Free The Dark Defiles by Richard K. Morgan Page B

head.
    “The lady Archeth asks you a question! Answer, and be quick about it! Or perhaps you think little Eril’s jealous of the caresses his big brother’s had from my men. Perhaps he’d like some of the same?”
    The wailing from the next room redoubled. Critlin moaned deep in his chest and strained against his bonds. Nalmur grinned and raised his hand again.
    “That’s enough!” Archeth snapped.
    The hand came down. A small, angry smile played around the corners of Nalmur’s mouth for a moment, but he bowed his head. Archeth leaned in closer to Critlin. He shrank from her, as far as the chair-back would allow. The stench of shit wafted as he moved. She raised her hands, palms outward, and backed away again.
    “Just tell me,” she said quietly. “Was the body intact? Had it decayed at all?”
    “Intact,” blurted Critlin. “It was intact! The sheep was but recently slaughtered. We took it from Gelher’s flock and—”
    “All right, that’s it you little goat-fucker!” Nalmur, stepping in with fist clenched and swinging. Archeth swung up and round, put a knife-fighter’s block in the way.
    “I said that’s enough.”
    Nalmur recoiled from touching her, whether out of respect for rank or superstitious dread, it was hard to tell. But there was a tight anger in his face.
    “My lady, he is taking the piss. He’s—”
    “He is broken !” Her yell froze the room. One of Nalmur’s men, already on his zealous way to the other chamber, stopped dead his tracks. Archeth swung on him, pointed. “You! You step through that door, I will fucking kill you.”
    Tand stirred. “My lady, the man shows a distinct lack of respect, given his station. Joking at our expense should hardly go unpunished.”
    “I will kill you.” Still eyeballing Nalmur’s man. “Don’t test me, human.”
    And abruptly it was there in her head, like some unfolding map of a battle campaign she’d only heard rumors of until now. How it could be done, how it would go. The rest of Tand’s men, their positions in the room, the gnarled hilt of each knife she carried, how to reach them, in what sequence, how many bloody seconds it would take to fucking kill them all … 
    These fucking humans, Archidi. Grashgal’s voice, almost toneless, empty of anything but the distant trickle of despair, as the Kiriath laid their plans to leave. They’re going turn us into something we never used to be.
    Hadn’t he called it right?
    Didn’t she feel it herself, day in, day out, the corrosive rub of human brutality, human cruelty, human stupidity against the weave of her soul? The slow erosion of her own moral certainties, the ground she gave up with every political compromise, every carefully balanced step in the Great Kiriath Mission, every lie she told herself about necessary sacrifice in the name of building something better … 
    Through the doorway, the constant keening. Her hands itched for the hilts of her knives.
    Maybe it was just fucking time.
    Menith Tand was watching her, fascinated. She felt his gaze like shadow in the corner of one eye, and something about it pulled her back from the brink.
    “You want to live, you stand down,” she told the mercenary by the door. Voice flat now, as flat and emptied out as Grashgal’s had ever been. “Nalmur, get your men out of here.”
    Nalmur looked at Tand, outraged. The slave magnate nodded soberly.
    “But my lord, this man is—”
    “Broken. Remember?” Archeth fixed her eyes on Critlin as she spoke, didn’t look at Nalmur at all. She didn’t trust herself to. “You heard him break, you said. Like a rotten tree branch. Couldn’t miss it. Your work here is done, sellsword. Now get out, and take your thugs with you.”
    It took less than a minute to clear the house. Give Nalmur his due, he ran a tight enough crew. A sharp whistle brought a couple of younger mercenaries out of the room the keening was coming from. A gruff command and everybody trooped out, leaving Archeth and Tand