Blood & Stone: The Saboteur Chronicles Book 3

by J. V. Roberts

The two soldiers looked at each other and shrugged before unbarring the gate and pulling back on the handles.

  She didn’t wait for the dust to clear. She ran out to meet Dominic with Coen following. Dominic was close. Close enough for the hoof-beats of his horse to reach her ears. Close enough for her to see the arrow sticking out of his chest. He brought the horse to a halt twenty feet from her and sat wobbling in the saddle, his eyes half-closed from exhaustion. His face was white and dripping sweat, there were fingernail shaped scratches on one cheek, his hair clung to his scalp, and his shirt was soaked through with blood.

  “Let’s get you down, babe.” She was trying to keep the panic out of her voice, trying not to let the worried lover push aside the rational soldier.

  Coen was on the other side, trying to pry Dominic’s boot loose from the stirrup as the two soldiers by the gate looked on with curiosity.

  “You want us to go get—”

  “No!” Lerah snapped. “Just stay where you are!”

  Dominic started to come free from the saddle and Coen hurried back around to help bear some of his weight. His knees buckled when he hit the ground and they struggled to pull him upright.

  “We’ve got to take a look at that wound. Hold him.”

  Coen struggled to keep Dominic steady while she used one of her daggers to cut through his soiled shirt; aside from the arrow wound, the flesh on the top of his shoulder was ragged, torn, and burning like hot coals.

  “That’s bad.” Coen was looking at the arrow.

  “What do you mean?” Lerah knew what he meant: the redness, warmth, and the smooth, hard, swelling that had formed around the shaft. But she needed to hear it from someone else.

  He looked at her with fear in his eyes, the words hanging on his tongue.

  “Speak!”

  “We’ve seen many wounds like this in Anthena. None have survived it.”

  “None of those men were Dominic. Come on; help me get him down to the doctor.”

  Dominic’s heels dug into the ground as if Lerah had spoken some magic word. He was suddenly able to hold himself upright. “No,” he croaked.

  “Dominic, if we don’t get that arrow out and treat—”

  “He killed Hawthorne,” he spoke as if he’d been holding his breath for too long.

  “Now isn’t the time to worry about Draxus, big guy. We’ve got to get you cared for.” Coen had an arm around his waist and was trying, fruitlessly, to move him through the gate.

  “No,” Dominic shook his head, “not Draxus.”

  Lerah signaled for Coen to halt his efforts. “Who killed Hawthorne?”

  His chest rose and fell rapidly as he gathered the strength to speak, then he looked at Lerah. “Eirik.”

  “I don’t understand, you’re saying Eirik killed Hawthorne?” Coen searched his face for the same truth Lerah had found.

  “That’s what he’s saying.” Lerah didn’t need convincing. “Tell me what happened.”

  “We got ambushed. Eirik saw his chance to flee, to abandon his men as they were being slaughtered. Hawthorne got in his way and he cut his throat.”

  “But wait…hold on. Eirik…he wouldn’t. I just can’t imagine.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you can imagine. I believe Dominic.”

  “What’d he say about Eirik?” One of the soldiers by the gate caught wind of their conversation.

  “None of your fucking business! Stay put!” Anger that was meant for Eirik fueled her words.

  “You better watch how you speak to me! He’s my Commander! You’re not in charge around here, woman!” The soldier stepped beyond the gate, hands on his hips; he was freckle-faced and scrawny, even in his lumpy armor.

  “Come over here and I’ll bury you! Feel free to test me!”

  “Hey, listen, it’s okay; she’s just worked up. Stand by the gate and let us get him inside, then pull the horse in for us.”

  The soldier relented and returned to his post.

  “Dominic, is Emily okay?” Coen clenched his teeth and closed his eyes, bracing for the impact.

  “I did everything I could. Offered myself up for her. But Draxus wasn’t doing any bargaining. I’m sorry, Coen. She’s dead.”

  Coen nodded as if he’d known all along. “I appreciate you trying.”

  They moved inside the gate. Dominic had his arms around their shoulders; he was shirtless and posted up as if he were ready to be crucified.

  “We need to get him down to the doctor.”

  “No,” Dominic and Lerah spoke at the same time.

  “No,” Lerah continued on for both of them, “we go to the castle.”

  “Wait? Why? Shouldn’t we talk about this?”

  Dominic shook his head weakly. “No talking. We’re going to kill that motherfucker. The motherfucker that killed Hawthorne is the same motherfucker that got Emily killed.”

  “I get that. But we have no plan. We’re outnumbered,” Coen said.

  “That’s how I like it: always outnumbered, always outgunned.”

  “Lerah, say something.” Coen was starting to sound panicked.

  “You heard him.”

  Rapid footsteps approached them from behind. Lerah brought her hand up, ready for a fight.

  It was Roserine.

  “What happened?” She jumped in front of them, shaken by Dominic’s appearance.

  “It’s good to see you too, Queen.” Dominic managed the early stages of a smile.

  “Eirik killed Hawthorne.” Lerah was eager to get moving; the faster they got to the throne room, the sooner they could get to killing Eirik.

  “That bastard! And what of Emily?” she asked, riding the tattered wings of dying hope.

  Dominic shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” Lerah said.

  Silent tears fell from her eyes. She walked to Coen and hugged him around the neck. “I’m so sorry.” She kissed his cheek and held his face in her hands. “I know you loved her so much. And I hope you know how much she loved you. She talked my ear off about you.”

  Coen nodded, choking down his emotion. “She was…everything to me.”

  “I know.” Roserine hugged him again and stepped back, wiping her tears. “So you’re going to confront Eirik?”

  “That’s the plan,” Lerah said. “Will Osiris side with us and turn Eirik over to justice?”

  “When it comes to my uncle, I honestly don’t know. Eirik helped put him on the throne. On the other hand, he doesn’t really need him anymore. My uncle claims to love Anthena. He claims to have loved my father. Claims that he has my best interest at heart. If all that is true, I can’t see him letting this stand.”

  “One way to find out, I guess,” Lerah said.

  “We’ll need to be quick about it. Draxus let me live to let you know of his numbers and deeds. To let you know that he’s on his way and that he intends to take this place back. I saw their torches last night. They weren’t far behind me; a few hours at the most.”

  “Very well,” Roserine said.

  “I’ll need a sword.” Dominic lowered his eyes to the empty sheath on his waist.

  “Before you do anything, you’re getting that arrow removed from your chest.”

  “There’s no time!” Dominic protested.

  “There’s time. You can’t afford to fight with that sticking out of your chest. You will die.” She reached out and stopped short of touching the wound. “Way things look, you may die anyway, but at least you’ll be able to maneuver and the pain will be less; doctor can bandage that shoulder too.”

  “Will you stop saying he’s going to die! Neither of you know Dominic the way I do!” Fuck the Eval. Fuck Eirik. No matter what, Dominic was not dying. Her sanity was already fractured and he was the thread holding the pieces together.

  “Enough! There’s no time for any of this horseshit! The Eval are coming!” The act of speaking seemed to send agony coursing through his body.

  “Minutes, Dominic. It’ll take minutes. We’ll do the minimum requir
ed to get the job done; yank it out and patch you.”

  “And what if Eirik decides to leave the castle?” Lerah asked.

  “You and Coen will remain here and make sure he doesn’t. If he tries…I don’t know…improvise. We’ll return shortly. Dominic, can you walk?” Roserine asked.

  He slid his arms free from Lerah and Coen and stumbled like a drunken sailor in a hurricane before finding something that resembled balance.

  Roserine shook her head and propped his arm around her neck.

  ***

  It took fifteen minutes to reach the doctor and another thirty for him to get the arrow out and perform a flimsy, patch job on the wounds.

  Doctor Brogan, a man with long, white nose hair and oversized earlobes, shook his head. “Roserine, dear, I’m not proud of this. The man needs stitches. Medicine. And for the sake of the gods, he should not be walking.”

  “No time, doc.” Dominic sat up, holding his chest. “We’ve got an appointment to keep.” He picked up a water jug from beside the bed, emptied it, and sat it on the floor; his mouth was still dry, but at least his lips were starting to feel more like flesh than paper.

  Roserine took Brogan’s hands. “There are Eval coming. I need you—”

  “Eval? Does the King know? Have the people been alerted?” Brogan went from calm to frantic without any wind-up.

  “Cut that shit out. Listen to her. We don’t have time for all that.” He stood and rolled his shoulder. It was looser, for sure. But he still felt dizzy and hot, like he was baking under the Wasteland sun.

  “Doctor, you’re a good man.” Roserine patted the top of his hands, comforting him. “The people trust you; you’ve seen them at their best and worst. Wait fifteen minutes after we leave, then I need you to go into the market and alert the soldiers; show them the arrow you pulled from Dominic, then start gathering those that can’t wield a weapon and getting them to shelter.”

  “And when I’ve gotten them to shelter, then what?” He turned his head from Roserine to Dominic, scared and willing to accept instruction from either of them.

  “You grab something sharp and you get to killing.” He was holding open the door to the clinic. “Let’s go, Roserine.”

  “Good luck, doctor. Thanks for everything.”

  On their way back up the stairs, Dominic stopped by the house and took the pistol from under the mattress. “Just in case,” he said as he tucked it inside his boot and pulled his pant leg over it, “just in case.”

  ***

  Niall was late getting to the mine. The rest of his men were probably down there chipping away and cursing his name. He’d been up with his wife most of the night, holding her hair as she puked into a bucket. He had just missed the commotion surrounding Dominic’s return as he moved through the field, eyes half-open, mind half-awake.

  As he slid into the darkness of the mine shaft and began wedging his body through the tight spaces, feeling the cool slabs of rock against his back, he was tempted to stop and grab a few winks; nothing too crazy, just a few. The rest of the guys wouldn’t know. He was already late, what would a few more minutes hurt? But Niall couldn’t do that. He was in charge. He was a strong believer in hard work and fulfilling one’s duty; it was the only way he could put his head down on the pillow at night with a clean conscience.

  He was getting deep into the mine and it was still quiet. Too quiet. He should have heard the faint clinking of hammers on rock, should have heard the bass-drum voices of his men. But there was nothing. Quiet as the grave.

  “Hey guys, it’s Niall, sorry I’m late,” he called as he moved around the final bend and ducked under a rafter into the main chamber.

  What he saw turned his blood to ice.

  His crew was kneeling in the middle of the floor. They were bound and gagged. Some of them were beaten up. Their tools had been discarded about the floor. It looked as if they’d put up a fight.

  Good for you, boys.

  Eval warriors—at least two-dozen of them—lined the wall of the chamber; demons bathed in the orange flame of torches. They were painted up black, with bulging muscles exposed beneath intermittent layers of leather and fur.

  Niall’s hand moved to the weapon on his hip.

  “You sure you want to do that, old man?” The beast had a rounded belly and a mountain of muscle resting atop his chest and shoulders. His black hair was parted neatly down the middle, and a long, triangle-shaped beard lined his jaw. He displayed the stone head club he carried in his right hand.

  “You’re going to kill me anyway. I intend to die on my feet.”

  “You’re right. We’re going to fill this chamber with the blood of you and your men. But how we do that is up to you. You draw that weapon and we’ll make sure we take you alive. You’ll watch as we cut your men apart. We’ll kill you last and just as slow.”

  He dropped the weapon and went to his knees. A few of his men lowered their heads and closed their eyes; perhaps praying or thinking of the families they’d never see again. Niall had been their last thread of hope and now that was gone.

  “How’d you get in here?” he asked as an invisible figure bound his hands.

  “We dug. We dig our homes out of virgin soil. Through rocks and roots, we tunnel. Did you really think a few stones would keep us out?”

  “A few stones and your lack of knowledge regarding its location. How’d you find it?”

  “A little torture loosens even the tightest lips.” The laughter was a ghastly echo. “Go ahead and start,” he said to the men nearest him.

  Three Eval began moving among Niall’s men, slitting their throats and shoving them face-first to the ground. A few started crying. A few pissed themselves. Two tried to stand up before having their knees kicked out from under them. Niall turned his head away. He’d gotten drunk with these men. Broken bread with them. Knew their families. Knew their hopes and dreams. He didn’t want the last images he had of them to be ugly.

  The beast—the man in charge—stepped through the slaughter, dispassionate eyes locked on Niall as he spun a dagger in his left hand. “Gonna do you myself.” He said it as if it were a favor.

  Niall raised his head and bared his neck. He was silent as the sharp edge of the blade began slicing through his flesh. He fell face down. Blood pooled beneath his cheek, his eyes closing against his will as he watched the Eval filing from the room.

  45

  Dominic, Lerah, Roserine, and Coen were let into castle Volkheeri by the two soldiers standing guard out front. Everyone except for Dominic wore armor of some type.

  Roserine wore her usual blouse and black underbust corset. Over the top she wore boiled leather armor: black arm bracers and banded greaves. Coen wore a simple leather chest piece over a wool shirt. And Lerah was dressed much like Roserine—blouse, corset, leather pants—but wore nothing on her arms and legs. Dominic was shirtless, wearing wool pants and a sword; his armor was all muscle and rage. Something was different inside him. Moving and multiplying. Coursing through his veins. Gnawing at him from the inside out. Making his head go all funny and floaty. No armor would protect against it. His instincts were dulled. He was running at half speed. He had to try to stay nimble. Light. Eirik would most likely be in his bulky platemail. Agility was Dominic’s best hope for an edge.

  The throne room hadn’t changed aesthetically. There were three soldiers on each side of the room—six in total—leading up to the throne; they were watching Dominic with curious expressions. Osiris sat on the throne. Standing behind him, in Emily’s spot, was the devil on his shoulder: Eirik. As predicted, he wore his plate armor and sword.

  “Son, you look frightful. What in the hell happened?” Osiris scooted to the edge of the throne, clinging to the armrests.

  “That bastard behind you is what happened!” His voice was crashing thunder; whatever strength had left his body was back, at least for the moment.

  Stunned silence followed his combative accusation as the four of them continued walking two-by-two; Dominic and Ler
ah were out front and Roserine and Coen were behind them, staggered out to the left and right. Dominic stopped a few feet from the foot of the throne and drew his sword; Lerah, Roserine, and Coen followed his lead.

  “Men!” Eirik bellowed.

  The six soldiers lined up behind Dominic and company, waiting for the command to strike.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Osiris pounded the armrests and rose to his feet. “Roserine, I thought you capable of many foolish things, but I couldn’t have imagined this.”

  “This isn’t about you. It’s about him.” Roserine pointed Eirik out with her sword; the blade reflected the torchlight suspended about the room, giving the appearance that it’d been set aflame.

  “You’re all here for me?” Eirik took a step down from the throne’s platform, his bulky armor sending out a single, metallic clink as it shifted with him. He tapped the tip of his sword against the floor as if he were making a dinner toast. He was all smiles and confidence; an unsurprising disposition considering he had six soldiers in one pocket and a King in the other.

  “I need to know what this is about and I need to know right now!” Osiris’ finger fell across each of them.

  Dominic didn’t wait for anyone else to explain. “Commander Eirik fled the battlefield, he left his men to die and he killed Hawthorne in the process.”

  “And he cost Emily her life!” Coen rattled with nervous aggression.

  “I had high hopes for you, Coen. It’s a shame to see you standing beside such weak minded, traitorous scum.” Eirik gave an insincere sigh.

  “Your disappointment in me is encouraging, Commander.”

  Osiris looked lost for words. He was not Eirik’s ally; there was genuine confusion on his face.

  “Uncle, you claim to love Anthena. You claim to respect my father’s legacy. You claim to care for me. If all that is true, then you cannot allow this treachery to stand.”

  Osiris’ eyes fell to the back of Eirik’s head. “Commander Eirik, you told me your men were dead, that you fled to save your life. Tell me these accusations aren’t true.” He was standing on the throne’s platform, looming over Eirik, the back of his legs brushing the throne. He moved his hand to his sword and had a reverse grip on the handle.