G w thomas and david bai.., p.24
G. W. Thomas & David Bain, page 24
Pasquel was obsessed with recording on video all kinds of things that took place within his complex. Illya has discovered hundreds of DVD’s. Some of them contain executions. Some document sex sessions with the enslaved.
He’s already found several videos where the female being fornicated was Clarisse. Needless to say, the men in those videos are now dead. He uses the video processor to create images of them, plugs them into the body-map, and does what he pleases. He’s also gotten creative in his tortures. The map today has eyes. And a penis.
It’s the videos that worry me. You see, I recognized Clarisse. I fornicated her myself. I even recognized the room which she was recorded in, as the one in which I used her.
But that’s not the worst of it.
I never told you why I fell from grace with Pasquel. It was because I botched an assassination I was ordered to perform. I shot the victim, but failed to terminate the life.
The one I shot was Clarisse.
I’ve thought about running. But, I’ve nowhere to go, and, like I said, I’m sort of a celebrity here. Life has never been this good.
Illya is in the other room right now watching videos. There’s hundreds of them he still hasn’t seen.
I sure hope he tires of watching them soon.
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A TAVERN ABOVE A WOOD By C. J. Burch
THE tavern was constructed of wood, save for its foundation, which was made of stone. It was low and long. It hugged a curve in a mountain pass, and used a huge grey cliff for its north wall.
It hung at the edge of a valley rimmed by snowy peaks. Beneath it stood a forest of pine, juniper and birch. Beyond that was another pass, and beyond that pass another valley ringed by more peaks still.
The day, which had been cool, had slipped away into darkness, and the snow shone silver beneath the light of the big moon and her daughter.
Inside, the smell of tobacco and roasting deer filled the common room. A fire crackled in a fire place on its western wall, and a motley collection of travelers, traders, warriors and hunters ringed a bar a few paces from the fire.
Beyond the bar the tavern’s lone table was occupied by four men and a single woman. The men were all burly red faced sorts who had seen more of desolation than civilization. The woman was lovely, but at ease among the men all the same. Her name was Tiana Dumond.
She was a child of the warm seas to the south who had been blessed with dark hair, olive skin and gentle curves. All these things were misleading, though, for onto the body of a dancing girl she had grafted the sinew of a warrior. Over both she had pulled a chain mail shirt and a pair of leather breeches.
On her belt hung a dangerous looking dagger, and leaned against her left thigh was the handle of a nasty looking double bladed axe. In her hands she held five cards. At her elbow lay a half finished tankard of dark ale.
She studied the cards she held with the same feral gaze she had shown foes for twenty six years. The men about her studied their own cards as intently, and though their eyes occasionally dallied upon on the curve of her breast, none reached for her. It was just as well, if they had they would have been left a stump where once they possessed a limb.
Dumond’s partner, Krystyn Hamerskjold sat at the bar a few paces from Dumond, carefully positioned so that her back faced the game. Not because she was a devotee of fair play, though for the most part she was, but because she did not wish her presence to lead to nasty accusations and blood shed.
Like Dumond she was lean and strong, and perhaps a few inches taller, but her shoulders were not quite so broad. Unlike Dumond she was blonde with blue eyes, and carried a broad sword instead of an axe. Her skill with the sword matched Dumond’s skill with the axe. That made her a dangerous thing.
Next to Hamerskjold a hard bitten old man with a red nose and a white beard wrapped gnarled fingers around a mug. Then he nodded towards the barkeep. “The fiend will roam the night.”
The barkeep, a beefy man with big hands and a red beard, shook his head almost imperceptibly.
The old man persisted. “It is true.”
Had their roles been reversed and Hamerskjold been at the table clutching a hand of cards while Dumond sat at the bar only silence would have followed the old man’s assertion. Soon the subject would have passed away to be forgotten.
Hamerskjold was not Tiana Dumond, though. Silence did not become her. She turned to the old man. He seemed ready to talk. She didn’t suppose he needed much encouragement, “Fiend?”
The old man nodded viciously, but another on the other side of the bar stole the tale from him. “Aye, it travels with the moons searching for those it can slay. When it catches them it slits their throat and writes messages in their blood all over the forest.”
Hamerskjold sipped her ale. “What sort of messages?”
The old man laughed. “‘I am Gyyrkhan,’ is all he has ever written, and some say all he ever shall.”
Hamerskjold raised an eyebrow at the barkeep. “What does that mean?”
The barkeep shrugged. “It means my customers gossip like washer women.”
The old man finished his ale. “All that find themselves out doors this night will be food for Gyyrkhan’s belly by day break.”
“Gyyrkhan?” again Hamerskjold contributed but a word to the conversation.
“Gyyrkhan,” the man on the other side of the bar nodded. “The soul stealer, the blood writer, they say it is the product of demon and human.”
“Don’t scare the paying customers,” the barkeep laid a meaty paw on the handle of a club that lay across the bar. “Lest you see what sort of monster I can become.”
The man on the other side of the bar finished his drink. “Try to start a bit of conversation.” He muttered. “You’re becoming a nasty bore, Thentan.”
“Better than a poverty stricken bore,” the barkeep replied through clenched teeth. “Off to bed with you, Farand. You’ve had more than your fill.”
Farand grimaced, but did not tempt the barkeep’s club. He pushed himself out of his chair and staggered off towards the guest rooms. The old man put another coin on the bar and handed the barkeep his empty tankard.
The barkeep took the coin and refilled the tankard. He added a bit of venom when he served it. “And you,” he said, “have not paid to stay in this house. When I tire of you I’ll toss you into the snow.”
The old man cackled. “Won’t be the first time you turned me out in the cold you fat bastard. I’ll survive. I know the places to hide. I know the paths the monster takes.”
The barkeep laughed. “So you must. You always find your way back here, and with money to boot.”
The old man tapped a gnarled finger against the side of his head. “I am feeble, and I am poor, but, but I am no one’s fool.”
“A matter of some debate,” The barkeep replied.
Hamerskjold frowned. In their travels she and Dumond had stumbled across all manner of legends. Most had been laughably false. Those that had been true still made her scream in the night. “What does this fiend look like?”
“No one that sees him keeps his soul.” The old man spat.
Hamerskjold turned to the barkeep. The barkeep shrugged. “There are those that disappear in the forest, but it is haunted by thieves and wolves as much as it’s haunted by monsters. Whether those that vanish have been dragged away to Gyyrkhan’s lair or died upon a brigand’s sword no one knows.” He pointed towards the old man, “Least of all this one.”
The old man snorted indignantly. Then he took his ale, staggered to the fireplace, and stood before it on unsteady legs.
Hamerskjold watched him go. “You don’t believe him.”
The barkeep shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know. I never travel the woods by night.” Then he leaned closer. “I know this, though. There are some people that cannot be helped.”
Hamerskjold frowned. “Your house is full to night?”
“That it is.”
“Surely you could find a place for a man grown old and tired.”
The barkeep shook his head. “You do not understand.”
But Hamerskjold did understand. She understood perfectly. An old and feeble man was going to be chased into the cold when the tavern closed its doors for the evening. That was a thing she could not abide. “Perhaps he could share our room.”
“Others have asked. He hasn’t accepted the offer.” The barkeep carefully eyed Hamerskjold’s form. “Though none have looked like you.”
Hamerskjold did not reply, but promised herself she would ask the old man into her room before the night was through. The old man could sleep in the bed. She and Dumond would curl up on the floor in blankets. Certainly they had slept in harder places.
ONE of the players, a dark eyed man who smoked a pipe, fancied himself a philosopher. He talked constantly. Tiana Dumond was a woman that enjoyed silence. The man displeased her.
She would have said as much but the tavern keeper had announced the last round and told them to finish their game. There was no point in saying much now. Around the table the wagers had been met and raised. Calls had been issued.
The philosopher threw a pair of coins into the pile at the table’s center. “What do you suppose is man’s most dangerous quality?” He smiled broadly. No doubt he liked his hand and wished to make some point before he displayed it.
Dumond examined her cards and weighed her chances. Another player replied. “I have always trusted my sword and my right arm.” Then he tossed his cards upon the table. Two others groaned and folded their hand.
The dark eyed man laughed. “No, friend,” He said. “The most dangerous thing a man possesses is his intellect. Any fool can find the strength to swing a sword. It takes cunning to know when to use it and when to leave it sheathed. Or for that matter,” his smile turned unctuous. “When to fold,” he tossed his cards upon the table, and the swordsman cursed. Then their eyes turned to Dumond.
Dumond offered the first words other than “call,” and “deal” she had spoken that night. “The most dangerous thing a man has is his illusions.”
The dark eyed man frowned. “No, no, some are deluded by the things they see, but most of us grasp reality well enough. All but you have noticed that I have won this hand.”
Dumond cocked an eyebrow. “It is not the illusions around him that are dangerous. It is the illusions that a man holds about himself that wreck him.” Dumond threw her cards upon the pile of coins. It was filled to bursting with brightly colored face cards. “You have deluded yourself into believing you are a gambler.” She swept the coins towards her with one hand, “Much to your regret.”
The dark haired man’s brow furrowed. Losing to a woman was bad, losing to woman who had made him a fool a thousand times worse. He skipped the obligatory accusation of foul play and reached for his dagger.
Without removing her hand from the coins Dumond drove her left fist into his chin. The blow struck him flush and toppled backwards over his chair and too the floor.
Hamerskjold stepped from her place at the bar before he could recover and kicked his dagger from his grasp. She laid her hand on the pommel of her sword. “Money can be replaced.”
The dark eyed man wiped a touch of crimson from his lips, “A comforting sentiment for those who are rich.”
Dumond pulled a pair of coins from the pile and tossed them to him. “That will feed you until you find work.” Then she slid her hand to the handle of the axe that leaned against her leg. “Be glad money is all you have lost.”
The man caught the coins. Then he pushed himself to his feet. After making a show of brushing himself off he turned for the guest rooms and strode away with as much dignity as he could muster.
Dumond watched him go with a sly smile. “This should see us through the mountains and into Klynaraad.”
“That it should,” Hamerskjold agreed. Behind her the barkeep shooed the rest of the patrons away from the bar. The old man had turned away from the fire and shuffled towards the door. There was a forlornness about him that moved her. “Tiana,” she tried to make her voice as pleasing. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”
“NO,” the old man shook his head so vehemently he nearly toppled onto his bony ass.
Tiana Dumond almost smiled. “Strange, I had the same reaction, myself. Yet here I stand. I can only hope the force of your argument is stronger than mine own.”
Krystyn Hamerskjold barely resisted the urge to drive the heel of her boot onto Dumond’s instep. “Listen to me, man. The night is cold. You will not survive a trip into the valley.”
“I have walked into that valley since before either of you were born and will walk into it for years to come. I appreciate your kindness. You have done as the gods would wish, but I do not need charity.”
Hamerskjold shook her head. “It is not charity. You are entitled. The time you have lived has earned you a bit of kindness. We would be honored if you accepted our offer.”
Hamerskjold turned to Dumond. Dumond said nothing. Hamerskjold elbowed her in the ribs.
Dumond sighed. “I can honestly say I would not extend the invitation you have received to royalty, or to anyone else.”
Hamerskjold elbowed Dumond again. “It is as Tiana says. You should stay in our room tonight.” Dumond gave Hamerskjold a stare that would have killed a warrior less stout.
The old man looked upon his gnarled hands. When he faced them again tears had filled his eyes. “I have never been subject to such kindness.” For a moment Hamerskjold thought he might relent, “but it cannot be. I am old, but still I have things I must do. I should go now.”
He reached for the door and found Tiana Dumond’s hand on his wrist. Her voice, which had been hard before, had turned dewy. “Old one, there is nothing to be accomplished on a night like this. Stay near the fire, be at peace.”
Hamerskjold’s reply hung in her throat and tears came to her eyes. She beamed upon Dumond like a sun rise after a long night. Dumond shrugged. “I have never been able to abide a man’s tears.”
The old man fell back a step, covered his mouth and trembled all over. “You are sent by the gods,” he whispered, “Sent by the gods.”
“That’s enough,” the barkeep’s voice was as coarse as the braying of a donkey. “Either drag him to your room or leave him be. I am closed and ready for sleep. All of you will be awake with the crack of dawn demanding I fill you stomach’s before you leave.”
Hamerskjold’s other wise even temper frayed. She stepped towards the barkeep and gave him a look he would have been wise to fear. “A moment’s less sleep and a penny’s less profit will not slay you.”
The barkeep nodded caustically. “The two of you won enough money to eat for a week, and will be asleep when I rise to prepare your breakfasts.”
Hamerskjold, despite the fairness of her form, had lived a hard existence. It had taught her to tolerate most of the ills men had visited upon the world. Still, she could not abide cruelty or those who practiced it.
“It is said that every soul’s deeds are weighed good against bad when it passes into the next life.” Her teeth clenched. “This will be a moment you remember through all eternity.”
Tiana Dumond had known Hamerskjold many years. She understood her moods and her mind. At this moment the barkeep, without realizing it was treading up thin ice crusted over abysmal deeps.
Hamerskjold was kind to a fault, but she was not a woman without temper. Igniting it was a dangerous thing.
“Krys,” Dumond stepped away from the door and hooked a hand about Hamerskjold’s elbow. “The old one shall stay. That is all that matters. You have acquired what you wanted over stead fast opposition from all parties concerned. You should be happy.”
Hamerskjold looked at Dumond’s hand. Then she turned a dangerous stare back towards the barkeep. Dumond squeezed her arm. “The world is filled with fat men with big mouths.”
Hamerskjold took a deep breath and released it. When she turned back to Dumond her face was warm. “A pity,” she turned to the barkeep, “you have been paid. If you require more money for the old man you will be paid again.”
The barkeep shook his head. “He’s not staying.”
Hamerskjold’s mouth became a hard straight line. “You try my patience, man.”
“Why?” Dumond struggled to place herself between Hamerskjold and the barkeep.
The barkeep pointed towards the door. “Not my choice, yours either.”
Hamerskjold and Dumond wheeled about. The door was open. The old man was no where to be found.
Hamerskjold pushed past Dumond and peered into the night. All she saw before her were tracks. They led to a narrow path. Then they sunk below the shelf the inn rested upon.
