The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(33)

Mal glanced at Sandy, who had managed to evade his escort and rein his mount in next to his brother's gelding. Sandy's eyes were wide and white-rimmed behind the slits of the mask. He did not have to speak for Mal to know exactly what he was thinking. Mal shook his head. Even if they could somehow out-ride these men, they would never find their way home in the dark.

One of the men pulled something out of his doublet. He grabbed the skrayling's jaw and wrenched it open. Mal tried to look away, but something nudged him in the ribs. A pistol.

"Art craven, little brother?"

Mal's breath caught in his throat as the skrayling screamed. There was a roar from the riders. The one in the black hood took something in his left hand and threw it to the nearest rider, then bent back to his work. Another scream. Mal was glad he couldn't see from here, but he could hear well enough to imagine it. Then everyone was dismounting, and the men closed in on the skrayling. Mal turned away, trying to shut out the animal sounds.

Someone grabbed Sandy and pulled him off his mount.

"Come on, lad, it'll be thy turn soon."

The voice was answered with coarse laughter.

"Leave him alone!" Mal shouted at them.

Sandy began to make a strange whimpering sound in the back of his throat.

"No, no, please–" Sandy screamed. "Sula, aneimaca! Eicorro niwehi mall?! De! De! Amayi!"

The riders drew back, crossing themselves.

"The beast has unleashed a demon amongst us," one of them cried, drawing his dagger as he pushed his way into the knot of men surrounding the skrayling. The creature's screams ended in a gurgling moan. Sandy collapsed to the ground and curled into a ball, still whimpering.

Mal slid down from his horse. He knew he was the only one who had understood any of the strange words his brother had babbled. It was the secret language they used to speak together as boys, until their father caught them and whipped them black and blue. Something about "people coming", Sandy had said. Was he trying to warn the riders, or their victim?

Mal tried to get around the gelding to where his brother lay, but someone caught him by the arm.

"What about this 'un?" his captor asked the leader.

"Blood him."

"Aye, ye mun blood at least one," said someone else. "He's not one of us until he's blooded!"

He tried to turn and run away, but his path was blocked by the broad expanse of an oak trunk. He looked around and down and discovered he was tied to the tree, belly against the rough bark, naked but for the low boots skraylings wore. No, oh no…

"Amayiiii!"

Suddenly he was surrounded by three or four of the humans, towering over him in their slit-eyed hoods like carrion birds. Cold hands clawed at him, colder steel tore his flesh, burning like brands… White-hot pain exploded at the base of his spine, then his spirit fled into the howling darkness–

Mal awoke with a cry, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt himself all over. No wounds, no broken bones, nothing but the familiar scars of battle, long healed. He let out a shaky breath and looked around, half-expecting to see Sandy at his side, cheeks smeared in dried blood.

The cold half-light of an overcast dawn seeped through the shutters. In the distance a mastiff howled. Southwark. Ned's house. Home. He kicked off the sweat-soaked sheets. Where was Ned when he needed him? He wrapped his arms about his knees and bowed his head.

"Sancte Michael Archangele, deduc me per tenebras. Ferro tuo viam illumina…"

CHAPTER IX

"You off, then?" Ned asked, eyeing the gaping knapsack.

Mal grunted in affirmation and began rummaging in the chest at the end of the bed. His belongings were pitifully few: a spare doublet and hose and a few changes of underlinens, a pair of riding gloves, a brown velvet cap going bald in places, and a threadbare winter cloak, the lute, a dog-eared fencing manual in the original Italian, and what he thought of as his soldiering kit. The canvas pouch contained a small whetstone, a tinderbox, a corked bottle of neatsfoot oil, a bundle of greasy rags and a bobbin of thick silk thread with a curved leatherneedle stuck in it.

He unrolled the cloak and retrieved the fist-sized pouch hidden there.

"Will you look after this for me?"

He tossed the pouch to Ned, who loosened the strings and looked inside.

"A rosary?" Ned raised an eyebrow.

"It was my mother's. I suppose it would have been safer to get rid of it but…" Mal shrugged. "Anyway, I don't want to be found with it in my possession. Not at the Tower."

"Very wise." Ned slipped the pouch into his pocket. "Don't worry, I'll stow it somewhere it won't be found."

Mal stuffed the cloak into the knapsack, drew the strings tight and slung it on his shoulder.

"Farewell, then."

"Aye." Ned leant on the bedpost. "I'll miss you."

"No you won't." Mal reached out and snagged Ned's nose between curled fingers, giving it a shake. "You'll be able to have Parrish over whenever you wish."

Ned batted his hand away with a sheepish look. The next thing Mal knew they were embracing, pounding one another's backs in sudden bittersweet urgency.

"Take care," Ned murmured huskily, kissing him on both cheeks. "Don't do anything stupid."

"You know me."