Magic's Price

man acted a great deal like Rendan's older brother had, after his skull had been broken. Lord Gelmar hadn't died, not right away, but he couldn't walk or speak, and he'd acted as if he was falling-down drunk for more than a week before Rendan got tired of it and had him “taken outside.”

“Careful, Rendan, he's like t' do ye -” one of the men called out.

“Not with that spell on 'im,” the Lord laughed. “That powder Master Dark sent down with his orders was magicked. This 'un can hear and see us, but he can't do nothing.” He kicked the man again, and the prisoner cried out, scrabbling feebly in the dirt of the floor.

“Just what is this beggar, anyway?” Kef Hairlip asked. “What's so bleedin' important 'bout him that the Master wants 'im alive an' talkin'? 'Ow come 'e 'ad us an' ever' other bunch 'twixt 'ere an' the mountains lookin' fer 'im?”

Tan Twoknives answered before the Lord could, standing up with a leaky mug in one hand and one of his knives in the other. “Kernos' balls, boy, haven't you never seen a Herald before?” He hawked and spat a gobbet of phlegm that fell just short of the prisoner's leg. “Bloody bastards give us more trouble'n fifty Kingsmen 'cross the Border, an' stick their friggin' noses inta ever'body's business like they got nothin' else t'do.”

He shoved his knife back into his belt and swigged the last of his beer, then slammed the mug down on the table and strode forward to prod the prisoner himself.

Some of the others muttered; they all looked avid, greedy. More than half the band had long-standing grudges against Heralds; Damen knew that from the stories they told - though few of them had ever actually seen one. Mostly they'd been on the receiving end of Herald - planned ambushes or counter-raids, or been kicked in the teeth by Herald magic, without ever seeing their foe face-to-face. Heralds, Damen had reckoned (at least until now) were like the Hawkmen of the deep woods. You heard plenty of stories about them, and maybe even saw some of what they did to others that crossed their path, but if you were lucky, you never encountered one yourself.

Well, now they had one, and he didn't seem quite so formidable...

“So, what's the Master's orders about this bastard, Rendan?” Tan asked prodding the prisoner with his toe again. “He's gotta be alive and talkin', but what else?”

Rendan crossed his arms, and looked down at the man, who had gone very silent and stopped moving. “He hasta be alive,” Rendan said after a moment. “But the Master didn't say no more than that. The reward's th' same whether or not he's feelin' chipper.”

Tan smiled crookedly, his yellowed and broken teeth flashing as he tucked his thumbs into his belt. “Well, if that's all he said - what'dye say t' gettin' some of our own back, eh?”

Damen nodded to himself, and tucked himself back farther next to the fireplace in the damp corner that he called his own. He knew that smile, knew that tone of voice. He blanked what had followed the last time he heard it out of his mind. He did not want to remember.

“I think that's a very good idea, Tan,” Lord Rendan replied with a matching smile. He hauled the prisoner up by the front of his tunic, and threw him to Tan, who held him up until he stood erect -

Then punched him in the stomach with all his considerable strength.

The man doubled over and staggered backward toward Rendan, who leaned back against the table and kicked him toward one of the other men.

This amused them for a while, but after everyone had a turn or two, the novelty of having a victim who couldn't fight back and couldn't really react properly to the pain he was in began to bore them - as Damen had known it would, eventually. The only thing that actually did fight back was the thing the man had around his neck - it had burned whoever tried to take it, and eventually they left it on him.

Tan was the last to give up; he kneed the man in the groin and let him drop to the ground, limbs twitching. He stared at the Herald for a long time, before another slow smile replaced the scowl he'd been wearing.

He picked up a piece of the fancy horse-harness, a blue-leather strap embellished with silver brightwork, and turned it around and around in his hands. The prisoner moaned, and tried to crawl away, but succeeded only in turning over onto his back. He opened blind-looking silver eyes and stared right at Damen, though there was no sign that he actually saw the boy. There was a bruise purpling one cheekbone, and his right eye was just beginning to swell - but those injuries were nothing at all. Most of the blows had been to the vulnerable parts of the body, and Damen knew of men who'd died from less than the Herald had taken.

The Herald closed his eyes again, and made a whimpering sound in the back of his throat. That seemed to make up Tan's mind for him.

He reached for the man's hair with one hand, still holding the harness-strap in the other.

“Ah . . . y'sweet little horsey! Hah!” Tan rose from his knees, breathing heavily, refastening his breeches. “Who's next?” he asked, laughing. “Which o' ye stallion's gon' mount our little white mare? Little pup's's good's a woman!”