[The Six Kingdoms 02] The Mace of Souls by Fergusson Bruce

Author:Fergusson, Bruce [Fergusson, Bruce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 068808477X
Publisher: Avon
Published: 1989-01-01T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

Caged

Falca stood near the gate of the stockade watching a few Lifter voals lighting cressets marking the corners of the paved square. In the middle, two white-caped priests talked to each other by a waist-high dais that could only be the place where prisoners would be Lifted later.

He spat between the timbers of the palisade, thinking hard, working his tongue at the spot where the scrape sore had been. It had healed weeks after he met Amala Damarr, but he tongued it anyway.

There wasn’t much time. He hadn’t seen Saphrax again, or Blave and the other voals who had thrown him into this pen, where over a hundred other prisoners waited and wondered if they would be among those culled for Lifting. He would not go quietly if he was taken. Mace or no mace, he promised himself to take a few of the bastards before they got him.

He glanced over the huddled prisoners, to the larger stockade on a rise of hill close by the quarry: the empties’ home. In the fading light Falca could see their arms draped through the slits of their palisade.

No, he thought. Not quietly. Saphrax would be somewhere in the square, watching, when the time came, and Falca would break for him, kill him with his hands before they could use the charged maces to subdue him. Saphrax would have only Amala’s mace, and that would be no protection.

Still, he couldn’t resign himself to an end here. The timbers of the stockade only angered him. He hadn’t escaped the river hulks in Draica year in, year out, only to wind up in this crib, next to a stoneskin who was‍—Falca shook his head in disgust‍—scraping his arms with a sharp-edged rock. There had to be a way out. His only ally so far was the coming darkness. He could use it to escape to the forest along the inlet, then work his way to one of the deserted villages he saw on the way in. He could steal all the provisions he could carry, find a boat or gig, point the thing south, and hope for the best.

But first things first: Get out of the pen.

The last light of day bathed the tops of Grippa’s castle towers. As Falca watched activity by the castle gate, he felt something at his leg, turned, saw a Timberlimb not two feet away, sniffing at him like a dog, chattering something Falca didn’t understand. The surprise at seeing a Timberland here gave way to his somber mood, and he waved the Limb away.

She was a female, that was obvious. Her soiled red bandy scarcely covered her pointy breasts. Her black hair was longer than most Limb females he’d seen in Draica. She wore only one little boot.

The Limb came closer, craning her neck to catch more of his scent. Falca was in no mood for this and pushed her away. She wasn’t discouraged and advanced again, though not close enough to get pushed. Falca turned his back

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