me!”
Cal was suddenly disgusted by the tone as much as the pain, so angry that it swamped his fear. “South coast scum,” he began. “You’re not just clumsy, you’re stupid and incompetent as well. You couldn’t captain a mercenary company, because the only way you can get fighters to follow you is to threaten their families—coward as you are. And you don’t have the guts to stay and fight with ’em, when you lead ’em into a mess—” The blows began soon after his words, but he kept on until he passed out once more. “Stupid—cowardly—scum—that’s what you are, and furthermore—”
This time pain woke him. He was wedged into a space so small that he could move nothing but his head, and that only slightly. His arms had been rebound behind him, tightly; he could not feel his hands at all. His bruised cheek rested on his knees. Everything ached and throbbed, and he had a cramp in one shoulder. With every breath his broken ribs grated and stabbed. He had had bruises and broken ribs often enough before—but not the other pain, a growing fire that gnawed between his thighs, leaving him no doubt about one irreplaceable loss. Perhaps, he thought grimly, I will bleed to death from this. If only I had been able to taunt him longer, he might have killed me at once. He felt contempt for his captor, who could so easily be moved by a rough tongue. But Halverics are not bred to despair or suicide, and his mind returned to his children. If he died, they would avenge him: but he was not dead, not yet. His mind wandered to his own childhood, when Kieri Phelan was his father’s squire, and he had seen Kieri’s scars. “Don’t ever ask,” his father had said, “and never complain, Cal, until you’ve borne the like.”
He woke, not knowing he had dozed, at the touch of a hand on his leg. A voice—not the soft voice, but one with a northern flavor—whispered nearby. “Are you th’ Halveric, are ye?” He froze, afraid to answer. It must be a trap. The hand, hard and horny, slid along his thigh to his buttocks. A whispered curse, then a comment: “Holy Falk, he’s been—” Another whisper, silencing the first. He worked his tongue around in his mouth, as the hand found his ankles and a cold thin thing—blade?—slipped under the thongs that bound them. He heard the thongs snap. The blade slid up and cut the thongs at his knees. He tried to whisper, but it came out as a grunt, unintelligible even to him. “Quiet,” the voice commanded, itself very soft. “Are you the Halveric?” He nodded, then realized it was dark and managed a shaky yes. “Don’t make a noise,” the voice said. “We’ll pull—don’t fight us.”
A hard hand grasped his feet and pulled them to one side. The wrench of pain that followed almost drew a sound from him, but he clamped his jaws on it. He felt his legs scrape past an edge of some sort, and smelled fresher air, cold air. The hand reached up past his thighs to his body, felt around toward his arms. Again the blade, slicing the bonds at elbow and wrist. His elbows rolled out, catching on the sides of whatever held him with a little thump. Again a muffled curse. The hand reached and pulled first one arm forward, then the other. Something soft bound his forearms loosely together. He leaned now against the side of the container, trying to yield to the hands without making any sound. One set grasped his legs below the knees, and the other reached in and lifted his hips slightly. He choked back a scream at that, and tried to arch his back against the surface behind him. They pulled, and his body eased out, his head sliding down the wall. He tipped his head forward so it would not thump on the floor of the container. He could feel hot blood seeping from reopened wounds. At last, inch by careful inch, the unknown hands drew him free of his prison, and he lay at full length on a flat surface.
“Be very quiet,” a voice murmured in his ear. “Not out yet. Talk later.” Meanwhile the hands were busy, running along his arms and legs feeling for broken bones. His hands began to come to life again, with the throbbing pain of returning circulation. He flexed them, glad to have control over something. “Need cloth,” murmured the voice. “Blood trail if we don’t.”
“Here,” said the other voice. He was lifted and a pad of cloth wrapped against his back—then he could feel them dragging a tunic over his head. A flask pressed against his lips and he swallowed. While he was dreaming, he thought, he might as well dream numbwine—but it was water, cold and clean. He realized that his mouth was full of some foul taste, blood or vomit, and swallowed again. Very quickly they had him ready to move, with loose trousers drawn up to his waist, and stockings pulled over his feet. “Will hurt,” said the voice in his ear. “No sound.” A hand lay along his face for a moment, and he nodded.
He felt himself slung over a shoulder, but in the pain of that jolting movement, he passed out again. He came to with a hand hard across his mouth. “Quiet,” the voice said. He nodded, and the hand released its pressure. It was dark, but now he could see. Yellow blurs in the distance—torches, he thought—and a vague sense of darker nearby shapes looming over him. “Horse lines,” murmured the voice. “Got to ride—too far on foot.” Cal shuddered at the thought of straddling a horse.
“C-can’t,” he croaked.
“Quiet. You must. That or the deathstroke. You’ve no bones broke but ribs—we’ll help you.” Cal was shaking now, shaking too hard to help as they urged him up.
“By St. Falk, we’ll never—” The second voice sounded scared.
“We will. The numbwine, Jori.” Cal felt a flask against his lips again. This time it
Cal raised his foot, surprised that he could, and slid it into the stirrup he felt. He leaned into the horse as the man behind him shoved him up; his right leg swung to clear the saddle out of habit. He stood, leaning forward on the beast’s neck, while Jori fitted his foot into the off stirrup. Then the man on the near side vaulted up behind him, and he heard Jori mount another horse. “Lean on me,” said the man behind him. He sank back. The pain was impossible; sweat sprang cold on his whole body—but he did not faint. The horse began to move.
“When we reach the sentry lines,” the man said in his ear, “you’ll have to ride alone—maybe fifty yards—no more. Jori’s got a horse for me to go through the lines with.” He was fitting a hooded cloak around Cal as he spoke. “We’re Vonja militia, remember that. Going back to Vonja. I’m a sergeant; you’re just a private. Don’t say anything. If they ask your name, say Sim. They won’t ask unless their sergeant is there—if they stay bought. At worst we’ll see to you. You won’t be caught again. Now—when I slide off, sit up straight. Just a few yards, remember?”
“Yes—I will.” Cal spoke softly. “Who are you?”
“Right now, I’m a sergeant of Vonja militia, a turncoat. We’ll talk later. Almost there—I’ve got to change horses before we get to the torches. All right?” Cal nodded. As the man behind him slid from the horse, Cal sagged and almost fell. He managed to pull himself upright, and tried to tuck the cloak snugly around himself. The horses hardly paused before moving on. He could see, against the torches ahead, the third horse now in the lead.
A sentry hailed them. He heard the voice ahead, bantering now in a southern accent. He looked forward. It was hard to follow the conversation. Laughter. A face upturned to his, whites of eyes glinting in the light. The horses moved on, into darkness. Cal concentrated on his balance. He dared not look back to see how far they had come. It seemed forever before the voices spoke to him again. “Can you ride alone?” one asked. “We can make better time if you can—we need to get to the river.”
“I—think—so,” Can managed to say. “But not—not trotting—”
“No. Of course not.”
“Should we tie him to the saddle?” asked the other. “If he falls—”
“If you think you can’t make it,” said the first voice, “tell us. Don’t fall.”
“No,” said Cal. “I won’t fall.” He began to believe it might be real. They rode on. Just when he was sure he would faint, strong arms lifted him from the saddle. There were more voices now. Again he thought of a trap, and tried to sit up, but firm hands pressed his shoulders down.
“Take it easy, sir,” said one of the new voices. “We’ve got to get you across the river. Just lie still as you can.”
“But who—” His voice was harsh and unsteady; he swallowed and tried again. “Who are you? Who got me out?”
“No real names this side of the river, sir,” came the reply. Cal felt the grip of many hands as he was lifted, then laid on a hard surface that seemed to dip and sway. A hand touched his face, gently.
“Good luck to you, sir,” came the voice he’d heard first. “We hope to see you someday, me and Jori.”
“But—aren’t you coming?”