The Well of Darkness Page 3

  She was right, I realized, through my daze. They were following Keeshah—until they were close enough to catch our scent directly. And if Tarani was right about that? …

  What‘s been happening to me? What have I done to us?

  The long, stout muzzle of the beast turned in the direction the others had gone. The dralda trembled with the conflict— join the hunt, or protect the catch? I held my breath, grasping at the hope that the hunt would win.

  Two men topped the dune, one panting heavily, the larger one lurching, clutching his side, groaning with the need for air. Obilin looked down at us, and smiled. The other man dropped to his knees, gasping.

  The small man came down the shallow angle of the dune to stand above me. He glanced at Tarani, half-blocked from his view by the body of the dralda that pinned her. “The girl is here,” he said. “She’s the one the High Lord wants. Her, and this.” He leaned over and tried to take the pouch; I jerked it away from him; the dralda growled; Obilin drew his sword and put its point to my throat. “Would you like to live a few minutes longer?” he asked.

  I gave him the pouch. He straightened up, and I heard a soft moan from Tarani. It echoed accusingly through my mind.

  My fault. Mine.

  “We have what Indomel wants,” Obilin said again. He pressed the sword’s point downward only slightly. I felt a pricking, and a warm trickle of blood. “And I have what I want.”

  He pulled away the sword and turned to the other man. “The third one abandoned them, obviously,” Obilin said. “He can’t be far ahead, but he’s not important. Go after them, Sharam,” he ordered, waving in the direction the dralda had gone. “Call them back.”

  Obilin didn’t get any argument. The man forced himself to his feet and obeyed, traveling in an uncontrolled, bonejarring trot.

  Obilin walked around me toward Tarani, laughing softly. Fine particles of sand had settled into his reddish-blond head fur, graying it into a nearly white frame for his small, well-defined features. Obilin’s skin was the same color as mine—about the shade a human Caucasian achieves after weeks of effort at tanning. The light color of his dusted hair provided a contrast that made his good looks even more striking. I had seen enough of him in Eddarta to know he was proud of his looks and made a deliberate effort to keep his body finely toned.

  I saw the proof, now, of his physical condition. His breathing was nearly normal again.

  “This is working out perfectly,” Obilin was saying. “When that fool catches his animals, he’ll collapse for a few hours. Since we’re at least two days ahead of our supply caravan, that gives us some time alone at last, my lovely Rassa—”

  He had moved to a place from which he could see Tarani’s face clearly, and now he flinched back in shock.

  “Tarani!” he said.

  Tarani, too, jumped in surprise. The dralda, paws on Tarani’s shoulder and stomach, growled softly. “How—how do you know me?” she asked.

  Obilin didn’t answer her. He slapped his forehead with his free hand—he still held his sword—and exclaimed, laughing: “By the Last King, I should have guessed! Rassa’s reappearance, when all the gossip said that she and her father had fled from the former High Lord’s romantic interest. Zefra, that old fraud—do you know, she actually had me believing that she had forced me to deliver that false message to Pylomel? And if those weren’t clues enough—the bird!” He shouted with laughter. “I thought that bird looked familiar, but I still didn’t put it all together until I saw your face.” He stopped laughing. “And a lovely face it is,” he added softly.

  He dropped the point of his sword to Tarani’s cheek; I saw her eyes, still open, staring up at the little man. The swordpoint traced a path along Tarani’s jaw, seemed to linger forever at the softest point of her throat, then finally moved down her chest and pressed down the woven fabric of her tunic, outlining the shape of her breast.

  His breathing had quickened again.

  “Ah, lovely Tarani,’ he breathed. “I confess that I never dreamed that this moment might come. I am even more grateful, now, that we have these private moments. Before the others arrive you shall do for me what you did, so beautifully, for Molik.”

  Tarani and I gasped simultaneously. Tarani hated that name, hated the memory of her service to the roguelord. She—with Antonia’s hidden guidance, I was sure—had fulfilled Molik’s sexual fantasies with her body and her mindpower, in exchange for something she wanted very badly—a traveling show, in which her power of illusion and her dancing provided decent, innocent entertainment. Molik was dead now, but Obilin had rekindled that terrible memory. More horribly, he planned to make her re-live it.

  Suddenly, the lingering confusion cleared from my mind. I got us into this, I was thinking. I got Tarani into this. We may get killed, but, by God, she won‘t suffer through that again!

  “You touch her, Obilin,” I said, my voice dry and raspy, “and you’re a dead man.”

  Tarani’s head snapped toward me, her face betraying recognition of the change in me. Obilin looked around, too, surprised by my outburst, but obviously unworried.

  Tarani grabbed the neckfur of her dralda and twisted on the ground, shoving the dog against Obilin’s legs. I swung my clenched hands hard at the side of my dralda’s head. It flinched away; before it could regain its balance, I was out from under it, on my feet, the weight of the steel sword welcome in my bloody hands. Desperation had restored some of the strength leeched out by the desert. Tarani was up, too, the sword she had dropped held out in front of her.

  Obilin backed cautiously, keeping us both in sight. His eyes narrowed when he saw my sword, and he smiled his slick, offensive smile.

  “Well, well,” he said. “What’s this, another disguise? The humble, if troublesome, mercenary Lakad turns into a rich prize!” He made a mock bow, keeping his eyes up. “This is indeed an honor, Rikardon. And I sympathize with your feelings for the lady. Unfortunately, that does make you a rival, doesn’t it?” He pointed his free arm at me. “Tass. Mara. Attack!”

  The dralda, who had kept their distance from the swords, bunched their muscles and aimed themselves at me. I braced myself to meet their charge, but suddenly they backed away, whining and whipping their heads from side to side as if in pain.

  “They will not obey you, Obilin,” Tarani said, drawing his attention toward her. “Your name meant nothing to me, and I did not recognize you dressed to serve a different master,” she said, referring, I supposed, to the green uniform of the High Guard. “But when you spoke of Molik—I remember you now, salt-scum. You are the source of the Living Death. You stole slaves and sold them all over again to Molik, to die in his service.”

  Obilin was retreating from the girl’s tall, crouching form. Tarani’s fury was palpable, fascinating. She may have been using her mindpower to keep Obilin’s attention fixed on her—because he was backing straight toward me. I lifted my sword and brought it down hilt-first with all my strength.

  But Obilin had his own kind of power, drawn from years of fighting. Suspicion surfaced, and at the last possible moment, he twisted around. The hilt of my sword only grazed his shoulder. Instead of attacking me, he dropped his sword, threw himself into a backward somersault, and came up on his hands. He bucked a double kick into Tarani’s chest.

  The girl went down like a stone, the wind knocked out of her. Obilin leaped over to her, swung a backhand blow, and she was out cold.

  I was on my way to help her when both dralda hurled themselves at me. I braced myself against their weight and slashed out with my sword. One fell back with a useless front leg, but the other had its teeth in my arm and was dragging me around in a circle as it dodged my sword.

  The pain in my arm was nothing compared to the pain in my mind. Damn it, this is all my fault, I accused myself again. If I hadn‘t been so damned sorry for myself when Keeshah left, if I‘d paid attention to my responsibility to Tarani and the Ra‘ira … unnhh …

  Something hard hit the base of my skull, and everythin
g went black.

  Misery, anguish, remorse—none of those words can describe the way I felt when I woke up with pain shooting up my arm, an ache throbbing in my head, and guilt hovering in my mind like a thundercloud. I reached out to Keeshah for comfort …

  Add loneliness.

  I opened my eyes to see Obilin standing nearby, examining Rika, turning it so the sharp, steel blade winked brightness at me …

  Add hatred.

  Tarani’s face came into view. Even with her dark headfur gray with sand and her cheek swelling from Obilin’s blow, she was beautiful.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Obilin turned at the sound of my voice. “Awake? Good.” He put Rika through his own baldric and came toward us, tossing and catching the leather pouch. “Perhaps one of you would like to tell me what’s in this little package?”

  “Look for yourself,” I said wearily.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” he replied. He stopped beside me, facing Tarani. “You see, the High Lord gave me very specific orders. He wanted ‘the woman’ alive, and ‘the pouch’ unopened.”

  “Your loyalty is commendable,” I said. “Flexible, too. How long had Pylomel been dead before you accepted those orders from Indomel? One hour? Two?”

  “On that score,” he said, kneeling beside me, “you are very wrong, my friend. Indomel has had my loyalty for quite a while. It suited him to have me serve Pylomel.”

  “I suppose you had his permission to sell slaves into the Living Death?” I asked, repressing a shudder.

  The Living Death was an assassin group, dying men and women brought away from the copper mines and given a short life of luxury in exchange for assassination and suicide. I had faced two of them, and it wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat.

  “I take something of little value,” Obilin said with a shrug. “If he knew, Indomel would probably compliment my enterprise—before he had me killed, of course.” He laughed. “Aren’t you wondering,” he said, after a moment, “why you’re still alive?”

  “You tell me,” I said. I was having a hard time finding the energy to talk. Obilin had the Ra’ira, and Indomel would have it soon. Keeshah was gone. I wanted to slip away from it all, drift into a sleep from which I’d never bother to waken.

  Only one thing kept me from doing it. Tarani’s hands were busy with Obilin’s water pouch, cleaning and dressing the wounds on my hands and arm. Her touch was a reminder that it wasn’t just my life I’d be throwing away.

  She might be better off on her own; I argued with myself. Just then, Tarani moved slightly, pressing her knee into my side. I looked up at her, and she managed a smile.

  Obilin noticed the look we exchanged. “Yes, you’re right, the lady is partially responsible for your well being. We determined, after several, ah, contests, that she can’t control me and the dralda at the same time, so we struck a bargain—I let you live in exchange for her promise not to use her power on me.

  “What she doesn’t know, however,” he added, standing up to pace around us, “is that you’re far more valuable to me alive than dead.” He laughed again. “I had no intention of killing you in the first place.”

  “Then that means the bargain is off, doesn’t it?” I said. “He’s talking about the reward, Tarani. Worfit, remember?”

  She nodded. “The roguelord in Raithskar. You thought he had sent the Living Death after you, when it had been Gharlas who had wanted Dharak dead.”

  The sound of Dharak’s name brought a flood of memories of him, of Thymas his son, of Thagorn. We could use a troop of Sharith about now, I thought. Just Thymas and his sha’um, Ronar, would help. I winced from the pain of a wound greater than the ones Tarani was treating. Hell, all I need is Keeshah. God, I wish he were still with us.

  “Worfit is no longer in Raithskar,” Obilin said. “He has taken over Molik’s operation in Chizan—every inch of it. He does hate you, Rikardon,” he said, pointing the pouch at me. “That’s a story I’d like to hear someday. When I first heard about the reward, it was ten thousand zaks for you and the sword, dead or alive. After you were spotted in Dyskornis, the ante went up—ten thousand for the sword, and ten thousand more for you—alive.“

  He knelt again, and brought his face close to mine. He was, indeed, a handsome man if you could look only at his body. But his personality was too visible. He wore his nastiness like a top hat.

  “It’s not the money I want, Rikardon,” he said. “You’re going to be a goodwill gift to the new master of Chizan’s rogueworld. I’ll expect the money, too, but I’ll trade half of it for the privilege of watching whatever Worfit has planned for you. It should start out personal dealings off well.”

  “You haven’t met him?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Though we are already doing business. Is there something I should know about him?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know about yourself,” I said. “You’re a perfect pair.”

  Obilin laughed again and rocked back on his heels. His laugh stopped abruptly. “It has just occurred to me that neither of you seem surprised about Worfit’s new position. Could it be that you already knew Molik was dead?” We just stared at him. “A-huh.”

  He stood up. “Well, the bargain isn’t off,” he said. “If I had to choose either Worfit or Indomel to offend, it would be Worfit, I assure you. So you and the lady are coming back to Eddarta with me. After I turn her and this,” he waved the pouch, “whatever it is, over to Indomel, I plan to take an inspection tour of the mines—except that Rikardon and I will really go west to Chizan, exactly as I did the first time I saw you, lovely lady.” He bowed slightly.

  “However, keep in mind that I have the sword, which is worth as much as the man. Your power doesn’t frighten me, now that I have seen its limits. If you use it to try to escape, I promise you he will die.“

  “It is a bargain, Obilin,” she said.

  “No!” I started to protest, until I looked into Tarani’s eyes. Anger and contempt for Obilin burned there, and determination and—shattering what little pride remained to me—protectiveness. The fierceness of that look, hidden from Obilin, was such a contrast to the meekness of her voice that I was stunned into silence.

  “I’m almost sorry,” Obilin said, “that your feelings for him make the bargain practical.” He tossed up the pouch, caught it again. “Tarani.”

  We both looked at him.

  “There is something else I want. You know that. Is there nothing you will take in trade?”

  Tarani started to shake. I felt the trembling in her hands, in the knee which still pressed against me, in the sand which lay between us. I saw the thought in her face: Could she get the Ra’ira back that way? I was watching when the answer hit, too: No. Don’t trust Obilin. Through it all, even greater once the answer was clear, I could sense her rage that he should even ask.

  Her stage training showed. Face and voice were composed, hiding the seething fury, as she said: “There is nothing I want that much.”

  I had been so fascinated by her reaction that I’d ignored my own. Now I discovered I was shaking inside, too. And there was nothing to be gained by hiding my feelings.

  “Obilin.”

  He turned his gaze to me, and his face went pale.

  “Don‘t mention it again,” I said.

  He seemed about to say something, then he changed his mind. He backed away and sat down near the two dralda, who lay panting nearby.

  “Don’t stay for my sake,” I whispered to Tarani.

  She had finished bandaging my arm and washing the less severe scratches on my hand. She lifted my head and helped me take a sip of water—enough to cool my mouth, not enough to choke my swollen throat.

  “Where would I go?” she whispered back.

  4

  The other dralda and their handler, Sharam, returned within the hour. When he had rested, Sharam entered into a whispered discussion with Obilin. It quickly turned into an argument, and ended with Sharam shrugging and mov
ing off toward his animals. Obilin came over to us.

  “There is another part of the bargain,” he said, his voice allowing no disagreement. “Sharam tells me his dralda think they have been chasing a sha’um. I have never seen one, but I know enough to be sure that if one had been with you, he would still be with you.”

  I tried not to let my face show how much that statement hurt me, and I worked on another puzzle.

  If Obilin knows about the sword, why doesn‘t he know about Keeshah, too? Of course—he‘s heard about me the way every rogueworld district in Gandalara has heard about me—from Worfit, who wouldn‘t give out information which would discourage anybody from coming after me. Worfit has simply neglected to mention that his target usually travels in the company of a very big, very protective cat.

  “I conclude, therefore,” Obilin said, “that the sha’um was an invention of the lady’s, to confuse the people who saw you leave Eddarta, and to mislead the dralda. Tarani, you will not use your power at all on the journey back to Eddarta. On anyone. Understood?”

  Tarani nodded. Obilin turned away, and from that moment on treated us as indifferently as he might treat slaves.

  We rested the remainder of the day and the night, and moved slowly eastward on the next day. Toward dusk, we met the supply caravan which had followed Obilin from Eddarta, and my thirst and hunger were satisfied for the first time in what seemed like years. The journey became routine after that, physically easier as Tarani’s tending helped my body heal, but mentally burdensome with every step we took closer to Eddarta.

  Though neither Tarani nor I dared mention the Ra’ira, I was sure that it was as much on her mind as it was on mine. Obilin had set up the marching order so that we were together—more from unwillingness to bother any of his men with my care than out of consideration for us—and both of us did a lot of staring at the leather pouch swinging at Obilin’s belt. It was as though the blue jewel sent out a glow visible only to us.