The Spell of Rosette - Kim Falconer [7]
‘Come on,’ she said, pushing off from him and sliding down the embankment. She hit the road running. ‘To the gate. Follow.’
He trotted along the fenceline above her until a whizzing sound cut through the air. They were firing at Assalo! She dropped to the ground when she heard the thud of an arrow finding its mark. She scrambled up and ran, choking on the bile in her throat.
Assalo screamed so loudly, she couldn’t hear her boots crunching on the gravel, or the involuntary gasps coming out as she sucked in the air between cries. His agony reverberated into the night, drowning out every other noise, drowning out her thoughts.
She reached the edge of Espiro Dell Ray, her lungs burning and her face streaked with tears. She didn’t stop. She plunged into the forest, keeping to the edge of the main road. By the time it had dwindled into a narrow track, she couldn’t hear Assalo any more. She couldn’t see anything through her tears.
After an hour of feeling her way in the dark tangle of branches, vines and dead wood, she stumbled into a hollowed-out redwood trunk. With her hand on the mossy bark, she steadied her breath, checking for the presence of other creatures. It felt vacant. She crawled through the opening, pressing herself against the back wall and bringing her knees up to her chin. She sat there staring into the night, listening.
Crickets hummed and wings flapped. A nighthawk called from far away, answered by an even more distant cry. No one followed.
After another hour of listening, she dug into the leaf mould and curled up, sobbing herself to sleep.
‘You made a right mess of this,’ Archer growled, bending to grab the dead man’s hands. He started to drag the body out of the kitchen. ‘Get his legs.’
Rogg gripped the ankles, hoisting the other half of the corpse. ‘I didn’t start it, Arch.’ He nodded to the body. ‘This bugger did.’
‘She said to get the vial and not hurt ’em—any of ’em.’
Rogg laughed. ‘He ain’t hurting now. Besides, that other witch didn’t care.’
‘Idiot.’ Archer glared as he backed down the hallway. ‘That other one had her own purpose. It’s the High Priestess who’s got the gold. What if she won’t pay us now?’
‘Didn’t think of that.’ Rogg stared blankly at Archer as he manoeuvred the body through the front door frame. He frowned. ‘What if she curses us?’
‘She won’t.’
‘She’s a witch.’
‘I can handle her.’
‘And our pay?’
‘We’ll get it.’ Archer winked as he lifted the body higher to keep the head from bumping down the front steps.
‘How?’
‘We’ll trick her.’
Rogg didn’t respond immediately. He dropped one of the booted feet to scratch his matted hair. ‘Can you trick a witch?’
‘She’s only a woman, Rogg.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
Archer ignored him, his face twisting into a smile. ‘She said, “I need the blood of the witch-child”.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Shut up. I’m thinking.’
Archer stopped in front of the pigsty. The animals were grunting, pressing their snouts against the low wooden fence.
‘She wants the blood. Said so right to me face.’ He started swinging the corpse, nodding to Rogg to do the same. ‘We’ll bleed the lad before it sets. He must be the witch-child.’
‘But we can’t carry it.’
‘Get one of those kegs.’ Archer pointed at the barn. ‘They’re small enough to strap on your back.’
Rogg didn’t answer. He was watching an enormous boar standing with his front feet on the top rail of the sty. His mouth opened as he squealed, saliva dripping from his lower jaw in long, translucent loops.
‘We’ll make it look like a blood-vengeance,’ Archer went on, the body gaining momentum as he spoke.
On the third swing, they heaved it over the top rail and into the pigsty.
‘We sack the place? Turn it over real good?’ Rogg asked, his eyes brightening.
‘And take the blood of the witch-child.’
‘Then we get paid?’
‘Yeah. Then we get paid.’
‘And that other one? With the strange questions?’
‘She wanted them all dead anyway. We’re good.’ Archer spat before heading back to the house,