his absence went unnoticed even by the Witnesses. The last two Werists boarded and the boat pushed off without him.
Overall the river was very quiet. Angry voices, the squeal of the thole pins, the coxswain’s attempts to call a stroke-all soon faded into the distance. Dantio and Tranquility would see him the moment they looked, of course, and then there would be a battle royal between the passengers wanting to come back and get him and the crew wanting to escape from Horold. It was very doubtful that Orlad and his warriors could work the sweeps, so the sailors would probably win.
Benard was normally the least suicidal of men, but Ingeld would never be safe while Horold lived. She must go home very soon, because she had a duty to holy Veslih to let Oliva be born within the city she would one day rule. Now Horold had wandered into a trap and must not be allowed to wander out again before it was sprung. A good trap needs good bait.
Benard still had seasoning. He might yet change the flavor of the world.
He raised his head and confirmed that the over-long oars had already carried Free Spirit out of sight around a bend in the channel. He could hear another boat coming upstream. He rose and took off at a run, back to the clearing and on beyond it, heading downstream. When Dantio saw him, he would guess what his crazy brother was doing, but Benard would be hard to catch once he got a good start.
He reached a channel, paused to make sure his sandals were tightly tied, then plunged in and swam across to another island. And so on, across the maze of water and pathways. Whenever the way was clear he ran or trotted. And all the time he prayed to Anziel.
… great Her majesty and in infinity the realm of Her blessing… She is the sun, the candle, and the stars…
I know I’m not a good liar, my lady, but You could make me seem like a good liar, just this once. I’m not brave, either, but You could make me seem brave. He visualized his face all serene and earnest. Make me look like that today! Just today would be quite long enough. He might not live until noon, and if he did he would likely wish he hadn’t. Horold could be incredibly spiteful.
When Benard judged that he was safe from pursuit, he found himself a ramshackle bench in a wide clearing and sat down to recover his breath and prepare a plausible story. He had done the first and was making progress with the second when a couple of Heroes came into sight through the trees. Then others. They saw him waiting and ran forward.
Yes, this was going to be bad. The blue-sashed flankleader was Vars Varson, who had been a cadet in the Kosord palace guard the last time Benard saw him and was even nastier than his friend Cutrath Horoldson. By the time he and half a flank of warriors arrived, Benard was on his knees, head humbly bowed.
“Looks like our lucky day, lads,” Vars said. “Where’s the woman?”
“I’ll tell the satrap,” Benard said and was slammed to the ground.
The flankleader licked his knuckles. “Nork, you’ve got a good bugle. Tell Big Pig.”
One of his men screwed up his face as if he were doing something painful, and released a howl that could not have come from any normal throat: “We got the mudface!” He followed it with a series of trumpet blasts to help Horold locate him. He might have been audible in Tryfors.
Vars kicked Benard. “On your feet, vermin!” Then he said, “Now try and stay there!” and went for him with a blur of punches. Benard’s efforts to parry, dodge, and retaliate met with no success at all. He could have broken Vars over his knee like a twig if he would have stayed still for it, but a Werist was a trained fighter. A Hand was not. He found himself lying on the grass, hurt and bleeding.
Vars said, “Your turn next, Ranthr. Just don’t kill him, quite.”
His men laughed at the sport. They took turns kicking Benard until he got up, then seeing how many hits they could get in before he went down again. When he could no longer stand, they just kicked-kidneys, belly, head, face, groin. A really good scream earned extra points. He was going to die. Ingeld! Ingeld!.. His ordeal seemed to go on long enough to boil every pot in Vigaelia, one at a time, but eventually someone locked fingers in his hair and hauled him up to a kneeling position. He found himself peering blankly up at the tusks and snout of Satrap Horold.
“Where is my wife?”
Benard mumbled, “At a farmhouse on the Milky River, lord.” He kept his eyes on the satrap’s killer hooves.
“And what are you doing here?”
“I came to tell you, lord.” Benard no longer worried whether he looked truthful or not. Nothing was going to show on the bloody pulp of his face. He had lost several teeth and could not see straight.
“Why?”
What was the story now? Oh yes… He spat out more blood. “Because she’s pining, wasting away. She has to go home to her city or she’s going to die!”
“You do know you are going to die, don’t you?”
“My lord is kind.”
“Not so as you will notice.” Horold laughed. The day was looking up for him, after a bad start. “Did you get her with child?”
Benard vaguely remembered deciding that a straight denial would not be believed. “Yes, but she lost it. She said her goddess rejected it.” Horold would like hearing that.
The satrap laughed again. After a season away from his palace bathtub and scent bottles, he reeked like a burning manure pile. He turned to a follower. “Packleader, summon the boats.” The result was another flurry of long-distance howls, answered from afar.
“Who raided my camp last night and stole the seer?”
Through shattered teeth, puffed and bleeding lips, Benard mumbled, “Lord, I do not know.”
Horold probably kicked him then, for he found himself flat on the ground again, with the world spinning overhead. His mouth was full of blood and broken teeth.
“Bring him,” Horold said. “Don’t hurt him any more or you won’t leave any fun for me.”
There were no riverfolk in the satrap’s boat. Either he had just seized it and thrown them out, or they had taken fright and fled. After a lifetime of campaigning all over Vigaelia, Horold was quite capable of fending for himself on land or water. Being no stranger to ambushes, either, he had sent six boats on in line ahead and had another six or more bringing up his rear.
The pallid Milky was a winding stream and the gusty wind kept changing direction also, but he had no need to raise sail or run out the steering oar. He had lots of manpower available. Sixteen Werists walked alongside, hauling the boat. When they set out the Wrogg had been shoulder-deep, so they had stripped, leaving their palls and shoes aboard. Now they were having trouble moving the boat over the Milky’s shallows and were pale blue with cold, whole-body goose bumps. Horold didn’t care.
He lounged in the stern. Benard sat amidships, tightly bound to the mast, fading in and out of consciousness and in too much pain to pay attention anyway. That last blow had jangled him completely, so he was seeing double and hearing waterfall noises. He was also sitting in a scarlet puddle, copiously passing blood. Yesterday he had asked the gods to send Horold to join his brother, now it looked as if Benard himself would lead the way. That was traditionally what happened to those who cursed.
“Prisoner!” Horold roared, for the third or fourth time.
Benard managed to lift his head and half open one eye. “Lord?”
“I said that if this is a trap, I will kill you first. Understand? I’ll rip your balls off and tear the rest of you into little pieces.”
He would probably do that anyway.
Benard peered around at the fuzzy, blurred, and duplicated landscape. It had been farmland the last time he looked, and now it was bulrushes and swamp, with patches of willow, dogwood, and bungweed. The little town of Milk had come and gone. There was still no sign of the New Dawn rebels, but at least the satrap’s flotilla had not run into Free Spirit, which had been his greatest fear.
“How far to this farmhouse?” the satrap demanded.
Benard’s mouth was so swollen he could hardly speak. If he waited any longer he wouldn’t be able to say what he wanted to say. It would doubtless kill him, but this folly had already gone on too long. Life hurt too much.
“There is no farmhouse,” he mumbled. “This’s an ambush. Your reign is ended, monster. My brother Orlad
