“To the dungeon with her!”
With that, some halberdiers hauled her roughly from the courtyard toward the open doors of the Keep. Pauloce turned away from the crowd to follow them, and signaled several other halberdiers. They came to the front to serve as a barrier between the Lord and the crowd—many that jeered had pressed forward to try and join in with the beating. The Prime Steward remained on the stone steps and gazed over the guards’ heads.
Gillis turned away and pushed through those that clamored to reach the front until he burst from the back of the crowd. Thankfully, he met no-one on the way back to his quarters. Once inside, he locked the door and drew out his dagger. He turned it over a few times, felt its weight, and slashed the air in front of him. With a long and steadying breath, he tensed his whole arm, his entire concentration on the dagger. Momaentum wake began to appear there, a blue shimmer that danced around his skin like a reflection of afternoon sun on water. He slashed again, but the Momaentum shimmer left him. One had to maintain complete concentration, without over-thinking, to use Momaentum properly. Gillis had never learned. The masters of the art could strike with blinding speed, and kill faster than the eye could see, as long as they wielded nothing heavier than a dagger.
Gillis tried once more, but could not move in harmony with the Momaentum. He cast the dagger from him and it clattered on the floor.
Why should I presume to fight guards? Gillis thought. It is not my place. It is far from my abilities to even attempt.
But it was also true that after seeing Amelia bloodied by Pauloce, Gillis could not bear for Amelia to continue to be Pauloce’s victim. None should be captured in that manner, beaten and humiliated and left to die.
If he could only manage to summon up the Momaentum and use it properly, it may not be entirely impossible. But should he try? There was little time to decide, too little time to pore through Ardent Momaenta and weigh the Principles against one another. He paced fretfully and pressed his palms over his eyes.
Say he did the appropriate thing, the proper thing. That would be to flee. Return to the Monastery, report the failure of the writ—the loss of Amelia—and allow others to step in and complete the assassination. Was that what someone aspiring to be the High Monk would do, though? Flee in cowardice? Leave an innocent victim to be executed?
Say he attempted the bold thing, the thing Gillis felt sure he could not do, excepting some miracle. He would need to fight through an unknown number of guards, and do it quickly, then escape with Amelia. He had not even been able to kill Beldas unaided; what chance did he have against even one trained halberdier?
He was a Mordenari. That meant his own desires meant nothing. His life was spent in devotion to the cause of protecting the innocent against the evil. If Amelia was in danger, it fell to Gillis. The decision was made, and as he thought that a cool calm washed over him and slowed his heart and breath. Choose always the greater good. And so he did.
Gillis picked up the dagger.
****
Night fell, and Gillis was as equipped and prepared as he could be for a rescue attempt. He wore his Prime Cook clothing, and though the outfit was bright red and yellow he believed it better to rely on the authority they afforded him than on some shadowy cloak that would draw all eyes. He had the vial of Hearing Oil and his sheathed dagger in the front pocket. There was room for little else. He knew the cellars and some of the long stone corridors underground, but not precisely where the holding cells were. There were, as Amelia had said, a hundred or more cells below ground. His only hope for finding her quickly hung on the strip of enchanted cloth wrapped around his arm, and the hope that she was wearing hers.
The hilt of the dagger dug into his side as he walked toward the dark and deserted Feast Hall. He froze as echoing voices came from the back of the Hall. Gillis pressed up hard against the Feast Hall’s outer wall, and peered into the first of the long windows. Two guards came out of a door on the far side of the hall, bearing a single candle. They laughed, then quieted and moved toward the front of the Hall. Gillis pressed harder against the stone wall and stood as narrowly as he could. The guards could go one of two directions: away from Gillis and toward the main Keep to patrol, or in Gillis’ direction on their way to their beds. His heart hammered. They may even split up. There were no bushes nearby—nothing but flat grass and dirt paths. The oak tree where he had hidden the previous day was too far for him to reach in time. The candlelight spilled across the grass by Gillis’ feet—they came his way. Their footsteps thumped on the ground, drawing closer.
Gillis leapt to the window closest to him and felt at it with scrabbling fingers. The smooth glassy surface would not give, nor was there any latch. The guards were at the corner. Gillis opened the front of his belt and dropped his breeches halfway down his thighs.
Candle-light fell across him and the sound of the guards’ steps ceased.
“Oi!” one said.
Gillis looked over his shoulder. “Do you mind?”
“Prime Cook Beldas!” the other said, and muttered to the other, “it’s the Prime Cook, ye idiot!”
“Sorry, Prime Cook,” the first said. “Only … what are ye doing?”
“Was just done watering his Lordship’s Keep,” Gillis said. “Now move along.”
“Right ye are. Sorry, Prime Cook Beldas.”
“Sorry,” the other said.
Gillis hoisted his breeches and re-did the belt. He turned to see the guards speaking in heated mutters as they moved away from him. The one that had first spoken pointed at Gillis, and they stopped. Gillis slipped his hand into his pocket to rest on the dagger hilt, and then walked quickly around the corner of the Feast Hall toward the doors.
“Wait!” The first guard returned, holding the candle. His companion followed a moment later.
“You are trying my patience,” Gillis said coldly. He gripped the dagger hard.
“Lord Pauloce doesn’t like folk pissing on the buildings. Just thought ye ought to know. Carry on.”
“Fine. Be gone,” Gillis said.
“Where are ye going?” the second guard said. They both looked at him straight on.
“Lord Pauloce sent for me. Wishes to eat,” Gillis said.
“I didn’t hear about that,” the first guard muttered to the second, who whispered something back.
“Never mind us,” the first guard said, and with a cheery wave said, “good night, Prime Cook Beldas.”
Just don’t bloody come back again, Gillis thought.
He stole inside the Feast Hall and made for the back door to the cellars, as fast as he dared. The echoing footsteps he made warned him to ease his pace, but he pressed on quickly.
Bright firelight burst into life behind him and threw dancing orange patterns across the Hall that wreathed around the new shadow Gillis cast. He turned and saw the Prime Steward flanked by the guards he had just spoken to. The firelight came from a brazier by the door, which was already blazing with high, bright flames. The blades and tips of the halberds, held tight in the guards’ hands, glinted in the angry light. The Prime Steward, taking measured steps forward, had something small in his hand. The three approached Gillis together in a slow stalking pace, as though Gillis were a rabbit cornered by foxes. A glint caught the object in the Prime Steward’s hand: a vial. It was the Hearing Oil. Gillis’ feet felt bloodless.
“Spies and assassins,” the Prime Steward said. “They never come alone.”
“What are you talking about, you old fool? I’m getting Pauloce his food,” Gillis said.
“Liar!” The shout came to Gillis from two sources—one his pocket. He even felt the vial vibrate against the hand that held his dagger.
Gillis backed away from them at the same rate they advanced. As they passed the rows of empty tables, the guards quickened their pace. Gillis released his dagger and clutched the nearly empty vial of Hearing Oil in his own pocket.
The guards rushed forward, and at that moment Gillis threw his vial of Hearing Oil to the
hard stone floor. An immense thundercrack came through the Prime Steward’s vial, which exploded and sprayed the Steward and the two guards in a mist of its contents. All three of them clutched their ears in agony. Despite the ringing in his own ears, Gillis leapt forward and plunged the dagger into the old Steward’s throat. The man fell backward and writhed feebly as blood spilled from his throat and lips. Gillis stuck the dagger into the neck of the first guard, but then the dagger was wrenched from Gillis’ hand as the chainmail of the halberdier’s armor caught on the blade. The second guard leveled his halberd to aim at Gillis’ chest and approached. Gillis scrambled away, and caught snatches of the slapping sounds his feet made on the stone as his hearing returned.
As the guard advanced, he worked his jaw and shook his head. Droplets of Hearing Oil shook loose as he did, but he was still coated in it.
“Any more magic tricks, Cook?” the guard spat. “Or shall I just run ye through now and be done?”
He swung his halberd and Gillis leapt back. It grazed across his chest, and, though shallow, it felt like a line of fire.
“Faster than ye look, aren’t ye?”
The halberdier swung again. This time, Gillis stumbled and fell back into the puddle of Hearing Oil, the vial he had thrown down. He gasped and scrambled to his feet, then stomped down on the broken glass, hard, and dragged it through the Hearing Oil. The halberdier bent double, dropping the weapon as he slammed both hands over his ears, his mouth open wide in a silent scream of abject pain. The screech of glass against the stone floor came right through the Oil he wore on his face. Gillis laughed in deranged relief.
The Mordenari rushed forward and seized the halberd with both hands. The guard let go of his ears and grabbed the halberd, though his face was red and contorted and his ears dripped with blood. The pair wrestled madly for control of the weapon. The guard shoved Gillis hard with his shoulder, and they were thrown over backwards in a tumbling heap. The heavy, fully armored guard landed on top of Gillis, driving the breath from him as the halberd clattered away from them. Gillis struggled and squirmed, but his strength waned quickly. The guard drew a knife from his own belt and raised it high. In that moment, time slowed for Gillis. Or perhaps Gillis moved more quickly through ordinary time.
I am going to die, Gillis thought. He looked impassively up at the halberdier, whose ruddy face was set in a toothy grimace. All thought left Gillis’ mind. In that tranquility, a tiny impulse echoed like the ripples of a stone dropped onto a still pond.
He obeyed the impulse and straightened out his hand, gathering a bright halo of Momaentum. Like a lightning strike, he plunged his hand into the halberdier’s throat. The guard clutched his collapsed throat, fell to the side, and rasped in a desperate struggle for air. The thin, wet noise of his choking was soon the only sound in the Hall, and then it was over.
Gillis stood. He held up his right hand—two fingers were broken, crooked and already purpling. Suddenly he was heaving every breath, and his head was very hot, and the sound of his heart was loud as it coursed through his ears. His whole body throbbed and ached, his hand most of all. It felt like he had left it in hot coals.
He retrieved a ring of keys from the body of the Steward, and his dagger from the body of the first guard.
The sudden quiet so soon after the fight strained Gillis’ nerves, with the only sounds being the distant rushing of the wind and the sputtering torch at the front of the Hall. Gillis made his way toward the rear door and down the spiral staircase that led to the cellar. Here the silence was total, and his footsteps rang loud.
He pushed open the door to the long corridors and paused to unravel the tracking cloth from his upper arm. It struggled against his grip as though it were a moth he was holding by its wing, and at first he could not discern a clear direction. Holding it by its very tip, he saw that it pointed to the left. Every so often the cloth spat a little blue spark from the end opposite Gillis’ fingers. He wadded the cloth securely in his pocket, tucked his broken fingers under one armpit, and held the dagger in his other hand.
He crept past cellar doors and side passages, every so often checking the tracking-cloth. It pointed him straight on each time, never deviating from the main corridor. Finally, he came to a heavy door at the end of a sloping passageway. The tracking cloth led him inside. Metallic clinking noises came from inside the room, as did the rumble of Lord Pauloce’s voice. He pushed on the door; it was locked.
He fumbled with the Steward’s keyring, trying key after key despite the pain in his broken fingers.
“Be gone, Steward, I’ve enough to drink,” Lord Pauloce called lazily from inside.
A key turned in the lock, and Gillis barged inside.
Pauloce stood over Amelia, who was strapped to a grimy table. He held a thin, serrated knife in hand that dripped with her blood. At the sound of the door bursting open, Pauloce look around sharply.
“Beldas? What are you—”
Gillis’ mind was clear once again. He stepped forward, wreathed in the blue shimmering veil of Momaentum, and drove his shoulder hard into Pauloce’s chest. The Lord crumpled backwards and lay dazed on the ground. Gillis turned and slashed Amelia free from her bonds with his dagger. Trance-like, completely ignoring Gillis, she seized one of the many wine bottles Pauloce had clearly been drinking from. Blood dripped from cuts on her face.
She crouched over Pauloce and struck his temple, hard, and the bottle was smeared with blood. She bashed his face over and over until the bottle broke. When she was on the verge of sinking the sharp edges into the Lord’s chest, Gillis gripped her arm and held her back.
Pauloce lay in perfect stillness. Between the gaping hole that had been his mouth and the bloody mess of his nose and streaming sockets of his eyes, he was utterly unrecognizable. Amelia’s weapons were laid out on a nearby table.
“We need to go, Amelia,” Gillis said. “He’s gone.”
He dragged her from Pauloce’s corpse.
As Gillis supported Amelia down the long corridor, and as the dull, pounding pain of his broken fingers throbbed on, he thought already of the Dreyen at the Monastery that would likely question him. It may even be serious enough to require an interview with the High Monk. The writ specified Lord Pauloce was to be killed by poisoning. Gillis could argue that it had not been possible—he could argue that innocent life had been in danger and he’d been forced to act.
Gillis had borne punishments before; he would accept them without complaint. Death was the penalty only when intentional deception contravened the writ. Though, he thought, I do not often misread people or misjudge expressions. What was Amelia thinking as she looked at Pauloce from that oak tree? And how was she found in her forest camp?
What is she hiding from me?
Chapter 5
The Gweidorian Choson sat alone by a neat campfire while a hidden stranger watched him. Though he was aware of being watched, he kept his eyes fixed forward on the fire. He wore full-plate armor with a stylized turtle symbol etched into the breastplate. His jaw was strong and his chin slightly pointed, giving him the athletic look of one who was strong without much bulk. His hair was short, straight, and black, and his eyes reflected the firelight. In all his cool stillness, he appeared to the world a polished marble statue, smooth and measured and resilient. Two fish were suspended on a stick above the fire. They sizzled and spat as their scent came to Choson along with the smoke, driving pangs of hunger into his gut. He warmed two steel-plated gauntlets in the glow. His long and thin two-handed sword lay across the fire from him, just out of reach.
The sun had only just begun its climb over the glade in the dark pines hemmed with brambles and gnarled bushes. An urge came to Choson to glance over his shoulder at the stranger, but he ignored it and kept his eyes forward. Let the stranger watch, he thought, for the giant-men of the north are a touchy lot. The tales say they kill for less than an ill-timed look. Even holding a weapon can be seen as a threat and a challenge. He has not been provoked into attacking me, therefor
e I should do nothing to change his mind. Our little game works, if only for now.
Though leaves rustled and twigs snapped, Choson kept his gaze fixed on his meal and his fire. One of the fish had blackened around the edges.
Choson shifted from the mossy rock he had been sitting on and lifted the fish from the flames, then cooled it with the slow-moving, chill morning air. A heavy shifting sound came from the trees and bushes behind him, like a bent branch snapping back into place. Again, he did not react. When the fish was cool enough to eat, he did so.
The icy, pale pink of the dawn gave way to a clear blue morning, and the fire burned down into embers. Sometimes amid the snapping of twigs and other rustling noises, Choson could discern a whispered voice from the watching stranger. With even and calm movements, he rose and retrieved his sword to sling it on his back. One fish still hung above the coals; he left it there. He turned, careful not to look in the direction of the watcher, and headed south on a wide road. The moment he was out of sight of his campfire, there was a heavy groan of bending branches and large footsteps raking the undergrowth behind him. Shortly after, he distinctly heard a low voice let out a muffled grunt of pain. He moved away from the road, to his left, then went into the trees and headed back north. The sounds were lost.
He crept in a large circle through the woods and came upon the spot near his camp from which the stranger had watched him. No sign of anyone near. He peered through the branches as he imagined the watcher had. The second fish was gone. All around him on the ground were impressions left by giant boots. The maker of the footprints had feet almost twice the length of Choson’s. He grimaced. Sharing his food was a small price to pay if it spared him from the clumsy follower’s wrath.
For the next few days, Choson neither saw nor heard any sign of the stranger. Despite that, he kept the same routine: laying down his sword to eat, leaving parts of the meal unattended while he sharpened his weapon or polished his armor, and returning to the dead campfire. The meals were meat of some kind, usually fish. Back home, in Gweidor to the north-west, he had known very little about foraging. Now, in the southern Kingdom of the Veldenlands, he knew nothing whatsoever. Aside from that, nothing much was growing. Fishing, at least, came easily to him. The undergrowth was dominated by bone-white husks of bushes and matted clumps of dead leaves. Mushrooms erupted through the decay of the forest floor here and there, but he dared not touch any. Most days the path drew beside or else crossed over a stream. He soon tired of fish for every meal.
The Tyranny of Shadows Page 5
