Burn Me Deadly: An Eddie LaCrosse Novel (28 page)

chapter

TWENTY-FIVE

F

inally I neared my destination. Lesperitt’s directions had been explicit, and even at night I was able to follow them with no trouble. The landmarks he’d used—rock formations, places where the trees grew in certain ways—stood out as plain in the moonlight as they did during the day. It helped that I knew the area a bit, but the easy directions meant that both Liz and Marion would’ve had no trouble, either. Those poor red-scarf bastards had no idea how close they’d really been.

The horse was speckled with foam, and I should’ve been conscientious and let him drink at one of the streams we crossed down below in the woods. Up here there was no water, only wind, dust and summer heat even at night.

One last bend awaited before the final straight stretch of trail ahead. But something suddenly caused the stallion to balk. He whinnied, fought to turn and eventually stopped dead, emphatically refusing to go any farther. I saw no reason for his abrupt terror, but knew enough to take it seriously. If a good animal gets spooked, there’s always a reason.

I dismounted and tied him to one of the stunted, scrubby trees that marked the top of the tree line. The silence was eerie. I continued on foot, checking the ground as I walked. The harsh moonlit shadows actually helped show that another horse had been up the trail recently, but had gotten similarly frightened not much farther on. Manure showed me where it, too, had been tied.

My ribs tightened around my lungs. A set of small boot prints that might’ve belonged to Liz continued past this spot, and another set, much larger, obliterated them in places.

The trail rose still higher, although the slope was slight and the climb easy. The constant wind blew the path clean down to solid rock and defeated my efforts at tracking. Moonlight bounced off the whitish yellow stone, and somewhere an owl announced its presence, the call echoing among the rocks. I could see for miles in three directions, the fourth blocked by the rise toward the little mount’s peak.

At last I climbed the final bit of hill toward the spot Lesperitt had described. I drew my sword and approached. I considered announcing my presence, but past experience taught me that was almost never a good idea. The place I sought was in a flat spot on the bare slope, with no place for Marion, Candora or anyone else to hide in ambush even in the dark. Except, that is, within the place itself.

After all this urgency, it was anticlimactic. The great split in the rock was about fifteen feet long and five feet wide, gaping straight down into the ground. Again I looked for footprints, but the rocky surface was too hard to show anything. I’d make a wider circle and look for another trail if I found no additional clues.

I crouched at the edge. The rock around the hole’s lip was covered in something black, like soot. I rubbed some on my fingers and sniffed; it
was
soot. Beneath the scorch I caught the tang of the same oily substance I’d seen the dragon people applying to crevices before. Had it been intended as a marker? Something that would catch fire and burn the ground if a dragon happened by and hiccupped? An impressively practical idea, if dragons actually existed, which they didn’t. Although it did explain why the red-scarves had not used their torches while they searched.

I leaned over the edge and peered down into the darkness. The moonlight made the shadows within impenetrable. I imitated a crow, the only birdcall I could do, and nudged some loose gravel into the opening. If someone lurked below, hopefully they’d think the insomniac bird had poked too near the edge. The gravel bounced off some rocks and quickly fell silent. Bottom wasn’t too far away.

“Liz?” I called quietly. “You down there?” I heard nothing.

I put my sword away and started to climb down. Then I noticed something else. On the opposite side of the opening, four parallel scratches raked across the stone, leaving white streaks where they cut through the dust and ash. I held out my hand and spread my fingers; it was roughly the same size. It certainly looked like a claw mark of some kind, but it was all wrong for a mountain lion or bear. Just below this, on a rock inside the crevice, was another identical mark, as if something had clawed its way up from the cave below.

I got a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.

Then I shook it off. It was the middle of the damn night, after all, and the spot’s isolation would spook anyone. Some random animal used the hole as a den; no big deal. Probably returned to it, found it covered in soot and human scent and ran away.

I carefully lowered one foot and felt my way down. The drop was only about five feet. I landed noisily at the bottom and dropped to a crouch, although my descent seemed to have attracted no notice. A low tunnel headed off directly ahead into the bedrock, and moonlight illuminated its uneven passage for only a few dim feet. The place smelled of char, and something else I couldn’t identify.

The space was far too tight for my sword, so I drew the knife from my boot. I entered the tunnel and closed my eyes, both to listen and to help my vision adjust more quickly to the near-total darkness. There was no sound beyond the wind that whistled down and around the opening. I felt no draft from the tunnel itself, which implied it had no other openings.

I opened my eyes. The tunnel was uneven and jagged, the result of two huge slabs of bedrock separating. No wind or water had come through to smooth the edges. Ahead, the passageway narrowed into utter blackness, except for a strange, dim blue glow. Caves were filled with growths and insects that generated their own light, but this appeared as a flickering line, like a brazier seen edge-on. As it was the only item of interest, I moved slowly toward it, knife held out ahead of me.

“Liz?” I tried again. No response.

The tunnel floor was pitted with holes and uneven spots. The last thing I wanted was a turned ankle down here, so I went carefully. I heard no voices or other movement, just the blue light flickering far down the tunnel.

The place also
smelled
weird. Beneath the burnt odor was one I couldn’t quite place; I’d smelled gas in caves before, and this was similar, but not identical. I began to get a little light-headed from it, though, and had to stop and lean against the wall.

I glanced down. An odd, bowl-shaped object with irregular edges lay barely visible at my feet. I nudged it, and despite its size it was incredibly light. It was as big as my two cupped hands, with a rough leathery texture on the outside. The inside was smooth as a river stone. I ran my finger along the uneven lip, and a piece broke off.

It sure
looked
like an eggshell. But what bird was big enough to lay it? And yes, I avoided the obvious conclusion because it was, after all, impossible. But I admit I was thoroughly creeped out. I was also sweating like crazy, and realized the tunnel had grown incredibly warm, far more than it should have. Caves were always cooler than the outside.

My head spun from the weird fumes, and I had to clutch the wall to stay on my feet. “Liz?” I tried one last time, to no avail. I put down the eggish bowl and turned back toward the entrance.

I stopped in mid-motion, though; the blue light in the distance had begun to move closer, swaying in the darkness like a lantern carried in a man’s hand. It was hard to focus my watery eyes, but an ominous black shape seemed to loom
behind
the approaching light.

I didn’t run—I wasn’t capable of it at that moment—but I did rush as fast as my wobbly legs would go and, with more difficulty than I anticipated, crawled out. I sprawled on the ground, not caring that I’d gotten the black residue all over me. My heart thundered like a waterfall. I lay there gasping, nauseous, and before I knew it I began to vomit. My recent dinner came up with alarming completeness.

My disconnected rational mind tried to puzzle through this. What the hell was
in
that cave, anyway? I knew some cave gasses were poisonous, but I’d never smelled anything like this one. And had I imagined the blue light coming toward me, or had I really seen it, along with the dark shape behind it? I rolled away from the puddle of bile and gulped mouthfuls of clean mountain air.

I would have to go back down. If Liz was in the cave, she might be just beyond that blue light, passed out in the darkness. I refused to admit any worse possibility. I’d wrap a wet rag around my mouth and nose, and crouch low to stay out of the strongest fumes. Yeah, that was a plan. But I’d need the canteen from Argoset’s saddle.

I stumbled down the hill toward the horse. As I approached he tugged on the reins and whinnied; the smell from the cave still clung to me. I took off my jacket and threw it aside, then made soothing noises. He tossed his head skeptically and clopped his hooves on the hard ground, but didn’t try to run off. I opened the blessedly full canteen, washed the sick taste from my mouth and cleaned the smell from my mustache and beard. Then I let the horse drink from my cupped hands.

My head still pounded, but my stomach no longer wanted to leap out of my belly and run off into the night. The wind suddenly blew hard and cool, and I poured more water on my face to take advantage of it. The sensation drove the last of the quease from me.

I tore a piece long enough to rap around my head from the ornamental sash along the bottom of Argoset’s saddle blanket. I returned to the hole, and when I peered down, I thought I saw something or someone duck back into the shadows. I caught a fresh surge of that weird gas smell. I dropped to my stomach and waited, peering over the edge into the pit, but neither heard nor saw anything else. The odor quickly faded.

I hadn’t imagined it; the thing had been dark, and roughly the size of a man’s head. And it had been quick. Both Candora and Marion had dark hair. A mountain lion could also be dark, had reflexes like that and in such a tight space would be as lethal as either man. I imagined it crouched just out of sight, claws spread, muscles trembling in readiness. And if it was one of those two men, they’d also be waiting there in the darkness, with knife or sword or brute strength at the ready. They were both younger than me, and Marion was definitely stronger. I had no choice, though—I’d have to tackle whoever or whatever it was.

I was about to pour water on the strip of cloth and tie it around my head when a high, unmistakable scream reached me on the wind.

Liz. A terrified Liz. And
nothing
terrified Liz.

There was no way to accurately gauge direction, and for a moment I simply spun in place, unable to decide which way to go. It hadn’t come from the hole, so given what I knew about the area, it seemed most likely she was in the old miner’s hut. It wasn’t far away, if my sense of direction wasn’t too fuddled.

I ran to my horse. He gave me no trouble about heading rapidly down the hill or plowing through the scrub. We crossed the trail that led to the hut and made great time, until I reined to a stop just below the final stretch. I tied the horse again and rushed up the trail on foot as quickly and quietly as I could.

When I was within sight, I ducked behind the same boulder as before. A lamp flickered inside the little hovel, its deceptively homey glow drawing the few insects that lived this high. The wind made it hard to hear distinctly, but I thought I briefly caught a woman’s muffled whimpering, as if through a gag. I carefully peeked over the rock and saw three horses tied outside the little building. I could see nothing inside the windows, until Doug Candora appeared in one. He wore a sleeveless tunic, and was wiping something red from his hands with a cloth.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

Long ago I’d watched someone I loved murdered, and nearly died myself trying to save her. I still heard her screams in my sleep, but not as often since Liz came along. If I was too late to even fight to save Liz . . .

Candora tossed the bloody rag out the window. He stretched, as if he’d been working diligently on something. Splatters of red covered his tunic.

I drew my sword. There would be no stealth now.

chapter

TWENTY-SIX

O

nce again I kicked open the door.

I’d seen a lot of carnage in my life, and inflicted a fair bit as well. But what I saw brought me up short, and if I hadn’t been sick earlier it would’ve definitely made me so. As it was, my stomach wrenched and tried very hard to find something else to expel.

The distinctive odors of blood, offal and terror filled the little room. Marion, all six and a half feet of him, was tied down naked to the big, crude table. The single lamp hung from a hook above him. He was missing body parts, and not all of them external: his belly and chest were expertly sliced open, and there were spaces among the organs where there shouldn’t be. Blood soaked the floor under the table, and red footprints marked where his killer had circled him during the procedure. The ropes holding his wrists and ankles to the table legs had nearly cut down to the bone from his futile struggles. Judging from the look on the eyeless mess of his face, he’d been alive through most of the mutilation.

The sight was so chilling that a full second passed before I looked around for Liz. She hung from the manacles, her feet just off the floor. She was also naked, and her body was bruised, scraped and dirty. She’d almost chewed through the cloth gag tied around her head, and blood trailed down her arms from where the manacles bit into her wrists. Painful as it was, it appeared to be the worst of her injuries; she had not been tortured, at least not the way Marion had been. She looked unconscious, and her breathing was raspy and labored. I’d heard prisoners make the same noise after being restrained in one position too long; soon she’d be unable to breathe at all as her exhausted muscles simply couldn’t expand her lungs.

Absorbing this took another second. Then I realized that there was no sign of Candora. There literally was nowhere for him to hide in the little hut, and I’d come through the only door. Had he jumped out a window? Bloody footprints showed me where he’d paced several times between Liz and Marion, but none of them headed toward the door. He instantly became a low priority, though, as I scabbarded my sword, rushed to Liz and lifted her so the weight came off her arms. I looked around for something she could stand on and intended to say,
Hang on, honey; I’ll get you down.