Well of the Damned

Chapter 33





A noise brought Cirang out of a dream and fully alert. At first, she thought it was a nightmare that had stirred her. She heard a board creak, not like the settling of a house, but more like the settling of a foot upon the floor, accompanied by a soft jingle. Moonlight cast pale-blue light through the two windows in the great room. Quietly, she patted the mattress beside her, found the handle of the dagger and gripped it. Slowly, she sat up and then eased herself to her feet, careful not to make a sound.

“Hell’s teeth. There’s a lot o’blood here,” said a man in the other room.

“Be alert,” a woman said quietly. “The killer might still be here. I’m going to look down here.” The cellar hatch squeaked.

Footsteps approached slowly but heavily, their owner obviously not accustomed to being stealthy. Cirang sidled up to the wall and waited with her arse and shoulder blades against it, the doorway on her right. Her nakedness didn’t bother her — in fact, it made her quieter. As a Viragon Sister, she’d earned a reputation for recklessness in battle, and perhaps rashness, but now she also had Tyr’s confident calm. Her mind was especially alert and clear, as if she knew an instant in advance what would happen.

As the intruder neared, she could hear his heavy breathing. The smell of sweat, not entirely unpleasant, preceded him. His dark form, tall and broad, entered, sword raised in the right — and more distant — hand. She flipped the blade in her hand and thrust in a back-hand motion, felt the beard across her knuckles, felt the knife lag as it pierced his throat. She pulled it back out and cocked her elbow again for another strike.

Then she saw his face. It was Calinor, the ’ranter who hunted Tyr for years. He’d come close to catching him a time or two, and he had no intention of letting Tyr off with a brand on his forearm. At last we meet again, just in time to say good-bye.

Another strike of the knife wasn’t needed. He staggered a moment, and she stepped towards him and yanked the sword from his hand as he slumped with a satisfying thud to the wooden floor.

“Calinor!” a woman called out. She ran, jingling, to the doorway and stopped just outside the room. “Cirang, is that you?”

“Vandra? How the hell are you still alive?” Cirang asked, pressing herself flat once more against the wall. Her chest heaved from the exertion, and the pain in her side seemed distant and insignificant. She moved the sword to her right hand, dagger to her left.

“I’m tougher than you think. Set your weapons down and walk out slowly.”

Cirang judged the distance by the volume of her voice and breathing. Vandra was close, maybe within reach if she simply swiveled into the open doorway. Calinor’s big body on the floor in the doorway, however, left little room for her to maneuver.

“Surrender to me, and I’ll tell King Gavin you were cooperative.”

Cirang gave a derisive snort. “That’s not going to happen. If you run now, get on your little mule and ride like your life depends on it, I won’t stop you. Otherwise, we’re going to fight to the death, and I’ve already died twice. I’m not afraid of it anymore.” Of course, she preferred not to die again so soon, but saying so wouldn’t have sounded as good.

She looked back down at Calinor, judging how the placement of her feet would affect her balance. Maybe she should step on his back. Her footing wouldn’t be as sure, but she would have surprise on her side. He wore a thick leather cuirass, which might provide more stability under her bare feet than if he’d been wearing a mail shirt or no armor at all.

“You should be, because you won’t live to see the sun rise,” Vandra said.

Cirang spun around the corner, stepping up onto Calinor with her left foot, and thrust with the sword. Vandra was quick. She blocked it and turned it away. Cirang didn’t give her the luxury of a counterattack. She punched hard with the blade of the dagger, aiming for the throat above the neck line of Vandra’s mail shirt. Vandra dodged it. The thrust sliced through air.

Vandra stumbled over Calinor’s legs when she tried to step back. Cirang pressed forward, bringing her sword around again. Now on solid floor, she was in the open, facing her opponent in the dark great room. Her night vision wasn’t the best, but it couldn’t be any worse than Vandra’s.

“You’re naked,” Vandra said.

“Does that get you hot?”

Vandra answered with a straight thrust of her sword. Cirang barely avoided it by leaning right and sweeping its tip left with the dagger. Now, with her arm extended, she was vulnerable. Cirang stepped with her left foot, turning her evasive lean into a spin move, and came down with the sword. Vandra should have been sliced open across the back, but Calinor’s dull sword glanced off the mail shirt, giving Vandra time to twist away. Already, Cirang was breathless. She’d suffered a loss of strength in gaol, and her injuries taxed both her ability to manage pain and her endurance. Surrendering wasn’t an option, especially not when she had Vandra’s honor on her side.

Cirang stepped back, clutching her forearm against her side and feeling the wetness there. “I... can’t fight you,” she said. “My injuries are... grave, and I’m... weak. I surrender. Please. Show mercy.” She hunched over and hissed in pain.

“Toss your weapons to the ground, and I’ll give you a quick death,” Vandra said.

“No, King Gavin promised me... five years in gaol... before my execution. You must let him... decide whether to... uphold his... promise.”

Vandra’s breathing was loud in the darkness. “Since then, you killed his friend Calinor and tried to kill me. I don’t think he’ll be interested—”

Cirang sprang forward, thrusting with the sword and slicing with the knife. Vandra blocked the sword, but Cirang’s dagger lagged as it sliced through flesh. Warmth bathed her hand and arm, spattered her face. She stepped back, ready.

Vandra slapped her free hand to her neck. “You... bitch.” She wavered on her feet before sinking to her knees and then falling forward. Her blood continued to flow in ever weakening spurts.

“I was always better than you,” Cirang said as she bent over to catch her breath once again. She waited until her enemy’s blood flow stopped pulsing, and then put two fingers on Vandra’s wrist. She felt two weak pulses before it stopped. A pool of blood spread beneath the body, glistening black in the light of the Moon. It filled the room with its distinctive, coppery scent.

Cirang had no time to stand over her kills and gloat. Kinshield was surely not far behind. She returned to the bedroom, cursing at the pain in her side. Must have ripped a stitch or two.

She rinsed off her face and hands and splashed water down her arms. Using one of the clean towels, she wiped away the blood trickling down her torso. After cutting a length of the bed sheet, she tied it around herself, exhaling to get it as tight as she could, and got dressed. When she pulled the tunic over her head, the neckline picked up a red stain of blood. Damn it. The blood had even spattered her hair. She didn’t have enough clean water to wash her hair and didn’t have time to hunt for the well to draw some more. In the other bedroom she found a mirror and a sharp razor the surgeon undoubtedly used for shaving.

Carefully, she lifted small sections of hair starting at the top and began to cut it. By the time she finished, her hair was almost as short as Lilalian’s was. Her reflection pleased her, and virtually all of the blood had been cut off. The few specks remaining were easily wiped away with a damp cloth.

She pulled Vandra’s mail shirt off — harder than she thought it would be with the uncooperative dead weight of the corpse resisting her. She rinsed off the blood, patted the armor dry and put it on. This would give her even more legitimacy if she needed to claim to be in the king’s service. Mercenary battlers could rarely afford mail. This one was marked with ribbons woven through the links around the elbow-length sleeves in the king’s blue and gold. Welcome to the First Royal Guard, Cirang. With this armor, she might receive free food and lodging, maybe even a foot massage.

A sense of urgency quickened her pace. She preferred Vandra’s new sword to Calinor’s old one and took it, along with its scabbard. She stuffed two of the remaining clean towels into her knapsack, removed the coin purses from the bodies of the two battlers in the doorway and left, shutting the door behind her.

A warhorse and the mule grazed lazily in the front of the house. She took their reins and led them to the barn in back, despite their protests. Stabling the mule would keep it out of sight, and maybe Kinshield would simply ride past without stopping. Inside the mule’s saddle bag was a flint box and toothbrush, which she put into her knapsack. Everything she didn’t have to steal or buy would get her that much closer to her escape.

The mule happily munched hay in one of the stalls, but when she tried to mount Calinor’s golden battle horse, it balked with wide eyes and loud neighing. The white mare and painted stallion in the barn were no more willing to let her get near, even threatening to bite, which was both insulting and aggravating. She had to trap the stupid warhorse against a wall to mount it. It tried to buck her off, and she hauled in one rein until its nose was touching her boot. She was master here, and it would do as she commanded or suffer her wrath.

When at last it surrendered to her will, she followed the road towards Ambryce and her freedom.