hooves and wheels, leading to the right, toward the rim.
Marguerite followed. The trees pressed in around her, dark and menacing. Shaken by the wind, a black spruce flailed its arms, freeing a rain of loose cones to assault her. Lightning twitched and whinnied as one struck her flank. Marguerite reached forward to pat the mare's neck, but the gesture was as much to reassure herself as her mount. She tapped her heels against the horse's belly, and Lightning trotted on.
As the road began to climb into the hills, fast, low-flying clouds cast flickering shadows across its surface. Soon, Marguerite knew, she would be approaching the spot from which she and Donskoy had gazed down at the mist-covered valley. She dismounted and led her mare by the reins, picking her way carefully over the sharp boulders that sprouted up from the rough track.
After several minutes, Marguerite heard voices ahead. She tied Lightning to a tree and continued on foot. When the voices grew louder, she left the road and, ignoring her fears, climbed over the top of the ridge. A short distance down the other side, she stopped and crouched on the hill, peering out through the branches of a shrub.
On the moonlit slope below, near the edge of the valley's swirling mists, she could see her husband sitting on his horse beside the wagon. A column of horses, now minus their riders, waited on the road behind the cart. Ekhart and Ljubo stood close by with the pack of hounds-the three from the castle and many more. Donskoy's associates had arrayed themselves on the hillside below the road, spacing themselves several yards apart to form a long line. Each was armed with a mace or flail. Jacqueline paced back and forth behind them, carrying a shortsword, which glinted brightly in the silvery light of the full moon.
Whatever they were waiting for, Marguerite knew it had nothing to do with helping lost travelers. Why would they need weapons to effect a rescue?
Not a sou! stirred for several minutes-only the trees, surging and sighing in the wind. Then Marguerite heard voices out in the mist, echoing up the foggy valley. A woman spoke soothingly to a nervous, sobbing child, summoning him close. Men muttered warnings. They sounded very near, but Marguerite knew it for a trick of the mists.
Donskoy lifted the black horn to his lips and blew, repeating the awful wail Marguerite had heard at the keep, The associates hid their weapons behind their backs. Ekhart's hounds began to bay.
'Here!' called Jacqueline. 'Here, to safety!'
A figure scrambled up the bank, his face twisted, his clothing torn. It was a young man in robes-a cleric, perhaps. A large medallion hung round his neck. When he saw the line of Donskoy's associates, his expression changed to one of relief. He turned and called something to his companions in a language Marguerite did not understand.
Donskoy blew his horn again, and his associates shouted more encouragement to the wayward travelers. 'Come to us, to safety!' Jacqueline cried.
More silhouettes appeared at the swirling edge of the mists, following the cries of encouragement. The young cleric climbed the slope and fell on his knees before the closest associate, clasping his hands around the man's legs and uttering foreign words that sounded to be an exclamation of relief and gratitude.
Then the cleric saw the moonlight glinting on the head of the associate's mace, which was protruding from behind a meaty thigh. The young priest released his grasp and started to rise, clutching at the holy symbol around his neck.
The «rescuer» gave a sharp laugh. He swung his mace, splitting the cleric's head iike a red melon. The other travelers, now half-emerged from the mists, heard the awful crack and stopped in their tracks, crying out in confused voices-whether to each other or to the dead priest, Marguerite could not tell.
It mattered little. At that moment, Donskoy's associates raised their weapons and rushed down the hill in a we! I-practiced charge, falling upon the stunned travelers like a pack of wolves,
Jacqueline squealed with glee and rushed over to the fallen cleric. She ripped the medallion from his corpse, putting it to her teeth to test its metal, then slipped the disk into her pocket. Something on the man's hand caught her attention. As Donskoy's associates slaughtered the other travelers, she severed the dead cleric's wrist. Then she sheathed her sword and pulled a ring from his stubby finger.
The surviving travelers turned, attempting to flee from whence they had come. Ekhart released the hound pack. The dogs sprang into the mists, snapping and snarling, driving the hapless wanderers back to meet their gruesome fates.
Apparently not all the travelers were helpless. A fireball raced up the path and licked at the line of associates, engulfing two, and lashing out toward Jacqueline. In the crimson flash, Marguerite could see one of the associates slitting an old woman's throat.
When Jacqueline felt the kiss of the flames, she leaped back unharmed, then spouted obscenities like a barroom wench who'd just been bilked. She yelled for a counterattack, but it was hardly required. A hound bayed, then came running up the slope after the offending spellcaster, biting at his heels. The terrified mage, distracted by the growling beast at his back, did not even see the blade that clove his skull.
Then came the young women, herded like frightened sheep before the dogs. Jacqueline cackled. The women wore fine garments. Some carried parasols, as if prepared for a daytime picnic. From their shocked faces, it was clear they had no idea what had occurred to change their plans.
One girl shone like gold among the rest, with her tangled blond locks spilling over her shoulders, obviously a beauty despite the twisted expression her fear had wrought. Ljubo seized her by the hair and drew her up the slope.
Jacqueline screeched at him. 'Ljubo, remember yourself! You must leave the head unmarred.'
The girl writhed. Ljubo shoved the quivering blonde toward the road. Blood streamed from her mouth; she had bit her own tongue in terror.
'Oh, for pity's sake,' sneered Jacqueline. 'Look what you've done, you silly twit. I'll have to take care of you now.' She walked over to the girl. 'Don't be afraid, child. There is nothing to fear. Promise me you'll behave, and I'll make sure that no harm comes to your pretty head.'
The girl nodded feebly.
Jacqueline pushed the blonde to her hands and knees and, with one swipe of her sword, beheaded her The gold tresses poured onto the ground. 'No harm above your neck, that is,' laughed Jacqueline. She sheathed her sword and picked up the head with great care, examining it in the moonlight. Apparently satisfied, she carried it to an embroidered satchel resting on the ground nearby. She tucked the head neatly inside.
Then she motioned to Ljubo. 'Now you may have her.'
Ljubo grinned and scooped up the headless corpse, cradling it in his arms and scampering off into the woods. The rest of the bodies were soon neatly arranged on the road. Five or six associates worked the row like black vultures, stripping clothing and jewelry, stuffing it into bags. Some of the victims moaned and twitched as their limbs were picked clean; apparently not all the victims were dead.
Donskoy rode along the gruesome line, then stopped and pointed to one of the females. Ekhart called for Ljubo, but seeing him gone, scowled and snapped at an associate to help him. The pair returned to the wagon, then dragged the long black box from the back and carried it over to the woman Lord Donskoy had indicated. They set the crate beside her and poked at her form. When she squirmed feebly, they stuffed a gag into her mouth. Finally the men lifted her into the box, secured the lid, and returned the crate to the back of cart.
Marguerite sat on the ground at her hiding place, her eyes damp, her stomach churning. She had suspected foul play, and yet the scene was even more gruesome than anything she could have envisioned. Before Donskoy and his men finished their ghoulish business, she had to return to her mare and leave. She tried not to think about what she would do then; after what she had seen, it was impossible to imagine returning to the castle to live with Donskoy. But what choice did she have? She knew no other place in this land.
Marguerite forced herself up. ho sooner had she risen to her feet than one of the hounds turned toward her and began to bay. Someone raised a lantern and shined it in her direction.
Marguerite started up the hill at sprint, then stumbled, sending a shower of rocks down the slope. A man's voice cried out in astonishment, then barked an alarm.
Marguerite bolted over the top of the ridge and down the other side, into the night, a frightened hare fleeing for her life.
SIXTEEN
