The Patrimony (25 page)

It was near sunset before the company marched in from the eastern village. Captain Plehkos spurred ahead of his men and reined up at the edge of the ditch, demanding that the bridge be lowered. In the dusk, he failed to recognize the stiff, grayish, naked corpses of Mehleena and Captain Ahreestos, dangling by their ankles above the gate. His armor saved him from the arrows, but his horse lacked any such protection. Captain Plehkos executed a retrograde movement at a limping run, commandeered the mule from a sergeant then led his forty-eight bravos far enough down the hill to be well out of bow range.

Komees
Dik,
Vahrohneeskos
Tahm and the others were all for mounting and sallying out to finish the job of rebel eradication, but Tim—who had assumed overall command with natural ease and without argument—shook his head.

“No, Kinsmen, you have had your fun. There are those coming who have not so leave yon bandits to them.” Then he added, on a serious note, “If you want an occupation for your men, set them to finding that whoreson Myron. We found his armor in that room where his bitch-mother was killed, but sword, dirk and the pervert himself are gone, along with his bumboy, the cook, Gaios. You say you had all exits guarded so he must still be in this hall. I charge you, Kindred, find that precious pair. I’ve a stake prepared that will no doubt tickle his arse to such a degree that the folk off in Morguhnpolis will hear his shrieks of pleasure!”

But when a nightlong search failed to produce even a clue to the missing men, Tim sought out Sir Geros, locating him at last lowering a cloth-wrapped bundle onto a pyre of faggots he had laid between his small house and the outer wall.

There were tears in the baronet’s eyes and the traces of more down his stubbled cheeks, as he lifted his head to face Tim. “Poor old Brownie,” he said chokedly, his lips drawn in a tight line. “The oldest hound in the duchy. The last gift
Komees
Hari Daiviz of Morguhn presented your late father, near eighteen years agone. He was near blind and his teeth were so worn down that he could not eat meat unless I chewed it for him first, so I kept him here by me where I knew he would sleep warm of cold nights. Those bastards couldn’t find me here to kill, so they murdered old Brownie, speared the poor beast where he lay on my hearth.”

They sent the faithful old dog to Wind together, Tim chanting what he could recall of the
Lament of Sanderz
, as he would have sung it for the sending to Wind of a human Kinsman.

Later, over brandy in the sitting room of his cottage, Sir Geros remarked, “Tim, I hate to discourage you, but Myron and Gaios might’ve got away clean… or they could still be in the hall.” –

Tim shook his head, tiredly. “Not in
my
hall, Geros. I’d stake my horse on it! Why, man, we went through that place from top to bottom, then from bottom to top, from the cisterns in the spring cellar to the bat roosts in the attics. And every one of the outbuildings, too, and all the towers, and j down the stable well and the privies. We found some remarkable things but not one hair of my perverted half brother and his
pooeesos
.”

Geros sipped at the fiery brandy, then said slowly, “No, Tim, you’re wrong, though you have no way of knowing it, not till now, at least.

Tim, your pa was haunted by the shades of the Vawn Kindred, and it was for long his constant terror that he would be trapped in his hall, and helplessly murdered as were so many of them by the Ehleen rebels in the Great Rebellion. Therefore, when his old friend and comrade Sir Ehdt Gahthwahlt designed this hall, he prepared two sets of plans. When the building was done, one set was burned. It’s the other, incomplete set that’s among your pa’s papers.

“Tim, there’s tunnels and stairways and passages and hidey-holes in this hall even I don’t know about, and I’ve been castellan since it was finished. Only your pa knew them all, and there’s a good chance Mehleena got some of those secrets out of him from time to time, her and her witch.”

Tim pursed his lips. “Friend Geros, I wouldn’t throw that old charge of witchcraft about too much from now on, were I you. If Mistress Neeka passes all the tests they’ll put her to in Kehnooryos Atheenahs, she’ll be declared a High Lady of this Confederation of ours, and it has been my experience that women—all women, high or lowly—have long memories for insults or slights.” He chuckled. “Not to mention that most women are far more dangerous than men because their strength and determination are so often underestimated.”

The hapless rebel bravos of Captain Plehkos milled about the base of the hill in uncertainty for an hour too long, only attempting to disperse and scatter when they spotted the vanguard of
Ahrkeethoheeks
Bili of Morguhn’s column… and by then, of course, it was far too late for any of them. The middle-aged archduke led his dragoons, and Tim—on a hastily saddled Steelsheen and accompanied by his four noble relatives—spurred forth to take command of his own company of lancers. Then the horsemen rode down their two-legged game with the whoops and shouts of the hunt rather than war cries. Tahm took one more head, and only Captain Plehkos, rendered insensible when his wounded mule bucked him off, was taken alive.

The rebel captain would much have preferred a quick death from lance or saber, axe or arrow, for Bili of Morguhn—who had right speedily pressed his rightful claim to Speeros Sanderz, the captain and the majordomo, Tonos, who had been found cowering in an old privy pit during the searching for Myron—made no secret of the great delight he would derive from their interrogation, torture and eventual execution.

Tonos collapsed, befouling himself in an excess of unconcealed terror. The veteran Plehkos’ face went white as whey, but he just set his square jaws in silence. Speeros Sanderz, at fifteen, more of a man than his hulking elder brother had ever been, just sneered, then coolly spit at the archduke’s feet.

Threaten and bluster all you like, cousin,” he snapped, superciliously. “But we both know, you and I, that you dare not harm or slay me for fear of our prince, my poor mother’s cousin. Her murder alone already weighs right heavy on your head!”

Bili grinned like a winter wolf. “Once that was so, young sir, but no more, Sun and Wind be praised. You and your ilk have removed yourselves from any scintilla of protection. You rose in armed and organized rebellion against your rightful overlords, and were Zenos to try to intercede for you in any way, all loyal noblemen would view him tarred with the same brush… and you may rest assured that the prince, your cousin, recognizes his jeopardy as clearly as do I.

“As regards your late dam, the valiant Tonos, here, has signed a sworn statement that she went berserk when your dear brother publicly demonstrated that he held his wretched life of more value than his honor. Stout Tonos goes on to say that she then attacked your brother and a whole roomful of men with an axe. Tonos saw no more after that, but your mother was already dead when first the loyal warriors entered that room. As she was run through with an antique slashing sword, I think it safe to assume that one of her own armed jailbirds did it; so she was hoist on her own treasonous hooks, and I only regret that she did not live to be hoist upon a dull stake.”

Bili had the three prisoners manacled and weighted with chains and guarded closely by his handpicked dragoons, lest they find a way to take their own lives.

While Tim and his noble guests dawdled over their postprandial wines and cordials in the lamplit dining chamber, tall bonfires threw leaping, dancing shadows in both main and rear courtyards, where lancers and dragoons, Ahrmehnee and Kindred milled and laughed and shouted, gorging themselves on coarse bread and dripping chunks carved from the whole oxen slowly revolving on the spits, guzzling tankards of foaming beer, tart cider and watered wine.

The Ahrmehnee loved music and dancing even more than did the Ehleenee, and their musicians never went far without their instruments. Around one of the bright, crackling fires, a circling line of the young warriors of
Vahrohneeskos
Tahm Adaimyuhn of Lion Mountain stamped and leaped in a fast-paced and intricately complicated dance, their deep chorus rising in the refrain of the ancient melody. “
Nee-nie, nee-nie, nee-nie, me. HEY! “Heh-lai. heh-Iai, heh-lai, “Nee nie-nief

And the chorus and the shrilling flutes, twanging ouds, jangling tambourines and roaring rank of drums were almost enough to drown out the tearing screams of the captured rebel Ehleen serving girls, stripped, staked out and suffering repeated ravishment.

The noblemen and ladies strolled out onto the wide balcony that ran the length of the central portion of the Hall and connected the two wings. From there they watched the Ahrmehnee dancers for a while as Tahm Adaimyuhn recited the history of the songs and the significance of the dances. Then Tim, Bili, Tahm,
Komees
Dik, Sir Geros and the brothers Sanderz, Kahrl and Bahb, descended the stairs to make an appearance among their troops, drain off a tankard or two, nibble a little beef and publicly commend those fighters who had distinguished themselves in some way.

Blind Ahl and Sir Geros’ daughter, Mairee, retired to the suite they shared. Mistress Neeka, who looked to be and truly was still moving in a daze, made her way up to her old, familiar rooms, preferring the known comforts to the sumptuous south-wing suite Tim had offered her. Another reason she tamed in her cramped north-wing quarters was the proximity to Mehleena’s three daughters, whom she had taken it upon herself to console in their grief and fear.

Giliahna and Widahd lingered abovestairs only long enough to to collect the necessaries, then trooped off to the semi-detached bath chamber, returning a good hour later. She and her dusky companion shared a minty cordial, then, while Oihahna sipped yet another thimbleful, the slender, graceful Zanrtohgahn girl went into the main room to turn down her mistress’ bed and bank the hearthfire.

While sitting and musing, Giliahna chanced to think of a particularly treasured gift of her late husband she wished to show Tim when he presently came up to bed. But a quick fumbling through the trunks in the big closet failed to locate it.

“Widahd,” she muttered to herself, “will know where it is.” She opened the door to her bedroom and moved into the large, dim chamber, shrugging off her quilted robe and dropping it into a chair. But before she could kick off her low felt boots, a big, callused hand clamped over her mouth from behind and the icy needle point of a dirk or dagger was pressed painfully against her soft throat, just below the jaw where the vein throbbed.

Myron Sanderz’s deep, hateful voice growled in her ear, “If you scream or try to farspeak, you incestuous bitch, I’ll open your throat from ear to ear!”

Giliahna licked her lips and by a great effort of will kept her voice to a normal speaking level, devoid of any emotion or quaver. “What have you done with my friend, with Widahd? If you’ve slain her or harmed her…”

Myron removed the hand from her mouth but not the steel from her throat, took her shoulder and turned Giliahna to the right, so that she could see Widahd across the room near the hearth. The small woman had been gagged but was unbound. The cook, Gaios, had his left arm clamped about her arms and upper body while he menaced her with the broad blade of a Confederation-pattern shortsword.

Abruptly, Myron pushed his captive forward far enough to hurl her nude body down upon the big bed. “Keep your mouth shut and your mind shielded, you sinful, unnatural slut, or Gaios will let the guts out of yon dung-colored pagan bitch!”

Giliahna’s initial shock and terror were being speedily replaced by cold rage and disgust—the rage directed toward the filthy, disheveled, stubble-faced and wild-eyed Myron, the disgust toward herself for having allowed this craven, perverted whoreson of a half brother to glimpse even a bare eye-flick of her fear.

She levered herself up on her elbows and smiled at the black-haired man, mockingly. “
You
call
me
unnatural, brother dear? Then what, pray tell, are you? As regards dung, you should certainly know the color of it, since your abiding lust is to wallow in it.

“Were you a natural man of normal lusts and designs, I’d assume you’d come to my suite to ravish me, steal my jewels and gold, then slay me before you sought out Tim and your own death. But I cannot picture you ravishing any female; a young lad, perhaps, but never a girl. As for my treasure, I’ll not make you a gift of it. If you want it, look for it. And you will find that Widahd and I will face such death as you and your bumboy mete out to us with more courage than such a known craven as you will ever be able to muster when your time comes!”

Myron had gone livid, his face twisted in wrath. “Kill you, bitch?” he snarled. “No, there be better ways to deal with strumpets like you!”

Before she knew what he was about, Myron was on the bed, kneeling astride her body, his weight and the strength of his legs pinning down her arms. His left hand clamped tightly over her mouth, grasped her jaw and turned her head. Then the sharp dirk opened Giliahna’s face to the bone from temple to jawline.

She struggled frantically but futilely, for Myron was nothing if not as strong as the proverbial ox. Finally, she sank her teeth into the palm of his hand. He did not lift the hand. Instead, he poised the point of his bloody blade above her face, grating, “Loosen your damned teeth, or I take out an eye!”

Widahd, like many Zahrtohgahn women, went waking or sleeping with a pair of thin, flat little steel daggers hidden beneath her garments but within easy reach. These purely Zahrtohgahn items were sheathed in tight metal cases, sealed with dense wax, and they required a real effort to uncase or draw. Such precautions were necessary to prevent fatal accidents, for the needle-tipped and razor-edged little weapons’ blades were coated their full length and width with a poison that brought slow and agonizing death and for which no antidote was known.

Moving slowly and carefully, Widahd had managed to draw the one on her right side. Ever so gradually, she brought her arm up, up, up, flexing it just enough to give power to her thrust, and cocked her wrist to impart the proper angle. Then, mustering all her strength and her not inconsiderable courage, Widahd drove the full three inches of the blade deep into the muscles of Oaios’ swordarm.