Ghosts in the Snow (40 page)

"That's… that's Risley's."

He laughed, licking his lips. " 'Risley's'? Goodness, no. He never knew about it, never missed it. It fit my purpose so well and gave me a bit of well-deserved finery. I must admit that I was surprised when Dubric discovered its disappearance, though. The old bastard was smarter than I thought, but not smart enough, was he? He looked right at me yet never saw the truth. No one suspects a lowly messenger, especially one so clean."

She stared at him, her heart thudding a staccato of terror, but she said nothing.

He showed her the razor, closed it and put it away, his eyes never leaving hers. "See? I've put it away. Stand up."

She shook her head, but he grabbed her by the throat and pulled her off the divan. "Never, ever disagree with me. Do you understand?"

She tried to speak but could get no more than a squawk past his grip.

"So pretty, so fine, so mine," he laughed, looking into her eyes. "I've waited a long time to touch you, but at last my plans have reached fruition." He grinned and kissed her, the taste of death filling her mouth as his lips burned against hers. She froze, mewling, and the pressure at her throat faded away.

She fell back, onto the divan, and sucked painful gasps of air through her throat. "How could you have… have killed all those people?" she asked, spitting away the rotting taste in her mouth. "You were always such a nice man. I trusted you! We all trusted you! You have a family, for Goddess's sake!"

He laughed, yanking her to her feet again. "Power belongs to those who take it, not to the meek. I am meek no more." He wiped the smear of blood from her collarbone and licked his finger clean. "You, my darling, are luscious enough to eat. Let's have us another kiss, shall we? And then we'll see what other tasty treats our love can find."

She took a step back, her hands balling into fists. "Never. I'll never love you, you filthy, disgusting beast!"

Snarling, he tossed her on the bed and lunged for her. "Mouthy little bitch! And here, after all that I've done, you dare to question me? We're perfect for each other, both of us clean and pure, both of us at the precipice of our destiny. You'll be begging for more before we're through, you'll see. You'll be so happy that you're mine."

Slamming her onto the mattress despite her struggles, he kissed her, his mouth and breath reeking of death. She fought, biting and kicking, until she felt the hated blade against her throat again, then she fell still.

"That arrogant bastard did teach you to like it rough. I should have known he'd steal my prize away." Foamy spittle collected at the corners of his mouth as he clawed up her skirt. "I should have killed him when I had the chance."

"We never!" she screamed. "He's never touched me. Please!"

He shoved her knees apart, pinning her to the bed with his weight on her hips and the razor at her throat, and he grinned, kissing her again. "Then I get the first taste, after all."

Her eyes widened as a shining sword appeared beneath his jaw. "Get off her," Dubric said, "before I save the executioner the trouble of removing your head."

Beckwith laughed and rolled slowly backward until his weight rested on his knees instead of her hips. "Will you?" he asked.

"Are you all right, Miss Nella?" Dubric asked.

Nodding, she scrambled away and pressed herself into the far corner.

"Get up. Slowly," he said to Beckwith, glancing at the blood spattering Beckwith's face and hands. "Drop the razor on the floor. Now."

"Certainly," Beckwith said, then moved in a sudden lurch, swinging his arm beneath Dubric's sword.

Dubric yelped, stumbling back, and Beckwith grinned. He rose from the bed and stood. "My Lord Castellan," he said, moving toward Dubric and reaching for the hood of his cloak, "I do believe you're bleeding."

And then he disappeared.

Lars fought near the temple hall, shoving a kitchen lackey face first against the wall. "I said that's enough!" Blood flowed freely down his right arm and he wrenched the offending knife out of the boy's hands. Behind him, an archer named Almund tussled with a pair of scullery maids screaming filthy insults.

"I ain't scared a you," the boy yelped, struggling.

"You ought to be," Lars snapped, pulling the boy off the wall and slamming him into it again. He glanced around. The worst of the riot had moved away, but remnants of anger still brewed in the halls. Men, women, and children ran to and fro, most just trying to get away, but a few continued to cause trouble. One, a leather worker named Earst, swung a flaming torch like a club. Helplessly, Lars watched him light a fleeing privy maid afire.

Earst looked Lars's way, his eyes glowing red in the reflected light of the torch. "I'm gonna see you burn, page," he snarled.

Lars turned, instinctively yanking the lackey in front of him, and the boy's filthy, grease-spattered tunic burst into flames. The boy screamed and Lars shoved him away as Earst pulled the torch back for another swing. Lars threw the lackey's knife and it embedded in Earst's upper chest.

Earst yanked the knife free and snarled, "You'll pay for that."

Lars stumbled back and pulled his sword, but Earst slumped to the floor like a burst sack of flour as his right arm and shoulder separated from the rest of him.

Bacstair the Baker stood there, bloody sword clenched in his blood-spattered hands. "Where's my son?" he asked, stepping over the body. "Where's my Otlee?"

Lars tilted his head toward the temple and tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder as he desperately patted out the lackey's fire. "Sounding the alarm."

Bacstair nodded and ran past, slamming the sword into whoever or whatever got in his way. Almund clonked the two scullery maids together and both finally fell limp. Near the north-hall entrance, Dien flipped a nobleman headfirst against the wall, then shoved aside a caterwauling seamstress.

The lackey's fire out, Lars clenched his sword in his hands and ran forward to help Dien and the archers. He smelled smoke and hoped it was just the privy maid or the lackey.

Where's Dubric? Where's my father
? he thought, pressing through the chaos.

"Lars! Behind you," he heard Otlee scream.

Even as he elbowed away a screeching window maid, Lars turned, sword in hand, shallowly slicing open the belly of a weaver wielding a pair of brass candlesticks. Before the weaver slumped to the floor, he turned the sword and clubbed the maid's head with it. She dutifully fell at his feet and he stepped over her without a second thought.

Just ahead of him, Dien struggled with four swineherders. Lars hamstrung one and grabbed another by the collar, yanking him aside, toward Bacstair and Otlee.

Dien snarled and ducked, flipping one over his back as he reached for the next.

"You all right, pup?" Dien asked, drawing a breath before knocking a swineherder against the wall hard enough to crack his skull.

"I'll live," Lars said. The throbbing pain in his shoulder had all but disappeared, but so had much of the strength in that arm. His blasted sword arm. He stepped over the man on the floor and a swineherder howled as Bacstair cleaved off his hand.

Perfume tickled Lars's nose and he sneezed. It seemed so close, like a great aunt suffocating him in a hug, but he stood in a pocket of relative quiet. Something cool grasped his free hand and started to lead him forward. He felt like he was fading into the welcoming chill, like stepping into a pool of cloudy water, and he saw a hazy shape of a woman, a lady, beckoning him to hurry. Bluish and nearly transparent, she looked to him with great sadness and riveting urgency.

One of Dubric's ghosts? Goddess, how can I see her? How can I feel her? Who is she? What does she want with me?

"Lars!" Dien said, shaking him. The big man held his face and peered into his eyes while madness careened around them. "You get bashed on the head? That arm wound worse than it looks?"

Startled, Lars blinked as the haziness surrounding him vanished, but he still felt the gentle pull on his left hand. "No, I'm fine, really."

The ghost shimmered at the edge of his vision, like a flickering play of light on water, yet floating in the air. He could not see her, not in any true sense, but her touch flowed up his arm, soaking into him, freezing his heart and the blood coursing in his veins.

"You must come!" a voice inside him seemed to say. "Now. For Dubric. Please!"

The coolness tugged within his chest and he lurched to the side, gasping through a tickle of perfume in the air. She appeared solid before him for a moment, her glowing eyes filled with urgency and pain, and she touched his cheek, mouthing words he could not understand. The chill in his blood faded with her image, then he felt the gentle tug on his hand again. "I think there's something wrong with Dubric. I can't explain it, but I have to go."

"What the peg?" Dien smacked a nobleman aside and started following Lars, but a group of milkmaids wrestling over a tapestry blocked his way.

"Lars, don't! It's too dangerous!"

"I have to," he yelled over the din as the ghost dragged him toward the stairs. "I'll be careful."

Dien's reply was lost to the chaos, but Lars paused on the stairs to see Otlee pulling a laborer off Dien's back and Bacstair shoving a cleaning maid aside. He started back down to help them, but the ghost pulled him up the stairs, refusing to release her grip upon his hand.

* * *

"Get behind me!" Dubric yelled, swinging his sword toward a recently fallen chair. Beckwith had disappeared into thin air as if he never existed, leaving no more than the stink of spilt blood to mark his passage.

Nella sidled toward him, clinging to the wall, but the bed heaved downward then sprung up again. She squealed, jumping away, then suddenly rose from the floor and slammed into the wall. She hung there, gasping for breath, her eyes wild and terrified. Blood smeared across her throat and she squeezed her eyes closed, turning her face away.

"
Tsk, tsk
, my Lord Castellan," he heard Beckwith say. "This morsel is mine. She stays with me."

Afraid to move for fear of harming Nella, Dubric watched, horrified, as the line of smeared blood moved downward, plucking a button from the front of her uniform. Nella gasped and her eyes opened. Without warning, her knee shot upward, then she fell suddenly to the floor.

"Don't you touch me," she screamed, clawing her way upright and scrambling for a wooden chair. "Kill me if you must, you bastard, but
do not touch me
!"

She swung downward and Beckwith howled. The chair, an antique that had belonged to Dubric's grandfather, shattered like old porcelain.

As Nella swung again with the chair's severed back, Dubric rushed forward to help her. With a cry of defiance, she scrambled away, toward the far corner, then skidded to a halt.

Dubric froze, hearing the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn.

The broken chair shifted and Beckwith laughed. "Looking for this, little girl?"

She turned, slowly, and backed away, shaking her head. "Please," she whispered. "Not Risley's sword, please don't kill me with his sword."

Where is he
? Dubric thought. He moved forward, searching the room for the slightest hint of movement, of noise, of the scent of death.

"All right," Beckwith tittered as pain exploded in Dubric's sword arm and he slammed against the wall.

"Dubric!" Nella screamed, staggering toward him.

"Oh, peg! Goddess-damned son-of-a-whore," he yelped Risley's sword had skewered the muscle of his upper right arm, pinning him to the wall, but he could not reach the hilt with his left hand. Agony ripped from his shoulder to his wrist and his own sword clattered as it fell, skittering away from his feet. He smelled hot, rancid breath and laughter burned his ears.

"My dear Castellan," Beckwith chortled in his ear, "I am so glad that you've decided to remain as witness to my latest endeavors. Although I'm delighted to allow you the pleasure of watching, I have no intention of sharing her with you." Dubric heard a hard metallic
click
beside his ear. "She's all mine."

"Nella, run!" Dubric begged. He turned his face away from the razor against his cheek and found himself staring at his ghosts.

No longer causing trouble, they stood frightened, mouths agape, and stared at Beckwith. Fytte seemed to say something, and she backed away, pointing and shaking her head.
What are they looking at? Why suddenly now
?

Nella mewled Dubric's name and he rolled his eyes to look to her. By the King, she seemed miles away as she stumbled farther from Beckwith's dark laughter.

"No!" Nella squealed, falling to her backside as her feet shot out from under her. Dubric
watched her try to
scuttle away, but she flipped onto her back and her legs lurched apart.

"What happened to the quiet, compliant girl I used to know?" Beckwith muttered. "
After all
I've done,
you
dare to disappoint me? You owe me this; you owe me your love."

Wishing his ghosts would do something to help instead of remaining rooted near the door, Dubric tried to relax his muscle enough to move the sword, but the pain kept his bicep tense and howling in agony. And he could not reach the damned hilt!

Nella bucked and fought her attacker, one hand spurting blood from a crosswise gash. "I paid my debt and I'm free. I don't owe anyone anything." She clawed the air and turned, lurching to the side, and her knee shot up again.

Beckwith howled.

Nella scrambled away, climbing over the bed and leaving a trail of blood splatters and handprints on the blankets. Both hands and forearms sported defensive cuts, and the slash across her collarbone had drenched the bodice of her dress.

She had almost made it, nearly reached the relative safety of Dubric's side of the room, when she squealed and fell face first to the floor, pulled back by one foot across the bed.

"No!" she screamed, grabbing anything she could, reaching for Dubric, but moving backward despite everything she tried.

The blankets lumped up behind her knees, as Dubric continued to struggle against the sword. Desperate, Nella grabbed a bedpost and hung on, screaming as blood burst from the back of her leg in a spattering shower. "No! I won't go," she cried, kicking.

She lifted from the bed by her feet and she thrashed before she was flung away, against the wall, on the far side of the bed. She slumped to the floor, twitching and bleeding. Again Beckwith laughed. "Oh yes, you will, little girl. I didn't do all this for nothing."

"Help her!" Dubric yelled at his ghosts, the blade ripping a larger hole in his arm, then he smelled Brinna's perfume.

"Nella!" Lars hollered from the doorway.

Praise the King
. "He is there!" Dubric said, pointing with his free hand. "The other side of the bed. Help her!"

Grunting, Lars pulled the sword from Dubric's arm. "Who?"

Dubric tried to take a step forward but fell back against the wall, grabbing his tortured bicep. "Beckwith!"

Lars settled Risley's sword in his hand. He nodded, taking a deep breath. "Then I'll aim high." His back straight and his head held high, Lars strode toward the blood-splattered corner, then fell backward as a shallow gash appeared on his belly.

Brinna had yanked him back, and she turned, yelling something at the ghosts.

Dubric stumbled forward, dizzy, and weakly fell to his knees.

Blood reddening his shirt, Lars rolled and heaved with his legs. Something heavy crashed against the bookshelves, knocking them over. Lars shoved himself upright, leaning sideways with his sword dragging on the floor while his free hand pressed against his belly. "Wanna try that again, little man?"

"No, Lars. No!" Dubric cried, scrambling toward him. He felt a rush of cold like a harsh winter breeze, which knocked him onto his face near the shifting pile of books.

The underside of blood-splattered boots materialized in front of his nose, peeking from beneath a tattered wool cloak. Dubric raised his eyes and looked into Beckwith's sneering face. Elli had snatched off his hood, but she cowered away, watching the black and bloody razor, as Beckwith struggled to find stable footing among the scattered books. Every ghost stared at Beckwith's blade, their eyes huge and terrified.
By the King! The ghosts do not fear him, they fear his razor. Not the man, but the thing that killed them
!

Glancing at Lars's hesitant approach, Beckwith kicked Dubric in the face then rolled away, disappearing under the cloak again.

Dubric howled, the ache in his arm lost under the bright agony of a broken nose. Books skittered beside him and he tried to crawl away, but he felt a slash open his upper arm, his back, his side.

Lars leapt to stand over him, swinging his sword, and Beckwith yelped. Books scattered in all directions as he slipped away, some slamming into Dubric's face.

Lars panted, dripping blood on Dubric. "Can you stand, sir?"

"Go! Save Nella. Save yourself," Dubric said, crawling to his sword.

"I hit him, sir. It's not impossible."

Dubric grasped his sword and swung toward movement he felt more than saw. The sword shuddered in his hands, hitting bone, and Beckwith howled. "Get Nella!" Dubric ordered. "Get her and get out of here!"

He saw Lars stumble toward the far side of the bed, and a trail of blood splatters followed. Dubric lunged on his hands and knees, tackling the air above the dripping blood, and they tumbled across the room, hitting a bureau.

The razor skittered away, under the bed. Every ghost watched it go.

Cold air rushed past Dubric. Screaming, Beckwith kicked him again and again, knocking him aside, but the ghosts swarmed, ripping and tearing Beckwith with their teeth and nails.

"What the piss?" he cried, trying to get away, but the ghosts had him and would not let him go. "There's nothing there. Nothing!"

"There is more than you think," Dubric said, gathering his feet beneath him. An ear, a ripped off finger, and bits of clothing flew through the air. Staggering upright, Dubric left Beckwith to the wraiths he had created.