Part 34 (1/2)

A roar ripped through the people.

Royce raised his fist, demanding silence.

s.h.a.grith shouted over the din. ”And the weapon?”

”I choose the sword.”

Blaine stepped forward. ”And I will be her champion.”

The pride in his voice almost choked Kath to silence...almost. Nothing was ever simple...and every choice had its price. Why did the G.o.ds make it so hard? She met his stare, willing him to understand. ”For the fate of the War Helm...I must fight my own battles.”

Blaine gaped, floundering in disbelief.

But s.h.a.grith grinned, more like a wolf than an eagle. ”And for the sake of truth, I name Anton of the fox den as the G.o.ds' champion.”

Shocked murmurs rippled through the cavern.

A tall red-haired man strode toward the dais. A grin split his face, the wily leer of a fox...and in his hands he bore Blaine's blue steel sword.

41.

Duncan Duncan lingered on the edge of sleep, a pillow beneath his head. A pillow! The thought pierced him like an arrow yet he remained still as a possum. Alert to danger, he took slow and shallow breathes, his eyes closed, his face relaxed, while his senses probed his surroundings. Naked, he lay on a soft pallet, a wool blanket providing a comfortable warmth. Beneath the blanket he flexed his right hand, testing his body. Gone were the weights, and the chains, and the endless pull. The fierce agony of the hanging stones was banished, replaced by a dull ache. His raging thirst was slaked as well, a mere memory. Puzzled, he breathed deep, tasting the air. A hint of rosewater and the smell of soap but the stench of the Pit was absent. Perhaps he'd been rescued. Against all odds, perhaps Kath had found a way.

He dared a glance through hooded eyes.

Tapestries adorned the stone wall; the glimpse of luxury deepened his puzzlement. Beeswax candles littered the bedside table, a copper basin filled with water, but he detected no sign of movement or sound, perhaps he was alone. He lay in a four-posted bed in a small round chamber, sunlight striping the coverlet. Stripes in the sunlight, a nasty suspicion spiked him. Discarding caution, he turned and stared at the window. Bars on the window, hope sank like a stone in his stomach. So he was still a prisoner, but why the opulence? He racked his mind for answers but all his memories were mired in pain.

Throwing the covers aside, he rose from the bed and tested his body. Muscles ached with disuse but the raging pain was gone. His lice-ridden beard was shaved clean, smooth as a courtier's cheek. A healing salve coated his wrists and his back, the raw marks of shackles and lashes fading to a dull sore. Someone bothered to heal him, but why?

He strode to the window set high in the wall. Grabbing the bars, he pulled himself up. The view took his breath away. High in a tower, he looked down on a tiered citadel of black stone. A dizzying height, he counted nine tiers of walls, a stone beehive rising from the steppes. So this was the Dark Citadel, the stronghold of the Mordant. He could have wept. The G.o.d-cursed monks had sent the six of them against this? The monks were barking mad, nave beyond belief. He vented his anger against the bars but the iron was sunk deep, impossible to bend.

Dropping down from the window, he prowled the chamber, searching for a weapon...or a way out. A stout oak door barred the only exit, locked from the other side. Twitching the tapestry aside, he found bare stone beneath. Candles, a copper basin, a chamber pot, nothing he could use as a weapon, not even a st.i.tch of clothing. Trapped in a silken prison, but why the royal treatment? They'd cleaned him up and fed him...like a n.o.bleman held for ransom...or a lamb fattened before the slaughter. A premonition of fear s.h.i.+vered down his back.

A key rattled in the door.

Fight or spy? He leaped for the bed and pulled the covers close, spying through hooded eyes.

The door eased open and a dark haired beauty slipped inside. She carried a tray, the rich scent of lamb stew swamping his senses. Lamb stewed with vegetables, the mouth-watering smells nearly drove him mad with hunger yet he feigned sleep, his gaze fixed on the woman.

Balancing the tray on one hand, she moved toward the bed, a gown of diaphanous silk revealing every detail. And every detail proved enticing. After the depths of the Pit, she seemed an illusion. The grace of a dancer and the curves of a courtesan; not what he expected in a jailor.

She set the tray on the table and perched on the edge of the bed. Leaning forward, she tugged the covers away from his chest.

His hand snaked out, catching her wrist. ”Why am I here?”

Brown eyes flared wide, startled as a deer.

”Why am I healed?” He pulled her close, his grip like steel. ”I mean you no harm but I need answers.”

She shook her head, her eyes wide in panic, but she did not speak.

”Answer me!”

She made an odd gurgling sound and then opened her mouth wide.

No tongue! She had no tongue! ”Who did this to you?” Horrified, he let her go.

Suddenly free, she lurched backwards, knocking the tray from the table, a clatter of dishes across the floor.

He rose from the bed, never mind his nakedness. ”Who did this to you?”

The door crashed open and guards rushed in. Six spears thrust toward him, poised at his throat. Naked and without a weapon, Duncan was forced to yield. Hard-faced guards pushed him against the wall. Sobbing, the girl fled the chamber. A leather-clad man appeared at the door. Small and slight, dressed all in black, he lounged against the doorframe, his arms crossed, a baldric of nine throwing knives strung across his chest like a banner. ”So you're finally wake.”

Duncan kept still, his back pressed to the wall, his throat a hair's breadth from the spear points. ”Six against one is hardly fair.”

The small man grinned. ”Nathan, go tell the priests he's finally ready.”

One of the guards snapped a salute and then rushed from the chamber.

So the small man held sway despite his slight stature. ”Why the priests?”

”All in due time.”

Duncan studied his captors. Five guards with spears but the one that worried him the most was slight man leaning against the doorframe. Short and wiry, he had the stunted body of a fifteen year-old boy, yet years of struggle were writ across his face. Cloaked in black, he carried an intensity about him that reeked of coiled danger. ”Who are you?”

”They say you killed three gore hounds. Not an easy feat.”

So they knew he wasn't from the Pit. Duncan hardened his resolve, knowing he still had a secret to protect.

”What do you see with your golden cat eye?”

Perhaps the luxury was all about his eye, a better topic than the gore hounds. ”I see a silken prison with too many guards.”

”I'm betting your golden eye gives you an advantage, and aid in hunting the gore hounds.”

Interest laced the man's words, or perhaps it was jealousy. ”Why? Do you need an advantage to kill one?”

The man flashed a mocking smile. ”Deformities of the Pit often carry a purpose.” He eased away from the door, moving with a feral grace. ”The Taals have obscene strength, the stunted Duegars can sniff magic, and rumors say some of the Pit-born have the gift of prophecy. So I'll ask you again, what do you see with that golden eye?”

”Not the future.”

The dark man paused, as if weighing the answer, and then he flashed a devilish grin. ”No, you don't see the future,” the grin turned nasty, ”else you'd reek of fear.”

”Who are you?”