The Orb And The Spectre (Book 2) (9 page)

   Ombo led her to his private apartments on the second floor. He thrust her to the centre of the main chamber, then turned and locked the door. Issul quickly cast her eyes about the chamber. A great fire burned in the hearth. A pair of deer hounds rested close by upon the floor, their heads upon their paws, indifferent to her arrival. A rack of ceremonial glaives stood to one side; chalices of gold and silver studded with jewels, and urns and precious pots ornamented shelves and ledges. Upon the walls were shields and escutcheons, swords, axes and hunting trophies, as well as rich silk tapestries and paintings in ornate frames. Numbered among the trophies was the head of a male grullag, its lips curled and long teeth ferociously bared.

   "Killed 'im myself," said Ombo proudly, seeing Issul's eyes upon the head. "And he put up a memorable fight, too!"

   Ombo strode to a table upon which a firkin of ale rested.

   "Ah, it’s good to be home!" He grabbed a large metal tankard and thrust it beneath the spigot, watched in anticipation as the turbid brown liquid gushed forth. "
Jace
, let me remind you of something. Your friends languish in the dungeon below. Their sojourn there can be as long or as short as you choose. Do you understand me?"

  
"Perfectly. You are quite transparent."

  
"Now, now." Ombo straightened, raised the tankard to his lips and emptied it in long, deep draughts, then stuck it beneath the spigot again. "We have, as I have said, unfinished business to address here. But let’s be clear on one thing. You will try no tricks. You will be especially nice to Baron Ombo. If I have cause to complain, one of your friends will die immediately. A second will spend the next two weeks dying. I know you don’t want this; neither do I. So let there be no struggle this time, no fight. We will relax and enjoy each other, and your friends will know no discomfort."

   "And afterwards you’ll let us all go?"

   "Mmmm. Afterwards I will think about afterwards."

   Through her teeth Issul said, "It must smart to have been bested by a woman."

   Ombo stiffened as the second tankard met his lips, his eyes on her, burning. "I can start heating a poker for friend Shenwolf now!"

   Issul stayed silent. He downed the ale,
then said, "I think you are beginning to learn."

   "You seem to have a devoted following here, Ombo."

   "A dozen rogues. They serve me well and enjoy a percentage of my profits."

  
"Profits from what?"

   "What do you think?"

   "You are a brigand, is what I think. You and your band of thugs are fugitives from law. By rights you should now be in the King's army, defending Enchantment's Reach against the Karai menace."

   Ombo stepped forward and cuffed her with a smart backhand across the side of the head. The blow sent Issul sprawling across the chamber. Her head rang, blinding shards of pain hammered through her, but as her senses spun she recognized that, had he wanted, Ombo could easily have killed her with a single blow.

   She spat blood from her mouth, then felt herself yanked upwards. Ombo had her by the back of her shirt. He spun her around and slammed her down upon a table, then leaned over her, his huge leering face thrust before her, his sweat and beer-breath an affront to her nostrils.

   "King Leth!" Ombo sneered. "He is a spineless lizard of a man. Let me tell you something: had the
Karai come in here seeking help, I would have joined them. Yes, I would, as would my men, freely and gladly. It’s preferable to supporting that weak-willed, godless wretch. He has brought us to this, be sure of that,
Jace
. Leth the Despicable! Leth the Pusillanimous! Leth the Impious!"

   "You do not strike me as a pious man, Ombo."

   Ombo drew back. "You taunt me again, Jace. The poker can be glowing in moments. Have you ever heard how it sizzles in an orifice? Have you ever watched the face or listened to the cries of man with a glowing poker thrust up his arse? How he feels his innards broil? Let me tell you how it is done. First, while the poker heats, we take a bull's horn and saw off the tip to create a hollow tube. This we thrust deep into the arse, then the poker follows, melding the horn to the innards as well as penetrating deeper, far deeper than you can imagine. It can be arranged,
Jace
. For Shenwolf. For you, too. Very easily."

   Issul clenched her teeth, fury abolishing any fear she felt of the man. The entire side of her face still throbbed with the pain of his blow.

   Ombo smirked. "Yes, I see that you do understand this time. Now, before we partake of our pleasure together, there is one other matter I wish to address." He turned and slowly crossed the room, then turned back. "Jace. . . . Jace. . . . Why am I so sure that is not your real name?"

   He stared at Issul. She said nothing.

   "You speak and comport yourself like a woman of status and refinement. You fight like a warrior privileged to have known a rare kind of training. You command like a natural born leader. Men obey you without question. That is interesting, is it not?"

   "I don’t see it so."

   "Yes, it is. I have wondered about you from the beginning, thinking that you might be more than you endeavoured to seem. You have said that you are from the city-castle. Perhaps somebody there might be willing to pay a substantial reward for your safe return."

   "I wouldn’t think so. I am governess to a noble family, that’s all. They value me for my work, but I’m easily replaced. In fact, I’m sure that a replacement will already have been found. As for my family, they are poor folk from the country. Were they to learn that I was the prisoner of a low and heartless brigand, they could offer you little more than a cow or a pig, perhaps a few chickens as
well."

   "Is that so?" Ombo ambled back to the barrel of ale to replenish his tankard. "That is interesting. My assistant, Gramkintle - who you met earlier - has been to the city-castle in recent days. The streets hum with the news that Leth's wife, the beautiful young Queen, Issul, has vanished. Upon the Crosswood Road, so rumour has it, a matter of less than two weeks ago. It is interesting to speculate on how much the spineless King might be willing to pay in ransom for his queen, were he to learn that she was alive, is it not?"

   "You have a fevered imagination, Ombo. It leads you wildly astray."

   Ombo walked up to her, yanked her from the table so that she stood before him. "I think not, Queen Issul."

   He walked her backwards, through an arched opening into his bedchamber. Before a wide four-poster bed he grasped the front of her shirt and the vest beneath and tore them effortlessly apart, thrust them back from her shoulders. His eyes bulged as he took in the sight of her naked breasts. "Remember, my Queen, your good friends below are relying upon you."

   He pushed her back to the bed. "Disrobe."

   "Ombo--"

   He cut her short, lifting her and tossing her back onto the bed. "Disrobe!"

   His great meaty hands were groping at his belt. He thrust his trousers down, his engorged manhood springing forth. Grasping it in one hand he stumbled onto the bed, extending himself above Issul.

   "Ombo, this is not the way it should be," said Issul, somehow bringing a gentle, coaxing tone to her voice. His great weight was suspended above her, his heat and sweat upon her as his free hand struggled to rip away her trousers.

   The tone of her voice was unexpected. He glanced down as she forced a nervous smile and lifted her hands to his coarse cheek. She stroked him. He grunted like a troubled beast. She rammed both her thumbs hard and deep into his eyes, twisting, gouging, ripping.

   Ombo reeled back with a throttled roar, blood and
warm jelly spurting over his cheeks. Issul twisted from the bed, raced to the main chamber and seized a glaive from the rack. She ran back, lofting it high. Ombo was bawling, his hands to his ruined eyes, trying to sit. As he slid forward from the bed Issul swung downwards with the glaive and cleaved his head in two.

   Now she ran to the door, listened. She had seen Ombo's men about the keep, but none close to his apartments. Nonetheless she stood, shaking, the glaive poised to thrust should anyone enter through the door. The two deer-hounds watched her without interest. She recalled that Ombo had locked the door. There were no sounds from outisde. She gave herself a moment to take stock.

   Through the arch she could see Ombo, slumped in a mound. His bloody, broken head was on the floor, vast white buttocks high, arms awkwardly splayed. A flood of dark blood and soft grey stuff spoiled his valuable rug and bespattered the coverlet on his bed. Issul approached him and poked him with the tip of the glaive, hardly daring to believe he was dead. He didn’t stir. She set the glaive aside and wiped the horror from her thumbs and hands onto the coverlet. Then she stooped and took Ombo's keys from the trousers bunched about his knees.

   She looked about the chamber for a less cumbersome weapon. A slim sword was mounted on one wall. She took it down and tested it, found it double-edged and of decent quality, and light enough for single-handed play. She took Ombo's dagger from his belt,
then returned to the door.

   No one had investigated Ombo's cries. He had bellowed loudly enough. But the walls were thick and the bedchamber somewhat isolated. It seemed he had not been heard.

   Carefully Issul unlocked the door and peered into the corridor outside. There was no one in sight. She crept stealthily back the way Ombo had brought her. At the head of a flight of stairs one of Ombo's men stood with his back to her, one shoulder propping the wall, a flask in his hand. Issul hesitated for a pulsebeat, then stepped up behind him as he tipped back his head to drink, and ran her sword through his back. She caught his flask before it could clatter upon the flags, stabbed him once through the heart for certainty, and moved on.

   Just beyond the foot of the stairs she heard muffled voices.
Two men. No, more. She crept forward. Around the next corner the passage opened into a large chamber. She moved silently to the door and peered in. Four men were playing cards at a table ten paces away. Mugs and a tall pitcher stood between them. Three of them were Ombo's 'soldiers', the fourth was Gramkintle. She flattened herself to the wall, thinking hard. She had to pass through that chamber to reach the dungeons below.

   A voice came to her from the past. It was Fectur speaking, and she almost shut it out. But the image it brought to her was potent, and she took note. She slipped back along the passage, around the corner, and removed her clothing, all bar her boots.

   She stopped.
Am I insane?
No, it was her best hope. There was no other way. She returned silently to the door of the big chamber, took a deep breath, gripped sword and dagger and stepped inside.

   "Gentlemen, there is something we should discuss!"

   The four looked around, and gaped. Issul drove hard towards them, not slackening her step. Her blade whirled. The first thug died before he had even risen from his seat, Issul's nakedness the last sight his eyes enjoyed. The second was on the far side of the table, and had a moment more to gather his senses. Even so, his eyes were reluctant to tear themselves from the sight of her lithe young body. Only as his comrade died did he seem to gain a clear picture of what was at hand. He snapped from his stupor, half-rose, groping for his sword, but before he had it from his sheath Issul was upon him. He staggered backwards, avoiding her first thrust, but as he regained his balance Issul stepped forward, swinging her sword in a wide arc. He tried to duck, too late. Her blade took off the top of his unprotected skull.

   She spun around. The other henchman had his sword drawn and was on the far side of the table. Gramkintle was scrambling back from his seat, eyes and mouth agape in terror. He turned and began to run, but he was fat and slow, and though he tried to shout, his fear constricted his throat. In four steps Issul had caught him. He staggered on for a few steps more, blood flowering on the back of his jerkin, then slumped dying to the floor.

   She turned. The last man seemed frozen in fear. As she advanced upon him he dropped his sword and fell to his knees, begging for his life. She did not look him in the eye, but killed him with a single blow.

   Issul cast her eyes quickly about the chamber, breathing hard, then hastened back to the passage to regain her clothes. She felt sick and ebullient, weak and half-crazed, hardly believing what she had done. She thought of Fectur again. Years ago, in combat training, he had told the story of a female bandit he had been assigned to capture.

   "Her name was Mirobin," he had said. "Mirobin the Cat. She was skilled, wily, and very, very deadly. She led a band of cutthroats, causing havoc across the region. For two years they had avoided capture. Queen Fallorn wanted her imprisoned or dead, and no one but I could accomplish the task. It took a while, but eventually I had her isolated in a cottage in a village. Her men were dead, or prisoners. Seven of my men entered the cottage. We knew she was alone, and there was but one room that she could be in. My men went in by the only two doors, and found it empty. Then, quite without warning, Mirobin was among them, dropping from the rafters, utterly naked. These were skilled and disciplined fighters, among my best. But she was a beauty, and no matter the circumstances, a man cannot but gape at the sight of a beautiful woman in all her naked glory. It is instinct, nature, pure and simple. Mirobin needed only a couple of heartbeats in which to act. Three of my seven died before they had taken their eyes from her breasts. The others were dead or wounded when she had done."