They did not look friendly.
A spear came in and prodded Brenner, who had managed towork his gag out. He cursed the spear-holder in no uncertain terms.
The deer-creatures spoke to each other in high-pitched voices, like bird calls. Even the deep-chested stag-men had shrill, lilting voices. It didn’t make them sound any friendlier.
Another spear poke, this time directed at Caliban.
He gritted his teeth.
The spear poked again, more insistently.
Pride had always been his besetting sin. Damn if he was going to scream in front of Brenner, after that little scene at the river.
The spear got in a solid jab. It didn’t penetrate the chainmail, but there was going to be a bruise under there in the morning.
Assuming we live so long.
One of the stag men reached down, grabbed his hair, and dragged his neck back. One blunt-fingered hand made an unmistakable gesture across the knight’s throat. The spear lifted.
Caliban didn’t break, but his demon did.
“Nghaa! Ha, ha, ngha’aa, halikaliha!”
The deer jerked back as one, with squealing gasps.
“That was either brilliant or incredibly stupid,” said Brenner.
“I don’t think it was brilliant,” Caliban muttered.
The deer gabbled to each other, with many hand gestures. One approached and checked the ropes.
Then the deer left them face down in the center of the floor. Caliban heard the woosh of hides being moved aside, the thump of hooves…then nothing.
After a while they had an argument. Actually, they had the same argument, in about three variations, about who was to blame for their current predicament. It was somewhat cathartic,but at the end of it, both men were still tied up and Caliban had sand in his mouth.
About an hour after that, the music started.
“What’s that?”
“Music.”
“Where’s it coming from?”
“Outside.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Finally, we agree on something.”
It wasn’t painful to listen to, it wasn’t bad, it was just…uncomfortable. It got in your head and started pushing things around. Every time the music skipped a beat, Caliban felt his stomach lurch.
His demon didn’t like it at all. Whenever the pipes rose to a crescendo, the muttering voice became a shriek, as if it was trying to drown out the noise.
What sort of noise can bother a corpse?
Brenner fell silent. Caliban worked his legs against the ropes, not because he had any hope of getting out—he didn’t—but because his feet were falling asleep. They’d tied him well, and he didn’t have Slate’s reckless disregard for joints.
“Can you get out of the ropes?” he asked the assassin.
