Kelli Stanley - The Curse-Maker

“I’m goddamn glad to see you. I thought I’d never get to-well, I thought I was dead, let me put it that way. What-what happened?”

He stood up straight like he used to and didn’t look so much like a broken-down arena fighter.

“He hit you with a shovel.”

He jerked his thumb toward the woodpile, where another man, large and bearded, lay trussed and tied to a log. Draco was never much of a storyteller.

“Where did you come in?”

“I was down the road. The mistress-your wife, that is-gave me the black horse to ride. I left him down the hill, walked up here, saw him on the ground-”

He gestured toward the bastard I’d skinned my knuckles on. He was groaning, tied up next to the other one.

“-and I thought I’d better tell you I was here. Then I saw him hit you from behind. I couldn’t yell in time-and-and, well, I wrestled the shovel away and hit him with it. Then I carried you out here, and tied them both up.”

I held his eyes. “You saved my life-and I’m rather attached to it, as lives go. They would’ve dropped me down a shaft without so much as an apology to Pluto for the intrusion. Thanks, Draco. That’s not nearly enough, but it’ll have to do for now.”

He shuffled his feet and tried not to look embarrassed. For Draco, that was like trying not to look large. I grimly explored the back of my skull and winced. Same old bumps, but no new cracks, and no blood came off on my fingertips. I got the flat end, not the sharp end. I’d be all right. I was a little alarmed at the extra head I was growing.

“How long have I been out?”

“About-about two hours, I reckon.” He looked down at the miner I fought. “You must’ve hit him hard. He’s just now waking up.”

That meant it was the second or third hour of night. We had a long, bumpy fifteen miles to travel-and me with two heads, and not much sense between them.

“Draco-you are staying, aren’t you? With us?”

The shuffling noises increased, and even in the dark he was as red as the embers in the fire. Nobody mentioned Coir. “I’d-I’d like to, Master.”

“You’re a freedman. Call me Arcturus.” I grinned and reached out a hand to grab his arm. “Welcome home.”

I could see the firelight reflect in the smile on his face. It was good to have him back. And it was the last time I’d go to a goddamn resort town without a bodyguard.

“Where are the horses? And the donkey?”

“The little black one is with Nimbus. The donkey is still by the dogwood tree.”

I grunted. “Nimbus smelled Pluto. That’s what she was nickering at.”

I looked around as far as the light would go. Draco had lit some of the lamps inside and taken a couple outside, and stoked the small fire while I’d been unconscious. I wondered if he’d mined any silver while he was at it.

“Master-I mean, Arc-Arcturus. What should we do with them?”

It hurt to think. That was nothing new.

“They’ll slow us down if we take them to the fort. They’d have to walk. Or be dragged.”

I stepped carefully over to where the men were tied, trying to get used to the pain. I spoke as loudly as it would let me.

“Of course, we could just throw them down one of the tunnels, tied up, and they’d starve to death. Or drown, from water coming in. Or maybe we should feed them to the rats. They’re always in tunnels-big, red-eyed, hungry rats. They’re not too picky about what they eat, either. Isn’t that right, Draco?”

He nodded, eyes wide. I looked at him. I couldn’t very well wink in the dark, even if one side of my face wasn’t twitching. I hoped he understood.

“Yeah. Rats, I think. Some of ’em wouldn’t turn down a meal, even of-this.”

I kicked at Bushy Beard’s leg. His face reflected the moon and was starting to form a scream. Not too much longer.

“It’ll be slow, of course. They always start with the extremities. First the toes. Then they work their way up, until-”

Bushy Beard pissed in his pants. It trickled into the ground and ran in a little stream toward the one I’d hit. The bastard wriggled over as much as he could, trying to keep from getting wet. I leaned over him.

“Don’t bother. You smell worse than piss already.”

His mouth was bloody. He spit some of it at me. I was gratified to see there were some teeth chips in it. I wiped my hand off on his hair and turned to Bushy Beard.

“Who hired you?”

He was shaking, his eyes bouncing back and forth between me and Draco, as if we’d transform into rodents when the moonlight struck us. Rat stories. You can always get them with rat stories.

“I don’t know-honest, I don’t know him. Just a man, I met him in an inn. He was looking for-looking for workers. I used to be-used to be a soldier-I know a little about mines-”

He was too young to retire. Probably a deserter. If I turned him in, he’d be better off with the rats.

“I see. You’re a deserter from the auxiliary.”

He’d already pissed once but was trying again. “Oh, God, please-please don’t. I got-I got a wife somewhere, probably kids-please-please-”

The other one wasn’t as intimidated. He tried to talk. He’d get used to the lisp.

“Shu’ your god’am mouf. Don’ ’ell ’em nofin.”

I turned to where his hand was still crumpled from its earlier introduction to the rock. I stepped on it. He screeched. Lucky for him he was ambidextrous.

I said softly: “Remember that next time you’re around a donkey, asshole.” I turned to Draco. “Any food and water in there?”

He nodded. “In a room to the left. Want it?”

“Just enough water for the trip home, and extra feed for all the animals.”

Draco headed for the cave. Grotesque shadows from the flickering lamps danced and writhed against the wall, making it look like the entrance to Tartarus. When Draco came out with a couple of sacks and two water skins, I was more than ready to leave.

“Feed a little to all of them, and give what extra you can to the donkey. The journey will be hardest on her.”

And not so easy on me. The pains kept stabbing at irregular intervals, and each time I felt like I was going to fall. Draco got the horses ready, and I checked the donkey’s legs. She’d been beaten and battered and was unsteady on her feet, but her heart was sound. I stroked her on the neck.

The fire was dying down. The men’s eyes glistened in the dark. With Draco’s help, I clambered on top of Nimbus.

“All right. Cut the garbage loose. Hell doesn’t want them just yet.”

Draco took his knife and sliced the ropes, first on the bearded one and then on the other. They stayed on the ground until he crawled onto Pluto. Whom I’d have to call Little Pluto from now on. I’d been too damn close to the real thing.

I watched as the one I fought cradled his broken hand and ran his tongue around his mouth. Bushy Beard almost wept with relief. They hobbled toward the cave, blending into the darkness until the black maw swallowed them whole. Lamp lights jumped and danced. Now they were just two more shadows on the wall.

My head felt like a kettle drum played by a three-hundred-pound deaf-mute. But I was alive, Draco was back, we uncovered an illegal mine, and we saved a donkey. A good trip.

* * *

There’s a difference between five hours in daylight and eight hours in the dark, and it’s more than three hours. Particularly when you’ve got a skull the size of Mount Aetna. After the first hour, I was thankful for the concussion. I didn’t want to know where I was.

Draco didn’t say much. It took him three hours to mention Bilicho. Apparently, Gwyna wrote Stricta as soon as we arrived in Aquae Sulis. Something about “Can you find Draco and ask him to come, there’s a dead body, etc.” Bilicho found him living in a little shack on the south side of the river. Coir had already moved on.