The Misbegotten King (25 page)

With an anxious glance at Tavia, Roderic stepped back inside the room. “I’m right here.” He beckoned to the man. “What is
it?”

The soldier saluted. “Scout came in a few minutes ago, sir. He found two bodies, about three days ride from here.”

Roderic nodded for the man to continue, squaring his shoulders instinctively. “Well?”

“Two of the M’Callaster’s men, sir. They were wearing plaids.”

Roderic closed his eyes as Tavia rushed to his side with a little cry. “Any sign—any sign of my wife?”

The man shook his head. “No, sir. No sign of either the lady or the M’Callaster.”

“No indication what happened to them?”

“Mutens, apparently. The wounds on the bodies look like razor spears. They were heading through Muten territory after all.
The scouts are waiting in the hall, if you would like to speak to them for yourself, Lord Prince.”

“I’ll be right there.”

As the soldier saluted once more and withdrew, Roderic looked at Tavia and knew she could see the unvoiced fear in his eyes.

“We’ll pray, Roderic,” she said as she patted the infant’s back. “We’ll pray that all is well.”

“I think the time is come for more than prayers, Tavvy. It’s time to act.”

A
cross the barren plains of central Arkan, Deirdre and her men rode, pausing only long enough to rest their horses and replenish
their dwindling supplies. They stopped at the garrisons, where the wary commanders welcomed them guardedly, gave them food
and drink and places to sleep, then sent them on their way with admonitions to be wary.

The western horizon stretched away in the distance, mile after mile of barren, dusty land. Deirdre remembered that Roderic
had told her once that the Arkan Plains had been a land of plenty. The crops had grown from horizon to horizon, he’d said,
and the bread of Arkan fed the whole of Meriga.

They rode through scattered villages, where men in tattered clothes scratched a living from the dust, and women with faces
lined with grief and care eyed them suspiciously from the doorways of hovels. They never stopped in those places, never begged
so much as a crust of bread or a cup of water, even for their animals. Silver was next to worthless here. Only food had value,
and Deirdre could not bear the thought of taking even a scrap away from people who had so little.

The garrison commanders were stern, tight-lipped men who asked many questions and provided little information. They did give
her directions readily enough to the next garrison. Deirdre suspected that her progress was being reported upon. Well, let
it be, she thought, though she doubted Roderic would be relieved to hear that she headed west. Doubtless he would suspect
she had deserted his cause.

But she had learned to dismiss such thoughts from her mind. The days were long and demanding enough without worrying about
something which might not come to pass. So she thanked the garrison commanders and always made sure they knew her name, even
if they didn’t believe her title.

They were courteous enough, though, and more than once she had seen the soldiers on the walls, watching as she and her companions
rode away, onto the highways which ran across the landscape, testimony to Abelard’s unceasing care, stretching across the
measureless miles.

Time and again they were warned about the Harleyriders, who emerged from their camps in the deep deserts south of Loma and
who were expected on their customary migrations. “In this part of the country, we let them be,” explained the lieutenant of
one lonely outpost as he watched them prepare to leave. “But this year we’ve seen damn few—too few if you want my opinion.”

Deirdre paused. His opinion might count for something, she thought. She had learned long ago that the soldiers in the field
often had a better idea of conditions than their superiors in their keeps. She shifted her plaid
and settled her swordbelt across her hip. “The spring was late in coming. Is it possible it’s kept them in their lairs?”

The lieutenant, a tall man weathered beyond his years, stared down at her, something like respect warring with condescension
in his expression. “Perhaps you are right, lady. We’ll hope it isn’t something more.”

“What have your scouts told you?”

For answer he gazed beyond the opened gates. “Well that’s the trouble. They haven’t been able to tell us anything. There’s
been hardly any signs of the Harleys at all.”

“And that worries you?”

“We know they’re out there. And if they aren’t here— and if the other garrisons report no signs of them… then where are they?”

Deirdre shrugged. Harleyriders were a legend to her people, wild tales told around the fires at night. The Sascatch Tribes,
who ranged across the northern borders of Meriga and who sacrificed human prisoners to their gods and ate their flesh, they
were more of a real threat than Harleyriders.

“You be careful, lady,” the soldier said grimly. “Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Somewhere.
And you’re a stranger to this part of the country, no matter who or what you are in your own lands. I can tell you don’t quite
believe how dangerous they are.”

Deirdre considered his warning. There was a certain amount of truth in what he said. He was a skinny giant of a man, so tall
that even she had to look up. Deep lines ran down the corners of his mouth. This was a man whose
face reflected the harshness of the land where he had spent his life. “Don’t believe in them?”

“Lady, you rode in here as bold as any man I’ve ever seen; you carry yourself like a soldier and speak like a lord. Your men
answer to you as readily as mine do to me. But don’t underestimate the dangers of this land, lady, for there’s more out there
than you care to imagine. Do you know what the Harleys do to their enemies? The ones they respect, I mean?”

“No. Tell me.”

“They crucify them. They take them to the nearest building—even if it is just a ruin, or a tree if they can find one—and tie
the prisoner to it, arms outstretched, feet together, maybe as high as ten feet or so in the air. Sometimes they use nails.
But either way it’s a long, slow, cruel way to die. I’ve seen what the bodies look like. And it isn’t a pretty sight.”

Deirdre swallowed hard, listening to the mutters of her men as they paused in their preparations. “I don’t imagine it is.”
She met his eyes, refusing to show fear or the slightest hesitation “I appreciate your warning, lieutenant, and I will be
careful. Now, how many days till the next garrison?”

“Ford-Gunn lies ten days ride from here, due west. There’s a village between here and there, Gassapeak. You’ll find water,
but don’t look there for provisions. You’ll have more luck relying on your bow.”

She nodded her thanks, threw her bedroll on top of the pack behind the saddle, and gripped the reins in both hands. As she
swung up into the saddle, she looked at him once more. “Tell me, lieutenant—” He raised a look
of grave concern. “Is there any news of the Prince? Or the situation in the South?”

He shook his head. “Last messenger came in over two weeks ago, lady. We’re at full alert—but so far nothing more.”

She nodded a brief farewell, tugged at the reins, and rode through the high gates, ignoring the stares of the curious men
who watched as the company rode away.

Spring might have come slowly to this land, she thought, but summer was here with a vengeance. Their horses’ hooves struck
the paved surface of the highway with a loud echo. The landscape was barren and sere, a few scrawny trees clung to the surface
of the dusty soil, here and there a few hardy flowers bloomed in the crevices of what could only be ruins of the Armageddon.
She followed the road, which led along the steep banks of the river, a river which flowed sluggishly, its water muddy and
unappealing, reflecting a few of the clouds scudding across the lowering sky.

Four days out of the garrison, at a hot dry noon, she reined her horse and squinted ahead in the distance. Sweat trickled
down her neck between her shoulder blades, and her linen shirt clung to her body like a damp skin. Her plaid, woven against
the chill and damp of the North, lay in a roll behind her saddle. Even the horses seemed to gasp for breath.

Ahead of her lay the ruins of a city, the high towers gaping empty. She drew a deep breath.

Darmot looked around. “You want to go through there?”

“Is there a way around it?” She looked at the steep riverbank, the high hills which cradled the little city.

He stared all around. “Will take us an extra day to ride around it. There’s no way across the river.”

Deirdre nodded slowly. “Aye, and once across, could we get back so easily?”

Darmot shook his head. “I don’t like the look of that, M’Callaster.‘Tis an ambush waiting to happen in there.”

She glanced at him. “But there’s no time. Every day we lose—”

“Aye, M’Callaster, I know your mind.” He glanced over his shoulders at the other men. “Draw in, lads. Weapons ready.”

The little company drew together in close formation, and Deirdre kicked at her horse. The hooves rang with eerie echoes through
the stillness. They cantered down the road, the dust flying up in their eyes and mouths, hands at their swords.

Through the main thoroughfare of what had once been a city, beneath the ruins, empty shells where everything one might even
think could be useful has been carted away long ago,, they rode. The hair rose at the back of Deirdre’s neck. The gaping glassless
windows reminded her of eyes, of mouths full of jagged teeth. At the many crossroads they paused, glancing down the empty
roads, the cross streets where twisted lines of rotted steel swayed in the breeze. Flat sheets of metal, long ago scoured
bare by the relentless weather, hung at haphazard angles off poles. The eerie emptiness coupled with the debris caused Deirdre
to shiver. She touched her spurs to her horse’s side and raised her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

As one, the company galloped out of the ruined city. Deirdre breathed a low sigh of relief as they passed the last of the
rubbled buildings and the open roadway loomed ahead of them. She turned to Darmot with a rueful smile. “I suppose we’re getting
to be worse than a couple of old wives?”

He opened his mouth to answer, and from the buildings, a low keening wail swept across them. The hair rose once more on her
neck, and she wheeled her horse, drawing her sword in one fast smooth motion.

As one man, the six drew their weapons, drawing close in tight formation. Deirdre half rose in the stirrups. “Donner, Darmot,
do you see?—” She broke off as a hawk rose from a building, a struggling rabbit gripped in its talons. Deirdre relaxed with
a curse. “I see demons in shadows,” she muttered. “Come, let’s ride on.”

“Alert formation?” asked Donner.

“Why not?” Deirdre shrugged. “At least until we’re well clear of this accursed place.”

In a tight wedge, the men drew together, horses responding to the unspoken commands of the riders as if one flesh. The road
led out of the city, down and over the dusty hills. Deirdre glanced suspiciously left and right. Her mount threw back its
head repeatedly, nostrils flaring. She patted its neck and saw the whites of its eyes. “Easy, boy,” she soothed, even as she
craned her head, trying to guess the source of the animal’s discomfort.

Over the rise of the next hill, she had her answer. Donner, riding in the front, paused and gagged. “Mother goddess,” he choked.
“M’Callaster, look.”

“Mother goddess, indeed,” muttered Deirdre, scarcely able to believe the grisly sight.

On either side of the road, crucifixes of varying sizes sprouted like a gruesome parodies of trees. She reined in her horse
to a slow walk. The stallion whickered nervously. “Easy, easy,” she murmured as she guided the animal between the row of tortured
corpses.

“M’Callaster,” whispered Donner.

“Aye?”

“Look—see the bodies?”

“Aye?” Deirdre snapped. Looking at the bodies was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Did the lieutenant at the last garrison not say the Harleys crucified their enemies?”

“Aye,” she said again. “What of it?”

“These are no enemies—unless they have launched a war against themselves. These are their own women— and their own children.
Look, M’Callaster—do you see?”

With a sharp glance at Donner, Deirdre peered more closely at the bodies which hung upon the crosses. He was right. The Harleys—or
whoever had done this—had nailed Harley women to the crosses. And children. Bile rose in her throat, and with a muttered curse,
Deirdre put the spurs to her stallion and galloped down the road, away from the awful sight. Her men, needing no urging beyond
that, galloped after her. A little ways past the last of the crosses, she reined her horse to a halt. The horse slowed obediently.
The stench of blood was still thick in the air, and the beast pawed the ground nervously. She looked back over her shoulder,
quelling her nausea with some difficulty.

“What does it mean, M’Callaster?” Darmot pulled hard at the reins of his own beast, struggling to bring it under control.