The hawk-nosed thief felt that his plan was both a sound and subtle one. But with no word from his messengers, he didn’t know whether or not it was working.
Fane rapped on the door, interrupting Cyric’s reflections, then entered without awaiting permission. His face was as pale as bone. “We’ve found Alrik and Edan,” he said. “Dalzhel requests your presence.”
Cyric frowned, then rose and grabbed his cloak. “Lead the way.” He kept his short sword in his hand, just in case Fane was leading him into a mutinous ambush.
They slipped past the hall’s crooked door into the dark courtyard. Cyric’s boots sank to the ankle in mud. A driving rain, so cold it should have been sleet, stung his face. The eerie wail of the wind echoed from the keep’s stone walls.
In the opposite corner of the courtyard, torchlight flickered between what had once been the guards’ barracks and the blacksmith’s shop. That was where the well was located. Fane led the way across the yard, each step creating a slurp that punctuated the hard patter of the raindrops. Three men stood beneath the inner curtain’s eaves, trying to shelter their torches and themselves from the rain. Two of the men were pointedly looking away from the well. Since it still provided water, it was the one item the castle’s periodic inhabitants kept in good repair.
A moan, low-pitched and feral, issued from the well’s depths. Tied to the blood-smeared crossbar was a gray cord that descended into the dark pit. Dalzhel stepped forward and grabbed the cord. Without speaking, he began to pull. An anguished scream rang out deep down the well. Dalzhel allowed the cry to continue for several seconds before dropping the cord.
“What was that?” Cyric asked, peering into the black depths.
“Edan, we think,” Dalzhel reported.
“He’s still alive,” Fane added informatively. “Every time we try to pull him up, he screams.”
Though he had seen many slow deaths, and had caused one or two himself, Cyric’s stomach turned as he tried to imagine what had happened at the other end of the rope.
Fane drew his sword to cut the rope.
Cyric grabbed Fane’s arm and said, “No, we need the well.” He turned to the two men holding torches. “Pull him up and end his misery.”
They paled, but did not dare object.
Next, Dalzhel and Fane led the way to a latrine on the outer curtain. The castle had been abandoned too long for the thing to stink from use, but it exuded a coppery odor that was equal parts blood and bile. From inside came a plaintive groan.
“Alrik,” Fane reported.
Cyric peered inside. Alrik faced the corner, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. He held his hands cupped in front of his stomach. A barbed, wooden tip protruded from his lower back, suggesting that a stake had been driven through his body. Because of the barbs, the stake could not be removed without dragging Alrik’s intestines out with it.
When Cyric pulled his head out of the cramped room, Dalzhel said, “I’ve never seen such cruelty. I’ll lay my blade into whoever—”
“Don’t promise what you might not dare to deliver,” Cyric said coldly. “Put an end to Alrik’s misery. Fane, wake every man and send them out on patrol in threes.”
“They’re awake already,” Fane reported. “I could not have—” He was interrupted by a terrified yell from the inner gatehouse.
“No!” A high screech followed. It did not fade, even after the man’s throat should have gone hoarse.
Cyric turned toward the gatehouse, unsure of what he would find. Few humans were capable of the efficient brutality with which Alrik and Edan had been tortured. Still, the thief moved at his best pace. If he appeared frightened of the murderer, his men would no longer be afraid of him—and that was an invitation for mutiny.
Dalzhel and Fane followed close behind. By the time they reached the gatehouse, the scream was no longer audible. A dozen men had gathered in the stairwell, standing in a line running up to the second floor. Their torches cast a flickering yellow light on the walls.
The men did not even notice Cyric when he arrived, so Fane bellowed, “Out of the way! Stand aside!”
When the onlookers made no move to obey, Fane muscled a path up the stairway. Cyric and Dalzhel followed, eventually reaching a doorway. Five men stood inside, staring at a crumpled form in the center of the room. A dark pool was spreading about their feet, and the barest whisper of a croak came from the shape on the floor.
“Let your betters have a look!” Fane ordered, pushing his way into the crowded chamber.
Cyric and Dalzhel shadowed Fane into the room. “Put a stop to that moan,” Cyric ordered. “And nobody walks alone tonight.”
Fane obeyed immediately, delivering the stroke of mercy with an unnerving lack of emotion.
A man standing in the doorway growled, “And come morning, I walk out of here!” The speaker was Lang, a lanky fighter skilled with both sword and bow. “I didn’t sign on to fight ghouls.”
Dalzhel immediately pulled his sword on the mutineer. “You’ll do as you’re told, and nothing else!” he said. Cyric moved to Dalzhel’s left and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. If this came to blows, they would stand or fall together.
“I’ve had too much danger and not enough loot, myself!” cried Mardug, who stood in the room behind their backs. “I’m with Lang!”
A muted chorus of agreement rustled down the stairs.
“Then you’ll go with Lang to the Realm of the Dead,” Dalzhel said evenly, turning and swinging his sword. He slapped Mardug in the head with the flat of his blade. The mutineer dropped to his knees.
Lang drew his blade and lunged at Dalzhel’s back. Cyric intercepted the attack and easily parried it with his short sword, then kicked Lang in the stomach and sent him crashing into the doorjamb.
Before Lang could recover, Cyric touched the tip of his sword to the mutineer’s throat. “On any other night, I would finish you,” he hissed, trembling with exhilaration. A bloodlust such as he had never known was coursing through Cyric’s veins, and it was all he could do to keep from pushing the sword forward.
“But we’re all upset by the deaths of our friends,” Cyric continued, “so I’ll make this allowance.”
The hawk-nosed thief let a heavy silence hang in the room for several moments, then turned to Dalzhel. “Lang and Mardug can leave now,” he said, speaking loudly so the men on the stairs would hear him. “Anybody else who wants to leave can join them. Everybody that’s still here at dawn is with me until the end.”
“Aye.” Dalzhel turned to the two mutineers. “Be gone before the commander changes his mind.”
The two men took their leave and pushed their way down the stairs. Nobody else moved to join them.
Cyric remained quiet. When he had lifted his sword, a powerful bloodlust had invaded his body, but it still hadn’t died away. If anything, it had grown stronger. Although he had never felt any compunction about killing, this was something new to him. Not only did he want to draw blood, he wondered how he would sleep if he did not.
After several moments of silence, Fane asked, “What are we going to do?”
“About what?” Cyric asked absently.
“The murderer,” Fane replied. He used his toe to turn the body over, strangely fascinated by its grotesque wounds. “We’ve got to find him.”
“That might be foolish,” Dalzhel said, grimacing at the way Fane played with the body. “If we send men to look for the murderer, we’re exposing them to attack.”
Cyric and his lieutenant were thinking along the same lines. During his life, Cyric had known many evil men. Not one was capable of what he had seen tonight. “Have the men gather in groups of six,” the thief ordered. “One group in the great hall—” A terrified whinny sounded from outside, interrupting the instructions.