A Deadly Dance Read online

  Naomi frowned and took the letter almost absently. Then she recognised the seal and cried out, dropping Spellsnitcher, who yowled and stalked off. Naomi tore open the letter and read it. She covered her mouth with her hand. Clutching the letter tightly, she raced down the steps into the courtyard and across to the main gate. “Open the foot gate!”

  “At once, milady, so shall it be!” The bewildered gatekeeper obeyed and drew back the small door for her to exit.

  “And seal it behind me!”

  Once again the man obeyed. The great red hound bayed and hurled itself futilely at the gate.

  Elharan swore. “Look sharp, she is making a run for it without us!”

  Gyrfalcon was already running. “Open that bloody gate, you fool!”

  The poor gatekeeper trembled. “Her Ladyship said to seal it behind her!” The man clung wretchedly to his keys. “I have my orders!”

  “Well, I’m giving you another one!” Elharan glowered at him. “Open the gate, before I send word to Lord Von Rosenhof of your stupidity!”

  “Alright, I’ll open it! Give me a moment!”

  It seemed an age before the lock finally turned. Gyrfalcon shoved the gatekeeper aside and all the retinue crowded out of the foot gate. The carriage was already well clear of the keep and gathering speed. The hound bounded after it, baying as he went, but clearly had no hope of catching up.

  Gyrfalcon shook his head. “Blimey: I’ve never seen horses that fast before!”

  Elharan growled. “Most horses don’t leave a trail of smouldering brimstone in their wake either! Damn it, Naomi, I taught you better than this!”

  There was a hiss from behind them. Spellsnitcher stalked past; his fur bristling and his back arched, changing even as he walked. By the time he reached where the carriage had waited for Naomi, he was no longer remotely cat shaped. Instead, he almost resembled a human: but impossibly tall, pale, with a waist length mane of jet-black hair, and glowing green eyes. His long hands were pallid: ending in wicked looking talons, and he wore ornately wrought armour. “How dare they steal mine cousin?” He threw back his head and roared his fury. “This is an outrage!”

  Elharan blinked and sat down rather unsteadily. There was a sharp pain in his chest and shoulder.

  Gyrfalcon merely nodded slowly. “Alright then, Misericord was right about the cat. Who knew?”

  Tik-Tik chirped nervously and tugged on his ear. “Elharan fall down!”

  “What? Oh bollocks – we have a man down! Send for the healers!”

  “Blasted...idiot...just...carry...me...!” Elharan’s face was contorted and beaded with cold sweat. “Heart...!”

  The par’dath grabbed hold of him, and slung him over his shoulder: squashing Tik-Tik in the process. The squirrel-cat hissed indignantly and scrabbled out from under the barely conscious guardsman. “Go left!”

  “I know the way!”

  “Tik-Tik knows shortcut!”

  “Your shortcuts always add miles!”

  “They scenic!”

  Elharan groaned. “Shoot...pair...of...you...!”

  Gyrfalcon kicked the door of the infirmary open, ignoring the cry of pain from the senior healer crushed behind it. “Elharan is sick! He says it’s his heart! Do something!”

  He deposited Elharan on one of the cots. Another healer hurried over clutching a small jar. “Master Josef – how much of the medicine should I give to him? Should I drain any of his humours?”

  Master Josef merely whimpered and attempted to breathe. Gyrfalcon peered at him carefully. “I ain’t a healer by any mark, but this man’s ribs are very much broken, and possibly his hip too.”

  “But – but Master Josef is the only one of us that knows how to successfully administer the heart treatment!” Josef’s apprentice was panicking.

  “Give...jar...!” Elharan held out a trembling hand. “Hurry...!”

  The apprentice shook his head. “Patients aren’t allowed to self medicate, it’s against regulations.”

  Gyrfalcon grabbed hold of the jar and yanked off the lid. Crouching next to the cot, he pressed the medicine into Elharan’s grip. “Here you go, Elharan, medicine. Make it work.”

  Elharan gulped back half the contents of the jar and dropped the rest. He swore and punched the side of the bedside cabinet, as the colour slowly returned to his features and his breathing steadied. “Somebody see to Josef!”

  ∞∞∞

  Korius tossed a crumpled up sheet of parchment at Lonrari’s head. “Fetch me another quill, Wildheart!”

  “Fetch it yourself, lazy dolt! And stop throwing your silly pieces of parchment at my head!” She unrolled the sheet in question. “What are they anyhow?”

  “Examination papers from my final year students. That one is particularly badly written.”

  “And what are you doing with these papers?”

  He groaned. “I am marking them! It’s hellish work too. Perhaps you might see fit to help take my mind off them for a time, Wildheart?”

  “That shall happen only in your dreams, dolt!”

  “Then perhaps I shall take a small nap and dream about you, sweet flower...!” The sylvanth ducked the vase that she hurled at him: catching it before it could smash against the wall. “Be careful! This belonged to my late mother. She was very fond of it.”

  “And what would she have thought of your imprisoning me so?”

  “She would have been surprised at my patience. My father never encouraged it in his children.” Korius tossed another crumpled up piece of parchment at her. “This one cannot even spell,” he complained. “How did such an illiterate lout get into my college?”

  Lonrari was oddly quiet. The Ves’Neryn frowned. “No sharp words for me this time?”

  “I cut myself upon the edge of that earlier piece of parchment,” she muttered. “I know not how! It burns...and...I feel strange...!”

  Her eyes rolled up in their sockets and she collapsed in a boneless heap: drooling insensibly. Korius hissed and scooped her up. He eyed the guilty paper. “Anthalia! Get in here – Lonrari has been poisoned!”

  The young twylanth half ran and half flapped into the room. “Do you know by what, Korius?” Her voice was low but urgent.

  “That parchment edge – be careful, mind! I do not wish to see you harmed too.”

  “I’ll be alright: after all, I’m immune to poison.” Anthalia picked up the sheet and examined it. Her eyes glowed. “The paper is laced with cold iron filings - that’s how Lonrari was injured. There is wyvern venom blended into the ink! You were lucky to have been wearing your gloves.”

  “I was more cold than fortunate, child. It seems that some of my pupils really do expect to receive compassionate marking if they lose a tutor!” Korius sighed. “Can you heal her?”

  “Yes, but she’ll need to rest somewhere cold afterwards: the wyvern venom has almost boiled her blood!” Anthalia laid her hands on Lonrari’s brow and abdomen. Closing her eyes, the young esthanth unmade the venom that assailed the dryanth’s body. “There!”

  “I shall have to take her to bed with me then: there’s nowhere in the city that’s colder than next to me, after all.” Korius scowled and nodded at the parchments. “Keep clear of those, Anthalia. I shall mark the rest of them tomorrow, once Lonrari is fully recovered.”

  ∞∞∞

  Luath raised his head from the pillow and stared at the chaotic scene before him. The normally quiet infirmary had filled with people, most of who were shouting and gesticulating. The bard had picked up the Alnaiean language reasonably well during the past several weeks. The mistress of the keep had spent a few hours each day sitting with him and teaching him. She had told him that Kaiwan and Althanor were both safely at Briersburge, and that Ruiryk and Banor were still looking for Slo’annathorys. Poor Coorinne was dead, it seemed, and Lonrari remained unaccounted.

  The Alnaiean woman had convinced Luath that the priestess would not want him to pine over her: after all, perhaps Haph had been protecting her by spiriting her
away. Luath had been glad of her suggestion. Haph was not angry. She knew that Kaiwan was already rescued and so She took Lonrari to safety. I was merely unworthy.

  He wondered what was going on. “What has happened?”

  The nearest healer came to check on him. “Don’t worry, Luath. Lady Naomi is absent, and there is some confusion as to her whereabouts, that’s all.”

  “She’s bloody well missing, not absent!” Elharan stomped over. “Captain Elharan, you must be Luath. Did Lady Naomi happen to mention any plans for a journey to you?”

  “She did seem to be worrying about something. She would not tell me what it was.”

  “I see. Well, do you have any idea who might own a carriage that travels unnaturally fast, and whose horses leave a trail of smouldering brimstone behind them?”

  Luath cowered. “That could only have been the royal coach of King Ravin of Anyosia! Has it passed by here recently?”

  “Aye, it was here this very morning. The Lady Naomi departed in it after she received a mysterious letter. Of course, she took said parchment with her, so we don’t know what it said. The page who gave it to her claims that it bore the seal of another of her retainers: a man named Misericord. He was on a mission for her, and she had become concerned for him. We all had, in truth.” Elharan suspected that it would be unwise to mention the details of Misericord’s task at this point.

  “You must act swiftly then, if you wish to save your mistress. King Ravin can have no good reason behind his sending for Lady Naomi. I would suspect that he has used her retainer as bait. I have heard tales of such before.”

  Elharan dragged the par’anth to his feet. “Do you know the way to his court?”

  Luath nodded. “I can guide you there. But the Anyosians will not take kindly to my presence, for they have a hatred of all non-humans.”

  “I’ll get you a cloak with a hood. You can pass yourself off as being from foreign parts.”

  “The Anyosians hate foreigners too.”

  “Tough. You’re going with us, and that’s final. Gyrfalcon! You and Tik-Tik, that damn mangy dog, Luath, and me: we are going to Anyosia. Spellsnitcher’s probably halfway there already!”

  ∞∞∞

  Spellsnitcher slammed down onto the roof of the carriage. Grabbing the red-eyed driver with one hand, he tore out the creature’s throat with his fangs and tossed it aside. Then he grabbed the reins of the hellish steeds and yanked hard enough to cause them to slide to a halt. “Cousin!”

  He roared again and punched a hole in the roof of the carriage. It was empty. “How can this be? Where is mine kin?”

  Leaping to the ground, he ripped off the door and stared at the interior. A crumpled sheet of parchment caught his gaze. He reached in and carefully picked up the missive. The wax seal had indeed been that of Misericord, but the handwriting, smudged by Naomi’s tears, was utterly unfamiliar to him. Not that Spellsnitcher could read. “I shalt taketh this back to the keep! Some other shalt decipher it for me!”

  ∞∞∞

  Ranulf was blissfully unaware of the situation back at Briersburge, for he had slipped away on his loyal griffin some three days hence. He had been certain that he would easily locate both Misericord and Kaiwan. Now however, he was beginning to lose confidence. “Why it is as though the earth has simply swallowed them whole! I do hope that that does not prove to be the case, Snapper.”

  The griffin, a strange blend of white-headed eagle and snow leopard, screeched and snapped its beak. They were past the mountains now, and it could see horses below them: great wild herds grazing. There would be excellent hunting here, it knew.

  “Now, Snapper, you may feast later.” Ranulf petted his steed absently. “We must look again for the girl at least. I rather expect that Misericord can handle himself!”

  ∞∞∞

  The Mistress of Briersburge sat up carefully. She was in a large, gloomy stone hall, she noted, surrounded by perhaps hundreds of finely dressed nobles. There was a raised dais before her, with a long table upon it. At the far side of it was a single tall chair, upon which sat a gaunt figure with long pale hair and glowing witch lights in his pale blue eyes. He wore enamelled full plate: deep crimson edged with gold; his clothing patterned in red, orange and turquoise. There were two weapons strapped to his hip: a sabre and a long sword, and he had a trio of bright plumes in his cap.

  Naomi rose to her feet and met his gaze angrily. “Where is Misericord?”

  “Are you not at all impressed by my spell?” Her host smiled darkly. “Most would be.”

  “I’m not most. Now where is he?” She drew her dagger: a thin stiletto that she kept strapped to her thigh. “If you’ve harmed him, I promise that you’ll suffer!”

  “It appear that diplomacy is not your strongest quality, my dear.”

  “I don’t make deals with vandrethir.”

  “I am no mere vandreth, my dear.” He stood and tossed the table aside one handed. “I am Ravin, King of Anyosia: the first and the last of my line! I have existed since before the writing down of history, and I shall continue on until the very death of time.”

  “Fine, you hail from an extinct tribe of illiterate barbarians, and you are fated to be slain with a pocket watch! Now where is my retainer?”

  Ravin turned and pointed to an alcove. The courtiers parted, some laughing openly at the look of horror that spread across Naomi’s countenance. “Why he is here, of course, as I promised you that he would be, my dear.”

  Naomi ran to the scarred figure that hung spread-eagled and naked in the alcove. She ran her fingers along the chains that held him there. “Misericord!”

  He raised his face to look at her: his lidless eyes exposed to her for the first time. They were dark brown, she noted, as she pulled off her shawl and draped it about his hips to grant him some modesty at least. “Alas, ‘tis naught but a terrible trap, my Lady...!”

  She cupped his face gently in her hands and kissed him tenderly: carefully slipping the lock pick from beneath her own tongue and passing it into his mouth. Misericord hung his head silently, fumbling the lock pick into position between his teeth. Naomi spun to face Ravin and his courtiers once more. She stepped in front of her retainer, blocking their view of him. “Is it not enough that he was once skinned alive by monsters such as you, but now you must humiliate him still further?”

  Ravin held out his hand to her. “Submit your will to mine, Lady Naomi Du’Valle. I have learnt much about you from the rest of your scouts. They belong to me now. Submit, or this scarred fool shall join them – he would make a fine soldier in my army!”

  “No! Do not do that to him! I beg of you!” Naomi tossed the dagger behind her and ran to Ravin, abasing herself before him. “You have won. There is no need to hurt him further.”

  Ravin laughed and caught hold of her by the hair. He pulled her to her feet and pinned her hands, bending her head back and to the side. “I suspect that he will suffer far more by watching me turn you, my dear!”

  The dagger sang through the air and buried itself up the hilt in Naomi’s heart. Misericord threw the shawl over Ravin’s head with his other hand, and then head butted him. “I should sooner see her sweet soul slip away forever, monster!”

  Snatching up the Lady’s body, the witchfinder sprinted towards the nearest window: scrambling over the heads of the shrieking courtiers. “Farewell, restless ruler – until we do dance again!”

  He dove out of the opening, relieved at the lack of glass, and landed gracefully atop a passing patrol of skeletons. Kicking out around him, he shattered their skulls, before fleeing onto the rooftops and away. The Lady stirred in his arms. “Did you really have to kill me?”

  “I reckoned that it removed his reason to race after us, my Lady.”

  “That much was logical of you at least, my brave blade.”

  Chapter Five

  “We must find you something to wear, Misericord.”

  “My clothing is still within the castle of our combatant, my Lady. I would rea
dily return to retrieve it.”

  “No, my brave blade; it’s too dangerous.” Naomi looked about the alleyway that they stood in. “Wait here. I’ll go and find something – there was a washerwoman’s cart back there. Perhaps I might be able to beg some charity from her.”

  “Take care, my Lady.” He stared dolefully after her as she went. She has seen my shamefully scarred self. I had hoped never to horrify her so. Moreover the meeting of our mouths was most improper - though truly tactical too. He indulged himself with the memory of her tongue brushing against his own: inside his mouth and underneath his nails the only places where he had any sensation. They took my skin...they sought to open a door most dreadful...!