A Man Betrayed (16 page)

"Were their
names Melli and Jack?" Another thrust of the haft. The woman stifled her
coughs this time. Traff was quickly depleting what little store of patience
he'd been blessed with. "Look here, bitch, you answer my questions or I'll
cut off both your hands and set fire to your precious pig sty." To
illustrate his willingness to perform the former of these two threats, Traff
drew the blade against her wrist. Dark blood welled to the surface in a thin
line. She bled well for an old one.

"Now then,
let's move along." He was the indulgent parent again. "What I need to
know is where they were headed." Traff eased the point of the blade into
the woman's open wound and absently drew back the skin.

"They headed
east." The old woman sighed as she spoke. A single tear glistened forth in
the darkness.

"Good, but
not good enough." Traff scraped his blade against the intricate bunching
of bones in the woman's wrist. "Where in the east?"

"Bresketh."

"No such
place, old woman." One quick flick of the knife and the tendon connecting
one bone to another was severed.

The woman cried
out. "They told me Bresketh."

Traff got the
distinct impression the woman was telling the truth. He tried a different
tactic. "They might have told you Bresketh, but where do you think they
were headed?"

No reply.
"Answer me, old woman, or your pigs will be crackling before the night is
over."

"Bren. I think
they were heading to Bren."

Traff smiled.
"One last question. Did the boy Jack ever lay a finger on the girl?"

"I don't know
what you mean."

Traff was pleased
to note that the old woman now sounded afraid. "Let me explain,
then," he said. "Melli is my betrothed, and it would make me very
angry if she was as much as touched gby another man." Traff continued
working his knife into the open wound on the old woman's wrist. "Very
angry, indeed."

"He never
laid a finger on her. I swear."

"Good."
Traff brought the knife to the woman's throat and slit her windpipe.

He wiped his hands
and knife clean on her nightgown and then stood up. He was sorely tempted to
put a flame to the sty, but he'd promised her "friend" that he could
have the pigs, and he was a man of his word. When it suited him.

Now all that
remained was to find a candle and then ransack the place. The old crow was
bound to have a stash of gold somewhere. After a good night's rest and a hearty
bacon breakfast, he would begin the journey east. Melli was his betrothed, and
he would track her down wherever she was.

They were making
their way toward the pass. The path began to narrow and steepen as it wound its
way up into the mountains. To either side lay huge banks of snow; virgin white,
they gleamed with silent menace. The air, which was already ice-cold, had begun
to thin out, and Maybor's damaged lungs had to strain for every precious load
of oxygen.

Damn Baralis! He
was responsible for this. Before the incident on Winter's Eve, he'd had the
staying power of a man half his age. His lungs had been the mightiest of
bellows, and now, thanks to Baralis and his foul poisons, they were as full of
holes as a cheese-maker's cloth.

At least the wind
was at rest. For the first time in this cursed journey the air was still,
bestowing an unlooked-for blessing upon his weary bones.

If all went well
and the pass was met by midafternoon, they would be in Bren in three days time.
Maybor was impatient to gain the city. He was tired of traveling, sick of
looking at snow and the back end of horses and, most importantly, he was
anxious to be among civilization again. Bren promised all the delights of a
modem city: fine food and strong ale, cheap women, and skilled tailors. He
would find a tailor first. It was high time he had some decent robes made. His
lungs had not been the only casualty of Winter's Eve: his wardrobe had to be
destroyed. Now he had barely enough clothes to impress a tavern wench. Baralis
had a lot to.answer for.

Maybor turned his
horse, a treacherous move on so narrow a path, and headed back along the length
of the column. It was time he and Baralis sorted out a few things. Confronting
the man here, along the cliffs and drops of the Great Divide, would give him
the advantage. There was no greater horseman than he; no man could guide and
control a horse as well. Baralis possessed no such skill. If Maybor judged
right, the king's chancellor would be feeling just a little nervous at the
moment, a little preoccupied with having to ride his horse along the hazardous
snow-covered trail.

What better time
to test the man's verbal acuity? And if Baralis' horse happened to lose its
footing in the heat of debate, and plunge itself and its rider down into the
snowy abyss of the mountain, that would merely be a regrettable accident.

The path was only
wide enough to accommodate two riders abreast. Even so, Baralis chose to ride
alone, or perhaps no one was willing to ride at his flank. Maybor had noted the
way all the soldiers gave the king's chancellor a wide berth; they were afraid
of him, though they would never admit it. Maybor could understand their fear;
he more than anyone else knew just how dangerous Baralis could be.

Moving down along
the column caused considerable inconvenience to the riders as they were forced to
make way for the man and his horse. Maybor eventually pulled alongside Baralis.

"So, Maybor,
to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" Baralis was as calm and aloof
as ever.

Maybor had to
admire the way the man could speak in such low tones and yet have all his words
clearly understood. "I think you know what brings me here," he
replied. "There are still some matters that need to be resolved between
us."

"Matters to
be resolved, indeed! Since when did you become a statesman, Maybor? Last I
heard, your talents ran to women and murder. I didn't realize you were also an
aspiring politician."

"Taunt me
not, Baralis. As you have just pointed out, one of my talents is murder."

"Is that a
threat, Maybor?" Baralis didn't wait for a reply. "Because if it is,
then it's a naive one. You may have a little talent as far as murder is
concerned, but you are merely a skilled amateur when compared to me." A
little of the sting was robbed from the man's words as he was forced to rein
his horse tightly to guide the creature around a sharp turn in the path.

"Not so great
with a horse, though?" Maybor could not resist the jibe. He rounded the
curve with the grace of Borc himself. One quick look to the left confirmed that
the snow bank had given way to a sheer drop. To the right, the snow still rose
like a mighty hillside. Maybor brought his horse closer to Baralis' mount,
forcing the man to ride nearer the edge.

"Enough of
this quibbling, Maybor. Cut to the bone. What did you come here to say?"

"I came here
to tell you that I will be the superior envoy in Bren. I am king's envoy."

"I didn't
know you could speak with the dead, Maybor."

"What d'you
mean?"

"Well,
correct me if I'm wrong, but you were appointed King Lesketh's envoy. Lesketh,
as we both know, is now cold in his grave, and unless you have developed a way
to converse with his spirit, you have no rights in Bren."

Baralis' mocking
tone raised a knot of fury in Maybor's gut. How he hated the arrogance of the
man! He edged his mount more to the left. The two horses were so close their
bellies were almost touching. Baralis was forced to pull on his reins to slow
his mount.

"What's the
matter, Baralis? Surely you aren't afraid of a little drop?"

"Don't play
games with me, Maybor. You wouldn't want to lose another horse."

Maybor met the
cold challenge of Baralis' eyes. There was an unflinching insolence in their
gray depths. Maybor sat back in his saddle. He couldn't really believe what the
man had said. He was claiming responsibility for killing his beloved stallion.
And while he'd been riding it, no less! No, it couldn't be true.

Suddenly a cold
wind blasted Maybor's face. A terrifying rumbling came in its wake. The
mountainside was moving. A whole bank of snow was shifting.

"Avalanche!"
someone cried.

The air was filled
with the crashing of snow. Maybor rode forward in panic. The snow slid down in
one mighty sheet, smashing into the path. The noise was deafening.

There was chaos
along the column. Men rode in fear for their lives. One man rode himself right
off the cliffside. Chunks of snow and ice shot through the air like crossbolts.

Finally the snow
came to rest, leaving a deadly silence as its obituary. White powder floated
down on the party like a pall.

The column had
congregated around the bend in the path. No one could see the damage done by
the avalanche. They were short both men and supplies. The avalanche had caught
the last of the column. Maybor looked around, suddenly hopeful. Baralis was
still among the living. He cursed himself; he should have used the distraction
to push the king's chancellor from the cliff!

No one dared move.
Maybor's eyes were racing over the remaining supplies. Not one of the barrels
had his mark upon it. Damn it! He'd lost three score casks of Nestor Gold. It
was to have been his personal gift to the duke of Bren.

"My
cider!" he exclaimed loudly. Maybe the men could dig it out.

"Crope!"
The name was uttered with quiet anguish. The voice belonged to Baralis.

Maybor spun
around. Baralis was moving toward the bend in the path, oblivious to the rest
of the party. Maybor did a quick scan of the men. The huge lumbering idiot was
nowhere to be seen.

"Lord
Baralis!" shouted the captain. "You can't go back there, it won't be
safe. Wait an hour or two and give the snow time to settle before we dig the
men out."

"They will be
long dead by then," murmured Baralis. "I will send some men to
accompany you," said the captain, moving forward.

"I will go,
too," cried Maybor. He wasn't about to let Baralis pick through all the
supplies with no one watching. Baralis turned to face the party. His skin
gleamed like polished marble. His gaze surveyed the men, meeting the eyes of
each one in turn.
"Ride
on!" he commanded, his compelling
voice carrying the authority of a king. "Ride on! I will deal with this
danger alone!"

Such was the force
of his voice that, after a short pause, the men began to turn their horses and
make their way along the path. Maybor was powerless to stop them. The
compulsion to obey was too strong. He watched as Baralis dismounted and made
his way around the bend toward the avalanche site. Maybor was tempted to
follow, but the threat of danger was too real and he didn't like the idea of
his hide being permanently buried beneath a mountain of snow.

The party rode for
a few minutes before the path widened sufficiently to make camp. The men were
silent, their faces grave and tense. The captain ordered a head count.

Maybor did not
doubt where the thoughts of all the men lay. Everyone was wondering what was
happening at the avalanche site. A few minutes passed and then something
strange happened: a warm wind rippled through the camp. Maybor told himself
he'd imagined it, but the puzzled faces of others confirmed its presence. Again
the air gusted wane and fast. There was a cracking, shifting noise. And then
the unmistakable aroma of cooking meat.

Even as Maybor was
disturbed at the smell, his mouth betrayed him by watering. He looked up, but
the face of every man in the party was cast down, all intent on keeping their
own counsel. It was as if to look at someone else might cause the strange
goings-on to solidify into reality.

A length of time
passed; Maybor had no way of gauging its measure. The air was cold once more. A
chill breeze held the smell of well-done meat in its keep. The only noise was
the sound of someone tapping a barrel-a man with enough good sense to realize
that now was exactly the right time for a stiff drink.

Then, just as the
ale began to flow, Maybor spotted Baralis approaching the campsite. He was
walking, leading his horse by its reins. Lying over the mare's back was the
body of a man. Size and width alone confirmed that it was Crope. The king's
chancellor drew near. He was leaning heavily against the mare. The body on the
horse shifted slightly; Crope was still alive.

The captain looked
to Baralis.

He nodded, his
face grim. "Go now," he said. "Rescue those who are left. Most
are dead. I have done what I can." Maybor could read the questions on the
captain's face, but something stronger than curiosity forced the man to hold
his tongue: fear.

Baralis led his
horse to a sheltered section of the path. He ordered a guard to help lay
Crope's body on the ground. Maybor could clearly see the strain on the face of
the king's chancellor. He was exhausted, his shoulders drooping, his hands
shaking. Reaching inside his cloak, he pulled out -ga small glass vial. He
swallowed the contents like a man dying of thirst. His weight was against the
horse, and without its support Maybor suspected Baralis would collapse.

The captain began
to organize a group of men to accompany him to the avalanche site. Maybor
insisted on going along to inspect the damage. A few minutes later, they rode
up to the place where the snow lay across the path. The smell of meat
tantalized the palate. Maybor hurried forward. A portion of the snow had
entirely melted away. Water pooled and then dripped from the path. Barrels and
bodies were uncovered. The snow-melt formed a rough circle. At the center was
the body of a horse and its rider. They were joined as one; their bodies
scorched and blackened. Cooked to a crisp. Maybor heard the sound of more than
one man vomiting.