The Prophet of Panamindorah - Complete Trilogy Page 11

  Behind Laylan, Corry caught sight of another faun, blond like Chance, but perhaps twenty years older. Laylan withdrew, and Chance moved toward the door. As he turned to leave, Corry caught the expression he shot towards the newcomer—pure loathing.

  “Jubal!” cried Syrill. “Welcome to Laven-lay. Perhaps you can give me some specifics on these cliff faun reinforcements you’re sending us.”

  * * * *

  When Chance stepped out the door, Laylan was already partway down the passage. “How long has he been awake?” asked Chance.

  “Less than a quarter watch. He was groggy at first, hallucinating from the drug.”

  “Did he say anything useful while he was hallucinating?”

  Laylan thought of Sham muttering and twitching in the straw. “They’re coming, they’re coming, they’re coming.” He means Shyshax and I, Laylan had thought, coming to claim him in the trap. But then Sham had said, “Blood in the water, Father. The big spotted one is at the window. He killed Auta. I heard her crunch.”

  This is long ago, thought Laylan, the fall of Sardor-de-lor to Demitri’s cats. Sham would have been seven. “Blood is coming under the door,” whispered Sham. “Play louder, Father. Play louder.”

  Useful? “Not really,” said Laylan to Chance.

  Chance frowned and quickened his pace.

  “You won’t get anything out of him,” remarked Laylan.

  “What?”

  “Sham won’t tell you where to catch the pack. Maybe if we’d caught one of the youngsters, but not Sham.”

  Chance sneered. “We’ll see.”

  They came to a door, guarded by cliff fauns. Chance reached to open it, but Laylan put his hand on the door. “It won’t help to torture him.”

  The faun’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Laylan shook his head. “I’ve worked as carefully as you have for this, and I don’t want him spoiled to no purpose. Set a trap. Use him as bait. She will come.”

  Chance jerked the door open.

  Laylan sighed. “But you’ve paid for my trouble, so do as you like.”

  Two torches blazed in the cell, making the shadows jump and twist. The floor might have been stone, but one would have had to dig some distance to find it. Laylan doubted the cell had been used in a hundred years. A whip hung from a nail in one wall. It, at least, looked new.

  Laylan found himself thinking of the contrast to Danda-lay’s dungeon. Chance could have gotten creative there, if his father had given him loan of the equipment. Danda-lay still had a few shelts who remembered how to use it. Some of them have probably had recent practice.

  He saw that the cliff fauns had already been at work in his absence. Sham was no longer lying in the straw, but standing in the middle of the room, naked, tied by each hand to a ring in opposite walls. He held one paw a little off the ground. The trap had broken his ankle. Sham’s dark hair lay plastered against his brow, and sweat trickled down his neck from the unnatural fever brought on by Laylan’s drugged trap. His chin rested on his chest, and he did not look up when Chance and Laylan entered.

  For a moment Chance stood in front of Sham, his blue eyes glittering almost red in the torchlight. He looks mad as a falcon, thought Laylan.

  “I’ve kept my promise,” said Chance at last, “I told you I would hang you from the highest scaffold in Panamindorah.”

  Sham raised his head. For a moment he squinted at Chance as though trying to decide whether he was real. He licked his dry lips. “What?”

  “You will die tomorrow on public display, and your flayed and gutted corpse will dangle from a spike at the gates of Port Ory.”

  Sham made a hacking sound. For a moment Laylan thought he was coughing, then realized he was laughing. “A party?” His voice was growing stronger. “I suppose it’s important to teach your little ones the higher forms of entertainment, but I’m trying to remember when you made me this promise.”

  Chance’s face twisted. “Standing in the antechamber of this very castle, the day you took Syrill and a palace guest hostage, I swore to you—”

  “Oh, oh, that.” Sham appeared to consider. “Strange as it may sound, I was preoccupied at the time. I have no idea what you said to me.”

  Chance backhanded him across the face. “I said I would have your pelt,” he hissed, “and hang you from the highest scaffold in Panamindorah. There will be several thousand fauns and cats present. If any wolflings appear, we may have more than one hanging. Two, three...eight.”

  “You’ll have only one. If that.”

  Chance drew his sword and brought it against the wolfling’s throat. “Where is she, Sham?”

  Sham didn’t flinch. “Where is who?”

  Chance struck him again. “Where is Fenrah? Where is your den? I can make this easy or difficult.”

  Sham spat in Chance’s face.

  Chance retrieved the whip from the wall and tossed it to one of the guards. “I will learn what I want to know if I have to drain the blood from your body.”

  Laylan almost covered his eyes. They have no idea what they’re doing. It occurred to him that Chance had not been allowed to bring any of his father’s experienced interrogators from Danda-lay—that, or he’d been too proud to ask. These were foot soldiers who’d served under Chance when he fought in the cat wars. They’re accustomed to interrogating cats, not shelts.

  Fortunately, Sham showed them the error of their ways by passing out before the faun with the whip had really gotten into his stride. Laylan decided to risk a comment. “Are you trying to soften him up or kill him?”

  Chance glared, but after an inspection of the prisoner, he told the faun with the whip to hold back a bit. Sham sagged, his body now slick with blood. As he started to come round, he instinctively pushed his good foot into the straw, trying to relieve the pressure on his wrists.

  “I’ll give you another opportunity,” said Chance. “Where is she?”

  Sham flicked his tail, sending a shower of blood droplets onto Chance’s lily white tunic.

  Chance scowled. “Whip him again.”

  Sham stayed conscious longer this time. The faun with the whip showed a little restraint. Still, the wolfling made no sound, and, at last, he went limp. Laylan wondered how many days Sham had been without food by now. Two at least, likely three, perhaps more. He was conscious again in seconds.

  Chance paced around his prisoner like a tiger around a snow-bound deer. He ran a finger along Sham’s shoulder blades and Sham let out a sharp breath. Chance regarded the blood on his fingers. “What will the Raiders do without their healer? When they grow weak and take fever? When they are shot or poisoned or stabbed? How unfortunate that their healer was not wise enough to keep himself well.”

  “They have Talis,” muttered Sham.

  “Your apprentice?” asked Chance lightly. “A fourteen-year-old bitch-pup? Oh, yes, I’m sure they need fear nothing in her hands.” He reached down and fingered Sham’s limp tail. “I would cut off his tail,” he said to Laylan, “if I did not want to keep the pelt complete. Together with others, it could make a fine rug.” He was talking to Laylan, but he said it in Sham’s ear. Sham must have bristled, because Chance looked pleased. He let go of the tail.

  “Where, oh, where? Is it in a tree perhaps? In a cave? Underwater like a muskrat den? Is it in a town or city...in the back of some easily-bribed faun’s house? I’ll make you a deal, Sham. You tell me what I want to know, and I’ll kill you here and now. Quick. No more pain. No public execution. No crowds. None of that nasty strangling.”

  Sham turned his head to look Chance in the face. “Why don’t I make you a deal. Stop this, and I’ll ask Fenrah not to skin you before she kills you.”

  Chance circled back in front of his prisoner. “Now that’s an idea.” He ran the point of his blade lightly across Sham’s belly.

  Sham didn’t move, but the line of his jaw tightened. “I thought you wanted to keep your promise.”

  “Oh, we have shelts who could kee
p you alive until noon tomorrow.”

  I doubt that, thought Laylan. It’s wolfling medicine that works those kinds of miracles.

  Chance toyed with his blade just long enough to be certain the threat would produce no confession. At last he let his sword drop and moved forward until his face was very close to Sham’s. “You’re certain you have nothing to tell me? Well then, I must bid you good evening.” As he said the words, he moved, holding his sword like a walking stick, and drove it straight through Sham’s good paw into the ground.

  Sham’s face went nearly as pale as Chance’s, and for the first time he made a sound of pain, somewhere between a yelp and a sob. The guards winced, and even Laylan stood up straight from the wall. Sham scratched feebly with his broken foot. He looked into Chance’s eyes and gritted his teeth. “Go eat deer dung.”

  Chance jerked his sword free and turned to the soldiers. “Set five guards around this cell tonight. Two inside and three out. Detail groups of two within hearing distance all the way to the exit and at every conjunction of the tunnel.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the guard with the whip, and went out.

  Laylan caught Chance’s arm. “You’re not going to leave him that way, are you?”

  Chance looked irritated. “Why not? He’ll last until morning.”

  “Maybe. It depends on whether you want him to walk to the scaffold.”

  “He’ll walk if I say so. Leave him.” Chance pushed out the door and down the hall.

  Laylan followed him out and waited. It wasn’t long before he heard the click of hooves and saw a pool of torchlight approaching. “Hello, Syrill.”

  Shyshax was with him. This was no accident. Laylan had asked Shyshax to find Syrill earlier. The iteration, Corellian, was with them as well.

  Syrill strode into the cell and made a brief inspection. “Gabalon’s teeth, what a mess!”

  Syrill poked at the bloody straw. “A waste! It would take time, planning, perhaps trickery to break Sham. One night of brutality would never do it. Can Chance possibly not know that?”

  “He does now,” said Laylan. I think on some level, he always did.

  “The nobility of old Canisaria, perhaps the finest healer in Panamindorah,” muttered Syrill, “and in my dungeon. Well, cut him down. He’s at least not spending the night like that.”

  “Actually,” began the guard at the door, “Prince Chance ordered—”

  Syrill appeared to swell like a small and angry puffer fish. “Do you presume to give me orders, guest? I will see to the protection of my city with my own personnel. If Prince Chance has a problem with that, I will be happy to discuss it with him. You are dismissed. All of you. Get out!”

  The cliff fauns looked as though they might argue, thought better of it, and departed.

  In a quieter voice, Syrill said to Laylan, “Corellian wanted a word with Sham if that’s possible.”

  At the moment, it was not. Sham hung limp in his bonds as Laylan drew a dagger and cut the thongs. Syrill sent Shyshax for new guards and a list of supplies. Corellian came forward and helped to catch Sham so that he didn’t hit the floor. His skin was slippery, the fur below his waist saturated with blood. Laylan took Sham from Corellian and carried him to the back wall, the blood soaking uncomfortably through his tunic.

  Sham’s eyes fluttered, and Laylan was aware of Corellian crouching beside him. “Sham, my name is Corry. Do you remember me?”

  For a moment, Laylan thought he didn’t. Then, suddenly, Sham’s eyes widened. A look that was unmistakably fear flicked across his face. Laylan was surprised and curious. He’d never seen that look on Sham, not even in the trap.

  Corellian glanced sideways at Laylan. He seemed uncomfortable. Finally, he focused on Sham. “You saw me shift,” he said softly. “I need to know what I shifted to.”

  Laylan’s ears pricked up. Everyone in Laven-lay thought that Corellian could not shift.

  It took a moment for Sham to grasp what Corellian was asking. When he realized he was not being threatened, he relaxed a little.

  “I need to know,” persisted Corellian, “please.”

  A bitter smile twisted the corners of Sham’s lips. “We all need things we don’t get. Why should I help you, friend-of-my-enemies?”

  Laylan watched Corellian. He could see the iteration considering a threat, but of what? Sham was afraid of his other form, but clearly Corellian could not shift at will. Besides, Laylan didn’t think the boy had the stomach for torture.

  “You’ll find out,” said Sham ominously. “One day, they all will.”

  At that moment Syrill reappeared with wood faun guards, carrying blankets, ointment, and water. Corellian withdrew as they began to dress Sham’s wounds. When they’d finished and wrapped him in blankets, Laylan produced a packet from under his cloak and laid it in Sham’s hands. “Meat,” he said and added a jug of water.

  Sham stared at the food, then pushed it away. You’ll eat it when I’m gone, though, thought Laylan, because you’re a survivor, and you haven’t quite given up.

  Syrill had already departed, and the wood faun guards were outside. As Laylan turned to leave, Sham called after him. “You could have made a good Raider, Laylan. Is there any particular reason you decided to become a traitor instead?”

  Laylan turned slowly. “One cannot betray without first giving allegiance.”

  “You were born a Canisarian.”

  “Perhaps,” said Laylan, “and were you born a Raider?” He went out and shut the door.

  Chapter 4. A Festive Occasion

  Sham is in Laven-lay, to be hanged publicly on the 42nd day of this red month, noon. I will do what I can if you get me word.

  —note found tied to the leg of a raven shot by a traveling swamp faun minstrel

  Two days later, Corry sat in his front room, sipping a late morning tea and listening to Laven-lay gearing up for the execution. The sound of hammers and axes had fallen silent yesterday evening, but the tramp of guards had increased. Cliff fauns passed him almost as often as wood fauns in the hall, ruffled and squinting from overnight travel. He’d heard that at least a hundred cats had come. The inns were full of out-of-town wood fauns and even the occasional black-furred swamp faun with long, tufted tail.

  Corry had already decided to watch the execution from the window of the scriptorium, along with half the other clerks. It gave a good view of the parade ground and would not be accessible to the press of common shelts. It would also be a safe place if something went wrong. Corry did not intend to become hostage a second time.

  Flags flew around the perimeter of the parade ground—Laven-lay’s leaf and buck and Danda-lay’s white flower on a purple field. A breeze had come up, and the ensigns snapped and rippled. Most days, Laven-lay’s parade ground was an open-air market, and many of the vendors had come with whatever they thought appropriate for the occasion—food, mainly, and an assortment of wolf’s fur trinkets.

  A trumpet sounded, and cliff faun soldiers poured in from the nearby streets. They wore shining metal breastplates and plumed helmets, their long tunics flashing white against purple capes. Music filled the air as they executed their drill maneuvers. They entertained the crowd for a quarter watch, and then a wood faun minstrel stood on the first tier of the gallows and recited part of a long epic poem about the bad old days when wolflings ate fauns, and valiant hunters risked everything to protect their tiny villages from the ravening dark. Afterward, he sang a well-loved wood faun anthem, and the whole crowd joined in.

  When he left the platform, there was a long silence. Somewhere in the distance a gong sounded. All heads turned in the same direction, and Corry followed their gaze to the castle. A door opened, and a procession of guards filed out, carrying naked swords. The shelts and cats parted for them, and the armed fauns formed an aisle all the way to the foot of the scaffold.

  Another guard emerged, leading the prisoner. Sham was naked except for a metal collar around his neck. Even from this distance, Corry could see that his skin was p
urple and green with bruises. He walked with an odd, shuffling limp. Another guard came behind, holding a chain attached to Sham’s bound wrists. Behind the last guard walked Chance, purple cape ruffling in the breeze.

  * * * *

  Sham pressed his lips together to keep back a moan as the guard ascended the steps. His metal collar had an inner lining of spikes, so that the slightest tug bored into the agonized flesh of his shoulders and neck. The guards had only to pull in opposite directions to bring the black spots before his eyes. Sham’s shattered paws were in their own private universe of pain. He’d lain in the trap half a day before Laylan found him, and the trapped foot was badly broken and swollen. But the other paw... He tried not to think about the layers of muscle and tendon that Chance’s sword had severed, but the healer in him kept returning methodically to the finer points of a paw’s construction. Idiotic, Sham told himself, to worry about a paw, when they’re about to have you up by the neck.

  Climbing the steps was a hellish business. When he finally reached the first tier, the guards turned him to face Chance. The crowd had gone very quiet. “Sham Ausla,” Chance intoned, “I charge you, a wolfling, with trespassing in wood and cliff faun territory, of robbery and murder. You are sentenced to death by hanging.”

  The guards led their prisoner to the forward edge of the lower platform and brought him to his knees with one light tug on the spiked collar. Then the missiles started from the crowd. It was mostly light stuff—rancid food and dung, mud and small, sharp rocks. But after a short while, the crowd began to get out of hand. Someone heaved a brick. It struck Sham on the head and dashed the collar against his neck. His vision swam. Next thing he knew, someone had set him on his feet and was urging him towards the steps leading to the upper platform.

  * * * *

  “They’re really going to do it the old fashioned way,” said one of the clerks. “Haven’t seen it done that way in years.”

  Corry watched Chance unlimbering his sword in fascinated disgust. He’d read about this. The traditional way to hang a wolfling was to intentionally set the noose to strangle, then disembowel him before he stopped kicking. The stated purpose was to decrease the odor of the rotting corpse (which was generally left on display) by removing the intestines and accompanying fecal material. Mostly, though, it was for punishment.