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Trif came into the kitchen. He carried the wine jug. 'They've gone upstairs.' Tilting the carafe to his lips,
he drained the last drops of fluid. 'Clear the table, and then you can all go to bed.'
Up in the loft, the four men who did not habitually sleep there made themselves straw pallets. The
landlord remained downstairs, watching at the hearth.
Alaric fell asleep quickly.
A wild, piercing shriek woke him.
At first, he thought it the scream of some animal in the woods, perhaps a cat in heat. Then, when he
realized he was alone in the loft, he knew it for a human cry, though he had never heard such a sound
issue from a human throat before. He groped for his boots and his sword.
Pausing at the top of the stairs, he listened. Below, the building was silent, except for some muffled
noises that might be amorous couples moving in their beds or might be only the wind. A few faint but
rhythmic footsteps echoed, as if someone were trying to pace away the boredom of insomnia. The
commotion which would surely have ensued if someone had fallen, screaming, from a window or merely
awakened from a nightmare with that horrifying cry on his lips was absent.
Yet something had lured his loft companions from their slumber.
He gripped the sword with sweaty fingers and cautiously descended three steps. A board
squeaked loudly under his feet, and he froze, waiting for some reaction to that small sound, waiting for a
voice to challenge him. Nothing happened. Had he, perhaps, wakened long after the shriek - merely
thinking that he had wak-ened immediately - long after the rest of the household and the guests had
dashed off to investigate, leaving only one or two of their number to guard the hearth? Was the
inn so silent because it was almost empty?
Or was the real reason uglier than that?
Alaric thought of the brigands the landlord feared. Perhaps, in the depths of darkness before moonrise,
they had fallen on the inn, murdered the men, raped the women. Perhaps the shriek had been a cry of
mortal agony torn from Trif's own throat. Alaric peered into the gloom of the stairwell but could not
penetrate it. He was afraid to descend, afraid that the inn was in cruel, enemy hands and that he would be
plunging, unarmoured and alone, indifferently trained in the martial arts, into their midst. He imagined
arrows, spears, swords, and knives, all pointed toward himself, and his faith in his witch's agility was not
strong enough to propel him downward. His heart hammered wildly. No longer could he stand,
unshielded, at the head of the stairs, a perfect target silhouetted against the faintly lit loft.
He was at the bench beside the well, alone but for his sword and the long shadow cast him by the
moon.
The inn was dark except for a knife's edge of illumination beneath the kitchen door. Alaric
crept closer, flattened his body to the ground, and attempted to peer into the room through the
narrow crevice. He saw a floor-sweeping skirt. A moment later, several pairs of boots came into his field
of vision, and he retreated apprehensively to the cover of the wall.
The door opened, and Wenk and Gavver emerged, carrying between them a bulky, cloth wrapped
bundle. Oldo and Thorin followed closely with a similar burden. They passed near Alaric, who circled the
well to keep out of sight, and entered the forest.
Mizella had held the door for them; chancing that she would be companionless now, Alaric knocked
softly, standing aside so that he could not be seen from the room's interior. The stout oaken panel swung
back slightly, and Mizella peeked out.
'Are you alone?' he whispered.
She started at the sound of his voice. 'How did you get outside?'
'Are you alone?
'Well, yes, for now.'
'Will they be back soon?'
'No, not too soon.'
'Where's Trif?'
'Upstairs.'
'All right.' He slipped into the kitchen and closed the door securely behind him.
'You were in the loft, and Trif is watching the stairs. How did you get outside?'
'I climbed out the window.'
'Did they see you?'
'No.'
'You've got to go back, pretend you were never out, pretend you slept the whole night. Please, you
have to.'
'Why? What's going on? I heard a scream '
Mizella moaned and sank back against the worktable, which was still piled high with dinner's refuse. 'I
knew you'd hear it. Oh, please, take your horse and go, right now. Don't stop for anything. I won't tell
them I saw you. With luck, they won't look in the loft till. . . till dawn.' She caught sight of the sword,
half-hidden behind his right thigh. 'You can't hold them off. There's only one of you. Please.'
His free hand clutched her shoulder. 'What is going on?'
'They're killing the travellers. Now will you go before they find you?'
Too late for that, my dear,' said Trif, stepping through the door from the dining room. 'You whisper a
bit too loudly.' He carried a sword in one hand and a bloody dagger in the other.
'No, Trif, no, he's just a boy,' Mizella cried, clinging to Alaric. 'Nothing more, just a boy!'
'I am still not convinced of that. In any event, knight, squire, or nothing, we simply cannot trust
him. Nor you, I fear, now that you feel so strongly about him.'
Mizella paled. 'I wish he were a Durman knight, sent to discover what happened to all those travellers
who never arrived at their destinations.'
'The world is cruel,' Trif replied. 'Crueller than even you, my fluff, can imagine.' He crossed the floor in
two sudden steps, sword raised high.
Alaric lifted his blade in a desperate, awkward parry of the stroke an armoured man would meet with
his shield. He had no shield save Mizella, a fleshy, too vulnerable covering for his left side. Trif's dagger
snaked toward her middle as his sword slid against Alaric's, its point tilted downward for a thrust.
The minstrel locked his free arm about Mizella's waist and threw himself backward, lifting her clear of
the floor and slamming both of their bodies into the unyielding kitchen door. Thinking them trapped and
off balance, Trif lunged forward to follow through with his two thrusts . . . and met empty air.
The forest sprang up around Alaric and Mizella.
Alaric's sword fell from his numbed fingers, thudding twice as it hit the ground tip first, then hilt. He
held Mizella tightly, afraid that if he let her go she would crumple. He had never carried another human [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]