in pleasure until it bled at the sight of the girl’s agony and chuckled quietly to see Alyssa holding out her arms, reaching for Tor, then her face, twisted with hatred, as she turned on the King.
Goth wished they could have stayed to witness more of that fine theatre. He had wanted to see Gynt’s corpse cut down from the cross, perhaps even to touch it to be sure Gynt had died. Xantia had laughed at him then and mocked him. ‘Who could live after that, you fool?’ she had snarled.
Fool. Goth turned the word over now in his numbed brain. He did not like to be laughed at. And no one had ever called him a fool before. But Xantia was not scared of him. He could hate her for that. She saw through him, knew his weaknesses. Once she had even brought him an eleven-summers-old girl for his sport. But the girl had cried too much and, anyway, what was the point in his condition? If only he could be within spitting distance of that golden-haired Kloek once more…Even with his own hands tied and his ankles manacled, Goth knew he would find away to rip the man’s throat open with his teeth…and he would wallow in the blood.
He was fantasising again, but simultaneously he could feel the welcome numbness of the stracca wearing thin. So thin that his greatest fear was re-emerging: someone was watching him, spying on him. He would run back to the King and ask for a reward for revealing the whereabouts of the fugitive Goth.
Goth inhaled on the long glass tube again and relaxed into the drug’s reassuring embrace. Too much use took away the sense of taste; removed all feeling, in fact. It was said a man could drink bubbling hot water straight from the pot and not feel it, such was the numbing ability of the stracca. Goth was not ready to test that theory yet, even though it appeared his life was over.
Xantia did not think so though; kept talking about some mad god, hell bent on revenge. He did not understand any of it but he humoured her. She made sure he got high-quality stracca. He had to stay on the right side of Xantia. Sometimes he thought she was actually running the den. ‘Patience, patience,’ she would coo in his ear. ‘I have the good stuff for you tonight.’ And he would do as he was told.
What did she want from him? Why did they remain in this flea-infested pirate town when they could climb aboard the first available ship to the Exotic Isles? He thought harder and through the stracca haze managed to recall that it had been Xantia’s idea to use the stracca den as a hideout. ‘We can lie low for a fullmoon or two,’ she had persuaded him. But how long had it been now? He could not remember.
Goth knew he was hallucinating now. He had to be, for through the window he could see the hated Kloek staring at him.
He rolled over and closed his eyes tightly. If only it were true. If only Saxon the Kloek were this close. He could take his vengeance. He inhaled once more and passed out.
Saxon wanted to crash through the window and end the miserable sod’s life. It was Cloot who prevented him making a rash move. Goth looked as if he was unconscious.
The contraption next to the bed of faded cushions gurgled away; a thin stream of purple smoke drifted up and clouded at the ceiling. The Chief Inquisitor was a shadow of his former strutting self; his face was so gaunt it was almost unrecognisable. But he could not hide the twisted flesh and the incessant twitch which marked him as the person they sought.
Saxon considered his options. Goth was useless for the time being. Instead of risking an error, he could make his way back to Tal and inform Herek, who by now would already be heading back south to the capital, of his find. At the same time, he could warn Alyssa of this new discovery. She must be told, even though he dreaded confirming for her that Goth lived. Then he could return with a full complement ofsoldiers, re-capture this lowlife and deal with him once and for all, not to mention his nasty accomplice. Saxon
Goth wished they could have stayed to witness more of that fine theatre. He had wanted to see Gynt’s corpse cut down from the cross, perhaps even to touch it to be sure Gynt had died. Xantia had laughed at him then and mocked him. ‘Who could live after that, you fool?’ she had snarled.
Fool. Goth turned the word over now in his numbed brain. He did not like to be laughed at. And no one had ever called him a fool before. But Xantia was not scared of him. He could hate her for that. She saw through him, knew his weaknesses. Once she had even brought him an eleven-summers-old girl for his sport. But the girl had cried too much and, anyway, what was the point in his condition? If only he could be within spitting distance of that golden-haired Kloek once more…Even with his own hands tied and his ankles manacled, Goth knew he would find away to rip the man’s throat open with his teeth…and he would wallow in the blood.
He was fantasising again, but simultaneously he could feel the welcome numbness of the stracca wearing thin. So thin that his greatest fear was re-emerging: someone was watching him, spying on him. He would run back to the King and ask for a reward for revealing the whereabouts of the fugitive Goth.
Goth inhaled on the long glass tube again and relaxed into the drug’s reassuring embrace. Too much use took away the sense of taste; removed all feeling, in fact. It was said a man could drink bubbling hot water straight from the pot and not feel it, such was the numbing ability of the stracca. Goth was not ready to test that theory yet, even though it appeared his life was over.
Xantia did not think so though; kept talking about some mad god, hell bent on revenge. He did not understand any of it but he humoured her. She made sure he got high-quality stracca. He had to stay on the right side of Xantia. Sometimes he thought she was actually running the den. ‘Patience, patience,’ she would coo in his ear. ‘I have the good stuff for you tonight.’ And he would do as he was told.
What did she want from him? Why did they remain in this flea-infested pirate town when they could climb aboard the first available ship to the Exotic Isles? He thought harder and through the stracca haze managed to recall that it had been Xantia’s idea to use the stracca den as a hideout. ‘We can lie low for a fullmoon or two,’ she had persuaded him. But how long had it been now? He could not remember.
Goth knew he was hallucinating now. He had to be, for through the window he could see the hated Kloek staring at him.
He rolled over and closed his eyes tightly. If only it were true. If only Saxon the Kloek were this close. He could take his vengeance. He inhaled once more and passed out.
Saxon wanted to crash through the window and end the miserable sod’s life. It was Cloot who prevented him making a rash move. Goth looked as if he was unconscious.
The contraption next to the bed of faded cushions gurgled away; a thin stream of purple smoke drifted up and clouded at the ceiling. The Chief Inquisitor was a shadow of his former strutting self; his face was so gaunt it was almost unrecognisable. But he could not hide the twisted flesh and the incessant twitch which marked him as the person they sought.
Saxon considered his options. Goth was useless for the time being. Instead of risking an error, he could make his way back to Tal and inform Herek, who by now would already be heading back south to the capital, of his find. At the same time, he could warn Alyssa of this new discovery. She must be told, even though he dreaded confirming for her that Goth lived. Then he could return with a full complement ofsoldiers, re-capture this lowlife and deal with him once and for all, not to mention his nasty accomplice. Saxon
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