The man grunted in pain, and his sword clattered to the ground, his wounded arm unable to hold it. Aaron managed to catch his feet and turn in time to see the man charging him. He grunted as he was slammed against the wall, the air knocked from his lungs. His own sword flew out of his hand from the impact, so he swung his elbow, striking the man in the face. The soldier’s nose broke with a crack, but if it pained him he gave no sign. He punched Aaron in the face, and the sellsword’s head whipped to the side, blood flying from his mouth.
He looked back in time to see a knife darting at his face. He caught the man’s wrist and jerked his head to the side but the blade traced a thin line of pain on the side of his neck. The man brought the knife back again, but Aaron caught his wrist with the blade only inches from his eye. The man gritted his teeth, hissing, spittle flying from his mouth as he bore down with both hands, forcing the blade closer, and Aaron grabbed the man’s wrist with his other hand, straining to keep the knife’s sharp point away.
He realized something as the blade inched its way closer and closer to his face. The man was stronger than him. In another second or two, the knife would find a home in his eye and then it would all be over. Desperate, Aaron brought his knee up as hard as he could, catching the man between the legs. His attacker let out a noise somewhere between a squeal and a grunt and his grip on the knife loosened. Aaron took the opportunity to tear it from his grasp and ram it into the man’s stomach.
The soldier stumbled back, crimson blooming on his tunic in a spreading pattern, but Aaron followed him, tearing the knife free and ramming it in again. The man fell backward, and Aaron followed him down, stabbing all the while, spitting and hissing unintelligible sounds of rage and pain. By the fifth stab, the man’s struggles had ceased, and Aaron crouched above him, gasping in an effort to get his air back.
The man’s dead eyes stared up at him, an accusing expression on his face, as if Aaron had cheated somehow. Maybe hitting a man in the fruits was frowned on in official duels, but there were few things better for getting him to forget the knife he’s holding. “Anyway,” Aaron said, hacking and spitting out a gob of blood, “It’s the ones that live who decide what’s fair. Your boss knows that well enough.”
He struggled to his feet, shuffling to his sword and stopping long enough to yank his knife out of the talkative soldier’s throat before moving further down the alley. One of the soldiers had somehow managed to work his way around in fighting with the others so that his back was to Aaron. As he watched, the man moved toward Adina and May, the women backing away from him and circling as best they could in the narrow space the alleyway afforded.
Aaron moved up and rammed his sword through the man’s back, the steel erupting from his chest in a shower of blood. The soldier screamed in pain and surprise, and Aaron jerked the blade free, letting the man crumple to the ground in a bloody, moaning heap before turning to check on the others.
Gryle lay in the alleyway a few feet away, a stillness to him that Aaron didn’t like. He looked past him and saw that the first mate was facing off against the last soldier. One of Balen’s arms bled freely from a deep cut, and he held a small, crude fishing knife clutched in his other hand. Aaron noted a pale waxiness to his skin, no doubt brought on by blood loss. Still, it hadn’t all gone the soldier’s way—the small knife Balen held was coated in blood.
Aaron flipped his own knife over in his hand, so that he was holding it by the blade and hesitated. Darrell had tried to teach him the art of knife throwing but, truth to tell, he’d never been very good at it. To him, it had always seemed a terrible strategy, throwing away a perfectly good weapon. Still, he was too far away, and he knew by the way Balen was swaying on his feet that the man had little time left. The next time the soldier charged him would most likely be the last time.
So Aaron took a deep breath, raised his arm and then in one motion flung it forward, pivoting his feet as he did. The knife flew end over end until it came to rest, blade first, in the back of the soldier’s neck. The man dropped without a sound and, Aaron allowed himself a grunt of surprise before he turned to May and Adina, “Are you okay?”
The two women nodded, clearly shaken up. “Good,” he said, glancing at Gryle’s still form, “See to Balen.”
They hurried to the first mate, and Aaron shuffled toward where the chamberlain lay on his side, fearing what he’d discover. Please not dead. Hurt or unconscious, fainted even. But not dead. Aaron knelt down beside the chamberlain and put two fingers to his neck, breathing a sigh of relief as he felt the throb of the man’s pulse. Then, grunting with the effort, he rolled the chamberlain onto his back, searching for a wound. He frowned, not seeing anything except for a dark red mark on the man’s forehead where a bruise was already forming.
He slapped the chamberlain lightly on the cheek a few times, and the man’s eyelids fluttered open. “M-Mr. Envelar. Is everything okay?”
“I’d say things are just about as far from okay as they can get,” Aaron said, wiping an arm across his bloody mouth, “Still, we’re alive and that’s something. What happened to you?”
The chamberlain’s chubby face went bright red. “I was … trying to help Mr. Balen and … well, gods forgive me, I tripped. I went stumbling into the wall and the next thing I knew … the next thing I knew you were shaking me awake.”
Aaron grunted, “Well. The cobbles are slippery. Could’ve happened to anybody.”
The chamberlain nodded, an ashamed expression on his face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Envelar. I really am worthless.”
“Nah, not worthless,” Aaron said, “if I end up going to any balls or fancy dinners, you’ll be the first man I’ll come to for advice.” The chamberlain didn’t smile, and Aaron sighed, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Gryle. There’s worse things than not being good at killing. Anyway, we’re all still breathing, at least for the moment. I count that as a win.” He held his hand out to help the chamberlain up and the man nodded gratefully, taking it.
They walked to where Balen sat propped against the alley wall, and Aaron saw that Adina had ripped off part of her sleeve, using it as a makeshift bandage for the man. “You alright there, first mate?”
The older man grunted, smiling weakly, “Not the worst shape I’ve been in, but not the best either. Give me a pissed off ocean any day to a man with killin’ on his mind. Anyway, I think I’ll survive.”
Aaron smiled, “And thank the gods for that. I don’t want to have to be the one to explain to that crazy Parnen that we let his first mate get killed.”
Balen grunted a pained laugh, shaking his head, “Just about exactly the opposite to my reckonin’. You saved my life, Aaron. There’s some port whores that’d thank you, if they could.” He motioned to the man with the knife in the back of his neck, “One damn fine throw that. With us tangling like we was, just how did you know you wasn’t gonna hit me anyway?”
Aaron smiled and offered the man his hand, “I didn’t.”
The first mate grunted another laugh and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Aaron shot a quick glance at the corpses littering the alleyway before turning back to look at the haggard, frightened faces of his companions. So much for sneaking out of the city. “Strip the bodies of weapons. We’re leaving in one minute.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
“Hold it straight, damn you,” Belgarin snapped, and the youth recoiled as if he’d been struck, nearly dropping the full length mirror he held.
“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the boy said, his eyes widening in fear as he strained to hold the heavy mirror upright.
Belgarin stared at his reflection, frowning at the man looking back at him. His once midnight black hair—fine enough that more than one blushing maiden had given up what virtue she possessed as she ran her hands through it—was now streaked with a gray as coarse and lifeless as slate. The eyes that looked back at him were cold and hard, and the face, once possessed of the fine chiseled features of royalty had grown wrinkled and aged. He had
not gone to fat as so many nobles did, but the black and gray beard he’d cultivated did little to hide a face that appeared wasted and emaciated no matter how much exercise he got or how much he ate.
He thought of his father—it seemed he did that more and more as the years went on. King Markus had been known as a kind and just ruler, a man who had led his people to prosperity. He’d been known in his youth as a warrior and leader of men and in his later years as a skilled diplomat and peacemaker. But to Belgarin, he had been more than that. He had been the world. Before Belgarin’s brothers and sisters had come along, and it had been only him and his parents, his father had called him his ‘little laughing boy,’ had claimed, for anyone that would listen, that he was the happiest child he’d ever known, never crying or throwing tantrums like other children, but always smiling and laughing.
His little laughing boy. He wondered what his father would think of the man staring out of the mirror now, his blue eyes hard, sunken pits, an angry twist to his mouth that, try as he might, he never seemed able to banish completely. Belgarin frowned, turning to the sweating servant, “The glass is flawed. Leave and the next time you come, bring a proper looking glass instead of this poor quality craftsmanship, or it’ll be your head as well as your master’s, do you understand?”
“O-of course, Your Majesty,” the boy stammered, ducking his head in apology before hurrying away and closing the door behind him.
Once he was gone, Belgarin sighed heavily, “That was wrong of me.”
Caldwell stepped forward from where he stood in the corner of the room, his hands tucked in front of him in the long sleeves of his burgundy robe. “Forgive me, your Highness, but a king is never wrong. Even I could see that the mirror was of poor quality. If your Highness wishes, I will have a word with the boy’s master.”
“No,” Belgarin snapped, “I do not wish it. It seems to me that most of those you have words with are never seen again.”
Caldwell bowed his head, “As you say, Your Highness, though I beg you not to hold such against your loyal advisor. After all, I cannot help it if, when made to see the depth of their failures, men choose not to show their faces in your royal presence again.”
Belgarin sighed and dismissed the matter with an annoyed wave of his hand, “Enough, Caldwell, I don’t need any more royal ass kissing for today. Now, tell me,” he said, strolling to the window of his richly appointed quarters and looking out onto the city, “What of the rebels? Have they been brought to heel?”
His advisor moved to stand beside him, “Regretfully, they have yet to be taken in hand, though it is only a matter of time, of course.”
Belgarin turned to the man, frowning. He doubted there could ever have been a more nondescript man. Neither tall nor short, neither ugly nor handsome, his advisor was the type of man whose name you would forget a moment after meeting, and although the man’s face rarely showed any emotion, Belgarin sometimes fancied that he could see disdain in the man’s placid gaze. He slammed his fist against the wall, “You assured me that this would be taken care of, Caldwell. If, as you say, my sister really is with this group, they must not be allowed to run free in the city to turn the people against me. Unity. That is what we need now.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Caldwell said, bowing his head deeply, and Belgarin wondered if he’d only imagined the hate that had flashed in the man’s eyes. The truth was, the man had set him on edge since he’d become his advisor five years before, saving Belgarin from an assassination attempt made by one of his brothers, but there was no denying his effectiveness. It seemed to Belgarin, sometimes, that there was nothing the man did not know. Still … that look.
He narrowed his eyes, “Well? That’s all you have to say? You told me that our men had found them not two hours gone!”
“And so they did, Your Highness,” Caldwell said, “but those your sister travels with have proved … difficult. The fools that found them clearly underestimated them, and they died for their foolishness. Still, Your Highness need not worry—the same mistake will not be made again. Your sister and her companions will soon face the hangman.”
“No, of course not,” Belgarin sneered, “next time will be an altogether different mistake but, no doubt, with the same result. I tire of your pandering counsel, Caldwell. I go to see the Knower. Perhaps he will be able to give me something more than endless excuses. You will accompany me.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” the man said, and if being the subject of his king’s ire bothered him, he gave no sign.
Belgarin scowled, his eyes narrowing, “Were I you, Caldwell, I would very much hope that news of the capture of my sister and her companions reaches us soon. I grow weary of your failures.”
With that, he turned and strode from the room and so did not see the hate and disgust that flashed across the other man’s face. In another instant, the expression was gone as if it had never been, the placid blank expression that gave away nothing back in place, and Caldwell looked thoughtfully out the window for a moment before turning and following his master.
***
Belgarin walked the opulent hallways of what was once his brother’s castle, Caldwell, as always, at his back, his constant shadow. As he walked, he thought of his brother, Eladen. They had never been close—they saw the world too differently for that—but they had, at least, been family. He wondered when exactly that had stopped, wondered how disagreements had as children had turned into wars fought as men, but if there was a single moment at which to point, he did not know it. To him, it seemed that, as with most things, it had happened gradually, creeping up on them out of the night when they’d had their eyes turned.
Thinking of his brother made his mood grow dark, so that his eyes did not see the beauty of the tapestries hanging along the walls, nor did his feet feel the soft plushness of the hallway’s carpeted runners. He saw only the goal he’d set for himself so many years ago, felt only the memory of each sacrifice he’d made to get there. “We will be whole, Caldwell,” he said. “The kingdom will be whole.”
“Of course, sire.”
“When?” Belgarin asked, and whether he asked the question of his advisor or himself, he could not have said.
Still, Caldwell answered, “Soon, Your Majesty. The pretenders grow weaker with each passing day even as we grow stronger. Already our armies outnumber that of the pretenders two to one if not more.”
“We, you say,” Belgarin said, “Our. But the men do not follow you, Caldwell. No royal blood runs in your veins but that of some commoner whore, one who a drunken dockworker or some such spent a coin on to pass an idle hour, and yet you say we.”
If his advisor took offense at the comment, he showed no sign, his face remaining expressionless. “As you say, Your Highness. A whore, no doubt, but one that I must be thankful for, none the less.”
“Oh, and no doubt should we all,” Belgarin sneered. “And anyway, those pretenders you speak of are my brothers. My sisters. Even at their worst, their darkest, their blood is a thousand times purer than yours. And hear me, Caldwell,” he said, turning to face the robed man who stopped and met his eyes with that lifeless, reptilian gaze, “I will crush their armies, if I must. I will conquer their cities and put their fighting men to the sword, if it is the only way to bring the people of the kingdom together. These things, I will do. What I will not countenance is you speaking of them in that overly familiar tone as if you were good enough even to lick the dirt from their boots.”
“Of course, my lord,” the robed man said, bowing deeply, “Forgive me, for I misspoke. My wish is to serve you, nothing more.”
The man’s tone was all contrition and regret, but staring at his bent form, his bowed head, Belgarin thought he could almost hear something in it, could almost see something in that submissive posture that spoke not of anger, but a slow, deliberate plotting. He found that he was baring his teeth in rage, a low growl issuing from his throat, and he nearly reached out to strike the man. Perhaps then, he would show some h
uman emotion, something other than that damned obeisance that always seemed wrong somehow. Finally, he mastered his anger and his hands unclenched at his sides. “Follow,” he said then he turned and walked down the hallway.
Soon, they arrived at the rooms that were currently serving as the Knower’s quarters and, as they drew closer, they came upon several pairs of guards standing on either end of the hall who bowed low as Belgarin passed, saying nothing. The guards seemed tame enough, but should any but Belgarin attempt access down this hall, the intruder would see just how well-trained they were. If any man or woman was foolish enough to persist in attempting to gain entry, the guards were under orders to stop them in whatever way they might, including killing them if they deemed it necessary. None were allowed passage into the Knower’s quarters save Belgarin and Caldwell, and he only when in the presence of Belgarin himself.
Belgarin came to the set of guards nearest the Knower’s rooms and nodded to them. The two men bowed low in return but did not speak. Not that they could have even had they wanted to. To guard the Knower’s chambers was a great honor but there were certain sacrifices that had to be made for such glory. Namely, their tongues. Even these, the best of his guards, were not allowed to look into the room of the Knower but, in case they should happen to catch a glance in their duties, they’d been rendered mute.
The two men finished bowing and stepped to the side, the gleam of the fanatic in their eyes as they looked at Belgarin where he stood with Caldwell. It’s as if they think me a god, Belgarin thought, careful to keep the disgust from his face. He had not wanted to mutilate the guards, had been sure that their loyalty would be enough to stay their tongues should they see anything they weren’t supposed to, but Caldwell had insisted on the necessity and, eventually, Belgarin had realized he was right, had let go of his disdain for cruelty in the face of what was necessary. Sometimes, it seemed to him that it was all he ever did. After all, they all had their sacrifices to make.
A Sellsword's Wrath Page 3
