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Authors: Andre Norton

BOOK: Three Hands for Scorpio
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I
, Tamara, lay in darkness. My body seemed to be swathed immovably in a length of coarse-woven stuff like a clansman's plaidie. A flap of this blanket covered my face, and I was nearly gasping from both its weight and a surrounding reek of horse sweat. This was certainly
not
the familiar, secure tower room in which I had gone to sleep. Confused and frightened, I instinctively mind-called—and was answered.
“Tam—it is Bina. We are tod-taken.”
I had to struggle to understand her words, almost as if they were of some foreign language. Tod-taken? From our own bed? Yes, it must have been from there, for I could remember nothing but our settling in for the night and feeling oddly weak and tired as I had stretched out. But how could we have been seized from within Grosper?
Bina's Send sounded silently again, aimed this time at Cilla. However, she received no answer.
But we were not alone. I heard a mighty clearing of throat; then someone spat.
“Leave th' wenches so?”
“They won't be going anywhere. Any sight of that blabbermouth of a Clyde?”
Two voices, neither of which did I recognize. The speech of the second seemed that of one gentle-born, or what might pass for good birth among the Gurlys. These men were indeed clansmen of the North, for they spoke their own rough tongue and not the Border language, which was common to both Gurlyon and Alsonia. We had learned it by our father's will upon our coming to Grosper.
I wished I could move my head and somehow loose the bonds that were holding me. After a few moments of continued effort, though, I did manage to squirm free from a corner of the rough cloth that kept me blind.
“Bina, where are we
?” I Sent, hoping that my sister had a better view and had gained therefrom some idea of our location.
“This is a hut,”
she returned,
“but where we may be, I do not know. As to our captors, I have seen but two of those who hold us, and know neither face.”
Swiftly she told me of the manner in which we had been brought out of Grosper.
“How this was done, I cannot guess. It was as if the keep were deserted, save for us and our enemies. What could have happened? Where were the guards—and Heddrick? Why did our Wards fail?”
I moistened my lips with tongue tip, though I had no intention of speaking aloud. Had the castle indeed been garrisoned only by the dead when we were drawn forth? My mind would not accept such a bloodletting. Had anyone been left to carry the lighted tod of turf tied to a spearhead and ride across country in search of vengeance—and ourselves?
But questions that concerned us three more closely had to be answered even more quickly. Why, for instance, had Bina been left with some ability to understand while Cilla and I lost our senses? Or was Cilla even with us?
I froze. Boots sounded on the floor near my head; then that sightbenighting edge of blanket was jerked fully away. I looked up into a face, and one I had seen before, for it belonged to that sour-sick Chosen who had visited Grosper. But the priest had ridden forth with those bound for the Truce!
He stared down in return. I had never seen eyes that held more menace. Had he been able to funnel his considerable will through them, the glare of those orbs alone would be able to call down a blasting curse on their luckless focus.
“She be Vitan Starkadder's meat, not a novice for your lessoning, Chosen.” I could not see that speaker, but his voice was clear enough.
“This—is—vile—trash.” The Chosen's teeth ground out each word, and
his lips moved as if he wished to spit. “Would you have Starkadder's line destroy itself? Nay, he must be saved from such defilement! All the whores from the South deal with workers of the Dark, summoning demons to their beds if they desire.”
“If demons obey such women, Chosen,” inquired the wellborn voice in a reasonable tone, “then why were they not defended when we took them? Oh, we had those bags of dust and did spread them as you said, blowing the last of it ‘neath their door. The lock opened at that right enough. And Prospar did carry the gore-hand as you ordered. Only 'tis ever better to trust steel, and that was our choice also. These three go to young Starkadder, for we will do as we swore.”
During this speech, Udo's glittering eyes had not lifted from me. In one hand he held his board-bound missal. Now he settled that prayer book into a rope belt, then fumbled at a pouch fastened to the same cincture. Stooping a little, he threw out his fisted hand, and from the opened fingers whirled reddish sparks.
That was my last sight of him or our surroundings.
THIS BE DRUCILLA, third daughter of Verset. When I knew my world again, thirst had dried my throat. I had no feeling in my arms or legs, but pain rode my back in waves. At first I felt that I was fast caught in one of those dreams which had been my bane from childhood, when the world I knew had been banished and I journeyed by night where terror crept and danger threatened.
I forced myself now to try to break this dream, and indeed my feeble efforts brought the world about me into sharper focus. Unfortunately, the further I roused, the greater was my pain. I found that I was lying across a horse, for I was conscious of the shift (and smell) of an equine body beneath me. I myself, however, was unable to stir, being bound like any peddler's pack.
“That dead-faced rat ben't the one give us orders. We do as the Red Adder says—we gave word to him, not to any Chosen.”
“Two bulls in the same field never brought no luck—and that dungball beat it right enough when Maclan stood up to 'im! But why ain't
Starkadder's cub here as he said he would be? Thought as how all this was planned out.”
“Ain't nothin' ever certain, Pokeweed. The rat says as how these wenches be demon-dealers, an' Old Beck, she's a wise one, she is. I say we wait until mornin,' an' iffen Red Adder don't show, we Dismals 'em.”
The first answer from Pokeweed was a grunt, but a little later he added, “These here ponies ain't goin' to do well if we leave th' sluts on 'em.”
“Maybe you have the right o' that. Dump 'em off.”
A moment later, dumped I was, and quickly and clumsily, too. However, the indignity and discomfort were greatly lessened by what I had heard—I was now sure that I was
not
alone and that my sisters did indeed share my captivity. I landed on my back, and though I was bundled in blankets, my head was free, and that rapped smartly against rock when I went down. I blinked watering eyes and saw that I had been loosed from a hill pony who was hardly more than a rack of bones covered with ragged, mud-matted hair. Someone caught at the edge of the top blanket about me and dragged me a short distance. This time I was dropped onto an earthen surface that sloped, so that my head and the upper part of my body were raised. From this angle, I could see better the two other bundles of blanket, bound tightly around with rope, that shared my predicament. My sister Tam, and beyond her Bina, showed white faces smudged with dark streaks. Their eyes were closed, and they breathed slowly, yet deeply, so I could see the movement of the coverings on their breasts.
“Bina! Tam!”
I Sent. But all I met was an emptiness, and that frightened me into silence.
A splotch of sunlight lay across the lower part of the blanket bag which was my prison; dawn, then full day, had come while we had been lost in darkness or evil dreams. A man in the scruffy clothes of a Gurly farmer was leading the horse away. Since his back was to me, I did not see his face, but I could make out a stained and slotted band about his battered bonnet showing the faded colors of some clan: dust-dimmed red, sun-bleached yellow, and an edging, nearly missing from age, of black. Red, yellow, black—Yakin colors! This was of one of the mountain people who were very seldom seen as far south as the Border Land.
“Sir!” The blanket roll next to me produced a voice that was familiar, though at present cracked. The highlander turned to answer. Now I could see a great bush of wiry red beard, so full and coarse that it nearly covered
a wide pug nose. Eyebrows as rank of growth as the chin whiskers did not quite cover small eyes of light blue.
He left the pony and came over to us; then he deliberately kicked the prisoner next to me. That done, he did not answer Tam but called out, “Th' wench wants t' talk.” He stood, his hands on his hips, waiting.
Another man loomed behind him. This ruffian had a cloak thrown back on his shoulders to show dented steel plate protecting his chest, though he wore no accompanying steel bonnet. I could see his face clearly; it was badly scarred from a past encounter.
He moved in, his eyes sweeping over all three of us. Tam spoke again, more strongly:
“Sir, do you want your take dead? We need water!”
The armored outlaw threw back his head and laughed. “The Chosen, mayhap, has the right of it! I wanted Verset to crawl, and perhaps my wish can be granted—starting, it would seem, with his close blood-kin. Now ask for it rightly—”
“Please grant us water.” Of us all, Tam found it most difficult to crave humbly for any favor.
“Now, Verset get—you can do better than that.” Plate-back lowered himself to balance on the heels of his boots. The mountaineer who had summoned him stepped back and disappeared from sight for a moment while his leader sat smirking. The Yakin returned with a saddle flask in his hand, swinging it tantalizingly back and forth so that we could hear the gurgle of its contents.
When he received the water bottle, the younger man grinned even more widely, and because of his disfigurement, his mirth formed an expression of malice.
“I am Maclan, though my lord Verset saw fit to make a Breaksword of me. Me, Maclan … . Now, ask me as prettily as you would when you were a court wench.”
Maclan Merven! Had I not been so swathed with bindings, I would have shivered. That name had been one of ill omen on the Borders these five years and more, ever since there had been a hanging and then a gallowsflit. Dead, they had said Maclan to be when they cut him down; but by some chance, after he had been borne away, he had come to life. It was well known that he had declared a blood feud against my father.
He unscrewed the flask and flicked some drops onto Tam's face.
“If it please you, sir,” Tam croaked, “will you grant us water?”
Maclan swung the flask back and forth so low it almost touched her face.
“This has a price, you know. There be little water in this wilderness, and what we have we need keep for ourselves and our horses. Will you pay the price—?”
“No one bargains without a price being stated.” Tam's voice was even.
“The price? Well, now.” The Breaksword pulled at his well-trimmed beard while juggling the flask with his other hand, so that it slopped water even more—to no purpose except our torment.
“Hmmm … I would say a good tumble for you all; yet I am a man of my word. You are to be kept for him who has paid for it. But”—as though struck with a sudden inspiration, Maclan sat back and regarded his scuffed and muddy boots. “These need a brush-up, and other tasks can be found for a wench—or three.”
“No!” Bina's voice rang out.
The renegade looked beyond Tam; then he leaned in my direction. “Still high-nosed, then, are you? So be it!”
He pounded the stopper into the flask and stood up.
Tam coughed from her dryness of throat, and I echoed her. Where did courage end and stupidity begin? Perhaps we were soon to discover. Meanwhile, both men moved off to our right, one towing the pony that had been my mount, until they passed out of sight.
“Did you have a reason for that?”
My indignant Send was aimed at Bina.
“I did indeed—give this gallowsmeat any chance, no matter how small, and your charity will buy you death!”
her reply came swiftly.
“It was he and the other Breakswords of Lammerside who took Neman's Tower.”
The thought of that foul massacre silenced even our mind-speech, though I could feel, as did Bina, Tam's surge of rage. She had helped to bring in two wounded children who had not died when the attackers had cut them down.
We were, however, given little time to wonder if our choice had been the wrong one. A shadow was creeping from a rocky crag that overlooked the camp, and we knew it must be not too far from sunset. A few moments after the outlaws had departed, we heard the yowl of a bush-cat. The feline signal was answered, full-throated, from the direction in which Maclan and his henchmen had gone, then followed by a thud of horse hooves and a confusion of raised voices.
“—dogs on the trail—” That phrase could be picked out of the jumble of speech.
So somebody had loosed sleuthhounds! Those animals were rightly famous in the border lands. All the beasts were trained trackers, and every pack also contained dogs that would attack on order.
“I tells you th' right o' it, Maclan.” One of the mountain men had swung closer to where we lay, and we could hear his speech clearly. “That upnosed Red won't be coming. He had a slam-bang fight with the chief before he rode out last night, and his father gave him what for like he were a jus'-breeched young'un. He got such a crack on the jaw that he spit teeth an' his face swelled up till he canna but croak. He ain't a-goin' anywhere for a few days—maybe a week. The chief has got 'im a mighty hard fist.”
The group that had raised the cat-cry signal was in sight now. The leader of our captors turned out to be a youngster, hardly more than a boy, who wore Starkadder's badge on his sword-scarf.
“Red?” Maclan asked. “He sent any message?”
“Nay, no message. But you had need to know. Nigh a full troop was ready to ride afore I was outta sight o' the grounds. The tod was up and alight. And I marked Gurlys as was goin' to join the Southin's too—three clan flags did be up.”
Maclan had halted. He kicked the ground in frustration, and a puff of dust arose.
“Give you thanks, Jib. So we must needs find our own way out now.”
Once more ponies were brought, and we were again strapped in ignominious positions on their backs. Twilight was beginning to fall as we were borne away. I find it hard to remember that night; I did not dream but was simply swallowed up in a dark pocket in which painful aches and a pounding head were my lot to bear.

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