The dogs arrived, still silent, pouring through the clearing. The horse reared in startlement, and Aandred nearly dropped the woman into the pack. Perversely, she squirmed and twisted. His metal hands tightened. She gasped and became very still. “Good,” he whispered, backing the horse away from the willow. “Droam doesn't need you healthy, just alive.”
As he spoke, the dogs found the remaining Pickers, and brief screams came from the darkness under the trees. It was over in a moment, and the dogs came trotting back into the clearing, their muzzles dripping black in the starlight.
The horse danced sideways, its hooves plopping unpleasantly through the guard's remains, and the woman lobbed once, a brief, shocking sound Aandred administered another monitory blow to the back of the horse`s head. “Cursed creature,” he muttered; then he wheeled and rode back out of the Dimlorn Woods, leaving the mess for the trolls to clean up. Long years had passed since their last real manroast. There would be no guests to taste the meat, but the trolls would enjoy the ritual. He supposed they would be grateful.
He would find their gratitude odious. Of all revenants that haunted Castle Droam, the trolls seemed to have sunk the deepest into their ugly souls.
OUT ON the heath, he took the trail that led along the clifftop. The dogs were relaxed now; they cavorted, barked, nipped fully at each other. Aadred enjoyed their pleasure. He reined in for moment, looked out at the fairy pavilion that perched on the craggy seastack a hundred meters offshore. A spidery bridge arced gracefully out to the pavilion. Tiny lights sparkled its length, a pretty sight. The black water that swirled beneath the bridge hid the sea troll, who had seen the Bonepickers land their boat.
The woman lying across his saddlebow stirred He noticed that she had a narrow, muscular waist, under the rags. She still had not spoken a word. He wondered if she were capable of speech. If so, surety she would wish to curse him. He shrugged, cantered on.
She was still silent when the Hunt returned up the long grassy hill below Droam. The gate flew open before they reached it; and the dogs streamed inside. Aandred followed more sedately. His captive chose that moment to renew her struggles. He gave her a snake as he passed within, and she went limp. He felt a distant apprehension; Droam would be severe with him if the woman died before the castle could put her to the question.
Then he had a vivid vision of what she must have felt, approaching the gate — the dark fanged maw of Droam, opening to swallow her forever. He shook his head. Foolishness, he thought. Perhaps I grow decrepit; perhaps I'll wear out someday, after all.
The dogs followed as he carried her up to Droam's audience hall. Droam would have preferred that he leave the dogs in their kennels. He took them partly to prickle Droam, but mostly because the dogs spent far too much time in the kennels. They took such pleasure in being allowed to accompany him. And they were well-behaved; they could not foul the shining corridors, after all, nor would they frighten any guests. No guests had come to Droam in four hundred years.
The dogs might frighten the other revenants who haunted the castle, but Aandred did not care about them.
The woman's body Was rigid, but she kept her eyes shut. “You might as well see” he said. “Why go to your end in darkness?”
Her eyes opened. They were wide and green, wild with hate and grief, and Aandred wished he had not spoken. An unpleasant emotion seeped into him. He came to an abrupt stop, and the dogs pressed against his legs, confused. What was he feeling? The emotion was one he had felt too long ago to identify now. Was this guilt? Pity? Absurd, he thought, and strode on.
On the second landing of the broad staircase that led from the Silver Ballroom to Droam's audience hall, he met Merm the Troll King.
Merm pressed back against the rubyglass wall, watching the dogs with a trace of apprehension. Merm wore a particularly ugly hulk: broad and squat, with skin of warty gray-green plastic, a pointed head, and small, doughy features. His mouth was loose and red, and he peered at Aandred's burden with glittering eyes. “Meat for the fires, eh?” Merm asked.
Aandred felt a vast distaste. He choked back a reply as he passed; what was the point? Merm was as he was.
Merm made as if to follow, but the dogs, sensing their master's animosity, turned and showed bloody teeth to the troll. Merm turned away, but not before Aandred saw the hatred in his face.
We all hate each other, he thought. And why not? We are all hateful creatures here.
At the top of the stairs, three elfish women blocked his way. Their hulks seemed carved from gemstone — translucent, but in some clever manner hiding the machinery within, so that the rich light of the chandeliers glowed through them. They glittered like cold, extravagant jewels, and that was how they saw themselves. Despite this appearance, their crystal skins were soft and warm to touch. He knew this because he had touched each of them more times than he could remember. Droam permitted its devices certain pleasure, as reward for efficient functioning.
“Look!” cried Amethyst, pointing with a slim, elegant finger. “A flesh-woman! Where did you find her? What will you do with her? Does Droam know? You naughty thing.”
“Ooh,” shrieked Citrine. “Be careful, Aandred. Your equipment will rust off, if you're not careful where you put it. After, come to me. I have an oilcan for you — you know where.”
Garnet was the least frivolous of the three. “Disgusting,” she said. She stepped close, pushed the Bonepicker's tangled black hair aside, looked at the white face. “She's not ugly, for a fact. When Droam is done with her, give her to us for a time. Before you give her to the trolls. We'll dress her as a guest; we'll practice our pleasing. It will be amusing — like old times, before Droam became unfashionable.” Her dark, lovely face glowed with a hunger too ancient to ever be satisfied.
Aandred pushed past them without speaking, though the dogs snarled and whined. He heard their laughter, like horrid little silver bells, as he carried the woman through heavy doors of burnished metal, into the audience room.
At the midpoint of the tall, narrow hall, a circular pit glowed — Droam's prime logic nexus. At the far end, intricately colored windows flanked a platform. There the King-Under-the-Hill slouched on its throne under a patina of cobwebs and dust. Of all the hulks in Droam, this one alone carried no revenant personality; this was the voice of Droam. Formerly, Droam would take possession of the hulk each night and go down to the banquet hall to dine with its most important guests. There it would press the flesh, sample the cuisine, make witty conversation, ensure that each guest was luxuriously satisfied, and in general promote the smooth functioning of the castle. But now Droam had no reason to use the hulk, and Aandred was surprised when it stood and stepped down from the platform. In a moment, repellor fields had cleansed it of the detritus of years.
The hulk was built in the shape of an elfish god; it was the most beautiful object in Droam. Its skin was a lambent silver, washed with a haze of gold sparkled with a million tiny lights, as if covered with minute scales It wore stately garments, gray silk and white linen, trimmed with the glossy crimson fur of the spotted seaweasel. Its eyes were magenta coals, and its perfect features were quirked in slight annoyance. “Must you take your animals everywhere?” The voice was sweet and smooth.
“It does no harm.” Aandred hated the defensive sound in his voice. Droam could at its whim punish its possessions with searing pain, more terrible than anything Aandred had felt as a man.
“Perhaps. Still, they distract me, with their fidgeting, their scratching, their snuffling. Take them out, but first give me the Picker. When you've put them out, come back, and we'll get to our business.”