Requiem for the Sun (34 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Haydon

BOOK: Requiem for the Sun
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“Look,” he said. “It still has the same effect!”
Rhapsody shook her head violently, her thoughts jumbled, her breathing quickened, her eyes darting around, seeking escape.
“No,” she said again. “It's not possible.”
The seneschal sighed blissfully. “This is better than I had hoped. I feared you might have actually been happy to see me, and then it would not have been so enjoyable. You were such fun to vanquish, Rhapsody. I've never had
the equal to it. I cannot wait to know that feeling again. But let me just state right now that you will not be able to resist me, in any sense of the word. Don't become resigned, however; that will make the conquest less enjoyable.” He took a step toward her.
The sword in her hand was pointed at his throat in the next heartbeat.
“Stay away from me, Michael. I may die, but I will take you with me.”
The three crossbows were lifted and pointed at her head.
The seneschal nodded to the other men as he untied his belt.
“You want to take me, Rhapsody?” he said teasingly, with an unmistakable undertone of menace. “It would be my pleasure to oblige you.
“Hold her,” he said.
28
OFF THE NORTHERN COAST
F
rom the deck of the
Basquela,
Quinn could see the smoke begin to rise far away over a towering cliff face in the mammoth, unbroken rockwall that rose up from the shoreline and ran the length of the coast.
He watched the sky nervously for a long time, waiting for the signal, but it was not yet forthcoming.
Finally he turned to the crew, who were watching the sky as well.
“Let's take her in a bit more shallow,” he said to the mate, who nodded. “We wanna keep drawin' deep as long as we can, to stay out of sight, but we don't wanna keep His Honor waiting when he's ready to embark.”
“No, we certainly dunna,” the mate agreed hastily as the sailors scattered to their posts.
“Did you pull any eels?” Quinn inquired of a motley deckhand who had been fishing since daybreak.
The sailor shook his head. “Just blackfish. They're pretty oily.”
“The creature don't like blackfish,” Quinn objected.
The deckhand shrugged. “That's all that were bitin'. If it's hungry enough, it'll eat 'em.” He tossed the bucket he had hung on the deckrail to the captain.
Quinn scowled and caught the bucket, then hurried across the deck to the door that led down into the dark hold. He seized the battered lantern that hung on a hook next to the door, lighted it quickly, then carefully made his way down the creaking wood ladder to Faron's makeshift abode.
The creaking of the ship was louder down here in the dark, the stale reek of bilge vying with the unholy stench that lurked beyond in the shadows.
When the gleaming green pool was in sight, he rattled the bucket noisily.
“Faron?” he called, nerves in his voice. “Breakfast.”
The green pool began to roil, and the creature broke the surface, water streaming from all of the openings in its hideous head. Quinn struggled to contain his revulsion; the green glow of the water was from the monster's waste, and to see it pouring from its misshapen mouth made his stomach turn violently.
The bulbous eyes fixed on him in the dark, the wrinkles in its face bunching around what would have been a forehead on a human, its distorted features set in a look of evident displeasure.
“No, he's not back yet,” the captain muttered. “Soon.”
The creature hissed, saliva spraying from the open sides of its fused mouth.
“I brought ya some nice blackfish, Faron,” Quinn said in as soothing a voice as he could muster.
The creature spat, screeching in anger.
“I'm sorry — 'twas all we could muster. This ain't your home by the docks, Faron; eels don't abound here.”
Faron eyed him contemptuously.
“Well? Do ya want 'em or not?”
The creature stared at the captain for a moment longer, then nodded, a look of ominous purpose in its cloudy eyes.
As Quinn took a few steps forward, Faron reached into the depths of the shallow pool, fishing around for something. When he found it he held it up.
Quinn held up the light to better see what it was.
In the creature's gnarled hand was a ragged oval, glittering with color, though its surface was primarily gray. Quinn had never seen such a thing, but had heard the seneschal refer to the monster's ability to read the scales, and supposed this must be one of them.
“You showin' it to me?” he asked. “Is it for me?”
The creature nodded, beckoning the sailor nearer with its grotesquely twisted hand.
Hesitantly Quinn came forward and held the lantern closer. He bent forward, trying to stay far enough away to keep from inadvertently touching the freakish being in the pool that the seneschal seemed to love so dearly.
The light from the lantern flickered across the etching on the scale's surface. At first Quinn could not discern the pattern of the lines, but after a moment, the image became clear; he stepped back in horror.
It was the crude rendering of a gallows, a body hanging limp from the noose.
“Me?” Quinn squealed, recoiling. “Are you saying that is for
me?
”
Faron's eyes gleamed triumphantly, and a hideous grimace that might have been, on a human, a smile, spread across the wrinkled face.
The sight of the arrogant look in the monster's eyes made the panic in Quinn change to anger.
“Bugger you, Faron,” he said nastily. “Sit in your shit and rot, you floating freak.”
The creature's smile only grew brighter.
Quinn shoved the pail over to the edge of the pool and scurried back up the steps, trying to ignore the hideous popping and rending sounds behind him.
NORTHERN GWYNWOOD, IN THE FOREST
“S
hoot me now,” Rhapsody said to the crossbowmen, without taking her eyes off the seneschal.”Until my last breath, I will kill whoever approaches me.”
The seneschal crowed with laughter, his fingers working at the laces of his breeches.
“Oh, Rhapsody, how I've missed you these many centuries,” he said, fondling himself as he struggled with the lacings in his excitement. “You always know how to make the event all the more thrilling.”
For only the second time, the Lady Cymrian addressed the seneschal directly.
“So do you, Michael. I'm sure your men would appreciate the entertainment.”
The light in the blue eyes grew more excited. “Indeed. You recall how I used to take you before the eyes of my men in the old land, don't you, Rhapsody? My favorite was having you on the breakfast table, or on horseback while giving morning orders. What fun it will be to do it again now, here, in the forest, surrounded by the dead bodies of your guards.”
Rhapsody smirked. “Well, for
them
, at least,” she said haughtily, nodding at the seven men. “I'm sure these ruffians are no different than your other lackeys, and would derive sincere enjoyment out of seeing their leader so compromised, so unable to sustain the act for more than a few seconds, so pathetic, so–so
small.
I have no doubt they would get as much amusement as the others did privately at your expense in the old world.”
The seneschal stopped, his hand in his trousers, his skeletal face slack with shock.
“Amusement?” he demanded. “Lies. My men would never have dared to joke at my expense.”
The Lady Cymrian laughed harshly. “Perhaps not to your face, Michael, ‘the Wind of Death.' But it was your own soldiers who coined your nickname — Michael, the
Waste of Breath
. Not your adversaries, though of course they made copious use of it, and coined many of their own.”
“You are a liar,” he said coldly.
Rhapsody smiled with equal frost in her expression. “You don't remember me as well as you think, Michael,” she said. “I don't lie. Not even when forced anymore.”
The expression on his face blackened, and when he spoke, the harsh tone of the demon was in his voice.
“You lied to
me,”
he said, the words resonating palpable hatred. “You pledged your faith to me. And how did you live up to that oath?”
“I swore to love ‘no other man until this world comes to an end,'” Rhapsody said quietly. “I never said that I loved you, only that I would love no other than the man who had my heart then, and still does. And in case you do not know, that world
did
come to an end, a rather horrifying one, in volcanic fire. I misled you, because you would have raped and murdered a tiny child if I didn't. But I did not lie to you. Your injured feelings will earn no remorse from me.”
Like a storm building, the seneschal's body tensed, and his face hardened into a terrifying aspect.
“Hold her down,” he said again to his guards. “We will see who is injured, and whether or not you feel remorse.”
Fergus looked uncomfortably at the fire spreading to the outer canopy of the forest.
“M'lord, we must get back to the ship,” he said quietly, casting a glance through the tree line as the flames leapt skyward, filling the air above with thick smoke. “Most of our guards are dead, and Quinn said this was a holy wood. There must be foresters or nature priests who will respond when they see the smoke.”
More flame
, the demon urged.
More flame
.
Take the girl on your own time.
The seneschal rested a hand on his forehand, trying to press the voice into silence, but the F'dor spirit was too excited by the building inferno to be quelled.
More burnings! More flame!
“Disarm her, then,” he said viciously to Fergus. “Bind her hands and I will drag her by the hair to the promontory.”
Slowly Fergus and the other three swordsman began to circle Rhapsody.
“Lay the weapon down, lady,” the reeve said soothingly. “It's far too big a
sword for you, anyway. You will only succeed in hurting yourself. We mean you no harm.”
In response, Rhapsody raised the sword a slight bit higher, her grip unwavering. In her mind she remembered Achmed's advice long ago, deep within the Earth, as Grunthor trained her for the first time in the weapon's use.
First, however you initially grasp the sword, change your grip a little, so that you focus on how you're holding it. Don't take your weapon for granted. Second, and far more important: tuck your chin. You're going to get hurt, so expect it and be ready. You may as well see it coming.
She inhaled deeply, trying to keep her distorted vision from being apparent to her captors, as she turned the grip of the sword ever so slightly.
You're spending too much time trying to avoid the pain instead of minimizing it and taking out the source of what will injure you further or kill you. If Grunthor weren't holding back you would have been dead in the first exchange of blows. You should accept that you will be injured and decide to pay him back in spades. Learn to hate; it will keep you alive.
Rhapsody could hear her own voice, naïve, innocent, in the darkness of the tunnel that ran along the roots of the World Tree.
I'd rather not live at all than live that way.
Well, if that's your attitude, you won't have to worry long.
No
, she thought, her will steeling like ore tempered in the forges of Ylorc.
No
.
I have too much to fight for.
Too much to protect. Her eyes narrowed as hatred rose up in her soul, the righteous loathing of a woman long abused, a mother whose unborn child was in danger, a queen whose friend and protector lay comatose on the burning forest floor.
I am going to get hurt now,
she thought; the realization did not terrify her.
And I am about to lose here. I have to protect my abdomen, bide my time, and wait for the right moment.
Slowly the swordsman stepped closer.
But I will take as many of you with me as I can
, she thought, glancing from the swordsmen to Michael, who was watching her in a state of agitation clear even through her hazy eyes.
And I will not let you have me again, you piece of demonic filth. Not while I live.
The voice of Oelendra, her Lirin mentor and the last one to bear Daystar Clarion before her, echoed in her brain.
You've got a good start, but now we're going to train you to fight like our people do.
Do you think that the Lirin way of fighting is better than that of the Firbolg?
Aye, at least for Lirin. The Bolg are big, strong, and clumsy, the Lirin are small, fast, and weak. You rely too much on your strength, not enough on agility and
cunning; you just don't have the body mass to fight like a brute.
Slowly she lowered the blade.
As soon as the sword was pointed to the ground, the swordsman behind her dashed forward, the flat of his sword aimed horizontally at her neck as the others moved nearer.
She gave no sign she had heard him, no indication she was aware of him, until the last second before his impact.
Then spun around, going low, and sliced his knees out from under him with Anborn's bastard sword.
A geyser of blood shot forth, spraying her clothing and face. The forest seemed to erupt with a blast of wind knocking her off her feet; she could feel the other six of Michael's men fall on her, tearing her weapon from her hands, ripping the cloth of her shirt; she curled like a ball to protect her child as she fell, numbing her mind against the pain of the bruising, the jerking of her legs, the slamming of her back against the ground again and again.
Spare my baby
, she prayed to the One-God over the howls of pain from the man whose leg she had severed and the blows her own body was sustaining.
If I live, spare my child
.
For all that it seemed an eternity of torment, it was over in a few blinks of the eye.
Rhapsody lay on the burning ground, her face bruised and blooded, breathing in the dirt of the forest floor, feeling the heat all around her rising with Michael's madness.
He strode across to where she lay–she could hear his footsteps approach, and struggled to keep her fear from consuming her — seized the ropes that bound her hands, and hauled her to her feet before him.
He stared down into her face, his eyes a swimmingly cruel blue light before her own; in that moment Rhapsody felt she was staring directly into the Vault of the Underworld where the race of demons had been imprisoned.
Then his lips were on hers, lips that stung with acidic fire, pressed heavily against her mouth hard enough to bruise it.
All the horror of the past roared back in an instant. Rhapsody began to tremble violently, as agonizing memories flooded her mind, hideous moments from the past locked away deep with her nightmares. Against her will, she gasped aloud.
Michael pulled back from the kiss and stared at her, misreading her expression. He took her face in his hands and pressed his body, with its steel-like skeleton covered by a musculature that felt more dead than alive, against hers.
“Bite, and it will be the last thing you ever use your teeth for,” he said quietly as he ran his hands over her golden hair, loosing the ribbon and letting
it fall to the ground. “They are only a hindrance for how I plan to make use of your mouth, anyway.”
Then he thrust his tongue harshly between her lips, stealing her breath.
Rhapsody tried to separate her mind from her body, as once she was able to do, but the revulsion was so strong, the overwhelming stench of human flesh in fire reeking from his skin as his excitement grew, that she could not block out what was happening. Her stomach rushed into her mouth and she vomited, the force of it driving Michael back a few steps, reeling in disgust.
She was bent over in the throes of nausea when he recovered and strode angrily back to her, slapping her full across the face with a force so violent it threw her backward onto the ground.
“Whore!” he screamed, the sound of it harsh with the tone of the demon. “Miserable, rutting whore! You endure the rancid juice of your husband's loins, no doubt, but you are repulsed by
me?”
As he reached down to grasp her again, the reeve called out to him.
“M'lord! We risk notice! I strongly suggest we get to the promontory and back to the ship. There you can have her, undisturbed, in the privacy of your cabin, and she will be unable to escape. And Faron is waiting.”
The seneschal stared down at Rhapsody, curled on the ground, blood coming out of her nose, then reached down and seized her hair, pulling her to her feet.
“Bring my horse,” he ordered one of the remaining swordsmen who had been futilely attempting to bind the wounds of the man with the severed leg; he stood, looking helplessly at his writhing comrade, then ran up the road to retrieve the mounts.
From behind the seneschal Caius's voice spoke up nervously, weakly.
“M'lord, we must go back to the first ambush point and retrieve Clomyn. He is grievously injured, dying; I can feel it.” He passed a sweating hand over his gray face.
The seneschal turned and stared at him angrily.
“Are you blind?” he snarled, gesturing into the conflagration that was spreading like a meadow wildfire through the green forest to where the coach had first come under attack. “He is ashes by now.”
Caius was staring into the blistering wall of light and heat. “No, no, Your Honor, he's alive, though barely. He's my heart twin, sir; I can feel what he is feeling, hear what he hears, just as he hears me. Please, I know he is alive. We have to retrieve him before we go.”
The demonic host that was once Michael glared at the crossbowman. When he spoke, his voice dripped venom.
“Very well, Caius. By all means. Go get him.” He wrapped Rhapsody's hair around his hand several times and dragged her to where the lackey had brought his horse to a halt, lifted her by the collar of her shirt and her belt and threw her across the animal's back.
“But — m'lord — will you open a — a wall in the fire, as you did before?” Caius stammered.
Michael turned, his shoulders visibly tense beneath his cloak, and regarded the shaking crossbowman.
“Of course, Caius,” he said solicitously. “Here.” He gestured casually toward the wall of fire.
A slim passageway in the flames opened, leaving a blue slice of air.
Caius's face relaxed somewhat, his color returning with the light that flickered off it.

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