The crossbowmen set the hammers.
The swordsmen closed ranks.
The Lady Cymrian did not blink.
The figure in the hooded cloak came to within five yards of her and stopped.
“Not even so much as a flinch,” he said, admiration in his pleasant voice. “You are just as you were, a fighter to the end. And it’s just as stimulating now as it was then. More so, in fact; you are even more beautiful than you were. Who could have imagined it?”
Her grip on the sword tightened.
“You would stand and fight, wouldn’t you? Even surrounded as you are, outnumbered eight to one, you would still not yield.” The man in the hood inhaled deeply and let out an encompassing, pleasurable sigh. “This is going to be such fun.”
Rhapsody said nothing, just checked her grip, her heart pounding. She numbly thought of her unborn child, keeping her heart out of the dialogue, and silently begged its forgiveness.
The cloaked man chuckled, signaled to his men to hold the line, then sauntered casually forward.
“I told you I would return for you one day,” he said, his voice barely containing his excitement. “I am so sorry that I am late.”
Rhapsody’s already tremulous stomach went cold. There was something in the voice that horrified her soul, that harked back to a time of darkness beyond comprehension, but her rational mind assured her, in the midst of her rising gorge, that it was not possible.
A stench of the old world, like the reek of an open grave, permeated her nostrils, making her dizzy, nauseated.
When he was standing directly in front of her, the man took down his hood. His face was wreathed in a cruel smile, his light blue eyes glittering brightly in exhilarated anticipation.
“Hello, Rhapsody darling,” he said.
The Lady Cymrian’s face went slack, then white, even in the light of the burning forest. Her grip on Anborn’s sword slackened as her hands became suddenly cold and sweaty.
The blurry face that had been shielded by the hood was familiar and yet alien. She thought she recognized the shape of it, but there was a skeletal aspect to it that she knew she had never seen on a human face before, a kind of feral angle to the lines in cheeks, a demonic fire in the familiar blue eyes. A chill ran down her back and radiated through her, and suddenly the death she thought she was facing a moment ago paled by what stood before her now.
“It’s not possible,” she whispered.
“How cliche. Now, Rhapsody, surely I took you in enough exotic positions, put you through enough paces, to prove to you that anything—anything—is possible.”
Horror crept over her like blood oozing from a mortal wound.
“No,” she choked. “No. No. No”
The seneschal laughed aloud. “Do you remember how aroused I used to become when you said that to me? Harder than a sword hilt. I used to make you say it before I knobbed you, and during sometimes, because it made the feel of your inner muscles all the more thrilling, knowing that you were resisting me, but could do nothing to stop it.” He leaned forward slightly, casting a glance down, then laughed aloud.
“Look,” he said. “It still has the same effect!”
Rhapsody shook her head violently, her thoughts jumbled, her breathing quickened, her eyes darting around, seeking escape.
“No,” she said again. “It’s not possible.”
The seneschal sighed blissfully. “This is better than I had hoped. I feared you might have actually been happy to see me, and then it would not have been so enjoyable. You were such fun to vanquish, Rhapsody. I’ve never had the equal to it. I cannot wait to know that feeling again. But let me just state right now that you will not be able to resist me, in any sense of the word. Don’t become resigned, however; that will make the conquest less enjoyable.” He took a step toward her.
The sword in her hand was pointed at his throat in the next heartbeat.
“Stay away from me, Michael. I may die, but I will take you with me.”
The three crossbows were lifted and pointed at her head.
The seneschal nodded to the other men as he untied his belt.
“You want to take me, Rhapsody?” he said teasingly, with an unmistakable undertone of menace. “It would be my pleasure to oblige you.
“Hold her,” he said.
28
From the deck of the Basquela, Quinn could see the smoke begin to rise far away over a towering cliff face in the mammoth, unbroken rockwall that rose up from the shoreline and ran the length of the coast.
He watched the sky nervously for a long time, waiting for the signal, but it was not yet forthcoming.
Finally he turned to the crew, who were watching the sky as well.
“Let’s take her in a bit more shallow,” he said to the mate, who nodded. “We wanna keep drawin’ deep as long as we can, to stay out of sight, but we don’t wanna keep His Honor waiting when he’s ready to embark.”
“No, we certainly dunna,” the mate agreed hastily as the sailors scattered to their posts.
“Did you pull any eels?” Quinn inquired of a motley deckhand who had been fishing since daybreak.
The sailor shook his head. “Just blackfish. They’re pretty oily.”
“The creature don’t like blackfish,” Quinn objected.
The deckhand shrugged. “That’s all that were bitin’. If it’s hungry enough, it’ll eat ’em.” He tossed the bucket he had hung on the deckrail to the captain.
Quinn scowled and caught the bucket, then hurried across the deck to the door that led down into the dark hold. He seized the battered lantern that hung on a hook next to the door, lighted it quickly, then carefully made his way down the creaking wood ladder to Faron’s makeshift abode.
The creaking of the ship was louder down here in the dark, the stale reek of bilge vying with the unholy stench that lurked beyond in the shadows.
When the gleaming green pool was in sight, he rattled the bucket noisily.
“Faron?” he called, nerves in his voice. “Breakfast.”
The green pool began to roil, and the creature broke the surface, water streaming from all of the openings in its hideous head. Quinn struggled to contain his revulsion; the green glow of the water was from the monster’s waste, and to see it pouring from its misshapen mouth made his stomach turn violently.
The bulbous eyes fixed on him in the dark, the wrinkles in its face bunching around what would have been a forehead on a human, its distorted features set in a look of evident displeasure.
“No, he’s not back yet,” the captain muttered. “Soon.” The creature hissed, saliva spraying from the open sides of its fused mouth. “I brought ya some nice blackfish, Faron,” Quinn said in as soothing a voice as he could muster.
The creature spat, screeching in anger.
“I’m sorry—’twas all we could muster. This ain’t your home by the docks, Faron; eels don’t abound here.” Faron eyed him contemptuously. “Well? Do ya want ’em or not?”
The creature stared at the captain for a moment longer, then nodded, a look of ominous purpose in its cloudy eyes.
As Quinn took a few steps forward, Faron reached into the depths of the shallow pool, fishing around for something. When he found it he held it up. Quinn held up the light to better see what it was.
In the creature’s gnarled hand was a ragged oval, glittering with color, though its surface was primarily gray. Quinn had never seen such a thing, but had heard the seneschal refer to the monster’s ability to read the scales, and supposed this must be one of them.
“You showin’ it to me?” he asked. “Is it for me?”
The creature nodded, beckoning the sailor nearer with its grotesquely twisted hand.
Hesitantly Quinn came forward and held the lantern closer. He bent forward, trying to stay far enough away to keep from inadvertently touching the freakish being in the pool that the seneschal seemed to love so dearly.