Vol.6, Ch.3, P.3
Rolf had gone. And so did our hatchet-man from Central stir to desperate speed. Rub was, he was yet tied up. Arms, legs—even his maw was stuffed again. Worse still, he had been left to lie alone in this cottage, where no friend might ever think to find him. And he doubted screaming for help would do much. Between being throttled, interrogated, and made to breathe through his Deiva-damned gag, his throat had grown hoarse and quite sore.
Stuck in a bad place, the man fiercely worked his wits, writhing and crawling about with his body bare and bound. Though a groundsman’s cottage this was, any tools and all that might have availed him either hung out of reach or had been stowed away in safety. The only thing that offered him any hope—and the one thing now square in the man’s sight—was a sword: his sword, the very symbol of his service.
But O, that dastard Rolf! How he had worked the weapon against this man’s person, plying it upon his neck that he might sing and spill! Little there was in this world more humiliating. Still, it now proved a boon to have abided it. For though Rolf had been prudent enough to re-tighten the man’s binds before disappearing, such prudence apparently had not extended to taking the sword with him. Or perhaps he scorned the silver thing? And fancying no further need of it, had left it spitefully on the floor? No matter, the man thought. The sword was there, and through Hell or high water, he was going to worm his way to it.
And worm he did. Little by little, like a caterpillar, the man thrawt onwards, his flustered face twisting and twitching with fiery frustration, his stuffed mouth seething and slavering with animosity. As Yoná was his witness, he would free himself and fight on; on to strike from this world the sicarius, the Nafílim, and indeed any fool who so fancied to take up with them. Such was the man’s resolve—the singular whip spurring him on and now delivering him at last to the side of his sword.
With a huff, he flopped about, and towards the weapon faced his back whence his hands were tied. And there, he brought his wrist-binds to the blade-edge. Yet the thing itself was dead flat; not easily would it take to the linen ties. And with his hands bound in a most inconvenient manner, the man could neither hold the hilt to help things along. But he strove nevertheless, heaving fabric unto blade try after try.
This repeated for a pathetic while. His arms convulsed; their sinews contorted. Truly like a maggot the man wriggled, grunting with pain, growling with indignity… till finally, the proverbial sun broke through the clouds.
Soof! went the binds as they split; and as with a bow freshly fired, the man’s arms sprang free.
He rolled and then splayed on his back. And plucking the gag from his mouth, he loosed a famished sigh. That stupid sicarius, leaving a sword to lay like that! But such thoughtlessness was owed much thanks, now that the man was emancipated.
After uncoiling the belts about his aching ankles, the man stood and smiled—never knowing that his freedom had been contrived.
∵
The wringing and browbeating done with, I left the fellow to lie in the cottage, and crept out of sight. There was now much to do. But first on the list: my overcoat. Yonder on the broom it hung, still leaning against the tree in the grove where I’d left it. I breathed in relief. Things being tense as a tightrope as they were, I’d rather thought that the men would confiscate the coat, at least. But nay; it seemed they’d gone off without taking so much as a thread from the thing. Like as not, they were dim to the sheer luxury that is direbear leather, much less a coat wholly wrought from it. Tosspots, the lot of them; never know a good thing when they see one, do they?
Still, I dared not doubt them too much. Waring myself for any snares, it was back into the woods for me as I sidled from tree to tree towards the overcoat. The men really were gone, as I soon found. No other patrols were immediately at hand, either. And so, I grabbed the coat and sneaked quickly away.
But when I eventually donned the dark raiment—“Egh…”—I groaned in anguish, feeling my flank-wound scream behind its scabs.
Excellent. Injured, unarmed, and alone amidst roving enemies… indeed, despite that interrogation, my situation was no less dire now than when last I was here stalking behind these trees. Would that this opening move of mine had set in motion some stone down the slope. And in hoping for the avalanche, I then recalled the words I had with that bloke:
‘…Are all your leaders come to Merkulov…?’
‘…Mine is… That’s all I can speak to… That’s all I know… He’s posted not far from where I was… South-east, last I saw him…’
This very last answer of his. Only, and solely, when he aired it had he shown a marked change in his mien: eager he was, and steady were his eyes and tone both—the mark of honest speech, as a rule. And so ought he’ve been telling the truth. Only, it was quite the contrary.
All throughout the interrogation had he displayed dismay towards me as I held him at swordpoint; save for that final exchange, when that dismay disappeared all of a sudden. What’d caused it? Why, what else but a newly recalled rancour for his captor; the “righteous wrath” for the rebel afore him—a wrath that’d moved him to weave a lie.
Though there was no proving that, truth be told. But having so far crossed more than my fair share of such “devouts”, I’d wager my suspicion was spot-on. Meaning, of course, that what was to await me at the south-east was not this so-called “Vilmar”, but a snare for the sicarius, instead. Thus had I left for that fellow his silversword; I needed him to escape.
In fact, returning to the cottage as I did now, I found its front door standing ajar. He had escaped, and like as not was racing now to warn and brace his comrades for my coming. Nay, I doubted they’d try to bolster the place against my assault. The buildings south-east were meagre and scarce defensible; hardly a spot for a soldiers’ post of import, much less a leader’s seat. No, they would instead lure me to the place and spring upon me from all sides. Such deceit certainly beseemed their style, if anything.
Well, too bad for them. I wasn’t headed thither. Rather, I next chose to stoop and stalk from the cottage stables. In lieu of my feet, it would be my eyes that went yonder south-eastwards. And as I watched, sure enough, a bustle of foes eventually frothed in that direction. Count that a wager won: men were now converging south-east. Converging, and leaving other parts nearby unpatrolled… parts like the lectitōrium.
This much seemed the way of it. As proof, enemy presence nearby had thinned remarkably. Now was my chance. Wary as a hunted hog, I stole away from the stables and made for the lectitōrium, opposite the way these men were coming.
It was stop-and-go from there on, creeping from one cover to the next, till I arrived at the lectitōrium vicinity whence its entrance stood clear in view. There, I watched for surrounding enemies once more.
None yet. Not as far as I could see. Very good. That ploy of mine truly had paid off: the enemies here had been lured away, and spectacularly, at that.
“Seems quiet enough…” I concluded aloud.
If there was any time to sneak into the lectitōrium, now would be it. A leap of faith rife with crags, to be sure, but I hadn’t got the time to tarry and ponder. And so, hardening my resolve, I scurried out of cover and towards the building entrance.
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