Knight and Champion Page 9

  “There’s only two of us,” she pointed out. “And who’s to say the elves aren’t already in there?”

  “Chance we have to take,” came the reply. “If we can hold out until reinforcements arrive we should be okay. Now tear a strip from your dress.”

  Catelyn gaped at her brother - at that moment he seemed so small, so boyish. She had a sudden yearning for one or two real garrison soldiers. She thought of Sange as she ripped at the hem of her ruined dress and tossed Doran the fabric. The would-be squire used the material to dull his strikes against the oak shutters. The sound seemed to carry for miles. On the fourth strike the right shutter was knocked off its hinges and he was in. Despite her misgivings, Catelyn hauled herself up too. She couldn’t let her brother enter the unknown by himself.

  Doran was crouching in a darkened second level bedroom. Her senses on high alert, Catelyn joined him. There were muffled noises on the ground floor. Doran crept out to the mezzanine rail that overlooked the bar. The Ebbe Tavern was built several yards into the ground on this side, which was why the pair had been able to enter on the second floor. Catelyn followed her brother, body tensed for action. The alcohol of the night had all but burned away, leaving a razor-sharp adrenalin hit. How she might feel later, when she was forced to confront Ril’s body again, didn’t bear thinking about.

  Thankfully, the mezzanine was dark and carpeted. Through the rail slats she could see the source of the noise - an elf on the tavern floor. Fear stabbed at her guts. This particular elf was a little older and swarthier than the others she’d seen. Grey streaked his shoulder-length hair. With elves that could mean anything up to a hundred years difference. The enemy was lowering himself into Gerrity’s easy chair like it was a novel experience. The plush, gossamer cushion was apparently far softer than anything he was used to. The siblings watched the older elf prod and poke the cushion from every angle. Catelyn frowned. There was nothing to suggest the elf had company and his daggers were sheathed. On the other hand, there could be no doubt the veteran knew exactly how to use them. Doran shifted restlessly on his feet, motioning to the staircase that hugged the back wall. His proposed course would take him behind the bar and down to the floor, where he would have plenty of cover from the chairs and tables.

  All up, they couldn’t have asked for a more favorable approach. Even so, Catelyn was torn between the need for action and the tempting sanctuary of darkness. She nodded reluctantly but Doran was already moving away. She didn’t see any point in following him - to do so put him at greater risk of detection. Doran drew his bloody sword as he crept down the stairs. He seemed desperate to atone for whatever had happened up on Felwood Hill. For now at least, he looked every inch a stealthy killer. Catelyn allowed her dim hopes to rise as he reached the foot of the stairs and began worming his way under the tables. Within seconds he would be within striking distance. She couldn’t let go of the mezzanine rail as Doran emerged from under the final table and rose to plunge his sword into the distracted elf’s head. Just as the blade reached its zenith, winking in the tavern firelight, the elf stood and lashed out with his right hand. On the face of it, the attack was so off-balance that Doran had every chance of retaliating with a killing blow.

  “Now, Doran!” she called.

  Her brother looked straight at her, face frozen with shock. An ebony dagger was hilt-deep in his left eye. Catelyn was reminded of a mummer’s prop, such was the cleanness of the entry. Surely this was some kind of joke? But blood trickled from the submerged blade and Doran fell to a sitting position. Unwilling to acknowledge the hideous sight, Catelyn scurried back to the bedroom. She knew her only chance was to leap through the window. Just as she reached the ledge a pair of strong, sinewy arms pulled her back. Her mind closed in on itself as she was dragged down the stairs and onto the tavern floor. There was no scope for struggle or resistance of any kind. The elf’s grip was harder and more resolute than iron. She knew with absolute certainty that death was imminent.

  Doran was nowhere to be seen and she wondered if her mind had simply erased his corpse from her field of vision. The burly elf set her down by the easy chair and gestured that she should sit. Unable to think for herself, she obeyed, hating how she sank helplessly into its depths. She felt like some kind of ornamental doll as the elf crouched before her and studied her face intently. At length he nodded and stepped to the open front door, clicking his tongue noisily. Catelyn watched in silent dread as the glow of an approaching torch lengthened across the wall. Her body froze in despair as Dahal Rane stepped inside and shrugged off his cloak. He handed the torch to the older elf and studied Catelyn through dull, exhausted eyes.

  “Won’t be long now,” he said. “Within the hour I’ll be on my way, I think.”

  Serpentine fear threatened to rupture Catelyn’s insides for good. She was sickened by the elf’s complete lack of recognizable emotion. The coldness of his gaze was more terrifying than any weapon he might wield. With a lurch of conscience she realized that Doran’s blood was on her hands. What had she been thinking, allowing her brother to take the fight up to battle-hardened elves?

  “Most fortuitous, meeting your family tonight,” Rane said, removing his gloves and warming his hands by the hearth. “Perfect for a little … special attention. Middle class. Reeking of entitlement. Humans without a scrap of regard for the lodestone of all their luxuries.”

  Catelyn met the elf’s gaze with all the willpower she could muster.

  “How do you justify the murder of children?” she demanded.

  Dahal smiled knowingly.

  “This land you call Ardennia will be a waking nightmare for all children soon enough.”

  Catelyn was still processing the last when several figures burst into the tavern. Bound at the feet and ankles, Devon and Vesna were deposited roughly on the floor. Their captors melted away as abruptly as they had arrived. Catelyn’s parents were injured. Devon had an ugly gash across his forehead but Vesna’s wounds looked more serious. Her right side was slick with blood and her left thumb and forefinger were missing. Eyes aflame with anticipation, Rane grabbed Catelyn by the throat and shoved her across the room. She fell awkwardly amongst the chairs and tables but was otherwise unharmed. As she staggered to her feet, Devon was hauled into the easy chair. Now that he had a more valuable catch, Rane seemed to have forgotten about Catelyn for the moment. The other elf was less than five yards away. Despite the extreme danger facing her parents, it was suicide to attempt heroics from her current position. She settled on conserving her energy. Rane dragged Vesna from the floor and paraded her in front of Devon.

  “You’re a man well versed in the Law,” Rane said to his captive, who looked decidedly groggy. It was fairly clear he’d been struck multiple times on the head.

  “Not only that,” the elf continued, “but I sense a deep veneration for natural justice.”

  “Where the Law is a vessel for natural justice,” Devon said. His voice was faint, like he was speaking from another room.

  “Indeed,” Rane mused. “Then tell me - why shouldn’t your wife be used in the same way twelve elvish healers were used by human skirmishers at Palm Ridge?”

  Catelyn knew the infamous story. Monstrous rape on a frightening scale. Not exactly the finest moment in Ardennian military history.

  “Why shouldn’t this woman be used like the elvish shield bearers were used at the foot of Serpent Dune? Forced by a cowardly human general into a battle they couldn’t hope to survive. Over a thousand elves needlessly slaughtered.”

  Purple with rage, Rane drew Vesna forward so her face was inches from her husband’s. She was clearly on the verge of passing out.

  “Why shouldn’t your wife be used in the same way?”

  The elf rammed Vesna’s head into Devon’s. The force was more than enough to knock her cold.

  “Why?”

  “Leave her be,” Devon gasped, blood trickling down his face. “I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll kill you.”

  “No, you won’t,” R
ane simmered. “You’ll tell me why I shouldn’t do this.”

  Rane ripped Vesna’s dress apart at the back and grabbed at her hips. Her head fell forward into Devon’s lap. The second elf positioned himself behind Devon, ensuring he couldn’t rise. Rane pulled his leather trousers down, his stiff manhood bouncing to attention.

  “No,” Catelyn breathed, finding herself by her parents’ side.

  Rane’s struck her flush on the temple with a closed fist. The impact spun her round and her head ricocheted off the edge of a table. It was several seconds before she came to. She was sprawled face-down on the floor. Rane had taken her mother from behind, pulsing in and out with hideous abandon. Devon had turned a dark shade of crimson and his eyes were jammed shut. For a moment Catelyn thought she’d lose consciousness again. Rane’s thrusts grew violent and he began striking Vesna over the head with each lurch. Tears streaming down her face, Catelyn forced herself to her feet and launched another attack. Her weak blow glanced off the back of Rane’s head. The elf dispatched her with a lazy back-hander to the cheek. She was out cold before she hit the ground.

  The soft patter of leather boots drew Catelyn from darkness. Her head throbbed as she peered across the room. Clearly, neither of the elves saw her as the remotest threat. She was ashamed to admit they were probably right. Two years of yard training was no match for a spiteful world. Rane had finished his vicious assault and was washing his hands behind the bar. Terrified of what she might see, Catelyn’s gaze dropped to the crumpled figure on the floor. Vesna lay on her back, head facing in the other direction. Still in the easy chair, Devon’s head was bowed but he was still conscious. Even from fifteen feet Catelyn could see him trembling. Hard to tell if it was rage or fear. As the seconds dripped by a third option dawned on her - grief. Her gaze flicked back to her mother, who hadn’t moved an inch. Catelyn was becoming horribly adept at recognizing the dead.

  “Why?” she sobbed as Dahal came sauntering around the bar.

  The elf refused to address Catelyn, preferring to focus on her spiritually-defeated father. Despite the grave, life-shattering wrongs inflicted on her that night, she wasn’t even worthy of acknowledgment. Of all her injuries, that one threatened to break her.

  “Elevating humans to the Fellowship was a cataclysmic mistake,” Rane said, standing over Devon and caressing the older man’s hair. “Elves do make the occasional error of judgment.”

  Peering out the front entrance, the burly elf snorted.

  “Our last great mistake was letting the Dragon Riders free,” Rane went on. “We won’t let that happen with your kind.”

  Though the action send fresh waves of pain through her head, Catelyn propped herself up. Despite everything that had happened, her mind was intrinsically curious. If she was to die, she at least needed to know why this elf had ripped her life apart on a whim. To be cast into the spirit world on the strike of mindless violence seemed like a curse.

  “You mistake me,” she said. “I didn’t ask for a history lesson. I want to know why you targeted my family.”

  Rane handed Catelyn a faint smile, perhaps recognizing her intelligence for the first time.

  “A father’s daughter,” he mused, sliding casually into the chair opposite her. “Why the La Bernes …”

  The elf’s gaze bore into her as he reflected on the question. She refused to look away, but it was exhausting to match his intensity.

  “Because,” he said, “the anticipation of punishment is often better than punishment itself. The destruction of your village, and many others across the Southern Reaches, is a warning for all your kind.”

  “A coordinated attack?” Catelyn asked incredulously. “You mean you’re not just -”

  “- a band of criminals?” Dahal laughed, clearly tickled by the notion. “No. We are sanctioned by our elders.”

  Catelyn had no words. The revelation that other villages were being torched left her cold. She could recognize the raw despair of her personal loss, but to find herself drawn under the black veil of broad-scale slaughter was more problematic. The knowledge that she was just one of potentially thousands of victims ate into the righteous fury she wanted to own for herself. It was selfish and illogical but something she felt keenly.

  “The only benefit to allowing humans into the Fellowship was learning, at close quarters, how your twisted minds work,” Rane said with a note of brutal triumph. “We know that attacks like this one will sow fear and discord.”

  “The garrison,” Catelyn said. “They’ll come for you.”

  Rane shook his head with mock regret. “They’ll cower until daylight, as humans tend to do. Plenty of time to do as we choose.”

  Catelyn sensed a wave of violence rolling toward her and her guts knotted with fear accordingly. Perhaps sensing her vulnerability, Rane leaned in so close that Catelyn could smell tannin on his breath. It sickened her.

  “Humans are nothing to us,” he said. “We built a bridge to you, hoping to elevate your shades. Make something finer from the coarse flesh that governs your every whim. We failed. You played true, as duplicitous and deceitful as ever. Not even the orcs can hold a flame to the darkness in your hearts. At least they recognize the notion of sacrifice. Of loyalty. And they lack your toxic sense of entitlement. In fact, Orcs have proved themselves time and again.”

  Devon muttered something from the easy chair. Rane was immediately on his feet.

  “What was that, old man?” he said, grabbing his hair and yanking his head backwards.

  “Mittel,” Devon gasped. “Invasion.”

  “Smart human,” Rane said. “But we’ve talked enough already. It’s unseemly for an elf. Even one of my low standing.”

  And with that, the elf drew his dagger in a smooth movement. With dark relish he pressed it into the back of Devon’s open mouth, pinning him to the chair. The old man’s eyes bulged from their sockets and he made a hideous gasping sound. Blood sputtered onto the floor.

  “And now you see,” Rane said quietly. “Your trademark mockery dug your grave quicker than any shovel could, human.”

  Catelyn rose unsteadily to her feet, her multiple concussions beginning to tell. All she felt was a crippling numbness. No doubt she was broken, but what did that matter when there was but seconds to live? Rane left the knife in Devon’s mouth and looked coolly at her. There was nothing left to say. Out of the corner of her eye, Catelyn could tell that her father had already taken on a grey pallor. She would not, could not look. There was no utility in letting any semblance of thought enter her mind.

  “Be done with it and go,” she found herself saying. “I wish to be with my family.”

  The irony of such a claim was not lost on her. Neither Devon nor Vesna were particularly religious and had strongly encouraged their children to make up their own minds on the question of divinity. Catelyn’s searching curiosity had consigned her to the position of resident skeptic at Tavalen for as long as she could remember. Yet this wasn’t the burnished past. And she no longer had the luxury of middle-class complacency through which to judge matters of faith. At that moment she was desperate to believe. The alternative was too bleak to contemplate.

  “Who’s in there?”

  Olem Marafair and Rin Salliner burst through the front doors. The stalwart villagers carried cruel-looking machetes, the kind used to slash grass tussocks. They took one look at the dead bodies and boldly advanced on the elf pair. Rane retrieved his knife with a wet pop and nodded to his comrade, who had crouched into a defensive position. The rush of movement sparked Catelyn’s flagging synapses and spurred her into action. She started with a few quick calculations. One thing was clear - this was going to be a one-sided fight, over in less than thirty seconds. The smart play was to back away slowly. But where to go? There was a store room and a cool room to the left of the bar. She selected the latter option, backing in slowly while the farmers fought to the death, surrendering their lives for some misguided notion of “village”. If anyone should be risking their lives in th
e tavern, it was Sam Gerrity and his men, but they were probably too smart for that. Of course, she was only delaying the inevitable, but her body was in motion and that was better than standing around meekly.

  Catelyn shivered as she moved silently through a forest of suspended pig carcasses. From memory there were shelves along the back wall. A rear cabinet was stocked with cheeses, butter and milk. She had partial cover here but Dane would have no trouble finding her. The cabinet didn’t quite reach the low ceiling but the gap wasn’t large enough to hide in. She was about to try the store room when a discoloration in the floorboards caught her eye. The wooden slats were rotted in the corner, creating a hole the size of a dinner plate. Better still, there was several inches of space between the floorboards and a caramel-brown clay surface. Could she fit in there? Only one way to find out. She pulled on the broken floorboards with all her might. The wood snapped and she was thrown back against a pig’s head. Keenly aware of the sheer absurdity of her situation, Catelyn lowered herself into the crawl space and shimmied into the dark unknown. The silence above her suggested the elves had already finished their blood work and would be coming for her.

  Like most buildings in this part of the village, the tavern’s foundation was raised on beams to mitigate occasional flood waters from the Ebbe Minor. The clay here was slippery and treacherous. Catelyn glanced back at the muted light spilled by the cool room and wondered if she actually had a remote chance of liberation. Had the elves seen which way she went? Had they been drawn to the sound of snapping wood? Her only option was to press forward. She blundered into the pitch black and collided with a rotting crate. Cursing under her breath, she changed direction. Now she could hear voices above her. The elves were close. Her hands were slipping regularly now and she felt something furry against her leg. Rats. She suppressed a shudder, reminding herself of the far greater threat in the tavern. Strips of pale blue light became apparent as Catelyn advanced. Could be the wooden slats at the base of the rear tavern wall. She made her way carefully up a damp incline and pushed against the wood. It was disappointingly solid.