The Hunter's Haunt Read online

  Two days ago, the battle at Mill Creek.

  Last night, the fires of the victorious Horsefolk upon the hills.

  Today began the vengeance.

  Kylam would die first, because it was closest and because a magistrate of Kylam had raised the banner of revolution. Uthom would be last. There was nowhere to run to from Uthom. So the vengeance would begin in the ports: Kylam, then Jombina, and all the others in their turn. Quite possibly Vandok would divide his forces, sending half to ravage the east while he dealt with the west. Why should he not? There was no opposing army left in the field. The land lay helpless before his wrath. Naked and defenseless and spread-eagled on the ground …

  White-thorn came into the plaza and still saw almost no one. One ancient beggar was huddled in a corner of the steps, at his usual post. He had always been there, for as long as she could remember, a beggar so blind as to be invisible to everyone else. Was he puzzled by the silence? Had nobody told him? Or was he just aware that, with no one's chances much good, a blind beggar's must be hopeless? She wished she had brought some money. It would do no good lying at home, and it might have let the old man die happy in his sudden wealth.

  She did not approach the beggar. She hurried up the steps to the shining pillars.

  There was no doubt where the fury would begin. This was the only truly notable building in the city. Vandok would start here, where his father had died.

  Once it had been the temple of Jang, in the days before the Damvinians had stolen him away to be their god. For a short while it had been the temple of Colim, when Kylam had managed to steal the baby god from Jombina. Then the barbarians had come and there had been no more gods. The temple had served as the governor's palace ever since. On the dread occasions when the king came over the mountains to enjoy the sport in his southern domain, it had sometimes served as royal palace, also.

  "If they would only stay!" Morning-star had mourned to his daughter many times. "If they would just settle down and reside among us, then we could civilize them! A generation, perhaps two, and the Horsefolk dwelling amongst us would be indistinguishable from the natives. Hannail was too clever, or his god was. One or other of them saw the danger. So they send their sons to torment us, but then they call them back to marry within the tribes, dispatching a new contingent to afflict us afresh. The Land is not a vassal state, it is a deer forest!"

  Climbing the great stairs, White-thorn realized that she had lost her fear. It would return later, probably much greater. Fear of death, fear of pain. Fear and pain were certain, death probable. Do not think of it! Think of vengeance. Think of Father, dying bravely on the field of battle. Many people had told her he had died gloriously, but she did not believe that death could ever be glorious, or anything but horrible, no matter how it came. So he had not died gloriously, and she could not imagine him dying any way but bravely.

  She strode through the portico and into the basilica itself. It was a high, cold, sterile place, although there were fine carvings on the ceiling still. The Horsefolk had long since smashed all the ornamentation they could reach, and any soul or majesty the hall might once have possessed they had banished with their atrocities. Men and women had starved to death in cages in this hall, been burned in this hall, been mutilated, humiliated, butchered. Raped.

  The throne had gone—it had been dragged out less than an hour after the rebels had declared it a chopping block, and Morning-star himself had cut off King Grosail's head on it. An oaken council table had been installed instead, and the magistrates had met there every day, while the people had trooped in by the hundred, to stand around in silence and watch, marveling at the restoration of their liberties, the freedoms their grandparents had described.

  She stopped in surprise. She had expected the hall to be as empty as the streets, or at least she would have expected to hear voices. But there were many people present. Four or five sat at the table. A score of attendants waited on them. A hundred or more stood around among the pillars in somber silence. They were watching the sun set, the brief flame gutter.

  She saw bandaged stumps, men on crutches. Even children had been brought to witness the end of the momentary dream. So not all the citizens had fled to the hills or the ships.

  She hesitated, studying the group at the table and identifying the surviving leaders of the resistance. Old Pure-valor of Faro was there, bent and white-haired. High-endeavor of Kalint, his arm in a sling and his head bandaged … He was one who had told her that Morning-star had died gloriously. Even a couple of new widows she recognized in the background. Defeated, bereaved, wounded. A lump rose in her throat. The human rubble of Kylam.

  Those men would certainly stop her carrying out her intent.

  Suddenly her knees began to shake. The fear came rushing back. As long as her ordeal had been inevitable … But now perhaps it might be avoided … Was hope harder to bear than doom? … Ridiculous! She straightened her shoulders. But how could she manage to evade these ghouls, these watchers over a corpse?

  Whatever were they doing here?

  "Waiting for terms," said a voice at her side.

  Realizing that she must have spoke aloud, she glanced at the speaker. Then she took another look.

  He was a man of middle height, of middle years—slim, confident, neatly groomed. His short beard was striped with gray. His hair was curly, flecked with silver, also, and cut oddly short There was nothing special about his face, and yet …

  "They expect Vandok to demand the surrender of the city," he said, regarding her intently.

  "Will he?" she asked.

  "I don't think so. I think he'll come and take it."

  "And burn it."

  "Certainly."

  What was it she sensed about him? His eyes were grayish, which was rare in the Land Between the Seas. He was the only man she had seen in weeks without a sword or at least a quarterstaff. There was an unfamiliar timbre to his voice, and a faint odor of the sea clung to him. He wore salt-stained sailors' breeches and a open-fronted shirt that had once been fancy. Now it was faded and threadbare; half the embroidery had fallen out. A bundle wrapped in a grubby blanket lay at his feet.

  "Who are you?" she demanded.

  "A wanderer, my lady." He seemed puzzled by her, or just very curious. He had the same alert confidence that her father had … had had.

  "You come at an evil time, traveler. You should not linger here."

  He shook his head and smiled. There was something reassuring about his smile, and yet something unfathomably sad in it, too. "I am by way of being a connoisseur of bad times, milady. There was a battle, I hear. I missed the battle." He frowned. "Most odd!"

  "Why so?" She wondered why she was wasting time talking.

  "Oh, my timing is usually better. The gods arrange … No matter. Who are you?"

  "A woman of the city."

  He raised his eyebrows. "A lady of the city. Pray tell me."

  If he could see how she was dressed under her cloak, he would not think her a lady. "White-thorn of Verl."

  His eyebrows rose higher. "Morning-star's daughter?" He bowed low. "You, especially, should not linger!''

  "I have a duty." Why mention that to a complete stranger?

  A stranger! Who else but this man?

  She held out one of her bundles, awkwardly clutching her cloak tight with her other hand. "I was told to give you this."

  He cocked his head in surprise, but not with the astonishment she would have expected. "Told by whom?"

  "Verl."

  "Ah!" The man accepted the wrapped form of the god with care. "And what is in it?"

  "Verl. She … He said to tell you to return her when the time was ripe."

  "No time? No place?"

  "No." It sounded so crazy that she wondered if the stranger would think her unhinged.

  He did not seem to. He looked down at the tiny package, clutching it with both hands. A group of men came running into the hall and hurried over to the table. Other people were trooping out. The s
tranger stood like a pillar in the midst of the confusion and ignored it totally, as if the little bundle he held was the only thing of interest in the whole city. "He or she?"

  "Whichever you prefer."

  "She will not speak to me, though?"

  "Only to members of her family."

  The stranger frowned. "Offerings? How do I care for her?"

  "She would not accept offerings, either, I think. Not from a stranger. Perhaps sprinkle a few grains of corn once in a while … to show her that she is not forgotten?"

  The stranger nodded solemnly and tucked the god away in his shirt. It hardly made a bulge. "Next my heart," he said. "I will return her when the time is ripe. You have my word." He studied White-thorn with gray eyes strangely bright. "And what road do you travel now, my lady?"

  A fit of shivering convulsed her. She pulled her cloak tighter yet. "Please go, sir! Take care of Verl."

  "White-thorn!" a familiar voice shouted.

  She cried out, spun around. Sea-breaker! He came hobbling toward her, leaning on a staff, swinging it urgently. There was a blood-caked bandage around his head and black stubble on his face, but he was Sea-breaker, and he was alive. The staff fell to the tiles as his arms went around her. Within his embrace she felt the stiffness of the stiletto in her sash.

  "I never doubted," she lied, snuffling against his shoulder. That was the trouble with very tall men.

  "Your father … you know? Of course you must know! Dearest, he died gloriously. I saw. The elite of the barbarian—"

  "I heard. You're hurt." She was going to hurt him much, much more.

  "I twisted my ankle running away. Oh, my darling! I went to your home—"

  "You bandage your head because you have twisted your ankle?"

  "Only a scratch. An arrow … my skull is armored, don't you know that? It bounced off. If only we'd had proper armor and weapons, things would have been so different! Come, my darling, there is little time."

  "No," she said.

  He relaxed his embrace so he could see her face. "No? What do you mean—no? There is a ship. The captain's an old friend of … He promised to wait an hour, and the hour must be almost up. The crowds at the dock … Quickly!"

  "No." She resisted as he tried to move her, holding her cloak tight. "Beloved, this hurts, but I cannot come."

  People were shouting. In some confused corner of her mind she had absorbed the message. The horde was coming. Vandok was advancing with his army. At the gates. No terms …

  The crowd had begun streaming from the basilica, jostling past her. She saw terror-stricken faces, saw tears, heard the screams of panic. But mostly she just saw the pain and shock in Sea-breaker's eyes. He bent to recover his staff. Again he tried to urge her, and she fought free of his grasp. Bless that ankle! If he had the use of both hands, he would carry her off bodily.

  He shouted at her. She backed away, eyes blurred with tears. She tried to explain that she loved him. He kept talking of the ship waiting. There was no way to explain. She urged him to go. Again and again she said that she would not.

  Sea-breaker lost his temper eventually. Obviously his leg pained him more than he would admit and the blood on the bandage came from no slight scrape. He had found a ship for them, deliverance, he had found her, and now she was refusing him … Of course he lost his temper.

  When the tears left her eyes, she was alone in the hall.

  She dropped her cloak around her feet and felt naked. Worse than naked. Stepping out of her sandals, she walked forward along the deserted basilica to the paperstrewn table. Past it, to the dais at the end where the throne had stood. The dried blood there had never been cleaned away.

  She unwrapped her second bundle and took out the chain. Grosail's blood was on that, too. She started to hang it around her neck and thought better. Vandok might just choke her with it.

  Sounds drifted in from the plaza. She turned to face the door.

  A movement in the shadows behind the pillars caught her eye. She was shocked to see the stranger standing there, watching, his bundle at his feet.

  "Go!" she shouted.

  He did not answer, for at that moment the Horsefolk rode in.

  Vandok was younger than she had expected. He sat his great horse as if he were part of it, stating at this unexpected committee of one. His followers halted behind him, a score of armed horsemen. For an age nobody spoke.

  Younger than she had expected, and certainly taller, broader. The golden chain dangling athwart his chest proclaimed his kingship, but even without it, there would have been no doubt who led this company. Other than the chain and a headband to hold back his flowing hair, he wore only the buckskin trousers of his race. His mustache was thick and curved down to the line of his jaw, but it was almost invisible now in golden stubble of beard. He looked altogether hard, as if graven out of oak. Sword and bow and quiver hung at his saddle.

  "They say he is the worst of the brood," her father had told her when the news came. "But we should have expected that. They say he bears a striking resemblance to Hannail himself."

  Morning-star had counted on half a year to prepare. Vandok had granted him less than a month. He had emerged clear victor from the blood storm that followed the death of any Horsefolk king, trampling over four older brothers. Like a whirlwind gathering leaves, he had swept up the tribes and rushed through the passes before the snows came. Less than a month after his father's death, he had burst upon the Land Between the Seas, very much as his great-grandfather had, fifty years ago.

  Fury burned in his pale eyes as he observed the blackened chain in the woman's hand, the stains on the floor at her feet. He must know whose blood that was. He could probably guess who she was. She resisted an urge to feel for the hilt of the stiletto. He would come for her himself. He must! With his men all watching him, he must!

  But Vandok did not.

  He gestured. Four men sprang from their saddles and rushed to her. Fingers of iron gripped her so hard that she cried out. One man took the chain and carried it to the king. He stared down at it for a long moment before he accepted it and added it to the one he already wore. Only then did he slide from his horse, and at once the rest of his followers did so, also.

  Still he did not come to White-thorn.

  He gave orders. His voice was quiet, unhurried, and he used as many gestures as words. Men scattered to explore the building, to examine the refuse on the table, to lead the horses over to a corner, out of the way.

  White-thorn stood helpless in the grip of three men. Amazingly, none of them had yet discovered the knife. There were fingers around her wrists—so tight that her hand was going numb—and more crushing her upper arm. Boots pinned her bare toes to the floor. There were fingers twisted in her hair, pulling her head back. But no one had yet found the knife.

  There had been treachery, she saw. More Horsefolk warriors were bringing in captives: Pure-valor, High-endeavor, Oath-keeper. The resistance had been betrayed. Fair enough! The resistance had betrayed the Land, by failing. It had promised freedom and delivered only greater suffering.

  Finally, Vandok turned his attention to the woman. He strode toward the dais, but he stopped several paces away and studied her.

  "Your name?"

  She tried to speak, but her mouth was dry as salt. The men holding her arms twisted them almost out of their sockets. She gasped at the pain and managed to whisper, "White-thorn of Verl."

  "Louder!"

  She repeated her name.

  Vandok smiled. "Strip her."

  The cloths were torn from her body. The stiletto clattered to the floor.

  Vandok laughed. One of the men kicked the weapon away and another removed the rags. A third snapped her necklace and then callously ripped away her earrings. She bit back a cry of pain.

  Only then did the king himself step up on the dais and come to stand before her, very close, a killer beast reeking of horse, of woodsmoke and sweat, of weeks in the saddle. He looked down contemptuously at her as she stood na
ked and still held helpless in the warriors' cruel grasp. He was very tall, very broad, hard as furniture. She shivered at the hatred she saw in his eyes. Had she ever known what hatred was, what ruthless meant? Hope had died. Oh, Mother!

  "Did you really think I would be so easy?" he said. "Your father killed my father—here? Right here?"

  She nodded.

  He fondled her left breast. Grinning, then, he squeezed it until he wrung a scream from her. He turned to survey the hall, the leering warriors, the prisoners. The place was filling up. He had a large audience.

  "What should I do with the rebel's spawn?" he demanded.

  The Horsefolk roared out the predictable answer.

  "On the floor," Vandok said. "Right where those bloodstains are. Bring the captives close. The punishment begins now and they shall watch."

  He looked down at White-thorn, smiling as he untied his belt.

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  6: The First Judgment

  "Gentle ladies, and ah … fair lords was it? Anyway, may my tale have pleased you."

  No one was nodding this time. The dowager glared at me, the patches of rouge showing like wounds on her sallow cheeks, her eyes milky with age. The merchant and the old soldier were equally disapproving. The actress pursed her lips and shook her head reproachfully. The little lady's maid seemed to be weeping, hands clutched to her face, but I could not be sure, because of her bonnet.

  "Tush, child!" the dowager said. "White-thorn did not die, Master Omar, did she?"

  "Eventually, of course. Not that day."

  "Then I think you should finish your tale more appropriately!''

  "But I don't know how she did die! You surely do not expect me to make it up, do you? Vandok raped her in public. He probably intended to kill her, but then changed his mind and decided to make a statement by abusing Morning-star's daughter in all of the seven cities. I really cannot say what his thoughts were. I know he took her on to Jombina with him and on an apple cart in the marketpl—"