The Five Elements (14 page)

Shanna saw it, but did not believe it. It couldn't have... couldn't have...

It had.

The snakeman pulled his spear from the man with the same efficiency with which it had dispatched him. As it rested the butt of the weapon upon the ground, Shanna saw the crimson blood streaking its tip.

In the next moment, chaos erupted amongst the prisoners. Only a handful threatened violence. Many more looked on in outrage, while others simply fell to the ground, whimpering in fear. Without prompting, the dwarves acted, moving in quickly to put down the minor rebellion. It took only a weapon haft to the gut and the threat of bare steel brandished in the air to restore order. Then, with an air of nonchalance about him that made Shanna sick, the boy was moving down the line to the next person. This was a middle-aged woman. He gave her the same inspection as before, running the device up and down her person, though this time he gave a satisfactory look and moved on. The next—a slender woman clad only in a nightgown and ragged slippers—was not so lucky. She was grabbed by the sitheri and, despite her wailing and cries for mercy, dragged to the swath where they'd dispatched the pot-bellied man. They killed her with the same efficiency. The boy continued down the line and another was taken. This one—a man—struggled, but only until one of the snakemen rapped him over the head. They dragged him the rest of the way and dispatched him just like the others. Shanna buried her face in her hands, then moved her palms to her ears, trying to shut out the cries of those chosen for death. One-by-one, the boy performed his inspection. One-by-one, the captives he showed dissatisfaction with died. Then the scuffle of the boy's soft shoes laid flat the grass before her and Shanna knew it was her turn.

She lifted her chin, blinking away tears that clouded her vision, to look the boy full in the face. Immediately, her anger rose. The boy was grinning. Grinning! He was not much taller than she, and so Shanna had little difficulty meeting his stare. She did not like what she saw in his eyes. Greed and... lust, as his gaze left hers to look her up and down. Shanna reacted without thinking, clenching her fingers into a fist that she threw at the boy's face. But her wrists were still tied and the boy too quick, grabbing hold of her arm with unexpected strength. She tried to pull away, but he held her there, continuing to take his fill of her. Finally, he smiled.

"You'll learn your place soon enough."

Then he released her arm and, without even waving his measuring device over her, moved to the next prisoner.

The world ceased to exist for Shanna after that. Her mind, overcome by the sheer brutality of the slayings and the perverted promise lying in the boy's stare, shut down. Others were dragged away and murdered. She knew it was over only when someone at her side nudged her. Like an automaton, she followed the person in front of her into one of the cage wagons. Inside, she quietly took a place in a corner. Others scrunched in beside her. A protest from one of the captives sounded. Shanna almost dismissed it, but there was something familiar in the person's voice. She peered out between the wagon's bars, her mind still drifting through a fog, and saw Corrin. Pig-headed, obnoxious, the one person Shanna had always thought she'd hate until the day she died. The serpent-men had him between them. Despite his anguished cries for help, they dragged him along, back the way they'd come to the lonely tent. Then Shanna remembered someone else.

"Where's Nora?" The question was a whisper no one heard. She asked it again, louder.

"She's dead, girl." The sergeant replied.

Shanna put her chin to her chest and pulled her legs in close. She shut her eyes, clenching her jaw to keep from crying. The tears came anyway.

* * *

Engus Rul thought of only one thing as he watched the last of the prisoners being put back into their cages: Leaving. Not just their current encampment but this scraggy corner of Seacea and the whole of the fiefdom to boot. Leave it all behind and never return. There were riper, easier targets for his raiders. Ones that did not involve deals with the devil, nor the machinations of black sorcery. The Old Gods knew a good number of his brothers would cheer to hear the order. Kelgin, who'd wielded Soljilnor before him and paid the price for it, was dead. He, Engus Rul, was in command now. He almost wished it wasn't so, but Keln had been right. Better him than some others. He'd do right and see this through because, Old Gods be damned, he was a dwarf of his word. Not
his
word, he reminded himself, but Kelgin's. But the promise made, the bargain that had been struck, was his now. Fire Rock custom dictated that much. Engus Rul pulled at his beard. He'd stay, and his men with him, even if it meant all of their deaths.

"What news of the boy?" The words were an old man's whisper, drifted out from the dark aperture of the robed one's hood.

The man—savant, soothsayer, wizard, no one was really sure what the hell he was—had been a bane on Fire Rock since the day he'd hobbled into their underkeep. Kelgin should have killed him on the spot, for trespassing if nothing else. But the man spoke with a serpent's tongue. Kelgin with his haughty ambitions had been easy prey. A bargain had been struck: the location of Soljilnor, the flaming axe of Fire Rock, lost since the Fall of the Old Gods, in exchange for the dwarves' assistance in retrieving a quartet of relics. Already, they'd helped the savant recover one of his lost toys. In return, the man had fulfilled his part of the deal by delivering Soljilnor. But three of the old man's toys remained lost. Until they were found, the dwarves of Fire Rock were committed to lending their aid. Even if such aid meant hunting down and slaughtering children, which was the worst of the man's requests to date as far as Engus Rul was concerned.

Engus Rul opened his mouth to respond. He closed it when he saw the savant's boy staring at him from his usual place at his master's side. The impetuous look the boy cast at him set Engus Rul seething. Not for the first time, the dwarf imagined his hands wrapped around the whelp's throat. It would only take a moment to squeeze the life from him. The boy must have guessed at Engus Rul's thoughts, for he smirked, as if daring the dwarf to try. Perhaps I will, Engus Rul thought, but not now.

"The boy escaped," Engus Rul said in answer. He found some small satisfaction in his and his men's failure. Kill the boy, Kelgin had ordered. Return with his head as proof. All knew the true source of those instructions. Most would have disregarded them outright if not for the bounty of gold that had been offered.

The savant's shoulders went up and down in a sigh.

"As expected. I suppose it matters little. He is on the run. That is enough."

The savant said no more as he and his boy returned to their tent without further regard for Engus Rul or his dwarves.

As they passed, Engus Rul wanted to ask what was so damn important about a single child, but he held his tongue. The boy was gone and the savant had not requested they go after him. It was just as well to forget about him entirely, though Engus Rul knew some of his dwarves would be sad to see the bounty money go with him. No matter. Once they were finished with this business they'd return to what they did best. Raiding. For Engus Rul, it could not be soon enough.

T
HEY EMERGED FROM THE FOREST into the center of a secluded copse. There were a dozen, all wearing dark robes with hoods drawn. One spoke.

"Erlek has failed," the speaker, a man, said. "The boy lives."

"Yes," said a woman. "He lives. He is on the run, but is protected now."

"Then we must intervene," the first speaker said. "Simone, bring forth the horn."

One of the robed figures stepped forward and with a delicate hand raised an ivory horn that was twisted like a ram's. The bearer of the horn blew into it. Once, twice, and a third time its piercing wail screeched out across the forested hills. As the sound faded, the morning returned to a silence that was complete and absolute. No sound of a breeze sifting through the trees. Nothing from the distant ocean. No sound at all until they heard the first howl. It started like a hound's, but rose in pitch until it became a piercing wail much like the sound the horn had made. It lasted only a few seconds, then quiet returned. Moments later, the howl began anew, but this time it was joined by others. Two howls, three, four, until a cacophony of so many rang out it was impossible to count them. They did not stop, but grew louder and closer.

The first hound materialized through a break in the trees, coming into the clearing on silent paws. It was not alone for long. Others arrived in twos and threes, emerging with slow, silent gaits. Long-legged and thick around with jaws that might snap a man's head off, they were bigger than any normal dog. Black and shadowed, as if their mere presence devoured the light, they kept their distance, but never stopped moving, pacing and glaring at the ones who had summoned them with eyes the color of blood. Where saliva dripped from hanging jowls, the grass sizzled, curled in on itself, and died.

Hounds of the Underland.

But not only the hounds. Their master followed, emerging from a mist that sprang up across the grove. He appeared as a man, tall and well-muscled, with dusky skin and leather trappings that covered him from the waist-down. His chest, shoulders, and arms were bare. On his head he wore a terrible, horned helm, the horns twisted and bent. Despite his closeness, the man's features remained obscured, a smudge of darkness which no light penetrated. Only his eyes—flame red pinpricks—shone through.

"You know who your prey is," the robed man said. "He has only a short lead on you. Bring him to ground quickly. Go now, but mark. Your hounds may feast all they wish on his body, but bring us the head. We would know for certain that he has expired. Any others you find with him are of no consequence. Do what you will with them."

The helm over the dark smudge of a face dipped in acknowledgement. Then, one-by-one, the hounds turned and melted away. Their master waited until the last had gone before he also turned and disappeared into the trees.

"As for Erlek," one of the figures said, "we shall wait and watch his progress. His time will come soon enough."

Like the houndmaster and his pack, the robed ones stepped back and faded until the clearing was as empty as it had been only minutes before.

A
S FAR AS WITCH’S HOUSES went, Aaron was not impressed. Wattle walls, a thatched roof, a small porch, and several windows set at either side of a rickety door gray with age hardly qualified as the most modest of hunter’s lodges let alone the sinister abode of a wicked, child-eating crone. Nevertheless, its aged presence, out here in the middle of nowhere, with those trees closest to it bent away as if in agony, inspired a sense of dread. Aaron half-expected to see the skeletal remains of the witch's meals or victims of some dire spellcraft dangling from the porch's overhang. There was no such thing though, nor anything else to distinguish the place as a witch's lair. With the faintest glow shining from the windows and the curl of wood smoke rising from the stone chimney, the place almost seemed inviting.

Master Rhe mounted the porch first. As he knocked on the door, Aaron moved to stand beside him, to get out of the rain if nothing else. Even with the door closed, he was hit immediately by a pungent mixture of must, something not unlike cow dung, and a flowery fragrance that, unfortunately, was the least of the three. The door creaked open, though no one stood there to greet them. Master Rhe entered without hesitation. Aaron followed, though with caution.

Gloom dominated the single-roomed interior. The only light was a fire glowing within a hearth set at the far wall. Ensel Rhe went to it straightaway. Aaron, however, thinking an initial perusal of the room’s interior the more prudent option, was just beginning to look about when a voice spoke out, startling him.

"Come in, come in," the voice said from a darkened corner. "Come in and warm yourself. No need to be afraid."

Aaron stared at the corner for a moment while the rain made a quiet pitter-patter on the roof. While he did see the outline of a woman there, busy at some task, he could make out none of her features. The voice had not sounded old, nor had there been any cackling. Not so far, at least.

It being rude to stand there and do nothing, especially with an open door behind him, Aaron closed the door tight and then inched into the room. He hadn't quite made it to the fire when the witch stepped from the shadows to join the eslar, who had already removed his wet coat and draped it over the hearth. She had her back to him as she busied herself examining the contents of two pots hanging over the fire. Still, Aaron noted auburn hair that fell in a sheet across a dark wool robe and that she wore nothing on her feet. She did not look particularly threatening so far.

Master Rhe took off his gloves and tossed them before the fire, then he pulled one of two bench seats located at either side of a long table closer, sat, and began removing his muddy boots.

"It would have been nice if you'd taken those off before traipsing mud all over my house, Ensel," said Ursool. Definitely no cackles. Just a smooth, melodious overture that Aaron found surprisingly pleasant.

Ensel Rhe didn't say anything, but once he had his boots off he found a rag and began wiping mud from the wood floor. Aaron glanced over his shoulder and saw in horror his own contribution to the mess. He instantly and instinctively stammered out an apology. Witch or not, he'd been taught proper manners.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to—"

Still busy at her pots, Ursool laughed. It filled the room with a flutter of gaiety as she waved a hand in dismissal. "It's no bother," she said from over one shoulder. "Let Ensel clean up the mess. You, come warm yourself." She returned one of the lids to its respective pot, then finally turned to face him.

If Aaron hadn't already stopped, he would have now, for every tale he’d heard describing witches as stooped-over, gangly old hags, wart-ridden, gray-haired, and sallow-skinned, who hissed, spat, and cackled after every spoken outburst was wrong. Ursool had no bow to her back, her skin was smooth and fresh, and her features, delicate. She smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Eyes, perfectly matched to the color of her auburn hair, shined with vitality and warmth. She was, in a word, beautiful.