The Gathering Storm

Page 209

“You call me what the rest do and I’ll bite your shitty little ears off,” said Stinker as they walked through the village, heading south. He kicked one of the dead clerics to show how tough he was, but otherwise the corpses were left lying as Father Benignus ordered them to move out.
“Bet you wish you had a big cock, like I do.”
Alain glanced at Bartholomew, who walked behind him, scratching his chin anxiously, but the man looked away, ashamed.
“I’m a big man, you cocksucker,” added Stinker, “which is what you must have been if you rode with those pissing clerics. They’re lying in their own piss and blood now, aren’t they? Hate them, I do. I hate everyone.”
“Why?” asked Alain.
Stinker made a move to strike him, but Sorrow growled and the big man backed off while the bandits around them snickered.
“You wanna take me?” shouted Stinker. “What about you, Red?” With his staff, he poked a youth whose cheek and chin were stained with a huge red birthmark. “You making fun of me, Dog-ears?” He spat at the feet of a second man. “You wanna make something of it?”
“You wanna get your teeth knocked out?” snarled Dog-Ears, tugging on the lobe of his remaining ear. “We’re just waiting. You say the word, Stinker.”
“Shut your mouths,” snapped Bartholomew. “You know what happened to the last two men what got in a fight. You know how Father Benignus don’t like that. You know what he’ll do.”
That shut them up.
They walked south through the woodland until it was too dark to see and then wrapped themselves in their cloaks on the damp ground. A dozen men—about half the group—remained on watch, nervous and fearful. Alain allowed them to loop a rope around his wrists and tie him loosely to a tree trunk, and he leaned there, dozing, as the night passed. Mist pattered down through the branches, wetting his face. No owls hooted. He heard no sounds of life at all, only the intermittent shush of rain. As far as he could tell, Father Benignus spent the night huddled on his horse, never once dismounting.
At dawn, as the bandits rose groaning and made ready to depart with their captured horses and the clothing, food, and gear they’d stripped from the dead clerics, Alain caught Bartholomew by the arm and whispered in his ear.
“Does the holy father always stay on his horse? How does he pee?”
“Shut up.” Bartholomew yanked on the ropes. “You’re not dead, but you will be if you don’t keep your mouth shut.”
Rage growled softly, enough to make Bartholomew start back as he eyed the huge hound, but she did not lunge. It was only a warning.
“Keep that dog off us,” warned Batholomew, moving away. “Hey, you, Stinker! Get up here with your prisoner.”
“Hush.” Alain stroked Rage’s head, and Sorrow nosed in as well, wanting attention.
Stinker kept his distance from the hounds. No one spoke as they set off. They all seemed to know where they were going.
It was a miserable slog through the hilly countryside with a drizzle filtering down through beech and oak forest. Many of the trees hadn’t reached their full foliage so, with no leaves to catch the mizzle, all the deer trails were churned to mud by those who walked at the front. Now and again an unexpected puddle lying athwart the track ambushed their steps until all of them, whether barefoot or shod, had sopping wet feet. Rain dripped from branches and misted down from the heavens until their shoulders were sodden and their hair slicked against heads and necks.
They reached their encampment about midday.
From the trail Alain glimpsed no hint of any campsite but there was an increasing restlessness in the hounds, who lifted their heads to sniff the air and made several darting forays into the undergrowth before he called them sharply to heel. Just before they broke free of the forest, he caught the scent of smoke, but because the wind was blowing at their backs, it faded away and he didn’t smell the campfires until they came right out of the forest and could see them. There wasn’t much of a clearing except where trees had been cut back. One ancient and vast trunk marked where a huge old oak tree had been cut down, although the stump was now weathered and brown with age. Where the trail ended and a cluster of ragged tents and makeshift hovels spread out through the clearing, he stopped short and stared.
At the far edge of the clearing, seven rugged stone pillars erupted out of the ground like uplifted scales along the back of a dragon buried in the earth. This craggy ridgeline rose starkly above the trees, a jumbled mass of natural rock pale in color and pockmarked by openings, steps, niches, overhangs, and what looked like windows carved into the upper reaches of the little crags.