Neeka began to fold down the front of her garments. “I did what I did because I then felt I had no choice—if I did not do what they bid me, I feared I would be returned to a certain coastal city for trial and probable execution. During the twelve years I have lived in this hall, I have shielded my own life behind the corpses of no less than five men who never had harmed me in any manner, simply because an evil, depraved lunatic of a woman demanded their deaths. But there will be no more deaths on my conscience, for my life is no longer precious to me.”
She had bared her body to the waist, and now she lifted her left breast and leaned back again, steadying herself with an elbow on the worktable. She smiled and said, “You are doing the best and most proper thing, master, and I go willingly. Strike hard and true.”
With a nod, the tall black man stepped close, felt until he found a spot that suited him, then placed the point of the knife where his fingers had been and thrust with controlled strength. The thin, needle-pointed blade entered easily, thin lines of blood welling up about the watered steel. Neeka gritted her teeth, forced herself not to flinch and thereby complicate or lengthen the man’s job. She closed her eyes, thinking of her tragically wasted life. How different things might have been if only dear old Lokos had lived but one more year.
Chapter XIII
Tim had refused to await the Zahrtohgahn’s return. Leaving AM, Giliahna, Mairee and the apprentice physician to look out for each other, he had stalked out, snarling, “If the bitch wants blood, I’ll give her blood, though she may not like the color of the stuff I shed.” He prowled the corridors and rooms of his dead father’s hall, looking for prey.
Once divested of his porridge-caked clothing, Father Skahbros had not redressed himself, rather he had wrapped his pudgy body in a bath sheet, gathered up fresh clothing and padded down to the bath chambers in the north wing. And that was where his coldly raging nemesis found him… and dealt with him.
Tim paced back down the old, familiar hallway, his left hand on the well-worn basket hilt of his heavy broadsword. Through the pantries, into the winter kitchen. A burly cook—a kath-ahrohs by the cast of his dark-olive skin, black eyes and hair—gripping a big, greasy knife made at first to bar the passage of this apparent northern barbarian mercenary in patched boots and stained clothing. That was before he drew close enough to see that the stains were bright-red splashes of fresh blood, and to be chilled to his very marrow by the icy, murderous rage shining from those slitted blue eyes.
When he did not find Sir Geros in his cottage, Tim paused only long enough to tuck an antique but nicely balanced francisca—one of the old warrior’s wall decorations—into his belt, then he headed directly across the rear courtyard to the stables. A row of paddocks adjoined the larger boxstalls, and in one of these he could see a pale-gray, black-maned and-tailed bulk that could be none save Steelsheen, his own warhorse. Alerted by the familiar sound of Tim’s tread, the huge stallion turned from the manger of fragrant cloverhay and moved to the whitewashed bars. When Tim was close enough to recognize by sight, the horse whickered a greeting, stamping and nodding his scarred head in anticipation of a fondling.
As the man hugged and patted the pale cheeks, rubbing up and down the narrow stripe of glossy black hairs that bisected the animal’s face, Steelsheen almost purred. But then the stallion scented the fresh, human blood, recalled the clank of Tim’s weapons.
“Steel sheen was tired, my brother, but he is well rested now. Will we fight soon?” The horse mindspoke eagerly, unconsciously pawing at the earth of the paddock with one shod hoof.
“/ may have to fight,” replied Tim. “But it will be afoot, my brother. Are there any warhorses in this place beside you and Red honey?”
Steelsheen snorted derisively. “There is one who thinks it is such, a gelding, one Tahkoos, but it really is only a sexless hunter of furry beasts and little tuskless pigs. At the bite of blade or point, such a creature would likely buck off its rider and run away. A war-trained stallion is pastured nearby, but he is old, his two-leg brother is dead and no one now rides him.”
“Yes,” replied Tim, “he must be—must have been—my sire’s warhorse. Have you or Redhoney had trouble here?”
Steelsheen gave another derisive snort. “Only mares and geldings are within this place and all are frightened of me… of Redhoney, too, for all that she is only a mare.” He tossed his raven mane. “The two-legs fear us, too, all save the one called Tahmahs. He respects us but no reek of fear is on him.”
Tim reflected that he did not blame the other horses and the stablehands one damn bit. A fully trained warhorse was as dangerous as a stud bull, more dangerous, really, because of the added intelligence. No horse of merely average intelligence ever received full war training, which was one reason why they were so expensive and so treasured by their purchasers. Another reason was their unswerving loyally to the ‘one man they considered a brother—warhorses had been known to stand, riderless, over the body of a dead or wounded rider and fight with teeth and flailing hooves until aid came or they were themselves slain.
“Whatever happens,” he admonished the big horse, “you and Redhoney are to allow no man to mount you save me or my brother, Geros. Understood?”
“But what of our brother, Rai?” queried the gray.
“Our brother, Rai, is gone to Wind,” answered Tim, soberly. “Tell Redhoney that I already have taken a partial vengeance for his killing, and I shortly will take the rest.”
Tim found Master Tahmahs in a tackroom-cum-office. Only his silver-shot black hair stamped the horse master as having any trace of Ehleen blood. Otherwise, he might have been a clansman fresh from the Sea of Grass, with his wiry, slender build, fair skin and bright-blue eyes. He was industriously softening a new bridle when Tim entered. He glanced up, saw the visitor and the blood-splashed clothing and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“It’s started then, my lord Tim? Good! How many dead so far?”
“Two,” answered Tim shortly. “My sergeant, murdered by arrow poison and that thrice-damned outlaw priest the bitch was harboring—though he may not be dead yet. I doubt that he is; belly wounds don’t kill quickly.”
The horsemaster nodded. “But there’re no wounds so agonizing. Yet I’ve heard no screams from the gelded bastard.”
Tim laughed coldly. “Nor will you, not from him. I sliced out most of his treasonous tongue.”
Tahmahs chuckled. “That will put a burr under her saddle for sure, my lord. I think she dotes on that priest damned near as much as on her tongue-sister or on that sad excuse of a man, Myron. But what will my lord have of me?”
“Please pardon my asking, but ten years is a long time away. Are you trained to arms, Master Tahmahs?”
Tahmahs grinned. “Twenty years a Confederation dragoon, my lord.”
“Then I need you here at the hall,” said Tim. “Is there a good rider among your men, one you can trust in all things?”
Tahmahs replied, “My youngest son, Divros. He is not yet fourteen or he would, like his brothers, be gone up to Goohm to enlist, but he is as big as me and near as strong and a better rider than I ever was.”
“Call him here,” snapped Tim, impatient to find Geros and start the action.
When the strapping boy stood before him, the young captain asked, “Divros, is your loyalty to me or to my father’s widow?”
Tahmahs snorted. “No need to question that, my lord Tim. Four years ago that precious pair, Lord Myron and his bum-boy, found Divros alone and tried to strip and bugger him by force. Of course my lad fought, but what could a nine-year-old do against two lads near as big as I am? It was a near thing and they’d have had their unnatural way with him, had not your brother, Behrl, happened along and beaten Myron bloody and sobbing. So, you need have no doubts as to where the loyalties of me and mine lie.”
“Very well, Divros, which is the fastest, strongest horse in the stables?” demanded Tim.
The boy did not hesitate. “Lord Myron’s roan hunter, Tahkoos, my lord.”
“Have you ever ridden him, Divros?”
The boy smiled. “Oh, yes, my lord. He says he likes me better than Lord Myron.”
Tim nodded again. “Good. Saddle him and ride to Morguhn Hall, or until you find my half brother, Ahrkeethoheeks Bili of Morguhn. Here,” with effort, he wrenched the ruby ring from his finger, “hang this on a thong about your neck, under your shirt; show it only to Bili, as proof that you come from me.