Stolen Dagger

by Shawn Wickersheim

  “Damn bitch!” Lipscombe grabbed her head with both his hands and slammed it repeatedly against the floor until the room went black.

  An uncomfortable burning pain between her legs drew Josephine out of the dark haze. Her eyes fluttered open. Lipscombe was on top of her, driving into her. Spittle dripped from his lower lip onto her face. Josephine screamed and tried to squirm free. Lipscombe introduced the back of his hand to the side of her cheek again. Her head snapped around and a tooth danced across the wood-planked floor.

  “Another noise like tha’, whore, ‘nd yer daddy’s dead!”

  Sobbing silently, she lay still and allowed Lipscombe to continue. His yellow teeth bit her neck and breasts. His alcohol-flavored tongue probed into her mouth. His left eye twitched faster and faster the more excited he became. He started grunting and rutting like some wild animal. His pace quickened. It felt like he was trying to split her in two. To keep from screaming out, she clamped down on her lower lip and turned her head to look at Lord Ian. He was still lying unconscious on the floor where Lipscombe had dumped him. She wished it was him making love to her and not the feral beast currently humping on her. Closing her eyes against the pain, she tried to imagine what it would be like to have a real man love her and want her for all of her, not just for the piece of her that lay between her legs.

  When Lipscombe finished in a flurry of flailing arms and legs, she rolled over and vomited. He kicked her in the face and then knelt beside her. “Ye ain’t done workin’ yet, whore,” he growled in her ear. Another drop of spittle dribbled onto her cheek, hot and sticky. She fought the urge to wipe it off.

  “What more do you want?”

  “Should I go ‘nd tell tha’ daddy of yers tha’ ye quit on him?”

  “No,” she mumbled between clenched teeth. “I’ll do what you want. Just tell me-”

  The right side of Lipscombe face curled into a sneer. “Strip him, ‘nd mount him.” He nodded toward Ian’s unconscious form. “He needs t’ think he’s been in ye.”

  “It won’t work . . . he can’t . . .”

  “I done made th’ mess, ye just hav’ta get it on him.”

  She could feel Lipscombe’s foul wetness leaking down between her legs. If she positioned herself over Lord Ian, perhaps that would be good enough. She crawled over to him and began to untie his trousers.

  “He has’ta think he raped ye,” Lipscombe snarled. “Rip’em off!”

  Chewing on her bottom lip, she tore at Lord Ian’s clothing. “I’m sorry,” she muttered under her breath.

  “I ain’t got all night. I got me a body downstairs tha’ still needs t’ be planted. Hurry up!”

  “I can’t lift him. Put him in the bed and I’ll finish.”

  Lipscombe threw her aside and tossed Ian’s naked body roughly on the bed. “Now git on ’em, whore. Let me see ye ride’m!”

  Josephine straddled Lord Ian’s hips. She did not want to put him inside her. Not like this.

  “C’mon, whore!” Lipscombe shouted. He slapped her butt hard enough to make it sting. “Hump him!” He slapped her butt again. “C’mon, hump him! Hump him!”

  “He’s already damp,” she screamed. “See!”

  Lipscombe slugged her in the face. She fell over backwards off the bed.

  “Stay there, while I finish up wit’ him!”

  Josephine curled into a ball on the floor. Lipscombe grabbed each of Ian’s hands and slammed them against the wooden headboard until they bled. Then he turned and eyed her again.

  “When he wakes, ye make it convincin’, y’understand?”

  Josephine nodded.

  “Make him believe he’s been doin’ ye for months.”

  “How?”

  “I don’ care, whore, yer th’ one tha’ been on stage. Make somethin’ up!” Lipscombe dropped down beside her and wrapped a chain around her leg. “This here will make sure ye stick ‘round.” He chuckled and locked two links together. “Th’ key’s ‘round his neck.” He pointed a dirty finger at her. “Don’ forgit, yer daddy’s countin’ on ye. Finish this right, make him believe it, or I’ll be sendin’ ye a present t’morrow night. Maybe one o’ ye daddy’s fingers, maybe a whole hand.” He stood and glared down at her. “Y’understand?”

  Josephine tried to nod, or grunt, but the world was growing dark again. Even Lipscombe’s shouts were sounding like distant whispers. He kicked her in the ribs and the air rushed out of her and everything faded out of sight.

  The next thing she remembered was waking up with Ian staring down at her. He seemed genuinely concerned and sorry for her and she felt terrible lying to him, but she knew Lipscombe would kill her father if she didn’t continue the deception. Lipscombe would probably kill her too if she failed in some way . . .

  Josephine pulled herself out of her grim reverie and glanced down at Lord Ian’s gift, the small bundle of gems. The sapphire alone could save her and her family. If she sold it, they could flee Belyne. They could start over anywhere, perhaps even leave Yordic and return to Gyunwar. Tears welled up again. The man she was helping to destroy had granted her family a chance at freedom.

  Josephine slumped against the tavern’s back wall, clutched the precious stones tightly against her stomach and allowed her tears to fall. Someday, she’d have her revenge on that bastard Lipscombe for what he’d done to her, but right now, she needed to cry. She needed to get it out of her system, so she could move on with a clear-head and save her family. Because once they were safe, there’d be nothing to stop her from coming back and tearing that wretched man apart, piece by piece.

  And she knew exactly which piece he’d lose first.

  Chapter 39

  Ian’s pace slowed as he reached Belyne Square. The muscles in his legs and calves burned from the steady climb up from the dock. Sweat poured down his forehead and stung his eyes. He mopped at his brow with his torn sleeve and searched the busy square for an empty bench. He needed a moment to catch his breath and to collect his scattered thoughts. During the strenuous hike, he had replayed Josephine’s disturbing account of the previous night repeatedly in his mind. He had no memory of their tryst and despite the evidence to the contrary, he knew in his heart he was not a brutal man.

  So why had Josephine claimed otherwise? Was she hoping to blackmail him later? It was not uncommon for lords and ladies of the court to fall prey to such traps. Unscrupulous men and women often sought out such weaknesses to exploit, but Josephine hadn’t seemed the type. When she had approached his and Kylpin’s table yesterday afternoon, she had done so hesitantly, and he would have sworn for a moment he’d seen a hint of fear and sadness in her eyes. Had it all been an act? Was she that skilled an actress? And why claim they had been lovers for months? What was she hoping to accomplish there? It just didn’t make any sense.

  Perhaps she was mentally ill or inflicted with some sort of bizarre disease. The docks were filled with such unsavory things. Ian shook his head wearily. There were simply too many possibilities and too many unanswered questions and until something else happened, there was nothing he could do about last night. The best course of action lay in putting her out of his mind. There were plenty of other issues at hand which needed his immediate attention and primary of these was finding a way to financially rescue his penniless friends.

  But try as he might, he couldn’t dismiss Josephine completely and his thoughts inevitably returned to her. She had been hurt, badly, and he couldn’t forget her pain. He found himself wishing he knew the truth of her . . . their . . . situation, because then . . .

  He paused, already knowing where his foolish thoughts were taking him. Ultimately, he would want to help her.

  Ian sighed and leaned against a nearby maple tree, hoping a bench would empty soon. He tried to appear nonchalant, but his ragged appearance was starting to draw the wrong kind of attention. Vagrants, especially Gyunwarian vagrants, usually stayed near the docks or hid underground in the catacombs beneath the streets. Few dared to climb the hill and enter the hear
t of the city because they became targets for the Yordician gangs or the roving patrols.

  From the corner of his eye, he spied three royal wardens. They were standing beside the base of one of the stone statues lining the center of the square. The largest of the three men was smoking a pipe and staring impassively in his direction. The other two faced away, revealing only a portion of their profiles, but he recognized their slovenly appearances. They were the same three wardens from the Prancing Piper. Ian shivered despite the heat. Were they following him?

  He turned away and spotted an empty bench on the north side of the square beneath the shadow of Chondalt’s Temple. Chondalt, the Father of Darkness, the Lord of Night, the Bringer of Ill Tidings, was one of a dozen major gods the Yordicians worshiped. Ian did not believe in Chondalt but considering the recent series of bad events plaguing him and his friends, he was beginning to wonder if the vile god actually did exist.

  He shuffled over and collapsed onto the empty bench making sure to avert his eyes from the dark temple. Gyunwarians, like himself, believed in only one God, the embodiment of All Heavenly Power, the Almighty. Alone, the One ruled the heavens above and to stray from Him was to fall from grace.

  Ian frowned deeply. Had he somehow strayed? Was he now being punished for some past misdeed or sin? He bowed his head and closed his eyes. Despite sitting in the shadows of the Chondaltian temple, he offered up a simple prayer to his God seeking guidance and forgiveness.

  “Lord Ian Weatherall,” a low voice called out, “is that you?”

  Ian’s breath caught in his throat. Surely, his God was not speaking to him directly! He hesitated, unsure if he should lift his head. If not the voice of his God, perhaps it was one of the three royal wardens. Perhaps Josephine had changed her mind and had reported him to the authorities.

  “Lord Ian?” the voice called again. “It’s Vincent Donner.”

  Ian ended his interrupted prayer with a quick ‘thank you’ and opened his eyes. A large, black coach bearing the eagle and sword crest of the Belyne Military Academy sat in front of him and his friend Vincent Donner was peering out from inside. A look of concern lined Vincent’s weather-beaten face.

  “It is you. I wasn’t . . . certain.” His silver eyes quickly appraised Ian’s disheveled appearance. “Are you ill?”

  “No, just praying.”

  “Pardon me for intruding.”

  Ian dismissed the apology with a simple wave of his hand. “I am finished. Do not be alarmed.”

  “I never took you for one to pray in public,” Vincent said softly. He was an unassuming man, neither exceptionally tall, nor exceedingly broad, but his compact body was solid muscle, and his keen eyes held a gleam of power which instantly drew others to his command. Years of vigorous training, first in Ryerton, and then here in Belyne, molding himself and other like-minded young men into hardened warriors had kept him lean and fit. Only the distinguishing streaks of gray above his ears in his otherwise long ebony hair betrayed his age as closer to forty than thirty.

  “I confess,” Ian said, standing, “I have not often attended church since moving to Belyne.” He hazarded a glance over his shoulder, but the mysterious wardens were nowhere to be seen now. Only a dissipating cloud of blue smoke remained by the statue where the trio had stood. Were they following him or was it just an odd coincidence?

  “Not many of our fellow countrymen do, I’m afraid,” Vincent replied. “The neglected temples here do not compare to the glorious ones in Gyunwar.”

  “Regardless their condition, during difficult times, I find myself turning to the One and asking for His assistance,” Ian said. “I only hope He is not perturbed by my inconsistency and my choice of location and is willing to listen to me.”

  “I am a poor substitute for the One, but I can offer you a sympathetic ear,” Vincent said, “and a ride home.”

  Ian climbed into the coach and settled against the thick leather seat opposite his friend. “I ran into some trouble down on the docks,” he offered though Vincent was too polite to ask, “and was forced to walk home looking, I’m afraid, less than respectable.”

  “You were waylaid?”

  Though he had known Vincent for years, Ian felt uncomfortable revealing the truth or at least the truth as he understood it to him. He did not want to repeat Josephine’s tale to anyone just yet, not until he had a chance to think upon it further.

  “Lately, more and more people have been beaten down there, some even killed in the darker alleyways,” Vincent continued in his silence. “And some of those bodies have been found with their heads missing.”

  Ian swallowed. “I . . . it was nothing like that.”

  Vincent nodded. “Some of my former students work for the City Wardens. They keep me apprised of the trouble down there. I heard about the fires. First your warehouse and then Caleachey’s ship. My deepest apologies! When I suggested Hans Mesbone and his Bloody Fists to you the other day at the Spring Joust, I thought for sure their assistance would deter saboteurs.”

  “Hans Mesbone never showed, and I believe some of his men helped steal my cargo.”

  “That is not the Mesbone I know!”

  Ian held up a swollen hand. His bruised knuckles ached. “I do not fault you for your counsel, Vincent. Even if they had remained loyal, I doubt they could have stopped the fire mage. In fact, for all I know, they were working together on the scheme.”

  The creases in Vincent’s brow deepened. “Had I any doubts about Mesbone, I would not have offered his name.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ve known Mesbone for years . . .” A look of concern flickered over Vincent’s broad face and his silver eyes squinted in thought. “I can’t imagine why he would turn against you . . . and me. I’ll have him found and brought around immediately for questioning.”

  “I would appreciate that.”

  “Consider it done.” Vincent gave him a sidelong glance. “I heard you also exchanged blows with Captain Straegar.”

  “I was trying to protect Lumist.”

  “I heard that too.”

  “Stories spread quickly in this city.”

  “You know how Yordicians like their gossip,” Vincent said. “I swear there are days I learn I’m going to stub my toe before I actually do it.” He leaned forward, his face hardening around the edges. “If Straegar gives you any more trouble, let me know.”

  “I’m not worried about him.”

  “Straegar’s not one to be taken lightly. He will never forget what you did last year.”

  “I was not the only one who voted in favor of your promotion over his.”

  “True, but since that vote, Lord Byron and Lady Leorna have met their ends.”

  Ian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The heat was stifling inside the coach and the smell of his own body odor and the implication of Vincent’s words were causing him to feel ill. “Byron’s and Leorna’s deaths were accidents.”

  “Perhaps. Still, I would hate to see a similar ‘accident’ befall you.”

  Ian stared down at his dusty boots. Whispers of foul-play had circulated after Byron had drowned in the Annachie River. Then, after Leorna was struck down by a runaway carriage, loud rumors of a revenge plot had spread throughout the city for weeks. No evidence was found to implicate Straegar on either death and his seemingly impeccable reputation remained intact. Ian chewed on his inner cheek. Was he being naive dismissing Straegar as a threat? He glanced over at Vincent. “I’ll be more careful next time.”

  “Good. I have enough to worry about as it is. I don’t need to stay awake at night worrying about you too.”

  “How is the new addition coming along?” Ian asked, seeing a way to change the topic.

  Vincent shook his head. “The building is on schedule, but if Lord Arbassi withdraws his funds, we might not be able to finish at all.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “One of his sons is in the Infirmary, injured on the training grounds during a routine exercise last night.
”

  “Another injury?”

  Vincent stiffened. “Admittedly, we’ve had our share this past year, but this is Lord Arbassi’s second son to be injured in the last two months. Without Lord Arbassi’s financial support . . .”

  “I’ll see Lord Arbassi tomorrow at the courthouse. I’ll talk to him. Surely, he understands the risks involved in any military training. Besides, he can’t pull the funding. Half the beds in that new dormitory will eventually be filled with his heirs.”

  Vincent snickered.

  Ian chuckled. The transplanted Seneician Lord had fathered an impressive brood of children, seventeen sons and two daughters by four different wives. How he managed to keep all his wives happy, Ian could not begin to fathom.

  “I’ve heard child number twenty is on the way,” Vincent added. “And, next month he’s going to marry wife number five.”

  “If he keeps this up, there won’t be any young women left in the city for you.”

  Vincent’s laughter boomed inside the coach. “If I were the settling down kind, I’d be worried.”

  The two men were still chuckling about the amorous Seneician lord and his many wives when the coach pulled up outside Ian’s estate.

  “Thank you for the ride home,” Ian said. The footman came around and opened the door for him. “Can I invite you and your men inside for a midday meal?”

  “Unfortunately, I must decline. My assistant, Captain Malcapin has a training scenario planned for this afternoon and he has requested my presence on the grounds.”

  “Another time, perhaps?”

  “As long as Gertrude still rules your kitchen . . .” Vincent laughed merrily and waved goodbye.

  Ian turned away from the departing coach and found Wynston waiting for him on the stairs. Heavy bags sagged beneath the old man’s steely eyes.

  “M’lord,” Wynston examined him sternly. “You need a bath and a change of clothes before your luncheon.”