The King's Justice by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

imagines that Sought relies on them. Their deaths may prevent the culmination of the ritual that claimed Tamlin Marker. But he cannot be certain of this. Perhaps Haul Varder is all the aid Sought needs. Also he is not confident that he
can
kill his opponents. They are indeed exceptional. And they do not tire, though he resists them with all the strength of his body, all the gifts of his shaping, all the experience of his many battles. If he grants one of his foes an opening, he may be able to cut down the other. But then he will be wounded himself. Killing them both is not a likely outcome.
    Without hesitation, almost without thought, he changes his tactics. He fights now, not to harm or drive back his attackers, but rather to make himself a different target. He means to cause them to adjust their footing. And when he sees a subtle alteration in how they balance themselves, he takes his chance.
    Headlong, he dives between them, hoping that their blades will not find his back as he passes.
    They are wrongly balanced to turn and strike while he is exposed. For the merest instant, they interfere with each other. Neither man can swing without hazard to his comrade.
    Black’s dive becomes a roll. He surges to his feet facing the foes he has passed. In the same motion, he springs to assail them.
    He understands what will happen now. He recognizes it as it occurs. The last bodyguard is charging. Black feels the blow of the quarterstaff coming. He knows how to evade it, but he does not do so. Instead he accepts it. When it strikes the back of his head, he accepts the shock, the blinding pain, the fall into unconsciousness.
    The blow will not kill him. He is too hardy. But it will take him where he needs and fears to go.

    W hen he returns to himself, he is bound spread-eagled by his wrists and ankles. At first, he knows only that he cannot move. Then the pain finds him. The agony in his head is like that of a spear driven through his skull. The back of his head is a sodden mess. Blood drips down his neck to his shoulders. Waves of nausea and the bright echoes of the blow that took him make his guts squirm. They prevent him from opening his eyes. Of his circumstances, he knows only that he is helpless.
    His wound is not mortal. It is worse than mortal. It has made him a victim.
    The heat is tremendous. It seems to scald his skin. It has probably burned away his eyebrows and lashes. The hair on his head may be gone. When he tries to blink, his lids scrape his eyes.
    Nevertheless the ways in which he has been shaped go deep. His bleeding slows. With every breath, his nausea eases. Gradually tears moisten his eyes. In stabbing surges, the pain of his head spreads through him. It restores sensation to his limbs. He finds that he is able to close his fingers. He can move his toes.
    Now he feels the pressure of rope on his wrists and ankles. It is woven of sisal or some other harsh fiber. It will not break. And it allows no more than a slight flexing of his elbows and knees. He can bend his joints to achieve subtle shifts of his posture. He cannot gain leverage.
    He is not ready to see where he is. But the rough touch of the surface at his back tells him that he is pinned against native rock. It is crude, studded with protrusions and gaps, written with ridges. He can imagine that he is bound to a boulder, but he believes that he is not. He believes that he is fixed to a wall. The fierce heat and its brimstone reek convince him that he is in a cavern.
    Though his eyes are closed, he knows that the space is filled with ruddy light.
    From some distant source comes a low sound like the slow boiling of a cauldron.
    Then the life returning to his nerves makes him aware that his plight is worse than helplessness. The heat on his skin tells him that he is naked. More than his cloak and hat have beentaken from him. All of his garments have been stripped away. Even his boots are gone. Even the bindings of his loins—
    He is exposed for what he