"Surely not alone the whole way."
"We had an escort," the lady said. "They are on the way back to their caste."
"What news from Leodia?" The man had not removed his hood. His eyes burned intensely from the shadows.
"Leodia? Word from Leodia is always rumor these days, most of it untrue." Cully shrugged. "Liars looking to profit from slandering the good name of the king."
"What rumors?" The stranger's voice was strangely insistent.
"Why, that King Lucretius has gone mad, that he sent Marcellus Admorran to his death in Bruallia, that the Rangers were recalled from the Borderlands." Cully chuckled. "You see, just rumors. Just the thought that the king would send the Champion of Kaerleon to his death..."
Cully's voice trailed off when the stranger did not smile at all. "Why do you wish to know about—?"
"It's nothing." The stranger turned his attention to his plate once more. Seeing himself out of chicken, he attacked the potatoes and bread. With his free hand, he tossed a jade toke on the counter. It spun for a long time, alternating between the face of King Lucretius and the Lion of Kaerleon. "I'll need two rooms, adjoined if possible. We'll need to be awakened before dawn."
"This storm may not be over by then, sir."
"First light," the stranger said. "And I'll need to know where to go to trade horses. Ours are blown."
"If it's a horse you need, I have a stable out back. The best in Letega, I swear on my swords. I can trade with you myself."
The man chuckled in a familiar way. "Still a jack of all trades, Cully Golder?"
Cully looked up sharply. "How do you know my name?"
"How's the knee these days?"
Cully automatically shifted his weight. "A little stiff right now, but–wait, how would you know...?"
The stranger drew back his hood so Cully could see his face. He gasped in recognition.
"Because I was there the day you nearly lost it," Marcellus Admorran said.
THE TWO MEN WITHDREW into one of the inn's private rooms. Books lined the shelves, and the bar was well stocked. Cully poured apple brandy into a pair of glasses. He handed one to Marcellus.
"It's been a while since the Siege of Letega. You haven't changed at all, you lucky dog. Now me..." He patted his round stomach for emphasis.
His cheerful demeanor fell as he leaned forward. "The word on everyone's tongue is that you're a dead man and that Lucretius was the one who buried you. They say that he has publicly flogged heralds from Runet and Jafeh, insulting the two most rebellious provinces in the kingdom. We're at the brink of rebellion, and the king huddles with strangers, so it's said. Folk that no one has seen in the kingdom before. Now, I'm a good king's man, but His Majesty's wits have bloody flipped if half of what I hear is true. So what in the fiery pits of Narak is going on?"
"I know as much as you," Marcellus said. He didn't touch the brandy. He had changed into dry clothes courtesy of Cully, and now looked at least halfway civilized. Since he was a friend, Cully didn't even charge him for them. Besides, it had been quite some time since he could fit into anything that size.
Even so, Marcellus had changed much since Cully had last seen him. His face was harder, his eyes almost feverish. He constantly shifted, never sat still. It wasn't nervousness, Cully knew. It was the wariness of a wolf, the tension of a spring coiled and ready to release unpredictably.
"People are looking for you," Cully said. "That's why I pulled you back here. A man came through a few nights ago asking about a dark-haired fighting man traveling with a young, pretty woman with long golden-brown hair. He's circled all the inns, promising seven amber tokes for anyone who brings him word of your whereabouts."
Marcellus didn't appear disturbed. "What sort of man?"
"Big fellow. Fighter for sure, probably a mercenary. Shaved head; ugly, scarred face. One eye missing."
Marcellus froze. "One eye missing. Was his name Gile Noman?"
"That's it. Didn't know the last name, but I remembered the name Gile. An odd type of name, I thought. You know the man?"
Marcellus stroked a thin scar on his cheek. "I know him. There is much that I owe Gile Noman. Do you know where he is right now?"
"He comes and goes. Makes rounds every few days. Men like him don't stay in one place." Cully eyed Marcellus, whose face had hardened, eyes glimmering with quiet rage. "Do you want me to make inquiries?"
Marcellus considered for only a moment before shaking his head. "I cannot wait for anything, not even Gile Noman. If he follows my trail then we will meet again, fortune willing. But I must ride swiftly. The fact that these rumors abound show how much uncertainty there is. I worry about my family. Since I was betrayed, what's happened to them? If any harm has befallen them..." The unspoken threat hung in the air.
Cully shifted uncomfortably. "Let's not be too rash, lad. Remember, all we have to go on is rumor. Lucretius has never been the type to explain himself, but his actions have always been just. There has to be more to this than what meets the eye."
"There is much more to it. I know that now." Marcellus gazed into the contents of his glass as if for answers. "Someone desperately wants a war, Cully."
"A war?" Cully winced at the twinge in his bad leg. "Do you truly think that's what all of this is about? Seems too complicated. Wars are started by bad blood and greed. Not by pulling strings from Kaerleon to Bruallia."
"Depends on who's pulling the strings," Marcellus said. "Right now the most fearsome warlord in the Outlands has the perfect excuse to bring his forces over the Dragonspine. Thanks to Lucretius' mad decisions, the kingdom is the most fragile it's ever been. We won't be able to make a stand in time. Not against fighters like the Bruallians. Leodia will shatter like pottery."
Cully cursed softly. "Bloody chasms. If that's true then what can you possibly do, Marcellus?"
"It is what I must do that torments me," Marcellus said softly. "It is good to see you, old friend. I would speak more at length, but there isn't any time. Be sure to awaken me before daybreak."
BEFORE DAWN, CULLY provided his friend and the lady with fresh horses and full saddlebags. "Deis watch over you, my friend," he said as Marcellus mounted.
"If He will." Marcellus looked to the western horizon. "Stay away from Kaerleon. A storm is coming."
The lady appeared as if to say something, but Marcellus spurred his horse forward. She gave Cully a regretful look and galloped swiftly after Marcellus, toward the expanse where thunder rumbled in the dark clouds. Cully watched until they were lost to sight, then sighed as he turned away.
"No point in worrying, old fool," he muttered. "There's nothing you can do."
When Cully returned to the inn, Gile Noman sat at the bar. The bulky, disheveled man downed a tankard of ale and wiped his mouth with the back of a calloused hand, scrubbing the stubble on his face with a scraping sound.
"Word is I just missed some guests. Bloody hate when that happens."
Cully gazed at Marilee, the serving girl who practically cowered behind the bar counter. Her pale face and furtive glances toward Gile made it obvious that she was terrified.
"Go upstairs, Marilee. There's linens that need changing."
The girl practically ran out of the room. Cully swallowed, trying to summon his nerve as he turned to his visitor. Gile had a notched, well-honed dagger in hand, using it to trim his filthy fingernails.
"Heard it was a dark-haired fighting man and a pretty young girl with golden brown hair." Gile's pale, blind eye glimmered in the firelight. The other one was lost in the shadows of his face. "Just the description I gave to you not two nights ago."
Cully folded his arms. "Maybe it was. I get a lot of guests. And I never told you that I was looking for your amber. Not if it comes at the price of betrayal."
Gile snorted a laugh. "You know him, do you? Friends with the Champion of Kaerleon. Not a lot of men who can make that claim. Bloody good for you. That means you can tell me all about what he said. What his plans are. Where he's going." H
e peered at his nails, never looking at Cully.
"Maybe you can take your inquiries elsewhere," Cully said. "The Town Watch don't stand for folks that threaten the good folk around here. You'd best move on before you get clapped in irons for your trouble."
Gile's leg snapped out and slammed into Cully's bad knee with an iron-shod boot. Something crunched, and Cully gasped as he crumpled ungracefully to the freshly swept floor. A groan escaped his clenched teeth from the fire that lanced through his leg. Panic seized him as he tried to gauge the damage, wondering if he'd ever use that leg again.
Gile was on him in an instant. Cully's breath exploded from his lungs when Gile slammed a boot into his chest. He wheezed and fought for air as Gile drove a knee into his abdomen and seized one of his hands. There was a glint of steel and the stinging bite of a razor's edge on his little finger.
Cully screamed when the finger was cut off. His feet kicked helplessly, but Gile held him down as easily as a child. Cully gritted his teeth as his hand throbbed and twitched, streaming blood.
Gile grinned as his thrust the severed digit in Cully's face. "I thought you were a soldier, fat man. I've raped wenches with more balls than you. One little finger and you're squalling like a bloody tot." He flung the finger across the floor and brought his leering face close to Cully's. "I know you're counting on your scrawny barmaid to fetch the Town Watch in time to save you, right? Might happen. But it might be you want the rest of the fingers on your hand, too. So you better start talking and don't bother with telling lies. Gile knows a tale when he hears it, and for every one you spit, I cut off another fat finger." His lips peeled back in a wolfish grin.
"How many you keep is up to you."
Interlude: Worran
Worran and his band came across the pair of travelers near the stream. He smiled inwardly. Where there was water, there would always be victims. With all the marauder bands roaming the countryside, word had spread and travelers were scarce. When they did risk crossing the long roads, they usually did so in armed groups. It was a wonder that he and his men came across anything short of fully guarded caravans. Running across two travelers alone was the equivalent of gold raining from the heavens, especially since one of them was a woman.
The man turned at the sound of hooves, eyeing them warily as he pulled the lady's mare to the side to let them pass. Worran smiled. Their saddlebags looked quite full, a bonus. Pickings had been slim for days. Worran and his four mates slowly circled the pair.
Worran's best mate Iram juggled five brightly-colored balls as he guided his horse with his knees. He'd been a former menagerie entertainer, but purses were lean these days. He'd reunited with Worran a month back. "And what have we got here, lads?" His throaty voice was rich with amusement. "A lady and her guard, perhaps? Brave souls to be traveling alone, aren't they?" The rest of the band laughed.
Strangely enough, the man did not display any fear of the armed band. "Has the arm of Parand become so lax that criminals like you are allowed free rein?"
Worran smiled as he continued to guide his dappled gelding slowly around the pair. "The arm of Parand been lopped off, wanderer. Thanks to the great King Lucretius. His order is that none in Parand bear arms except Leodian soldiers." His grin widened. "And they are far and few. The law of the sword is what rules Parand now, and there are five swords to your one, sir. Best if you submit to our rule now, yeah?" His band snickered at his wit.
Steel glimmered from the stranger's eyes, though his voice was emotionless. "You and your friends should leave. Just turn back and keep going. There's no need for you to die, boy."
The man was serious. Worran almost hesitated but barked a laugh instead. "Let's see how brave you are with a sword in your gut."
The lady held out her hand warningly. "Please. You must listen. He will kill you all if you don't."
Worran threw back his head and laughed. "You have pretty eyes, but no grasp of numbers, milady. Not to worry, we'll make this quick," he said. "Quick for your bodyguard, anyway. We may have to spend a bit more time with you, yeah?" His band laughed again.
Scarcely had they moved when Iram's laughter cut off with a gurgle. His eyes bulged as he clutched his ruined throat. The balls he'd been juggling toppled unceremoniously to the ground.
The stranger wheeled his horse around, a bloodied sword in hand. His eyes blazed. The woman pulled her mount back, gasping. Worran stared. He hadn't even seen the man draw the blade. It was impossible.
The others scrambled for their arms as their horses shied at the scent of blood. Two of them died before they could pull the blades from their scabbards. Their bodies toppled almost peacefully as the stranger's horse reared. It hardly seemed enough time for all of it to happen.
Worran exchanged frightened looks with Raegan, the last of his band. They approached cautiously, wheeling their horses to flank the seasoned killer.
The man leapt from his horse to Iram's, narrowly avoiding a wild swing from Raegan. A savage backhand caught Worran in the face, scoring stars across his vision. His sight returned just in time to see the stranger seize Raegan from behind and lift his sword across his neck. As Raegan struggled, the stranger slashed. Raegan fell with blood spraying from his throat.
In an unbroken flow of movement, the warrior rotated the sword backwards and thrust.
It took a moment for Worran to realize he'd been stabbed deep in his stomach. When the stranger pulled the sword free, the ground rushed at Worran. Surprisingly, he didn't even feel the impact. Heat pounded in his ears as his life trickled across the stony roadway in scarlet rivulets. Flutters of white floated in front of his eyes, undisturbed in their innocence by the display of violence.
It was snowing.
The stranger dismounted without a further look at the fallen men or the lady, who stared at him with her face pale and surprisingly angry. The stranger searched their saddlebags and removed their coin, waterskins, and provisions. Rearranging the bags, he chose the freshest horse and remounted. He grabbed the bridle of another and turned to leave.
"Wait." Worran's voice was a dying gasp.
The man paused.
"Your name. Good...to know your killer's name...yeah?"
"My name is Marcellus Admorran," the man said. "May Deis have mercy on your soul." He dug his heels in and galloped down the road to Leodia, followed by the lady.
Worran choked on blood and his own bitter laughter. The very man that he'd been instructed to be on the watch for. The order had come from the highest source, from the others he served, and the reward far more than Worran could ever make robbing people on the roadside. He tried to laugh again, but the humor was lost as his eyes glazed over and snow powdered his motionless body.
Chapter 19: Anon
Although the many curious glances, and most important, the sunlight could not penetrate the windows of the white carriage, Anon could see out of them clearly. Snow fell steadily, but the cobbled road was well traveled and the snow did not stick as it did the surrounding countryside. The ride to Kaerleon had been slow and boring, so he had amused himself by gazing at the passersby and imagining their stories. What they had done in their short time on the earth.
That grew old quickly on the long road from Runet. Humans did little except scurry and die. Much like insects.
So many of them now. Who would have ever thought that they would come so far along?
Anon adjusted the cuffs of his sturdy dark blue uniform coat. The Captain of the Imperial Guard was a title that fitted him like the outfit, with its golden embroidery and the lion emblazoned on the right side of his chest. Black boots and gloves completed the outfit, and lace spilled from his neck and cuffs. A bit more elaborate than the last Imperial Captain. What was his name? Oh yes, Rodell Pariot. The man had been an honest fool, making it easy to persuade Lucretius to dismiss him over some frank response or another. Anon received his rank over other more creditable candidates, a slight that raised ire even among Lucretius' staunchest supporters. All the more to further destroy
Lucretius' credibility and influence.
Anon leaned toward the window as the carriage bypassed a pair of travelers. "There. A man and a woman. I don't see a staff, but they seem to match the description–"
Rich laughter answered. He looked to his companion who sat across. Vivienne was a thin, narrow faced woman whose long lashes, beckoning eyes and sensuous lips barely saved her from what would have been a distractingly long nose. Her ivory skin contrasted with her raven hair which hung in ringlets to her shoulders. Her outfit was all black: a clinging gown of sheer velvet under a fur-trimmed stole embroidered in stars and crescents that hung from her slender shoulders.
She was of the Obdura sect, but he found her company to be pleasant, far from the reputation her Sect had for being rather...disagreeable.
"And how many pairs have we seen on this return trip alone?" Her smile displayed her perfect teeth, glowing from her ebony-stained lips. "Some with swords, some with staffs, some with swords and staffs..."
She yawned behind her gloved hand. "The girl could be among any of the castes in the Steppes. Traveling with one of the Rhoma caravans. Dressed in motley and dancing in a menagerie. You must face it, Anon. It was a fool's errand. We're fortunate our control in Kaerleon hasn't eroded while we were sent to those cursed wilds to seek one pitiful Shama and her new protector, this Marcellus Admorran."
"Why do you think he was allowed to live? Don't you find it a bit ironic that two of those marked by the High Lady are now in each other's company?"
"That's if we can trust the source of information." Vivienne's lips compressed, betraying her irritation. "This Gile Noman. Who is he? Why does the High Lady put such value in an uncouth lout like him?" She gave a delicate shake of her head. "No matter. Our task here is of far greater importance than chasing a silly girl and her disgraced champion."
Anon leaned forward. "The High Lady thinks otherwise. This Shama reportedly has found the staff Eymunder. Alaric has sought it for ages. The High Lady says that should he claim it, he will destroy all of the Sects. He has never loved us. We were only given the Gift to battle the Reavers. Should he succeed in curing the Co'nane, he will see us only as abominations that need exterminating."
The Eye of Everfell Page 22
