Tales of Downfall and Rebirth (76 page)

“Are you afraid your farmers will run away to join me?” Orsa tipped her head to one side and gave a tinkling laugh. “No, we shall breed up our own folk. And then the High King will say who is worthy to rule this land.”

“A populace bred from your slaves?” The eorl's tone sharpened, and he turned to Captain Feldman, who had gone very still. “And what will this High King you have been praising think of that?”

Deor's skin prickled suddenly.

“Before we fought the Cutters, before the High Kingdom, we fought the War of the Eye against the PPA, and the serfs were set free,” Thora burst out when Captain Feldman did not reply. “There is no slavery in Montival. It's one of the few laws the High King enforces in all his lands, it's in the Great Charter that any who wish may leave their own land for one that will take them in, even if they must leave with nothing but the clothes on their backs.”

The sense of danger deepened. Duke Morgruen blinked, then took another sip of wine. For a moment he rolled it on his tongue, then he swallowed and smiled.

“Oh, we will not have slaves either, by the time Montival is able to concern itself with what we are doing here . . . You must understand—these were wild folk when I took them in, cannibals or the next thing to it, not worthy to be classed as men. First they must learn discipline. Orsa, my dear—” he beckoned to his wife. “I fear our guests are growing weary. I believe you had a dessert in mind? Some of those butter cakes you do so well? Why don't you see to it now? In the meantime”—he turned back to the others—“in the next room, we have machine parts and tools . . .”

*   *   *

By the time the tour brought them back to the silk-lined room it was growing late. Thora's neck was stiff with tension despite the wine. Why hadn't Captain Feldman said anything about Montival's position on slavery? Was it because he saw a chance for profit here? She would not have thought he could be tempted, but she was a Bearkiller. How would she know what a Corvallis merchant might choose? Eorl Godulf didn't look happy either. Her military instinct told her to leave, but Captain Feldman continued to chat with their host with every appearance of bland unconcern.

As they settled back around the table, Orsa returned, followed by several children and a young woman with black curls. They carried trays of dark brown cupcakes still warm from the oven, drizzled with honey, and topped with crumbled walnuts. They were all in the same shapeless shifts, but they looked considerably better than the thralls she had seen in the fields. Thora's mouth watered as a spicy, buttery scent filled the room.

“Do I smell molasses?” exclaimed the captain. “We've begun to import it from the islands, but I never expected to find any here!”

“And chocolate—” Duchess Orsa's eyes gleamed. “From a warehouse in Oakland. We've been saving it for a special occasion.”

As the servant held out the tray, Thora realized that what she had taken for a smudge of dirt on the young woman's cheek was a bruise. A good figure gave some shape to the rough shift she wore. It was none too clean, but at least she was not collared like the thralls. As Thora reached for a cupcake, it seemed to her that the woman started to shake her head.

“Just set the tray on the table, Mousey—our guests can help themselves.”

As the Duchess spoke whatever had been in the woman's eyes was replaced by fear. The tray clattered as she set it down, bowed and hurried from the room.

The others were already eating, and the last tray was beginning to look rather empty. Thora bit into a cupcake, savoring the rich mix of flavors. They must have scavenged a gourmet supply store, she thought as beneath the robust flavor of the molasses she recognized spices and a hint of herbs. Deor was chewing blissfully. She had noticed that he had a sweet tooth, and desserts were not part of most meals.

By the time they had finished, the children had brought in straw pallets covered with a motley collection of cloth. Guesting at Hraefnbeorg had felt like visiting another part of Montival. Guildengard was like something the Questers might have encountered during one of the less pleasant parts of their epic journey. However the coals were glowing gently in the fireplace, and it had been a long day. The others were already rolling themselves up in their draperies. Eorl Godulf looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him, and Deor, the pig, had collapsed almost immediately and was beginning to snore.

“I'll take the first watch,” Thora announced, placing her arms handy and settling herself with her back against the wall. Through the silk hangings she could feel the stones. Perhaps they would keep her awake. She felt oddly twitchy, though she knew that she was tired.

Captain Feldman raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that's necessary? They clearly want to impress us, even though I wish you hadn't said—” For a moment he frowned, then shrugged. “Probably doesn't matter. We'll talk about it on the way back.”

“Sir, the only reason I'm here instead of in the barracks with the rest of our escort is because I'm a woman. They probably thought my sword was just for show, but you hired me as a marine. Let me feel useful, okay?”

“Knowing when to let an expert do his—or her—job is one reason I've lived so long.” The captain smiled. “But I'm sure everything will be fine . . .”

*   *   *

Thora roused from evil dreams with the sense of movement in the room. Shadows moved between her and the dimming coals. Her head was pounding, but beneath the pain she realized that her heartbeat had accelerated.
The cupcakes,
she thought. They were laced with something—might have been weed. The stuff had made her paranoid the one time she had had it before.

“Sleepin' like babies! Get the boy first—Her ladyship wants 'im safe 'n sound . . .” came a whisper, and someone else cut short a laugh.

Her heart was racing; she fought to move leaden limbs. The men carrying Deor passed her as others bent over the captain and the eorl. Thora settled her bowl helm on her head and sucked in breath.

“Awake! Ware foes! Captain, danger! Wake up now!”

Someone turned with an oath. Thora staggered to her feet, unhooking the buckler and bringing the sword up to guard. A shape blurred toward her and her buckler clanged as it deflected a blow.

“Ho La Thor!” she yelled, and lightning drove the last of the drug from her limbs. A grunt told her that Captain Feldman was up and fighting, and an oath in what sounded like Anglo-Saxon came from the spot where Deor's father had lain. She lunged, felt the point of the blade catch in someone's mail. He yelled and reeled aside as it drove in. She twisted, jerking her blade free as a shape loomed over her, ducked, thrusting up the buckler, and rolled aside.

“Thora, run! Get help!”

“Get the bitch!” The gruff voice clashed with Captain Feldman's cry. “That's an or—” the captain's last word ended in a groan.

For a moment she wavered, every hero tale she had ever heard battling every lecture on military necessity. They had taken Deor. She was outnumbered, Eorl Godulf and the captain were about to be captured if they were not already slain. She could do nothing here. Weeping with rage, she put all her strength into a slash that half severed a man's arm and ran for the door.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs to the yard she wavered, trying to remember where they had lodged the Hraefnbeorg men. A waxing moon gave just enough light to see. From the barracks built against the northern wall she heard shouting and then the kettle-mending clash of arms. Light flowed through an open door; a man reeled through, blood spurted crimson as two others cut him down, then went back to rejoin the fray. No help there. Their escort must have been drugged too.

Where else could she look for allies? Bearkillers were expected to use their heads for more than something to hang a helmet on. The woman the Duchess had called “Mousey” had tried to warn her, and the thralls had an even better reason to hate their master.

She eased around the building, keeping close to the wall. Smoke from a chimney identified the kitchen, and through the bars on the window of the next building a light showed. She dashed across the yard. The door was barred from the outside—carefully she slid back the heavy board. Sword at the ready, she opened the door.

Terrified faces greeted her, but the dice had come up sixes at last, and she recognized the woman, who seemed to be in charge of the children here.

“You, Mousey! Do you want freedom? Show me where they keep the thralls! Now, while the duke's men are distracted, we can surprise them.”

“The pens, guarded—” the woman began.

“But not by many,” Thora said grimly, “not tonight!” She flourished her sword. “Mousey, help me now—you'll never have a better chance.”

Hope sparked in the woman's eyes. “My name Maria,” she replied. “Manuelito,
mi hermano
, there. He fight for sure.”

At the side gate, there was only one man on guard. As they approached, Maria ran forward.

“There's trouble—the señora, she need you!”

As the man came into the moonlight Thora saw handsome features and guessed why he might believe the duchess wanted him.

“But I, on the other hand, find you entirely superfluous!” She came in with a rushing lunge that drove the point of her sword into his throat while he was just beginning to draw. Maria was already opening the gate.

*   *   *

The slave pens had been built on an outthrust halfway between the castle and the fields. Thora thought she could have found them by the smell of night-soil that drifted up the hill. A log palisade surrounded an area the size of an old city block. Inside were metal sheathed pre-Change buildings where Maria had said the slaves were locked when night fell. Thora began to work her way closer.

The night was chilly, and the guards, two of them, were sitting in a lean-to close to a small fire. That was good. The firelight would negate their night vision. They had sleeveless leather jacks with metallic strips riveted on and swords. Spears and bows leaned ready against the shed's wall, so they were not totally incompetent.

Thora told herself that would make killing them more satisfying. She'd survived boarding battles with pirates, but it was different with your comrades beside you and no time to think about what you'd just done. The catch and crunch as her sword went into the gate guard's throat was still with her, and the little jerk when she pulled back that meant the point had lodged in a vertebra. She realized she was shaking, stopped and pulled in a deep breath, then one more, wishing she had her bow, wishing she was not alone.

She had just resumed her stalk when one of the men by the fire sat up suddenly, staring. She froze, but the man was not looking at her.

Maria was walking toward the fire. She had torn open the neck of her shift and let it gape so that her breasts were bare. Silently Thora grinned.

Guess I'm not alone after all. She just uses different weapons than me.

Now both men were on their feet, slavering. Thora worked her way from shadow to shadow until she was behind them. Just out of reach Maria paused. As one man stepped toward her, Thora darted in and hamstrung the other. Maria sped past her and Thora danced forward, point and buckler moving in confusing swirls.

“Gawd damn, 'tis a bitch!” the first guard exclaimed. “One for each of—” He glanced at his groaning comrade and laughed. “That's two fer me!”

He outmatched her both in weight and reach. But nobody made it through Bearkiller training unless they were both fast and strong. He came in swinging and she swayed aside. Steel screeched as she deflected his blow and her blade sliced along the inside of his arm. She dodged back to give him time to feel the sting. Blood loss would slow him soon, but she was in a hurry. She came back to the attack, feinting up and to the left, and when his sword followed the move, knocked it the rest of the way up with the buckler and drove past to sink her own point past the edge of the jack, into his armpit and up into the shoulder joint from below.

His sword went flying from suddenly nerveless fingers. She freed her blade, brought it up and across in a smooth stroke that cut short his cry. Blood spurted in a glittering stream as he fell.

Maria was back with a length of board. She bashed the man Thora had hamstrung in the head and flipped him over, wrenched his dagger from its sheath and sank it into his eye as he tried to rise, then fumbled with his belt-pouch and came up with a key.

“Come! Manuelito's ready—has them all!”

As they ran toward the old warehouse Thora could hear a feral murmur from within. Maria jammed the key into the massive padlock and turned. As it came off, the doors burst open and the thralls surged through.

“The guards in the barracks are fighting the Hraefnbeorg men! You lot, grab tools and go help them—” Thora gestured up the hill. “I need a dozen more for the castle. Maria, where would the captives be?”

“The pig's torture chamber!” growled the man who must be Maria's brother, reflexively massaging his shoulder joints. Thora thought she recognized those eyes. “Where he go for fun. You and you.” He pointed to three women and several men. “You hate him most. You come.”

“I know where,” said Maria. “Follow me!”

Thora was sweating beneath her brigandine but adrenaline surged through her veins. What was happening in there? They had had Deor and the captain for nigh on half an hour. Remembering the way the duchess had looked at him made her belly churn. She swung her dripping sword toward the castle.

“Go! Go! Go!”

*   *   *

“I would rather have whiskey, but they give me blood . . .”

Deor blinked, wondering what had happened to his beautiful dream. The shape of the house wight wavered in and out of visibility, a hunched, misshapen being who glowered at him before receding back into the wall.