“Oh, good Myke you found a table. I swear the beer’s bitter, but after a few sips it actually tastes...” Tolrep stopped dead at the table’s residents. “Stromgald? What?”
“Lord Jekai.” There was a tension just beneath the surface of the words.
“Of course, of course. Do you mind if we join you? I think we have grand tales to trade.” Tolrep glanced over his shoulder and his crew dispersed like salt on ice. There were gone, but Mykel had no doubt the crew was close enough to hear the details while spread enough not to attract attention.
“So you escorted Cullen here,” Sylver said.
“Yep. Met the Solvicar in charge, too. Big guy by the name Willard Hunt.”
“Hunt.” Jade Raptor said; the word twisted with disguise.
“You know him, Raptor?”
“I know of him, Boss. When he’s not praying, he’s fighting. Heretics, thieves, everyone the Church deems unfit. It’s said he mastered the sword at two years old. Raised by priests in secret...well the details don’t matter. What matters is that he is good at his job. Very good. We will be in very big trouble if we cross him.”
“Fortunate, then, that it is not the case.”
“I don’t understand the problem here,” Mykel piped up. “With an event like this, every townsman and his mother will be there. Where’s the danger?”
“It is not the way these things work,” Sylver said patiently. “Too many people risk too many would-be heroes taking matters into their own hands. Not to mention the opposing force sneaking armies into the area for ambush. The less people know the trade, the better.”
“But this is no ordinary trade,” Shayna said. “Remember how the priests were bragging about their church serving as the haven between the two parties? This plot has all the trappings of publicity.”
“So there will be people, despite what the runt says.”
“Funny Orson. Very funny.”
“Well, Raptor? Will this Hunt risk the scenario?”
“He’ll follow orders to the letter, no matter how unsound it might seem. We can get in. If we come as a group.” Raptor’s brow wrinkled. “If you have us. Our reputation precedes us, Boss. That may turn the tide. If anything can.”
“We will have to risk it,” John answered. “The hostage trade will be –”
“Tomorrow morning,” Matt supplied.
“Tomorrow morning, then. I think we’d better separate so as not to attract too much attention. We’ll meet here and then coordinate our entry.” With that the group dispersed.
XLIX
The church grounds were naturally tense. On one end massed a Coicro force numbering in the dozens. On the opposite end was an equal mass of Solvicar. In between the air smoldered and crackled with the sheer hate both sides had for the other. There was no question that violence would erupt. It was merely a matter of time.
All heads swiveled in the presence of gate-hinges creaking. Murmurs chased the grounds as details of the approaching wagon became clear. Twin columns of guards garnered attention as much for the red garb they wore than the six-foot long lances stiff against their sleeveless arms. Only one faction in all the Amden land wore such colors. “The Cardinal, the Cardinal.”
Indeed, it was Cardinal Omeros, red skullcap topping his head, allowing only a few curly tendrils to frame his face. Sky-blue eyes offered the friendliness of a favored grandparent, and the thin lips and the too-wide smile below cast an air of practice. Or perhaps there were just the remnants of Mykel’s last meeting. He did want the library. The library that turned into a nightmare.
“My bishops did not want me to come,” Omeros was saying. He stood upon a wooden dais that appeared from nowhere, adding a few feet to his already outstanding prestige. A slight wind ruffled the churchly haven, lifting the man’s red robes in a banner of passion...or blood, depending on whom was bearing witness to the spectacle. “They spoke ill of our ruffian cousins, saying that they would dare stoop so low as to murder each other for their causes. I say nay to this. Revenge is but the irrational urge against great personal injury. As God’s elite, we must be beyond such petty impulses.
“Perhaps I am not the proper one to talk of this. I was once a man, my children. I knew the bitter taste of injustice when I watched my family cut down by petty crooks. I knew the temptation of violence when years later, I happened upon the confession of the bandits’ youngest member. The braided window between us was fraying twine, my children. It would have been easy to break that twine, to rip out the youth’s throat, to feel the heat of his blood pump between my fingers. But I did not do this. I am a man of God. God sent this youth to me because He knew I was the one most prepared to deal His forgiveness to that tortured soul.”
Interesting. Mykel scratched his brow with his fedora. I wonder how much of this is true.
“I know that the heart of every man here believes their cause is just. I feel the devotion to that cause as ardent as you. Your only crime is forgetting that while God holds the sword in one hand, He holds the laurel in the other. Look upon you. The sword is for defending those unable to defend themselves, not for spilling the blood of your brother.” The crowd roiled with murmurs. The man loves to hear himself talk.
“Everyone holds a debt. Not to the slain, but to those the dead has left behind. Their wives and children. Their parents and grandparents. The sons and daughters too young to know why their fathers aren’t coming home. What will you do when God draws you to their homes? What will you do when you ask their forgiveness? Will you hand them your sword so that they may take your life in compensation for the lives you have taken from them? Or will you see their faces in sleep, night after night? I tell you this is not what God wants. Not for His own children.”
Mykel twitched. What the...The familiar tug of imprisonment, of raging against one’s bonds. Ifirit. Something had sparked it to life, and by the sheer force of the contact the khatar had not wakened peacefully. The librarian played a game of hot and cold, letting Ifirit’s anger pull him to where the threat was focused...and an arrow sped from an open tower window. Chaos exploded into being as the arrow buried into Omeros’ shoulder. Solvicars cried vengeance as the Coicro cried foul, and in a heartbeat, men began cutting each other down.
None of this mattered to the librarian. The assassin was skilled enough in the eldritch arts but he was not the crux of things. There was someone. . . someone else pulling the strings. Mykel found he was seeing colors and patterns mortal eyes failed to observe. He was seeing in coursing energies of manna. He was seeing the world through Ifirit’s eyes. In one white-hot instant both librarian and gauntlet found the source of the wizardry, and although there was no physical evidence to support the two, they knew the warrior with terrible finality.
Sutyr.
The librarian barely knew the stairs and corridors he traveled. All that mattered now was the man-shape two floors above, a mass of churning, roiling white flame. Ifirit roared in equal parts glee and disgust. It wanted to find Sutyr. It needed to find him, and it was dragging Mykel along with it.
Finally, there was a room without doors, without egress. Sutyr stood at the far end, waiting with his butcher-blade Rekka. With the chase over Mykel found himself in control of his faculties, memory blossoming to life in vivid haste. The trail of ashy footprints that wove a serpentine path up and down staircases, across rooms and windows, across terrified servants shoved aside like wooden dolls. With a start Mykel realized Sutyr had left those prints deliberately. He wanted to be chased. He wanted to be caught. With welling rage, he took a step towards Sutyr.
The fireplace belched flame that breasted the demon in twin spires before joining again in a crimson lance. Mykel felt the heat prickle his body as he flung himself aside. The Fire slammed into the bri
ck wall behind them, throwing up a fog of steam that reddened bare skin. Mykel gritted his teeth against the pain and started once again towards Sutyr.
Hungry Wildfire. Impatient Volcano. Berserker’s Bloodlust.
Patting the Head. Poking the Nose. Tapping the Shoulder.
Buried beneath all the rage Mykel realized Sutyr’s katas were those applied to those meant for children in their first days of training. The other’s arrogance smoldered the librarian’s already-churning rage to new heights.
Sparked Flame. Heedless Desperation. Candlelight Flutters Against the Wind.
Holding Child’s Hand. Humor of The Generous Parent. Smiling at Mischievous Youth. Except Sutyr substituted the last blow of the Youth with a right cross that sent the librarian crashing into the far wall. Mykel struggled to his feet and made a decent imitation of a fighting stance, despite every muscle being on fire.
Now Sutyr pressed the attack. Volcano Casts a Tall Shadow. Mykel’s right eye stung from all the blood dripping from the brow. Cradling A Phoenix. Strange that so much blood sprayed from one little slice. Falling Comet. Half an inch deeper and the librarian’s lower jaw would have been severed.
Slowly Mykel realized that Sutyr was growing bored. First, he held the butcher-sword with both hands. Now he was holding it with one hand. Raging Furnace. Waking the Dragon. Hekate’s Wrath.
Mykel barely managed to block the Wrath and found himself in a deadlock he had almost no hope of holding. There was enough rage in him to stare Sutyr down, stare in that visor of starless night, the face of the abyss, cold and sterile.
Again the librarian twitched, and suddenly each torch extended and lashed out, curling with hissing laughter about his limbs. Jerking free was a mistake; the flame coiled harder; Mykel could feel the flesh crisping under the flame, shying away as pink turned to black. He had to bite his lip from the pain, bite his lip in despair as the Fire-chains whipped up and down, sinking into the floor and roof to mimic the spread-eagled harness employed to the prisoner awaiting execution. Caught so damned easily, came the thought. Compared to the failure, the Fire was a pittance.
“I’m disappointed. Each time you fail to play your part in the game. I don’t know how you survived this long, but it no longer matters. The game ends now, and I am the victor.” With the sickening groan of contorting bone Sutyr prepared Rekka the butcher-sword for the deathblow. “Goodbye, librarian.”
Time slowed to a crawl and raced in a blur at one and the same moment. There was a tremor, dull and low, and yet the floor danced as if crazed, howling as the wood was ripped from their mooring, fluxing between liquid and solid, gathering together into a giant spear. Sutyr’s scream was delicious as the spear pierced him through the back to pin him to the tower wall. The cords of Fire disappeared, and Mykel slumped to the ground as if boneless.
The scream came again, blasted to full now the world returned to its original dimensions. For a moment, the librarian knew the sweet euphoria of vengeance fulfilled. Only when reason snapped back into place did Mykel’s marrow grow cold. His hands. His hands were free. Almost as if on cue the same sconces that provided the Fire-chains uncoiled themselves into metallic serpents that closed Sutyr’s hands and feet in a mimicry of the harness used on the librarian. Serves you right, you bastard.
Hands helped him up, wrapped his wounds in linen. They had to tug him away from Sutyr’s frenzy to safety. Mykel smiled at John, hands glowing emerald. “You’re always saving me,” the librarian managed.
“I ought to start charging you,” the Weirwynd ranger answered. “Son of a bitch!” The librarian turned and cursed. The Geo-tendrils held naught but air. Sutyr had disappeared. “How the hell did he...”
“It doesn’t matter,” said John. “Sylver, Raptor, get him to the infirmary. Now. We’ll handle things here.”
Sylver smiled down on Mykel all the way down the stairs. “You’re an idiot, you know that? What were you thinking, going after Sutyr like that?”
Mykel managed a lopsided grin. “I knew you’d be there to save me.”
“Right,” said Raptor. “Boss was right. We should start charging you.”
Mykel smiled. “Is it all right if I go to sleep now?”
“Go right ahead,” Sylver said. “You’ve earned it.”
Darkness, for a time. Upon waking the world was blurred. “Lazarus?”
“You’d be in much more trouble if I was,” said the blurred stick-figure of a man.
Mykel blinked until the man returned to focus. “Matt?”
“In the flesh, so to speak.” The pirate hunched over one of many small stools scattered about the room. The bed that Mykel felt under him was also one of many; each one paired with a self-same stool. An infirmary. Panic settled in. “Did they put leeches on me?”
“Leeches? No. What gives you that idea?”
“How long was I out? Did anyone touch me? What did they do to me?” There was a crack, and the world spun sickeningly. Matt shook his wrist back and forth. The pirate had a fist like an anvil. “What the hell was that for?”
“It worked, didn’t it? Why the hell does a physician scare you?”
Mykel felt himself shrinking into his blankets and hated himself for it. “They just do.” Fortunately, the privateer had enough experience to know not to push the issue.
“What about Jekai and Cannon?”
“Cullen,” Matt corrected.
“Cullen. What happened?”
“He and Jekai are alive, but in hiding. They made a deal by the skin of their teeth, but their declaration came too late. The respective armies took great losses, and the losses have traveled faster than the treaty. It’ll be weeks before the news gets to the field commanders.” Matt scrubbed his face and sighed.
It’s always darkest before the dawn. “What will you do?”
“Continue being a puppet.” He cut off the obvious question with a glare. “The arrow used by the assassin is a custom fit. Some party is eager for the war to continue.” The door knocked, and in came the ranger party. “The Tennant’s about to leave. I have to get back.” A gesture stopped the obvious question. “I’ve been charged to find someone. I don’t know if he’s alive or not, but...” Tolrep broke off, then started again. “Don’t worry, I found you a ride. Should be coming any minute now.” Again he turned to the door.
“Matt. Thanks for saving me.”
“Just think twice before chasing a bastard on your own next time.” He traded handshakes and farewells to the rangers and was gone.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” said Sylver, who cuffed the back of his head.
“What was that for?”
“Chasing that bastard on your own,” said Orson. “Didn’t your mother teach you a lick of sense?”
“Yes. I was stupid. Can we get past that now?”
“Oh no,” Orson laughed. “You’ll not hear the end of this for some time.”
“You did put a pretty big bullseye on your ass,” Raptor added. “You had to know this was coming.”
“I guess.” He looked up at them, saw the uneasiness. “What will you do?”
They exchanged glances. “We’re splitting up to separate counties,” John finally said.
“Why?”
“There are some people who want this war to continue, people that will lose a lot of profit if peace descends. We’re going to cut their controlling interests at the head.”
“Cripple the enterprises supporting those behind the war effort to end their control.”
“More or less,” Stromgald said. A curl of a smile tugged his lips. “Brilliant deduction.”
“I read a lot.” The world was spi
nning, now. “I want to go, but I’m tired.”
“That would be the poppy-milk taking effect.” John said. “Try not to get into trouble.”
“I’ll try...Good luck.” Then the darkness swept him and took him away.
L
All right, Shayna thought. Let’s go through this one more time. I’m not going with you. You could have died. You ran off and left me all alone. Her brow furrowed. You didn’t even think twice about me, did you? You ran off and abandoned me, damn you! Damn you damn you damn you! She started at Mykel’s groan and clutched his hand. He looks so frail. Especially with the bracer. Unbidden her thumbs stroked the knuckles of that dead arm. Please wake up.
The whisper of footsteps set Shayna’s skin prickling. She doused the lantern, grabbed a nearby crutch and put herself squarely before Mykel’s sleeping frame. It was clear the new arrival was a novice in this futility. No assassin worth his salt would carry the knife at angles in which the moonlight reflected off the steel, much less bump into the only guard in his path. A simple blow to the ribs sent the intruder sprawled over the furniture, and a quick flare of light from the lantern cast the idiot in all his pathetic glory. “Brother Daniel.”
Two different kinds of rage colored Daniel’s face: that a cripple should have sanctuary when every instinct demanded swift retribution, and the baser, more primal hate of being upstaged by a mere girl. “You don’t know the trouble he brings. He is an abomination! God wants him to die!” The rest of his words were cut off by the whistle of the crutch’s end at his Adam’s apple. She tensed. The fire in his eyes was familiar; the possessing clarity of faith. Shayna tightened her grip on the crutch...and...
“Stop, my son.”
Shayna blinked. A man stood framed in the door’s lanterns as though he’d been there the whole time. She knew the man from history tomes, as did every schoolchild. Cardinal Omeros. Shayna held her breath despite herself. Looking at the man made her skin crawl.
Sefiros Eishi: Chased By War (The Smoke and Mirrors Saga Book 2) Page 51
