The Red Knight (53 page)

“I threw it in the moat rather than let it be sullied by you, you miserable pig-fucker. If you want it, swim for it!”

The Thane kicked her again. This time she felt it. The air rushed from her lungs. While she lay there gasping for breath, a fight broke out amongst the garrison. She saw a flash of red hair.
Jamie.
Some of the Irregulars leapt into restrain her squire. If she’d had any breath she would have ordered him to stand down. Stupid boy was going to get himself killed.

“They’re going to kill her!” he yelled, just before Kieran grabbed hold of him.

Thorgulsen barked something in Guthani and she was hauled to her feet. Her surcoat was torn from her and the straps on her armour were cut. Piece by piece, Thorgulsen threw her plate to the Guthlanders. A hirth helped her to the ground with a kick to her uninjured knee and her wrists were bound behind her back.

“You’re a skinny wench without all that tin, Stenna, here—let me help you.”

The Thane reached down, coiled her braids around his fist and dragged her to her knees. A dull pain ran down her leg. Cheered on by his hirths, Thorgulsen drew his knife, and hacked off her braids. She fell. The Thane held his trophies aloft for all to see before throwing them at Jamie’s feet.

“There you go boy,” he growled, “something on account. I’ll send you the rest when we’ve had our sport.”

Jamie tore free of Kieran’s grip and launched himself at the Guthlander who was standing ready, knife in hand. Alyda tried to get up, but something hard hit her in the side of the head and sent her sprawling face-down into the dirt. She looked up to see Kieran punch Jamie in the back of the head, dropping her squire like a stone. Kieran grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder. In the same motion he scooped up her braids, tucked them into his belt and fixed the Thorgulsen with a knife-eyed stare.

Telvier daintily sniffed a sprinkle of snuff from the back of his hand. “Time for you to leave perhaps?” he suggested to Trenham.

For the second time that day, Trenham agreed with the Suvian. He ordered the Irregulars to move the Antians out. There was nothing he could do for Ali Stenna. She quite literally, had signed her own death warrant. He’d make sure her people got away safely—not because he owed her anything; their account was square, but the Irregulars had a reputation to maintain. That explanation might satisfy Kiri, but in his heart he knew it was a lie.

He marched the garrison away from the Arth in double time. Behind them, the cheering Guthani dragged Ali Stenna to the gates of the barbican, where they threw a rope through the bars of the raised portcullis.

He understood why she’d sacrificed herself, but it sat ill with him that she was going to die and he couldn’t save her. Even if he had the numbers to overcome Telvier’s cutthroats and the Guthlanders, he couldn’t violate the Free Company Charter. To do so would condemn his entire company and he couldn’t do that, not even to save someone he liked.

Death when it came would be a welcome release. She’d seen the Queen and the garrison safe, now she wanted the Guthani to just get on with it.

Thorgulsen’s snow-pale eyes glared at her from beneath his heavy brows. He folded his arms. Was he waiting for her to say something? Perhaps he thought she’d beg for her life. If so, she hoped he was holding his breath. He barked something in Guthani. A course noose was fastened around her neck. Her blood ran cold, pumped ice through her veins. She shivered.

“Any last words, Steelskin?” he sneered.

She looked him in the eye;—saw the hate burning within those pale orbs, and smiled. “You lose.”

Thorgulsen gave a sharp nod to the hirths holding the other end of the rope. The noose tightened. Panic gripped her as the rough cords bit into her neck and slowly closed her throat. Fighting for a breath she couldn’t draw, she was hoisted off the ground. Her lungs began to burn. Thunder roared in her ears, her head felt like it was going to burst. The world turned scarlet.

A cheer rang round the castle when they hung the Steelskin. Garuld would sing of how she’d whimpered like a whipped dog at the end. At least, that would be the version he’d sing for Kasper Thorgulsen. The yarn he’d spin in the inns and halls beyond the Thane’s lands would be different. Then he would sing of how the knight had looked Thorgulsen in the eye and laughed in his face before he killed her. Neither was the truth, not quite.

She had only smiled at the end, but for the sake of drama he would embellish that small detail, sew a little more colour into the tapestry. He didn’t think it would anger her spirit. The Talespinner pulled off his helm and ran his hand though his hair before wandering into the Arth to listen to what tales the stones had to tell him.

Chapter Seventeen

“I’ll never forgive you for this, Iris!” Prince Talin hissed at Lady Berwick who was dragging him along the narrow trail.

“I know, Highness, but I gave Lady Ali my word that I’d see you safe and as I have mentioned before—she scares me more than you do.”

“She’s going to die, Bear, they all are.”

She sighed, and shook her head. “I know. I’m sorry, Tal.”

Garian was keeping an eye on the Prince and his friend in case Lady Berwick misplaced her loyalty and let him go. If she did, he’d run straight back to the Arth and he’d have to go get him, and he did not want to go back there. Garian didn’t blame the Prince—he’d have done exactly the same thing if Suli was there, but then, he wasn’t the heir to the throne.

“When will we be turning north, Captain Tain?” the Queen asked.

“We aren’t, Majesty. The fighting near the border is too fierce.”
And balanced on a knife’s edge.

Thea frowned. “But you said…You lied to Captain Stenna?”

The last thing he wanted was to explain his actions. He had more pressing concerns, like keeping her and her sons alive, but he couldn’t duck answering his Queen.

He kept his voice down. He didn’t want the Prince to hear; he was angry enough. “If the Captain is taken alive, they’ll try to find out where you are, Majesty. If she doesn’t know she can’t tell them, and—if pressed, she’ll tell them a lie that she believes to be the truth. It was a necessary deception.”

“I understand. So where are we going, Captain Tain?”

“We’ve been offered sanctuary in a place known only to the Vodoni. It’s very safe, Majesty. We should be there by nightfall.” He bowed. “If you would excuse me, I need to check the trail.”

Before she could question him further, he dropped back and scanned the trail behind them. He knew it was clear; Pytre and Lhazinia were circling the group as they moved and nothing would get past those two. He’d just wanted to avoid having to answer any more bloody questions. As much as it had been necessary, it didn’t feel right abandoning all those people. He rarely felt guilt over what he did because it was always for the greater good, to protect the kingdom. He just couldn’t forget the look on Stenna’s face—of seeing the moment when the knight’s hopes had died.

It took less time for the Steelskin to stop dancing on the end of the rope than Thorgulsen would have liked. When she went limp he ordered them to let her down. The hirths let go of the rope, it whipped through the portcullis. She hit the cobbles and lay there, as still as a corpse. He wasn’t about to let her off so easily, and ordered one of the hirths to loosen the noose. A moment later, she coughed and gasped for breath.

“You had me worried for a while there, Steelskin.” Thorgulsen laughed with his hirths as the knight fought her way back to life. “Send for the Priest,” he ordered.

The Priest picked his way carefully through the debris on the bridge. Thorgulsen noted how he held his robe clear of the filth with one hand, and pressed a kerchief over his nose and mouth with the other. Crossing the body-choked moat was not a pleasant experience, not even for a man who was as intimately familiar with death as the Priest.

“Of course I’ve heard of him; his work for the Brotherhood is well known…in certain circles,” said Telvier, as though Thorgulsen was interested in his prattle. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting him in the flesh. I must say, his taste in clothes is rather drab. A good cut, and expensive cloth but the colour is… uninspiring.”

Thorgulsen shook his head. “You’re worse than a fucking woman.”

“Fucking women is precisely why I care about my appearance, Thane. In nature the male with the finest plumage attracts the most luscious mate.”

“Male sea drakes look like flying turds. The females are iridescent.”

“He has such a kindly face, don’t you think? almost saintly—like the Eklesiasti himself,” Telvier smiled.

Thorgulsen thought he looked particularly ordinary, as befitted a spy and assassin. His hair was close cropped and greying, age and overindulgence had comfortably, but not excessively, rounded his belly. He saw them and waved.

Telvier flourished his handkerchief. “I must say, this is a rare privilege. It isn’t often I meet anyone with a worse reputation than my own.”

Thorgulsen laughed.

“Ah, Thane Kasper,” said the Priest, dabbing his forehead with the neat white square. “The gods have smiled upon us; his eminence will not forget your co-operation.”

“Not at all, Priest. The information you gave me was good. Now I need to you to work your—” Thorgulsen was about to say ‘magic’ until he remembered what the Brotherhood thought about it. “…use your skills, to find out where the Queen is.”

“Of course, of course. It is the least I can do. Captain Stenna has been a most awkward fish to land.”

“I imagine the bounty his Holiness has placed on her head must be quite substantial to tempt
you
out of Suvia,” Telvier purred.

Thorgulsen watched them size each other up like two vipers meeting on a path. The Priest’s mouth curved into a tight smile.

“And this must be the poor misguided wretch.” The Priest went over to the Steelskin and toed her onto her back. He sighed heavily and shook his head.

“Call me old fashioned, but I like to hang people
after
I’ve questioned them, not
before.”

Thorgulsen shrugged and smoothed his moustaches. “She annoyed me.”

The Priest prodded her bruised throat, she gave a ragged cough. “So it would seem. How long do I have?”

“Until this time tomorrow at the latest. After that it won’t matter what she knows.”

The Priest frowned, his lips distended in an ugly pout. He wiped his hand on her shirt. “That really isn’t very long. I may have to be
unsubtle;
results therefore may be less than precise.”

“Do what you have to.”

“Very well. If you could have her taken to the dungeon, I’ll get started right away.”

Alyda was dragged down a narrow flight of steps. The hard edges scraped her shoulders, her head bounced from one foot-hollowed depression to the next.

The dank old dungeon hadn’t been used for its original purpose in years, but it still retained some vestiges of a prison. A sliver of daylight squeezed through a narrow slit cut high on the wall—impossible to see out of even if she’d been on her feet. Seized by a sudden urge to vomit, she rolled over and retched blood and bile onto the slime-sheened flagstones.

A large fireplace stood dormant on the same wall as the stairs she’d just been dragged down. Set in the floor by the hearth was the rusted ring of a trapdoor. The room was cut in half by an old iron grill. Piles of crates and old barrels were stacked on the far side of it.

Flea poked his head out of the broken side of one of the crates and looked at her. Her heart sank. He shouldn’t be here; shouldn’t see this. As though sensing her displeasure, he ducked back inside the crate. She prayed that he stayed there.

Time passed. She drifted, semi-conscious, through dreams and nightmares until slow, deliberate footfalls echoed down the stairwell, bringing the world back into painful focus. She recognised the polished shoes peeking from beneath the hem of the black wool robe. It was the one Thorgulsen had called, Priest.

“This
is their dungeon?” the Priest sighed heavily. “No rack, no implements—primitive. I’ll have to improvise.” He walked over to the fireplace and slid a poker from the dusty rack by the hearth.

“You there…” He pointed the poker at one of the Guthani who’d brought her down. “Get a fire going, and bring more torches. And you—” He waved the poker at the other one, “get some rope and tie her to that.” He gestured to the grill dividing the room.

Alyda was hauled to her feet and shoved against the grill. The hirth began to tie her, but the Priest muttered something in Suvian and huffily shooed her away.

“Not like that, you fucking oaf,” he snapped, oblivious to the venomous glare the hirth gave him.

Alyda didn’t have the strength to fight when he ordered her stripped. He explained in great detail to the bored looking warriors exactly how he wanted her bound and why. She knew the speech was for her benefit and pretended not to listen. A cold breeze squeezed through the narrow window. She shivered. The Priest gave a smug little grin, like he’d personally ordered the wind to blow.