Free The Crimson Chalice by Victor Canning Page A

in a thin rill through a marshy channel to the far slope of the forest. Between the stream and the hut a fire burned, a fire piled now with new kindling so that the fresh flames leapt from it and the blazing wood crackled and spat sparks and black ash that rose in the air like a cloud of flies. Close to the fire stood Atro and Colta, each holding an arm of a tall, thin-bodied old man whose long, girdled brown robe had been stripped from the top half of his body. Standing in front of the old man was Enghus, holding the light spear. Already he had scored the man’s bare chest with the spear-point and now he thrust the spearhead almost fully into the man’s left hip. Both arms already ran with blood from previous thrusts.
    Baradoc watched, sickened and angry with disgust, as Colta, striking the old man’s face with her fist, spat at him, shouting, “You old fool—talk!”
    Enghus raised the spear to thrust again, crying, “Yes, talk, talk, talk! Where is the treasure?”
    Atro swung his free hand and sent Enghus spinning away. “Enough, Enghus! Enough!” Then to the old man he said, “Listen, Father, be sensible and talk, and then we will leave you in peace. But if you don’t we will surely kill you.” He reached out, took the old man’s long dark beard in his hand and jerked his head up. “Talk! Where is the treasure?”
    Baradoc saw the slow bracing movement of the man’s thin, bony shoulders as he drew breath. His dark eyes opened and he stared at Atro and his lean, weather-bitten face was stony with stubbornness. He said nothing.
    Enghus lowered the spearpoint and held it against the old man’s belly. “Let me, Atro. Let me!”
    Atro shook his head. “No, he’s had his chance. But now—you shall make him talk.” He laughed gently. “Roast him a little. That’ll start his tongue to wag.”
    â€œYes, yes, roast him a little.…” Enghus dropped his spear and began to dance around, beating his hands in joy, like an excited child, chanting, “Roast him! Toast him! That’ll make his old tongue waggle!”
    At this moment, long before he caught the downwind scent of the hound, Baradoc knew that Lerg was close to him. And with Lerg would be the others … yes, even Tia, for he knew the dogs would never have left her so soon. He slowly turned his head and looked back at the near trees. The group around the old man were too busy with their own business to pay any attention to him now.
    Enghus had taken a dry branch and was holding it in the fire the end of it flaming in a great yellow-and-blue tongue. He whipped it from the fire and swung it around to kill the flame and fan the thick end into a living red coal. The moment it glowed well Enghus danced in, cackling with delight, and drew the red end slowly across the old man’s chest. The old man, his body jerking violently, threw his head back and screamed, the echoes of his cry beating back from the surrounding woods, setting pigeons flighting from the far treetops.
    Behind him on the fringe of the trees Baradoc heard the shaking of a bush and a quick breathing as someone moved behind it. Slowly he turned his head. Momentarily the sunlight flashed on a scrap of fair hair. As another scream from the old man rang in his ears, Baradoc sat up so that the top half of his body would cover any approach from behind. All he wanted now was to feel the dagger thrust at the thongs of his wrists behind him, and then to have the dagger in his free hands to slash his ankle bonds.
    The old man screamed again. Baradoc watched Atro and Colta supporting the long, thin frame and Enghus dancing back to the fire to heat up the brand for a fresh assault. Anger burned in him at the wanton savagery of the three. Then he felt his left arm grasped, heard Tia’s heavy breathing and took the warm body smell of her into his nostrils. He strained at his wrists to stretch the thongs