The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [71]
Musing at that, he turned slowly to regard the building behind him. It was built as many Church fanes were—a simple stone cube with a roof of slate and a perpetually open doorway. The lintel was carved with a single word, and with interest he noticed it wasn’t Vitellian, the usual language of the Church—but rather old Vadhiian, the language of the Warlock Kingdoms. MARHIRHEBEN, it said.
Inside, a small, slender statue carved of bone overlooked a stone altar. It depicted a beautiful woman with an unsettling smile. On either side of her stood a greffyn, and her hands dropped down as if to stroke their manes.
He looked around, but saw nothing else of note. Shrugging, he left the fane.
As he stepped across the line of corpses again, something terrible tore loose and leapt from his throat. The world shattered like glass, and he fell into the night before the world was born.
CHAPTER SIX
THE HOUNDS OF ARTUMO
WHILE THE ARROW WAS still quivering, two men stepped into the road, and Neil guessed there were at least four in the bushes by the side. A faint scuff told him there was one behind him.
The two in front were dressed in faded leathers, and each bore a long-hafted spear. They also had kerchiefs pulled up to conceal their faces.
“Bandits?” Neil asked.
“No, clergymen,” Vaseto responded sarcastically.
One of the men called something out.
“Of what saint?” Neil asked.
“Lord Turmo, I would think, patron of thieves. They’ve just asked you to dismount and strip off your armor.”
“Did they?” Neil asked. “What do you advise?”
“Depends on whether you want to keep your things or not.”
“I’d like to, thanks.”
“Well, then,” Vaseto said, and gave a clear, high whistle.
The man shouted something again. This time Vaseto shouted back.
“What was that all about?”
“I’ve offered them a chance to surrender.”
“Good thing,” Neil replied. “Try to keep low.” He reached for his spear.
At that moment, furious motion erupted on the side of the road. Neil wheeled Hurricane and caught a glimpse of something very large and brown in the undergrowth. Leaves were flying, and someone shouted in anguish.
Confused, he turned back to the men on the road, just in time to see them go down beneath the paws of two huge mastiffs.
“Oro!” one of them screamed. “Oro, pertument! Pacha Satos, Pacha sachero satos! Pacha misercarda!”
Neil looked around. There were at least eight of the huge beasts.
Vaseto whistled again. The dogs backed up a pace or so from their victims, but kept their teeth bare.
Neil glanced at Vaseto, who was dismounting.
“Why don’t you keep that big sword out,” she said, “while I take the weapons from these fellows?”
“Have pity!” one of the men in the road said, in the king’s tongue. “See how I speak your language? Perhaps a kinsman am I!”
“What sort of pity would you have from me?” Neil asked, keeping one eye on the dog that was guarding the fellow as he took his spear and two knives. “You meant to steal from me, yes? Perhaps even kill me?”
“No, no, of course not,” the man said. “But it is so hard to live, these days. Work is scarce, food scarcer. I have a wife, ten little ones—please, spare me, master!”
“Hush,” Vaseto said. “You said it yourself. Food is scarce. If my dogs eat a sheep or goat, I’ll get in trouble. If they eat you, I’ll only get thanks. So be quiet now, thank the lords and ladies you’ll feed such noble creatures.”
The man looked up. Tears were rolling from his eyes. “Lady Artuma! Spare me from your children!”
Vaseto squatted by him and tousled his hair. “That’s disingenuous,” she said. “First you molest a servant of Artuma, then you ask forgiveness of her?”
“Priestess, I did not know.”
She kissed his forehead. “And how is that an excuse?” she asked.
“It’s not, it’s not, I understand that.”
She searched at his belt, came up with a pouch. “Well,” she said. “Perhaps a donation at the next shrine will