“Daffer,” the prisoner breathed weakly. “Ryan, isis it really you?”
As gently as he could, Ryan took the man’s hand and helped him to his feet. “Daffer, it’s been a long time.”
“Indeed, it has been.” The bedraggled man smiled faintly, shuffling from foot to foot, as if ashamed of his condition.
“Clem, go get Mildred,” Ryan said, and the hunter dashed out the door.
Minutes later the physician charged into the cabin and jerked to a halt staring at the hellish objects hanging from the rafters. Forcing her attention away, Mildred went straight to the man and checked his vital signs.
She fingered the back of his neck. “He certainly hasn’t been fed in weeks. How long has it been?”
“Don’t know. There’s no day,” Daffer replied, pointing at the sealed windows. “No night. A year, a month?”
“Hush, it’s okay now. You’re safe with us.” Mildred took the jelly glass and offered it to him. “Here, drink some water. It will help with the stomach cramps.”
“Never,” he cried, knocking it away. The predark jar shattered on the floor, the glass shards scattering.
“What was in that?” she demanded, watching the thick fluid slowly seeping through the cracks in the rough-hewn floorboards.
“Some mutie brew,” Daffer croaked, wiping his mouth. “The stuff makes you hungry as hell. Once you eat, the cannies own your soul. It’s a thing they do to newcomers. Makes him one of them forever.”
“An initiation,” the warrior mused. “But you didn’t drink a drop. Takes a real tough man to do that. The baron will be proud of you.”
Breathing heavily for a while, Daffer stood straighter as he fully considered the matter. “I did refuse,” he said, men broke into hysterical laughter. “Told them to go to hell, and they did! I never ate. Never!”
“Hush,” Mildred said soothingly, unscrewing the cap to her canteen. “Here, drink my water. Fresh from a creek a hundred miles away.” She took a long pull on the container to show it was safe, then pressed it in his grip, but maintained a tight grasp.
“Don’t swallow the first sip,” Mildred ordered. “Swish it around in your mouth and spit it out. Then take only small sips. Drinking too fast would be very bad for you in this condition.”
“Lord Ryan?” the man asked, confused, clutching the container.
“Do as the healer says, Armsman,” Ryan snapped, using the ancient predark word for a loyal warrior. He had heard his father use the term only twice, and it was always reserved for special sec men whose favor he wished to curry.
The man visibly calmed with the honor, and did as ordered, sipping and spitting until Mildred allowed him to drink freely.
“Bless you all,” he finally said, coming up for air. “Are the cannies dead? There’s one big man with a scarhe’s the leader. Watch out for him.”
“The cannies are dead,” Ryan stated. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
He took the man by the elbow and helped him walk to the front door. Daffer paused at the sill as if a door were there, then with a determined face he stepped over the jamb and outside the log cabin. Mildred followed them closely, ready to catch the man in case he fell.
Blinking against the strong daylight, Daffer straggled to focus his vision, then smiled widely as he spied the bodies sprawling in the dirt, more than one face displaying its ghastly filed teeth.
“May the worms choke on your rotting flesh,” he growled at the corpses. Turning clumsily, he stood at attention and saluted. “As my father did before me, I again swear my allegiance to you, Baron Cawdor, ruler of Front Royal!”
“I’m not a baron,” Ryan stated, deliberately not returning the salute. “Never was. My nephew Nathan Freeman Cawdor rules Front Royal.”
“Nathan?” the man said, slowly lowering his hand. “You don’t know then, my lord?”
“We heard of trouble at the ville,” Mildred replied, putting away the canteen. “But nothing more. Has there been a fight? Did it burn down?”
“The ville is fine. Never better.”
The soft forest wind brushing his hair, Ryan braced himself for the worst. “Is Nathan dead?” he asked bluntly.