Jo Clayton - Moongather

Morescad scowled at her as he began circling toward the end of the bed, limping a little, his breathing hoarse as he fought to control the fury that weakened and distracted him.

“Hurry it, meie,” the Domnor said softly. “He’s going for my sword.” His arms strained against the rope, muscles bulging under the layer of fat. When the General came bounding back into view, he gave a last great burst of effort and snapped the weakened rope. He rolled up onto his feet, light and alert, mapped out a demanding hand, closing his fingers around the hilt of Morescad’s sword. He kicked at the ropes still clinging weakly to his legs.

Serroi looked around, saw the sjeme rocking in the middle of the floor. She scooped it up and hurled it at Morescad as he rushed at the Domnor, who was still bothered by the clinging rope. The General dodged; the sjeme flew past his head to crash on the floor behind him, releasing a stinking black fluid which flashed into a roiling cloud that rapidly thinned to nothing.

As soon as the sjeme left her hand, Serroi seized a dead rat and hurled it at Morescad’s face. Hurled another and another. Screaming with rage, he forgot the Domnor and charged her a second time. Serroi fled, throwing herself to one side to avoid the sword. She rolled and came up on her feet, flung herself aside again, escaping by a hair as Morescad began to master his temper and attacked more coolly.

“Morescad.” The Domnor’s voice was frozen steel.

The General twisted hastily around, leaped to one side so he could keep both the meie and the Domnor in sight.

The Domnor was a pudgy short man; he had a broad chest whose strength was masked by excess flesh that rounded into-a soft belly like a pillow. Morescad was long and lean with clean articulated muscle; he looked regal and dangerous with his haughty face and fine body-far more a ruler than the Domnor with his round guileless face, wide smiling mouth, lazy rather beautiful eyes. Standing naked, sword held lightly by his side, Hern looked even less impressive than usual. As Serroi turned away from them, the two men began prowling around each other, swords moving gracefully, each man searching for an opening in the other’s defense.

Serroi crossed to Lybor, glancing repeatedly at the two men. The woman was curled up, knees against her breasts. There was a drying pool of blood under her head, staining her draggled golden hair. Serroi knelt beside her, lifted her head, let it fall back, nauseated by the red, raw hole gnawed into the slim throat. The rats. That last wave that washed over her. Ser roi shuddered and jumped lightly to her feet. Looking about for a weapon, she found the Domnor’s ceremonial dagger and shoved it into the Sleykyn’s sheath, reminding herself to be careful about the poison in the point. She settled herself on the curtained bed, watching the testing going on between Morescad and the Domnor.

They were moving rapidly about the room, each exchange brief and tentative. Her respect for the Domnor, which had been growing since her first glimpse of him fighting for release while the Norid went about his preparations, rose to a new high. He was cool and still not breathing hard; each movement was graceful and economical; he was smiling slightly, his green-grey eyes gleaming with confidence. Morescad was sweating and much stiffer in his movements, with a wildness in his eyes that betrayed his fear. He outreached the pudgy little man facing him by several inches, he was fast and skilled and superbly fit-but he was afraid. The steel kissed, slithered, kissed and the General leaped back. Hern was on him, shurri-quick on small, high-arched feet. Touch. Slither. A sudden lunge.

Morescad stared down at the sword transfixing his body, then he toppled forward. The sword hilt struck the floor, turning him to one side so that he fell on his back to lie with mouth open in a silent scream of outrage.

Hern moved briskly to him, knelt, pried his own sword loose from the General’s death clutch. He stood, grinned his triumph at her, suddenly remembered his nakedness and flushed a dark purple. Hastily he sidled to the bed and snatched up a fleecy robe. He thrust his arms into the sleeves and slapped the ties around his waist. Settling the robe about his shoulders, he turned to face her, looking more comfortable. He jerked a thumb at Lybor. “What happened to her?”

“Rats.”

“‘Too bad. Waste of a damn beautiful woman.” He grinned slyly at Serroi. “Wilder’n a sicamar in heat.”

Serroi, too tired to respond to his teasing, wondered what he was getting at.

He climbed onto the bed beside her. “Relax, little meie. A viper may be beautiful but one lives more comfortably in its absence.” He swept the room with cool, measuring eyes. “Quite a mess.” He grinned at her. “You know how you looked throwing those damn rats at Morescad?”

Serroi giggled. He hugged her, laughed with her until tears ran down his face. Finally sobering, they fell back on the bed to lie side by side, gulping in air until they were breathing steadily again.

The Domnor turned his head and frowned at Serroi. “What the hell’s going on?” He sat up, bouncing a little as the bed jiggled in response to his vigorous movement. “Not that.” He flicked a finger at the bodies on the floor. “That’s obvious.”

Serroi grimaced, took hold of the embroidered cover and pushed up. “Nearga-nor. They’ve got together somehow and are moving on the mijloc, using them…” She pointed at Lybor, then Morescad-“the Sons of the Light, Maiden knows what else. They already hold Sankoy.”

“What’s the Biserica doing about this?”

“I don’t know. How should I know? You better start thinking what you’re going to do. The guards out there are in on the plot, have to be or they’d have been in here long ago to investigate the noise.”

Hern grinned. “Rather thought they might be, little meie. Morescad came tramping in at a decidedly awkward moment” He looked embarrassed, turned away, slid off the bed and padded around the end. His voice came back to her. “While I’m getting dressed, how bad is it?”

Serroi scrubbed a hand across her face, wincing as she touched the whip cut. The long strain when she drove herself back to face the Norid and her own terror, the fever-ridden hours in the darkness, the last intense battle-all these had drained her until she was dizzy. The Domnor’s question blurred in her tired mind. She clasped her hands together in her lap to quiet their shaking. “I don’t know much., The Daughter is corrupted. That I found out. There was a N-n-norit…” She swallowed hastily. “A Norit in the Temple with her. She turned me over t-t-to him. Sleykynin brought me into the Plaz, put me in a cell in the dungeon. I g-g-got out and k-k-killed both… both Sleykyn. I think… most of the guards must be in the plot. Three-four days ago, a Tercel and his men picked me up.” A questioning sound came from behind the bed. “Oh yes, they’re dead too.” She closed her eyes, swayed back and forth, her head swimming with fatigue. The words tumbling out unconsidered, she told again the convoluted tale of her flight and her struggle back to Oras. With a driven incoherence she returned again and again to Tayyan’s death and her own panic-flight, her betrayal of love and duty. She kept enough control to avoid mentioning Coperic except as Dinafar’s uncle. When she came to the end of her story, she sat numbed and silent, then gradually became aware of warmth creeping into her icy hands. She opened her eyes to see Hern bending over her, his hands closed around hers.

“You’re worn to the bone and no wonder.” He freed her hands and took hold of her shoulders. “Rest awhile.” With a nod at the windows beyond the end of the bed, he pushed her down, stroked a hand gently down her cheek. “It’s storming out there. We won’t be interrupted here awhile yet. Guards will see to that, even if for the wrong reasons.” He smoothed short strong fingers gently over her eye-spot, smiling down at her, his green-grey eyes shining with amusement.