None of them missed what the knight was not saying. If he was this afraid to come to Helstrow, it could only mean one thing. The sorcerer’s dying prophecy must have told Orne that he would die here, inside the fortress.
Hew looked to Croy with eerie dread in his eyes. Croy shook his head. “You came,” he said, bowing to Orne. “That’s what’s important.”
“I took a vow,” Orne told him. “I took a vow.”
They took him to a bed, and posted a guard on his door—not for Orne’s own sake, but to keep away the curious, who heard the knight screaming in his sleep, and wished to hear the prophetic words he could not speak while wakeful.
On the tenth day after the gates were sealed, the barbarians arrived.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Malden put his hand on Acidtongue’s hilt, but kept the sword in its sheath. It was a ridiculous weapon for a thief to use—once drawn, it began to foam and spit, and its acid dripped on everything and made a hissing noise. Noise that could be Malden’s downfall.
Moving by nothing but starlight, he came around the corner of the milehouse and looked out into its dooryard. He saw nothing—no movement, save a wisp of old smoke that trailed away through the weeds.
By law, a milehouse stood every ten miles on the road from Helstrow to the Free City of Ness, and was required to stay open to common traffic at all hours. They were places where weary travelers could spend the night, or buy new horses, or simply choke down the dust of the road with a tankard of cheap ale. Malden and his crew had passed most of them by on their way since they had no desire to be seen. This one, however, had drawn the thief’s interest, because it had been burned to the ground.
The stone walls still stood but the roof had collapsed inward. The stables were empty and there was no sign of human life anywhere nearby.
Perhaps it would have been wiser to pass this milehouse by as well, but Malden didn’t like what he saw. He thought it might augur trouble for them further down the road, and he wanted information.
Velmont had laughed and said he was welcome to go and check it out—alone.
Moving with the silence of a hunting cat, Malden dashed into the shadows below the milehouse’s empty doorway. Inside he smelled ash and burnt hair. The stars winked on a pool of water in the center of what had been the common room. Maybe the proprietors had tried to put out the fire, or maybe it was only rainwater that had collected since the roof fell in.
Malden slipped inside, keeping close to the soot-blackened walls. He heard nothing, sensed no movement in the place. But he liked to be careful.
A spot of the floor had been cleared of ash and debris. A pile of clay bottles stood to one side of the remains of a campfire. Bits of rag had been gathered together to make crude bedding. So someone had been there since the fire. Malden chanced detection by slinking out into the light, just enough to pick up one of the bottles and sniff at its mouth. He smelled old, sour wine. The bottle had been emptied down to the lees.
Then someone moaned in the dark, and Acidtongue flashed out of its scabbard.
“No, I beg you, not again,” a woman croaked.
She was covered in soot that hid her nakedness. Her hair might have been blonde once but was so smeared with ashes it looked white. Only her eyes reflected light as she held one hand up, trying to fend him away.
“I’m a friend,” Malden whispered to her. “Are you alone here?”
“Friend? What friend have I?”
He saw her lips were badly chapped and her tongue dry and white. Searching through the debris, Malden turned up a bottle that had survived the cataclysm—and whatever had come afterwards. He dug out the cork with his belt knife and brought the bottle to her lips.
She sucked greedily at it like an infant at the teat.
“What’s your name?”
She only stared at him, still lost in terror.
“Alright,” Malden said. “I don’t need to know it. There were others here, earlier,” he went on, looking back at the pile of empty bottles. “I’m guessing they weren’t paying guests. Bandits?”
She nodded, careful not to take her eyes off of him. “Six of them. Some of them came back for seconds.”
Malden took off his cloak and draped it over her body.
“After the recruiting serjeants came, and took away all the men, there was no one but me to run the place. The law demands we stay open,” she told Malden.
“They conscripted your … husband?”
“My father, and all my brothers. They came through taking every man they could find. All the farmers from the local manor, all the villagers. Most women fled to wherever they had family or friends to shelter them. I had no one. I knew it wasn’t safe, but … ’tis the law. And I thought every man was gone, so what was there to fear? But it seems a few stayed behind. The sort that would refuse the call. There were six of them, still, six who kept their freedom. And I was all alone here.”
Malden closed his eyes in horror.
“Do what you must to me,” the woman said, her voice a resigned whisper. “Just please … I’m hurt. I’m hurt down there and I don’t think I can anymore …”
Malden strode out into the dooryard, wanting to spit with anger. He stood in the brightest spot before the door and waved one arm in the air. Soon Cythera and Velmont’s crew joined him. He only wanted Cythera. “There’s a woman in there who doesn’t need to see another male face for a long time. Can you try to comfort her?”
“Of course,” Cythera told him. She hurried inside.
He turned next to Velmont. “From now on, we stay off the roads. This whole county has been stripped of able-bodied men. That doesn’t mean the recruiters aren’t still looking. Worse, there are bandits afoot.”
Velmont shrugged. “That’s the way of it, in a war. Just lads havin’ a bit o’ fun while they can. And you shouldn’t get your blood up, seein’ as you’re about one peg up from them as did this.”
Malden’s face burned as he stared at his fellow thief. “I take money from fat merchants and fools who don’t know to keep their hands on their purses. But I don’t hurt anyone, not if I can help it, and I never—never—harm a woman. If you’re working for me, now, you’ll follow the same code.”
“Do I, now? Do I work for you? Or for meself?”
“You’d better decide soon,” Malden told him. Careful of his fingers, he put Acidtongue back in its sheath.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
T he woman from the milehouse turned out to be a homely girl of sixteen named Gerta. Once Cythera had seen to her hurts and washed the soot from her hair, she was able to rise and walk under her own power. Malden was glad for that. He didn’t know what he would have done, had she been unable to care for herself.
Gerta
