Dark Labyrinth 1 by Kevin J. Anderson Page A

exertion, groans, a gasp. His brow furrowed as he identified Katarina’s sweet-husky voice and Greta’s musical timbre—and the thin nasal voice of Greta’s husband. He heard rhythmic sounds, heavy breathing, a wooden bedframe creaking under strain.
    The woodcutter’s blood ran cold as he peered through a crack. He saw a crowd of arms and legs on the bed, naked flesh, a patchwork of intertwined bodies. He recognized both Greta and Katarina cavorting with a lean man: Greta’s husband. He had long dark hair, a wide face, and feral eyes; a thin dueling scar traced his left cheek. His lips were drawn back in a smile so deep it was almost a grimace. In the candlelight, all three were sweaty and panting, as if they’d been exerting themselves for some time. By the coordinated way they moved together, shifted positions and pleasured each other, they seemed quite well practiced at their ménage a trois.
    The woodcutter couldn’t feel his arms or his hands, the muscles that had ached from swinging the axe and lifting heavy wood. He realized he wasn’t breathing. Before he could tear his gaze away, he saw something else: Next to the candle on the fine lacquered nightstand lay the beautiful cross medallion fringed with sparkling chips of sapphire and ruby. Two weeks earlier, the tinker had refused to sell it to him , but somehow Greta’s husband had gotten it.
    The woodcutter’s heart dissolved, leaving only a cold vacuum in his chest. Conscious and rational thoughts vanished with an inaudible pop like a bubble bursting. He walked leadenly back to his cart, where he selected his sharpest and stoutest axe. He lifted it in one well-muscled arm; for good measure, he took the second axe in his left hand. Holding both, he strode back to the door.
    With a single blow, he smashed the latch and the crossbar. Sparks and splinters flew. The sounds abruptly stopped. He kicked the ruined door inward, then stepped inside, raising both axes.
    The two women scrambled backward on the crowded bed. With just a flicker of his conscious mind, the woodcutter realized how beautiful Katarina was, her pale skin flushed, her dark and sweaty hair thrown back behind her shoulders. Her lips—yes, as red and full as fresh berries—were now open in a faltering scream.
    Greta’s husband sprang off the straw mattress and into a crouch, not caring that he was naked. He grabbed a long ivory-handled stiletto from the nightstand, knocking the medallion aside in his haste.
    Katarina and Greta continued to cry out as the woodcutter waded forward, one axe in each hand. As he swung them, their sharp silver smiles whistled through the air. Greta’s husband danced with the knife, twirling the tip in the air as if performing some sort of embroidery. He seemed as familiar with his stiletto as he was in fornicating with Katarina. He didn’t even seem afraid.
    But the woodcutter had no need for knife play. Without finesse, he swung his axe, and a single blow severed the man’s forearm, which fell to the wooden floor, fingers still clutching the knife. A second broad sweep decapitated him more cleanly than he deserved. The head fell to the floor, eerily undamaged, and rolled so that his wide-open eyes could watch the rest of the spectacle.
    Then the woodcutter turned his axes upon the two women until they were no more than red kindling.
    Drenched in blood, he stood with both axes leaning against him. His muscles ached as they did after a day of hard work, and it was a good soreness.
    The screams had drawn a horrified crowd, many from the strangler’s hanging. The woodcutter did not resist as the constable and the town guards came to arrest him. He did not explain his horrific actions, though the answer was obvious for anyone who could piece together the myriad body parts.
    He did not speak a word in his own defense. In fact, he never uttered another sentence throughout his trial, sentencing, and swift execution.
    #
    Bandages shroud the broad, firm face. Victor