The Book of Kane (20 page)

No emotion touched Kane’s pallid face. “Shouldn’t have run off on me like you did,” he said, dividing the roasted fowl with curious delicacy. “I could have made you forget that night.”

His eyes seemed to wander from focus, and Ionor smiled inwardly to see the fever that racked his giant body. “Nothing will ever erase that night!” she whispered.

A rough hand squeezed her shoulder and drew her from her seat. “Bring food for us,” growled Seth, his mouth stuffed with meat he had scooped up from the dead ranger’s plate.

“We’ll talk more later, perhaps,” Kane called after her. Her shoulders tensed, but she made no reply.

“Want some opium?” queried Braddeyas, once they had secured the men in the storeroom. “It’ll take the sting out of your side to where you can sleep good. You’ll need your strength.’’

“I can sleep,” mumbled Kane, swallowing a mouthful of brandy. “Don’t want to dull my wits, with Pleddis likely to catch us before the next ridge.” His chin declined slowly toward his chest.

Then he jerked his head erect and stared fiercely about him. “Bring my sword from my saddle!” he demanded. “Pleddis on our necks, and I sit here like a besotted lord at his wedding feast. This is no time to sleep! Fix me a pipe to hold me awake.”

Weed signed insistently to Braddeyas, and the broken-toothed outlaw began to fill a pipe with coarse tobacco, secretly stuffing a large crumb of opium into the bottom of the bowl. He lit the pipe with a wood splinter and handed it to Kane.

Darros reappeared at the door, carrying Kane’s long sword in one hand, while he hastily drew the bolt with his other. “Thoem! I don’t like that mist!” he muttered, not voicing his true thoughts.

Kane took the strangely-hilted blade from him and rested the scabbard against his leg. His fingers touched it, sensed its strength. Steel knew neither pain nor exhaustion, and its only fever was the warmth of an enemy’s blood. Kane wished such unfeeling strength were his, for he was desperately tired, and he dared not rest. His vision blurred and cleared with the throbbing of his skull. “I’ve gone into battle in worse shape than this,” he said defiantly, drawing at the harsh smoke that passed so easily into his lungs.

When the pipe was out, Weed took it from his relaxed fingers. Kane’s slumped head did not lift from his chest; his breathing was slow and regular, his eyes closed.

“He’ll rest better like this,” explained Weed. “Let’s get him to a bed. Did you say there was a place ready upstairs?”

Staggering under Kane’s weight, Seth and Darros hauled their unconscious leader up the narrow stairway to the inn’s topmost floor. There a common room had been prepared for several of the guests; a fire burned on its hearth, and a straw-ticked bed was covered with a quilted blanket. They stretched Kane across the bed and threw the quilt over him.
“Go on and get some rest,” advised Weed. “Braddeyas and I will take first watch.”

He waited until they had quit the chamber, then bent over Kane’s ear. “Kane,” he whispered, “Kane, can you bear me?”

Kane made a noise in his throat that might not have signified anything.

Frowning, Weed bent closer. “Where did you hide it, Kane? Remember? You always cached part of your share of the loot. Where did you take it, Kane? You can tell me, Kane. I’m your friend. We’ll find your cache and use it to escape. We can live like lords in some other land. Where is it, Kane?”

But the other man seemed too deep in sleep.

Sadly Weed rose from his side. “At least don’t die and leave all that gold to rot,” he begged.

Opening the lattice window a few inches—for the room was warm, and Weed feared this would increase Kane’s fever—he wearily left to join Braddeyas.

A shower of sparks started up from the fire and disappeared into the black cavern of the chimney. Weed grunted and shoved again with the poker, wedging the new logs closer to their charred predecessors. Perhaps the fire would burn brighter now. The huge fireplace of limestone blocks occupied most of one end of the common room. It should have warmed the entire area; instead its flames crawled dispiritedly over the smouldering logs, and an unseasonal chill for autumn crept through the room.

Wiping his hands, he turned from the hearth to gaze once more through the window. Though the full moon was rising higher above the ridges, thick mist rolled from the Cotras to cloak the valley beyond. There was little to see as Weed squinted through the whorled panes; only the neglected grounds of the inn, the leaf-paved roadway beyond. Above the doorway, the signboard swung with the wind. Its hinges squawled like a raven’s croak, and against the inn’s lights it flung a swaying shadow across the frosted earth like the shadow of raven’s wings.

He examined the bolted door. There should be a man posted outside, he realized. Even on this night, even though Pleddis was certainly camped a safe distance back on their trail. Again he thought of Frassos’s strange disappearance. It was not a night to venture beyond the security of bright lights and locked doors. Even as a stranger to these mountains, Weed sensed the presence of evil abroad beneath Demonlord’s Moon.

Gloomily he sank onto a bench, his eyes toward the door. Behind him he could hear sounds from the kitchen. The warm smell of roasting fowl carried from the cooking area beyond the bar. Braddeyas kept watch on the two women. Once food was prepared for the ride before them, the women could be bound and locked in with the others. Then perhaps he could get Braddeyas to stand guard outside the inn.

Weed dug his fingers into his eyes, more savagely than need be, for sleep was numbing his senses. Braddeyas might refuse. Weed wouldn’t blame him; he doubted that he would accept the risk, either. And while Weed was second in command now, Braddeyas had been with Kane too many years to be bullied into obedience by the younger outlaw.

The noises from the kitchen seemed farther away, almost melodious. The fire was burning better now, and he could feel its heat on his side. Weed slapped his face stingingly, fighting off the deadly fatigue. Perhaps he should walk about the room.

Maybe he should walk through the door, mount his horse, and ride out. One man would stand a far better chance of escaping pursuit. Let Pleddis overtake Kane and the others. Kane was the reason for his relentless pursuit; he would not bother to press on after one bandit. The price on Weed’s head was tempting for a single bounty hunter, but Pleddis had to pay his men; economics would save him. And yet, Kane might well win free. The bandit leader had done the incredible time and again before this. Perhaps Kane could elude the arrows of fate once more,

Weed felt a certain loyalty to Kane. He had fought beside Kane, followed his commands—and Kane had proved to be a highly capable and generous leader, Indeed, in the final battle Weed and the others had broken through Pleddis’s ambush on the savage force of Kane’scharge through the mercenary ranks. But Weed felt a greater loyalty to his own neck, and it appeared certain that Kane would never again hold power over the Myceum passes. There remained the secret cache of loot that Kane had hidden away—against a disaster such as this. At present Weed’s possessions consisted of a sore- hooved mount, a notched sword, and his battle-torn gear. If Kane would lead them to his cache…

The sweet-smoke scent of roasting hens wrapped about him, watering his mouth, though his belly was warm with wine and meat from the meal just eaten. His head fell downward onto his arm. He should get up before sleep claimed him.

And he did rise to his feet. Or he seemed to see his body stand, pace about the room, peer through the fogged bull’s-eye panes. The shadows seemed to creep and hover in grotesque patterns as he paced…

With a sudden jarring crash, Weed fell to the floor.

In an instant of confused panic, he thrashed free of the overturned bench and tried to regain his feet, thinking dully that he had rolled off in his sleep. Then he became aware of the jeering face above the swordpoint levelled at his throat. Weed froze.

“Now there we went and woke him up,” grinned Pleddis.

Weed swallowed and waited for death. Many hands jerked him to his feet, tore away his sword and dagger. A dozen or more of Pleddis’s men were pouting into Raven’s Eyrie—entering through the kitchen, where Braddeyas lay with a split skull. A sudden uproar, fierce but quickly stilled, echoed across the inn as the mercenaries burst in on Darros and Seth. They died where they slept.
Weed sweated. Pleddis’s blade glinted before his throat.

The mercenary captain’s face was jubilant, but his eyes were like the edge of his sword. “Where’s Kane?” he demanded softly.

Scarcely comprehending that disaster had so swiftly overtaken them, Weed stood silent, swaying back from the blade. His mouth was dry.

“You got half a minute to tell me. And you’ve just about used that up.”

Ionor appeared from the kitchen. Her face was flushed and her blouse disordered. “They carried him upstairs,” she announced, hatred bright in her voice. “I’ll show you where.”

“Carried?”

“He’s wounded near death, by the look of his side. He couldn’t walk.”

Pleddis smiled like a wolf at her words. “By Vaul, you were right about your aim, Stundorn! I’ll double your share if it sure enough was your quarrel that brought the devil low. Quickly now, show us!”

Leaving Weed under guard, the captain and a number of his men followed Ionor up the stairs to the third level. Triumphantly she led them to the door of the room where Kane had been taken. Pleddis’s smile split his leathery face. Inside this room lay the object of his pursuit, the successful conclusion of a dangerous campaign. And a bounty that would leave him a wealthy man.

Knowing Kane’s cunning, their weapons were poised for whatever last trick he might have left. In the darkness outside, others of his men surrounded the inn. Kane would not escape. But even with a crippling wound, they feared the savage power of his sword.

Sucking in his breath, Pleddis kicked open the door. It was unlocked. Slammed back against the wall.

Only silence met them. Kane lay sprawled across the bed, unmoving. A chill wind eddied through the open window. Blood stained the blankets. Kane’s arms lay at his sides, in the attitude in which his men had left him. His face was turned to one side; a tiny pool of dampness trickled past his partly opened lips. In the flickering firelight his face seemed unnaturally lax and pale.

Wary of tricks, Pleddis approached the bed. Kane did not move. Only when he reassured himself that no weapon lay near did Pleddis touch the silent figure. Kane’s skin was cold as a snake’s. Almost impatiently the captain shook his still form, found his body unnaturally rigid. Frowning, he felt for a pulse, then held his blade before the motionless nostrils. No moisture fogged the cold steel.

Pleddis stood up, almost with an air of disappointment

“He’s dead.” IV. Hounds and Carrion Crows

Weed slumped against a table, his arms tightly bound behind his back, his mind seeking desperately for some hope of escape. With a sick chill in his belly, he realized his position was without hope. And cutting through the dull panic was the agonizing thought that he had thrown away his life to stay with a dead man.

Pleddis’s men filled the common room, warming themselves with fire, food and drink, excited congratulations. He had pulled them all inside when it was evident that the bandits had been taken; they had rushed into the inn as if it were the last refuge against the mist-shrouded night. Maybe it was. There were more than twenty men milling about the room, wearing the motley gear of mercenary soldiers. With their stamping and loud laughter, they sounded like hunters just come in from a grueling and successful hunt. From their impersonal stares, Weed felt like a snared fox surrounded by a pack of baying hounds.

Seated by the fire, Pleddis was in high spirits. He drank wine from a sloshing cup and accepted the applause of his men, his weathered face almost flushed. There was little enough color to the man. His skin was pale and seamed bleached instead of tanned by wind and sun. His hair was close-cropped and grey, his face clean-shaven; his eyes were of a peculiar washed-out blue so as to appear grey. He was of average height, but compactly built, giving him a deceptively stubby appearance. Gear of worn leather and chain mail ionic were nondescript as his person—and the same faded grey. But his teeth were straight and white, and he flashed them in a broad smile when he laughed, which was often—a rapid, mirthless bark.

He was laughing now.

“A fine last stand for Kane and his fearsome band of killers, eh? Trapped like rabbits in a hole, sleeping like they was in their mother’s arms. One man snoring at his post, the other so busy trying to get under the mistress’s skirts that he never noticed she’d unlatched the woodshed door to the outside. Vaul, what dreadful desperadoes! I’m going to feel silly asking for the bounty on the likes of you! But I’ll still ask!” His men joined in his laughter.

Pleddis gulped down his wine, his shrill laugh muffled against the cup. “Of course, you must have figured Captain Pleddis would lie low tonight, sit shivering at his campfire, jumping every time an owl screamed. Did you now? Sure you did. You really thought I’d quit a trail not hours cold, and after three days of chasing after you! Well, I grew up on Thovnos, so I guess I didn’t hear all the gruesome tales of Demonlord’s Moon you mountain people like to shudder over. Same goes for most of my men, though some of them had their worries about riding on.”

His face turned grim, and he stared contemptuously over their ranks. A number of them avoided his eyes. “But it wasn’t too hard to make them see that a pack of devils was a better risk than crossing Pleddis, eh?” He laughed again.

“Huh! What about the two men we lost getting here?” grumbled a mercenary from the rear, who quickly ducked from Pleddis’s searching scowl.

“You’ll not see them again,” a husky voice told them. “The Demonlord hunts beneath this moon, and you’ll see no more of them his hound pulls down.”

Pleddis made an annoyed grimace. “Well, he would have found a fat enough morsel in you, old woman.”

“Greshha!” There was a strange hint of anger in Ionor’s voice.