“Now!” Jovan shouted. “Attack me now, you sniveling twits!”
Glade swung first. Jovan easily ducked the swing and Glade pitched forward, tripping over his shield, stumbling completely out of the action. Jovan lunged and swung twice in rapid succession against Lindholf’s upraised shield. Heavy blows. Lindholf fell to the ground, shield flying from his grasp. Glade was soon back on his feet and swinging at Jovan from behind. But the king whirled and blocked the strike. Glade swung wildly again. Tala’s brother danced out of reach, and Glade was thrown off balance by his own momentum. Jovan attacked with a flurry of blows and soon Glade’s sword and shield were lying in the grass.
“You’re out!” Jovan shouted, and turned back to a petrified-looking Lindholf, who was just climbing to his feet, weapon dangling near useless at his side. The king struck only once and Lindholf’s sword spun away. He folded to the ground in submission. “You’re out too!” Jovan threw down his practice sword.
He turned his back on the two boys and sauntered toward Tala. She gathered her thoughts quickly. She figured he was trying to prove his quality to what Silver Guards watched from the battlements. Her brother wanted to confirm to all of Amadon that he could still fight and rule with authority and power. Prove that even though he still suffered some of the ill effects of the assassin’s blade, he was showing he needed no Dayknight guards and acquiesced to no one.
Tala’s gut leaped up into her throat as Jovan’s hand lashed out and snatched the dagger from her belt. “This is mine!” he sneered, caressing the dagger in hand. “Weeks ago I demanded you dress like a lady. Still you disobey and dress like a man! It’s unsightly, a sister of mine strutting about my castle in pants and tunic, daggers and such at her belt. I will not have you behaving like Jondralyn whilst in my castle! You will dress like a lady as I bade you do!”
He snatched his fur-trimmed cloak from the grass and threw it at her. “Cover yourself!” The cloak hit her in the chest and dropped unceremoniously back to the ground.
“I think those clothes look very pretty on her,” Lawri said, her face turning instantly ashen against the bright blue of her shirt as she found the king’s dark eyes were focused on her.
Jovan raised the jeweled dagger up between them. “I will have the next who speaks without my leave stripped and flogged bloody right here.” His voice held grave warning as he stuffed the dagger into his own belt and turned back to Tala, prodding with his fingers at the sleeves of her shirt in disgust. He gripped the seam of her tunic atop her shoulder. “I’ve a mind to rip these rags right off you.”
“Please, Your Excellency.” Seita stepped forward, bowing. “If I may, your fair sister only dresses like this at my request. I’m afraid it was Val-Draekin and I who wanted to teach the youngsters swordsmanship here in the courtyard—”
“Silence!” the king shouted. Seita backed away.
“This is between me and my sister.” Jovan grabbed Tala roughly by the chin, forcing her to face him directly. “As Laijon is my witness, you will submit to my will. You are a princess of Amadon and Gul Kana. The one you are meant to marry will not want you looking like a common street vendor.” He let go her chin, gripped her tunic, and tore straight down.
Abruptly the courtyard seemed to lurch under Tala’s feet as she twisted away, causing the left side of her tunic to rend and tear in his pawing hands. “Stop!” she croaked, frantically trying to defend herself. But his hands were a flurry of clawing fingers. Her shirt tore completely away from her arm and shoulder. Tala clutched what was left of it together, stumbling back, feet instantly tangled in her brother’s discarded cloak. She fell backward to the ground, butt hitting hard.
Jovan came at her in a rage. She squirmed away, but he was on her quickly, snatching a fistful of her hair, dragging her through the cool grass of the courtyard toward the arched gate through which he’d entered. Tala’s frenetic gaze flew to Glade and Lindholf. Is there no help from anyone? She desperately tried to hold her shirt closed so as not to expose herself. She struggled to stand, fighting back a frenzied scream. But her brother kept dragging her by the hair toward the archway, hollering, “You will do as I bade you do!”
The pain jolting through her scalp was soon unbearable. “Help!” she called out. Yet nobody moved to stop him. They just stared.
Tala abandoned trying to cover herself with what remained of her shirt and grabbed frantically at her brother’s wrists, his arms, anything to gain purchase, anything to stave off the pain, anything to stop him from yanking out her hair. “Let me up!” she shrieked. But Jovan dragged her from the courtyard, dragged her under the archway, down a dark corridor, and into a dim recess. “Let me up!” she shouted. “You bastard!”
He finally let go her hair and hauled her to her feet. “You will do as I bade you do!” He slammed her against the stone wall. Face-to-face he screamed at her, “I told you to never—”
And then Lawri Le Graven was there, throwing Jovan’s fur-trimmed cloak madly at him. “Leave her alone!” she roared. The cloak struck the king in the face with a heavy, fluttering thwap! He swiped it to the floor.
Anger, lethal and calculated, hardened on his face. “You dare assault your—”
Lawri slapped him in the face, fingernails slashing. She struck again and again.
“Laijon almighty!” Jovan fought her off. “What’s gotten into you!” He shoved her away. “Crazy bitch!” He dabbed at the blood on his face with trembling fingers.
“Don’t touch Tala!” Lawri’s deep-throated shout thundered down the corridor.
Jovan took a faltering step backward as Lawri lunged at him again, both of her hands tugging at the jeweled dagger at his belt. They struggled together a moment before she pulled it free, brandishing the blade before him in her right hand. Her crazed eyes were ablaze. “Rotted angels!” The king backed away. “Insane fucking girl.”
Lawri’s lips curled in a ferocious grimace. And in the gloom of the niche, the emerald flecks in her angry eyes glowed. Jovan lunged toward her, seizing her by the wrist, wrenching it sharply as they both tumbled to the floor, struggling. Lawri lurched to her feet with a shout, clutching her left forearm, blood pouring from between the fingers of her right hand, soaking through the billowy sleeve of her blue shirt.
Crying, Lawri peeled back the sleeve exposing the wound. The dagger had dug a slick trench from the bottom of her wrist almost to the underside of her elbow, the flesh flayed wide. Jovan stood, dagger slipping from his grip and clattering to the stone floor. He did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart, his eyes bouncing from Lawri to Tala and back, horrified. “Bloody Mother Mia, you deserve worse than that, you foolish bitch,” he rasped. “You’ll be lucky I don’t soon hang you!”
Lawri tilted her head, eyes in a daze. She licked the dark stream of blood pumping from her gaping wound. Jovan’s eyes widened in horror. “Crazy fucking cunt,” he said, then whirled and ran down the corridor into the darkness.
Lawri stood half in the alcove, half in the passageway, staring at the blood draining from her arm, blood that was streaked with thin strands of glowing green.
“Let’s get you to the infirmary.” Tala’s voice shook with emotion.
“No!” Lawri screeched. “I don’t want anyone to know!” She also whirled and sprinted down the bleak corridor, but in the opposite direction of Jovan, leaving a trail of blood in her wake.
Numb, Tala crumpled to the floor and wrapped herself in her brother’s forgotten cloak. She felt no anger. Felt no confusion. She was just bone weary and full of pain.
* * *
And some worshipped the beasts of the underworld. For they had given their power and authority to the beasts, saying, “Who unto us is like the beasts, and who can fight against them?”
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR
NAIL
7TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
SOUTH OF LOKKENFELL, GUL KANA
; Where do you think he’s from, Llewellyn?”
“Beats the rotted dogshite outa me,” the young, shaggy-haired blond with a bow answered, raising the blue-fletched arrow to his chin, aiming its steel tip at Nail, pulling the bowstring taut. The outlaw is just a boy, no older than me. Nail flicked the hair from his eyes but otherwise remained still, the arrow now centered on his chest. Beer Mug barked.
The second outlaw turned his bow on the dog, saying, “Wherever he’s from, he’s got a nice horse and pony, don’t he?”
“Aye, Clive. That’s for sure.” Llewellyn’s arrow stayed fixed on Nail’s chest.
“But I reckon they’re ours now,” the ruffian named Clive said. He was tall and bearded and cast a covetous eye toward Nail’s pony, Dusty, and Hawkwood’s stout roan. Nail gripped the reins of both. He didn’t want to give up the two mounts. They had borne him this far and, aside from Beer Mug, had been his only companions since Ravenker. But all he had for defense were a few small daggers he’d found in Hawkwood’s saddlebag, plus a bottle or two of healing poultices he could possibly throw like rocks.
The morning mist had melted from above the grassy fields and the sun burned a little warmer here. A small wind rippled across the western plain and bore the rich perfume of morning peat; the scent of wood smoke drifted on that wind too, and with it the smell of cooking food. The aroma reminded Nail of the crushing hunger he’d been stricken with for days. On their journey, his two mounts and Beer Mug had seemed to scrounge stuff off the ground aplenty. The dog ate anything he found—he was like Liz Hen that way. They’d traveled through mostly dewy fields budded with new spring heather, drinking from cool streams trickling down from the Autumn Range. Wild blueberries had been thick along their trail, but early in season and sour.
High clouds scudded overhead, moving toward the Autumn Range, which rose up like a line of claws behind him—menacing, unforgiving claws with sharp shadows that raked down on him with shame. Everyone in Gallows Haven dead because of me. After ten days of hard travel north out of Ravenker, starving, lost, and alone, two arrows now poised at his chest, Nail felt that final bitter flavor of defeat.
Two more outlaws rounded the hedgerow below, a cloaked man with a sword and a thin, red-haired woman in a green tunic and leggings, a longbow and quiver of white arrows with blue-feathered shafts strapped to her back.
“Praed, look what we found.” Llewellyn addressed the cloaked man. “A deserter, I reckon.”
Clive added, “A worthless bloodsucking oghul leading two stolen mounts.”
“They belong to me.” Nail took a slow step backward up the hill. Hawkwood’s horse and Dusty shuffled back with him. Beer Mug barked again.
“Git that mutt to shut his yapper,” Praed ordered Nail. “Or I’ll have Judi here plug the thing full of arrows.” The woman stepped forward, her own bow at the ready now, arrow tip wavering between Nail and Beer Mug, settling on the dog.
“Please don’t shoot him,” Nail pleaded.
“Do you know who we are?” Praed asked. He was a tall and lanky fellow with a thin-featured face that might have been considered handsome except for the crooked teeth and angular nose. It was a face fraught with menace. He also had hollow eyes buried deep in their sockets. Strands of dark hair hung loose from the cowl over his head. He looked like one of the scarecrows farmer Wetherby kept in his cornfields south of Gallows Haven. He also seemed to be the leader of the group.
“Just don’t kill my dog,” Nail said. He couldn’t bear losing Beer Mug. Zane’s shepherd dog had padded silently next to him the entire way from Ravenker, curled against him for warmth at night, both of them sleeping in undisturbed haystacks and the like. The horse and pony had been solid but quiet company too. Nail had ridden Hawkwood’s horse at a brisk pace, making good time northward, seldom stopping. He’d hoped to come across Roguemoore and Godwyn and the rest. He couldn’t recall the name of the Lord’s Point inn that was to be their rendezvous.
Beer Mug continued to bark. The woman drew her bowstring taut. “All you gotta do is nod, Praed, and I shoot the mutt.”
“Just let us pass.” Nail stepped between the lady and the dog. Beer Mug stopped his barking, hackles still raised.
“He says let him pass,” Llewellyn chuckled. “You can’t just cross our fields without permission from Master Praed.”
“I just want to be about my own business.” Nail’s narrowed gaze scanned the western horizon beyond the four dour-faced outlaws. They were standing near the bottom of a slightly sloping hill. Nail held the higher ground. A small advantage if it came to a fight. But without a weapon of his own, it really didn’t matter. A hedgerow and a gray stone fence mottled by rich moss and lichen ran straight up the small hill just to the north. There were many farms to the west. Beyond all the farms lay what he assumed was Lord’s Point, barely visible in the far distance, twenty miles away at least, a vast expanse of walls and buildings—the biggest town Nail had ever seen. A town he would likely now never reach.
“What’s that injury on your neck, boy?” Praed asked.
Nail’s hand unwittingly traveled to the still-aching wound swelling around his neck from where the Bloodwood had tried to strangle him.
“Naught but a deserter,” Llewellyn drawled. “Probably scars from the hangman’s noose he done escaped from.”
“Aye, a deserter.” The one named Clive continued the line of thought. “From one of the towns about to be sacked by the White Prince. He’s done run off. Like a coward.”
“Is that what you are, boy?” Praed asked. “A deserter?”
“Be worth more to us if we turned him over to Lord Kronnin,” Judi said, her arrow still pointed at Beer Mug. “Let Kronnin hang him.”
Praed pushed back the hood of his cloak and drew a shortsword from his belt. “Give the horse and pony over and we won’t truss you up and haul you to Lord Kronnin for a hanging. Easy as that.”
Anger rose up inside Nail. If I only had the battle-ax! If only I had Forgetting Moon! He could imagine the gleaming weapon in his hands, the way it felt, comfortable, like it had always belonged with him. The sky pressed down. The wind picked up, striking his face. The push of air reminded him he was alive and still strong and not the type who gave in so easily. He thought of the daggers in Hawkwood’s saddlebag, wondered if he could grab the knives quick enough.
“Don’t do it.” The leader of the outlaws advanced, sword ready. “Whatever you’re scheming in your mind, don’t do it. I’ll kill ya before you take two steps. Just like I’ll kill ya before I let you walk off with that horse and pony.”
Beer Mug barked again. Dusty nickered and backed up the hill, dragging Nail, who still held her reins, with her. Hawkwood’s roan let out a nervous snort.
Then all the bows were lowered as each of the outlaws cast an eye up the sloping hill behind Nail. When Nail turned, he didn’t know whether to feel relief or more fear. On the hill above was a tall gray palfrey, lightly armored. A formidable-looking knight in black-lacquered armor sat atop it, face hidden under a daunting helm.
“A Dayknight,” Judi hissed.
The palfrey, nimble and precise in its step, cantered down the green hill toward them, the magnificent-looking Dayknight seeming to soar in the saddle as he reined his mount up beside Nail. With two black-gauntleted hands, the knight reached up and removed his black helm, revealing a familiar stern face and dark blue eyes.
Culpa Barra! Nail immediately recognized the blond-haired knight: Shawcroft’s friend from Deadwood Gate, the knight he had last seen in Ravenker.
“Nail.” Culpa nodded, placing the helm on his saddle horn with a natural nonchalance. “Well met again.” His eyes then turned to the four thieves. “Are you pestering my squire?” A haughty but fierce grin formed at the corners of his mouth. The outlaws were silent. The only sound came from a handful of crows milling near the hedgerow and a few goats bleating in the distance. “I said, are you pestering my squire?” Culpa repeated crisply.
“This boy is your squire?�
� Praed asked.
“Who are you to question a Dayknight?” Culpa gave the man a fearful squint. “And before you answer, be mindful, thief, there are more Dayknights like me coming up the ridgeline. You don’t want to start something that will get yourself killed.”
“He’s lyin’,” Clive said. “He’s alone, Praed. Let’s take him.”
“Praed?” Culpa’s left eyebrow rose. He dismounted with authority, his face distinguished by real anger now. “I know who you are. And you know me.” Ignoring the arrows now pointed his way, Culpa marched straight down the hill toward Llewellyn and slapped the bow and arrow from the young fellow’s grip. He snatched the bows from Clive and Judi, too, tossing them to the ground. He then faced the leader of the outlaws. “You were smart in not ordering them to shoot, Praed. I would have killed you all.”
“Let’s go,” Praed ordered the other three. “This is Tatum Barra’s son, and a fight with Tatum’s son is a fight the Untamed doesn’t need.”
Llewellyn, Clive, and Judi picked up their bows. With a nod from Praed, all four thieves made their way down the hill and around the hedgerow and disappeared.
And just like that the threat was over.
Nail met Culpa’s eyes, familiar eyes that he’d never imagined seeing again. Before Shawcroft and Nail had moved to Gallows Haven, Culpa had worked the mines north of Deadwood Gate with them. Nail recalled the sleek longsword a much younger Culpa had worn in those days, and how his master continually admired it. Now Culpa carried a Dayknight sword, same as Shawcroft’s. And the black armor he wore was a glorious sight. Shawcroft would certainly be proud of how Culpa had turned out. Nail had always speculated that Culpa was Shawcroft’s son. He’d heard them share stories and laughter together at Deadwood Gate. But Shawcroft never did laugh around me, and the only stories he told were naught but cruel lessons.
“You’re hurt,” Culpa observed. “Your neck there. Did those outlaws strike you?”
The Blackest Heart Page 5
