settle the feud at swordpoint. But if it's true you're a girl, why, I can't kill a girl. So I'll be content to take you to my chambers and treat you as I would any woman who's taken as spoils of victory."

Teres' knuckles tightened around the wine cup. "I didn't realize you made such a distinction, Ristkon," she replied in a tone that carried. "It's common knowledge that you're an accomplished murderer of women and children. I assume your ambiguous honor is equally confused about whom you take to bed."

Conversation was silent. Laughter at the other tables seemed miles distant. Ristkon's crooked smile was ghastly against his taut features. Slowly he rose to his feet, hands grasping the table edge as if anchored there.

"Take that mule-faced bitch to my chambers!" he choked. "I'll know if there's a woman under all that dirt and leather!"

"Ristkon, I am lord here," Dribeck interceded. "I gave my word no harm would be done to the prisoners." The other seemed to bite off his first answer. He resumed his seat stiffly and quickly read the faces of his tablemates. "I don't plan to do anything to this bitch a woman wasn't made to take," he said with a malicious laugh. "Don't know why you're showing such courtesy to an enemy, though--you know how gentle the Wolf and his whelp meant to be with all of us! And I shouldn't need to remind you it was my cavalry that turned the battle to your advantage--else you'd know the Wolf's mercy firsthand. Teres is spoils of war same as any captured wench, and I'd think my part in the victory should give me booty of my own choosing. At least, I don't know of any reasonable lord who'd begrudge his captain a little sport after his invaluable service... unless he was more generous with a captured enemy whore than his own comrades."

Dribeck frowned. Many of the others showed agreement with Ristkon's point of view--nor was his argument unreasonable. He had plans of his own, however, that he dared not jeopardize. Neither did he care to lose face before his men, which seemed unavoidable whether he granted or refused his captain's demand. The sword was sharp and had no hilt; either Ristkon's will was stronger than his word, or he was niggardly in rewarding his followers.

There seemed an escape from the dilemma. Quickly, then. "I'm not forgetting your role in our victory," he answered smoothly. "But a captain shouldn't forget that his lord takes first share of the plunder. As it happens, I'm minded to bed my enemy's daughter myself. There are sweeter wenches and more willing, but it amuses me to humble this snarling she-wolf. Choose another for your sport, Ristkon, and be assured I'll reward your loyalty with more pleasing booty than this.

"Put her in my chambers for now." He gave orders to her guards, who led Teres away. She gave him a scornful glance in passing, ignoring the rest of the grinning throng.

Ristkon's derisive laughter followed her. "But you'll let us know what you find out, won't you! Maybe you'll want to muzzle the she-wolf--her bite is probably as venomous as her growl!"

The Wollendan renegade seemed appeased, Dribeck decided. Evidently he judged the humiliation sufficient revenge for the moment. More to Dribeck's concern, his handling of the matter had found favor among his men. It was a great joke, and suited the drunken merriment of the night. Tomorrow or the next day, the incident would have dimmed to nothing more than an amusing anecdote, and he could proceed with his new plans untroubled by consequences of the evening.

In another wing of the citadel, Teres restlessly paced about the chamber. Two capable-looking maidservants kept nervous watch over her, more to keep her from locking the door than anything else, since Dribeck's chambers were situated within the castle's topmost level, and far, far below his windows Selonari's brick streets blazed with festive light. A pair of guards waited beyond the door. Teres was not inclined to leap from the window like a fool; she meant to show Dribeck her claws first, should he come to carry out his boast.

Grimly she cast about her prison. A strong rope or the equivalent might let her escape through the window, but it seemed doubtful Dribeck would keep such on hand. The guards had already removed several weapons. It was possible others had been missed, and if she could lay hands on something without being seen... But the two women watched her closely.

The chambers were interesting, had her mind been less troubled. Appointments were rich, though short of opulent. There was a virile tone to the furnishings that created a casual, comfortable presence. One alcove was a small study, shelves stuffed with charts and books. She glanced at the maps, particularly the one depicting the Southern Lands, but found nothing of military significance marked there. The books were meaningless, except for one whose title she spelled out haltingly to be a history of the Wollendan clans. Her reading was confined largely to military reports, and she deemed that anything else of value could be read aloud by clerks. So Dribeck was the scholar that men said. Grudgingly she admitted that the man was not unskilled in more important matters, as well--she had seen some of his fighting ability. The bed--her eyes kept returning to it despite her resolve--was a great curtained affair, its mattress draped with fine fur robes.

Short of ransacking the various chests and closets, there seemed no chance of turning up a weapon. She doubted her wardens would permit such rifling. One cabinet was strewn with delicate items of feminine toiletry, apparel, jewelry. "Pentri's--milord's, mistress," explained one of the maids, at her quizzical expression. She shrugged. Such finery she had chosen to shun. A mirror lay upturned, and absently Teres noted that her face was dirty. To give her hands something to do, she found a lavabo and washed herself. It was not so bad a face.

A murmur at the door, and Dribeck entered, waving the maids to stand outside. He approached her with a trace of hesitation in his stride.

"So... has the lord of Selonari found courage to 'humble this snarling she-wolf'?" Teres taunted, forcing her voice to calmness as she measured the distance between them. "Drunken oafs have pawed at me on occasion. Some of them were lucky enough to find comfortable positions later--fat custodians in some foreign emperor's harem. Or shall I swoon for the fierce-hearted warrior... the strutting victor whose word is not worth the breath that utters it!"

To her surprise, Dribeck sank onto a chair and frowned at her in annoyance. "Damn it, if I wanted to wrestle with an acid-tongued virago, I'd chase after Gerwein. She doesn't wear spurs to bed... so far as I know. I told you you wouldn't be harmed, and my pledge stands! I could easily have given you to Ristkon--saved myself a difficult moment. Well, I didn't, and as far as I care, you can sleep here the night without my presence.Tomorrow, when things are smoothed over, you can go to the quarters I'd planned for you--not a dungeon cell, either. Hell, did you think I felt some overpowering sexual attraction for you? Ristkon just wanted you out of some black malice, and I interfered with no thought but to spare you from his twisted revenge.'.'

"Well, you pick your servants!" Teres retorted, wondering if this was a ruse to put her off guard. Somewhere she found spirit to resent his curt rebuff--an emotion which seemed illogical even to her. "Let me say that the thought of sharing a bed with you was only slightly less distasteful to me than the prospect of that traitor's embrace. And the surest way to demonstrate the sanctity of your word is to get your ass out of here right now. Your Pentri must be moaning for you this very moment."