Ravenheart (43 page)

“ ’Tis a good-luck piece. My father told me it was once blessed by the Veiled Lady. Don’t know if it’s true. Wanted you to have it.”

Kaelin closed his hand around the charm. “Thank you, my friend. A man never knows when he’ll need good luck.”

Senlic nodded, then turned away and walked back to the barn.

“Did you tell him?” asked Kaelin.

Rayster shook his head. “No, but he’s canny, is Senlic. His mother had the second sight. Maybe he inherited it.”

Kaelin flicked the reins, and the wagon lurched forward on the long road to Black Mountain.

The Dancing Bear tavern was one of the oldest buildings in Black Mountain. It had begun life as a barracks and supply depot for Varlish soldiers building the new keep some four hundred years earlier. Then it had been a warehouse and finally a tavern.

It was a large building, originally two-storied, but a fire had gutted it a century before, leaving the outer walls standing but burning away the upper floor. Now it had a high vaulted roof above a collection of bench tables and leather-topped stools and chairs. The tavern keeper, a wily ex-soldier named Grabthorne, had constructed a partition wall of wicker, separating the drinking area from the dining tables. His cooks supplied no fancy fare and spices were in short supply, but the Dancing
Bear was renowned for its beefsteak pies, venison, and mutton. Grabthorne’s wife would also produce fine pastries, apple bakes, and custard delicacies.

Kaelin Ring and Rayster were seated at a table by the window overlooking the gatehouse arch of the keep. Occasionally both sentries would come into sight, usually to greet soldiers crossing the drawbridge after a night of revelry. On the battlements above another four sentries patrolled.

“What are we waiting for?” asked Rayster.

“The last changing of the guard,” said Kaelin.

Rayster glanced out of the window. The keep reared up against the night sky, majestic and powerful.

“You are not eating your pie,” said Kaelin.

“My appetite is not what it was,” admitted Rayster.

The tavern keeper, Grabthorne, sidled over to them, wiping his hands on a gravy-stained apron. “Is everything to your liking?” he asked. He was a small man in his fifties with sharp blue eyes.

“The pie is superb,” said Kaelin. “My compliments to Mrs. Grabthorne.”

“I have seen you, young man,” said Grabthorne. “You are from Ironlatch farm?”

“I am, sir.”

“Colonel Ranaud speaks highly of you. Good man, Ranaud.”

“The best,” agreed Kaelin.

“He’ll put these rebels in their place, and we can get back to living in peace and making money, eh?”

“It is certainly to be hoped, Mr. Grabthorne.”

“We’ll be closing down the kitchens soon,” said the tavern keeper. “If you’ll be wanting apple pie, you’d best place your order now.”

“Thank you. Two portions, if you please.”

Grabthorne wandered away. Many of the diners were now leaving. In the tavern itself a group of soldiers was singing raucously. “Are you sure you want to go ahead with this plan?” asked Rayster, leaning across the table.

“I can think of no other.”

Rayster sighed. “I had always hoped to die in my bed, my grandchildren weeping around me.”

“Maybe you will.”

Rayster glanced back at the forbidding keep. “Doesn’t seem likely at present.”

Grabthorne returned with two plates bearing thickly cut portions of apple pie dusted with sugar. Rayster had finished only half of his meal and pushed away his plate.

“Not to your liking?” asked Grabthorne.

“It was good,” said Rayster, “but I needed to leave room for the apple pie. My friend tells me it is magnificent.”

“Aye, the wife is a fine pastry cook and no mistake.”

Kaelin paid for the meal, adding two daens “for the cook.”

“Good of you,” said Grabthorne.

Kaelin tucked into the apple pie.

“I don’t know how you can eat at a time like this,” said Rayster. “My stomach is shrunk so tight, I doubt I could swallow an apple pip. Are you not at least a little frightened?”

“I’m not usually frightened when I eat,” Kaelin said with a smile. “There is not much danger at the moment. Ask me again when we reach the gatehouse.”

“I will probably have other matters on my mind around then,” said Rayster.

The two clansmen were the last to leave the tavern, and Kaelin led Rayster into the shadows of an alleyway overlooking the gates. The guards had still not been changed. The two men waited silently. Just after midnight two more guards appeared, had a brief conversation with the men they were replacing, then entered the gatehouse.

“Now?” whispered Rayster.

“Wait awhile. Let them settle down and become bored.”

“By heaven, you are a cool one, Kaelin Ring.”

Kaelin did not reply. He did not feel cool. His heart was beginning to beat faster now, and tension was tightening his belly. Taking his money pouch from his pocket, he tipped out
the coins into his hand. Pocketing most of them, he put several chaillings and daens back into the pouch.

Another hour slowly passed. Small groups of soldiers continued to return to the keep. Kaelin noted that the guards did not bother with passwords. It was easy to be complacent when five thousand fighting men were stationed in and around Black Mountain.

“Now,” said Kaelin, and strolled across the open ground. Rayster followed him.

Kaelin crossed the drawbridge and reached the wrought-iron gates, which were now closed. “Hello the gatehouse,” he called softly.

A soldier appeared. “What do you want?”

“Mr. Grabthorne sent us. One of the soldiers left his money pouch at the Dancing Bear. I am to return it.”

“Hand it through, then.”

“Mr. Grabthorne asked me to fetch a signed receipt and see the money counted.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“Of course I trust you,” said Kaelin. “You are a soldier of the king. ’Tis Mr. Grabthorne who doesn’t trust
me
. He counted it out before I left.”

Kaelin reached into the pocket of his dark coat, producing a bottle of Uisge, which he uncorked and sipped. “Ah,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Twenty-year-old single malt. Nothing like it.”

“Damn, but that’s too expensive for the likes of common soldiers,” said the man.

“I’ll share it with you while you count the money,” offered Kaelin.

The soldier slid back the gate bar and ushered them inside. Kaelin walked into the small gatehouse. A second soldier was sitting at a table there, a deck of playing cards spread out before him. The first guard explained to the man about the money pouch. Kaelin passed the Uisge bottle to him, then tipped out the contents of the pouch to the table. Both guards
sat down, their eyes on the silver and copper coins glinting in the candlelight.

“Must be near five chaillings here,” said the second guard. “I’d like to know how a soldier came by five chaillings.”

The first guard pulled the money toward him and began separating the coins. Kaelin glanced at Rayster and nodded. Then he dipped his hand into his pocket, curling his fist around the hilt of a knife. Rayster moved closer to the table, looking as if he were reaching for the Uisge bottle.

Kaelin’s blade came clear of the pocket. With one swift movement he rammed it into the throat of the first guard. Rayster plunged his knife into the neck of the second. Kaelin’s opponent struggled to rise, blood pumping from his severed jugular. He fell across the table. Kaelin caught him, lowering the body to the floor. The second soldier was grappling with Rayster. They kicked over a chair. Kaelin moved in, stabbing the man twice more in the back. The soldier made a gurgling noise, then fell into Rayster’s arms.

“Strip them of their armor,” said Kaelin, kneeling beside the first corpse and swiftly unbuckling the straps of the black breastplate.

Within moments the two clansmen had donned the breastplates and black leggings and shirts of the dead Beetlebacks. Rayster struggled into the larger of the boots. They were still too tight. He stomped his feet. “This is uncomfortable,” he said.

Kaelin heard a rapping at the gates. Rayster jerked. “Stay here and pull those bodies behind the table,” said Kaelin. Lifting a round black helm from a hook by the door, Kaelin donned it, then stepped outside. Three soldiers and an officer were standing there.

“Password?” asked Kaelin.

“Just open the bastard gate,” said a drunken soldier, his voice slurring. “Do I look like a sheep-shagging clansman?”

“My orders are to ask for a password,” said Kaelin.

“And quite right, too,” said the officer. “The password is Valhael.”

Kaelin pulled back the bar, allowing the men inside. “I don’t know you,” said the officer, peering at Kaelin in the moonlight.

“I’m with Lieutenant Langhorne and the Fifth, sir,” Kaelin said smoothly.

“I didn’t know the Fifth were operating within the barracks.”

“I was only told this morning, sir.”

“Very good. Stand easy.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Kaelin, copying the salute he had seen among the soldiers at Ironlatch.

The officer walked away. The drunken soldier remained behind, leaning against the gatehouse arch. “You made me look bad, you prick,” he said. “I shan’t forget it.” He pushed himself away from the wall, half fell, then righted himself. Staggering off across the parade ground, he called back: “I’ll remember you!”

Kaelin returned to the gatehouse. “You man the gates,” he told Rayster. “If anyone asks, you are from the Fifth and your officer is Lieutenant Langhorne. Ask for the password, which is Valhael. You understand?”

“Aye, I heard you talking to the soldiers.”

Kaelin strapped on a saber and slid his knife into his belt. “See you in a while,” he said.

“May the Source make that true,” replied Rayster.

Kaelin Ring strolled across the parade ground toward the keep. The main doors were open, and he stepped inside. The clerk’s desk was empty now, but he could hear the sounds of men in the mess hall above. Moving behind the clerk’s desk, he climbed slowly down the circular stair beyond. It was unlit, and he placed each boot with care. The lower steps glinted with reflected light, and he paused momentarily.

If there were two guards, he might be able to kill them before they either raised an alarm or made enough noise to alert other soldiers. More than two? What if there were four or five? Kaelin’s mouth was dry. However many were waiting there, he would walk in and take them on. It would be better
to be dead than to know he had failed Chara. He leaned forward to peer along the dungeon corridor.

One guard was asleep, his head resting on a table and his unbuckled breastplate on the floor beside him. Kaelin could see no one else.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he moved silently down the last of the stairs and eased his way toward the table. The man was snoring gently. Kaelin stepped behind him, drawing his knife. The blade was razor sharp, and it slid through the flesh of the man’s throat without at first waking him. Then the pain cut through his dreams, and he jerked upright, opening his eyes. Blood pumped from the wound, drenching his shirt, and he slumped forward once more.

There were twenty dungeon cells. Half of them were open. Lifting the lantern from its wall bracket, he ran to the first locked door, sliding back the metal grille and shining the lantern inside. A white-haired man was asleep on the floor. One by one Kaelin checked all the dungeons. Three times he had to open the doors, for the occupants were not in sight of the grille. In the last he saw a sight that would haunt him for years. A man was lying unconscious on a pallet bed. He had no hands or feet, the stumps having been covered with black pitch. His eyes had been put out. He made a low moaning noise as the dungeon door swung open. The sound was barely human. Kaelin heaved the door shut.

The horror of what he had seen did not register at first. What did was that this was the last locked dungeon and neither Chara nor Wullis Swainham was there.

He had failed.

Kaelin struggled for calm. His plan had worked perfectly to this point, and he had penetrated the keep without being caught. Yet it was all pointless now. He tried to think clearly. If she was not in the dungeon of the keep, where would she be? Were there other cells?

He had no way of knowing, and the thought of failure was bitter.

Then he heard sounds upon the stairs. Kaelin swore softly
and ran to the dead guard, grabbing him by the arms and hauling him from his chair. Swiftly he dragged the body into one of the empty cells. Moving back into the corridor, he saw that blood had drenched the table and the floor beneath. The dead guard’s cloak was hanging on a hook. Wrenching it clear, he draped it over the table.

Two guards came into sight, half carrying a prisoner. The soldiers were not wearing breastplates or swords, though both had sheathed daggers at their waists.

The prisoner was Chara. Her face was swollen, the lower lip split and bleeding. Her clothes were torn, the leggings half open at the waist, exposing her belly and right hip. Anger flowed through Kaelin, but he fought for calm.

“Where is Bay?” asked one of the guards.

“He had a bad throat,” said Kaelin. “I’m standing in for him.”

“Your lucky night,” said the second. “You get a nice piece of a highland arse. Course, it comes used, if you know what I mean.” The man laughed.

Kaelin saw Chara’s swollen eyes open, and she looked up at him. “It is your lucky night, too,” he told the guards, moving in closer. “But not all luck is good.” As he stepped in, he put his hand behind his back, drawing the knife from his belt. Chara began to struggle. Both men looked away from Kaelin. The knife plunged into the chest of the first, passing between the ribs and skewering the heart. Chara rammed her head into the face of the second man. He staggered back. Releasing the knife, Kaelin drew his saber. The man let go of Chara and turned to run. Kaelin caught him, bearing him to the ground. The soldier’s face struck the stone floor, smashing his teeth. He cried out. Kaelin dropped his saber and knelt on the man’s back, his hands tight around the guard’s throat. The soldier struggled for a few moments, then went limp. Kaelin did not move and continued squeezing the throat until he was sure the guard was dead. Then he pushed himself to his feet.