The weight of the first attacker struck him hard from behind, knocking him forward, but somehow, he managed to keep his feet under him. The momentum drove him on, but after a few more steps, another pair of hands grabbed him and spun him into a wall. He bounced off and fell into the bear-like grip of the first man. The big Yordician squeezed him tight and Lumist wondered if all his ribs would break.
“Filthy old Gyun!” the smaller one shouted. “Your kind should go back home where you belong!”
A balled fist slugged him square in the stomach. He gasped as the rest of his air was forced out of his lungs. His head sagged, but he refused to quit. If this was going to be his last battle . . . he’d . . . he’d end it like Merriday had, stubbornly fighting on with everything he had until the bitter end!
Snapping his head back, Lumist crushed the nose of the Yordician holding him. The big man yelped in pain and grabbed for his broken nose. Free, Lumist kicked the man in front of him, driving his boot up into the other man’s unprotected groin.
The smaller man folded, grabbing his injured crotch. Lumist stepped over him and hurried on toward the Prancing Piper.
“You shouldn’t have done that, you filthy Gyun!” another voice sneered.
The swifter runners had delayed his escape long enough to allow the others time to catch him! Six more men closed in on him from all sides.
A flash of steel thrust toward him. Lumist twisted away, and for a split second, he thought he’d avoided the weapon completely.
But the cold thin blade parted his flesh and entered his side just above his hip. He stiffened. His gray eyes narrowed. His lips pinched tight. Breath caught in his throat and then expelled quickly creating a low grunt. The man twisted the blade and yanked it out.
“Damn . . .” Lumist muttered. That hurt!
A crimson spray of blood splattered across the street and Lumist tottered backwards into the wall. He reached down and pressed his fist against the ragged hole in his side. Dying in the street wouldn’t do Ian any good. He needed to stay alive. To escape and stay alive.
Just two simple tasks really. It was the least he could do for his friend.
“We’re gonna open you up, old man.”
“Gonna gut you like a fish . . .”
“Carve you up into little pieces . . .”
“Shove yer balls in yer . . .”
“Hey!” a familiar voice shouted nearby. “What’s going on over there?”
“Mind your own business, Philson!”
“Argalle, is that . . . uh, uh . . . you?” Philson stood outside the Prancing Piper. Rain dripped from his greasy hair and dampened his dirty apron. He slapped a long iron spike against his meaty palm. “What you boys doing over there?”
“Go back inside, Philson!” Argalle bellowed.
Philson waddled closer. “Who are you and your . . . uh, uh . . . little friends bothering now?”
“I’m not goin’ to tell you again . . .” Argalle warned.
Philson raised the iron spike. Next to his bull-elephant like frame, the thick stake looked tiny. “I was about to spit me a hog to roast. Who’d rather take its place?”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“No?” Philson stepped closer. “My hogs and I could eat you all for breakfast and no one would be the wiser.”
Argalle grabbed Lumist by the collar of his shirt and tossed him toward Philson. “Here, take him, you bloody Gyun-lover.”
Lumist grunted as he landed hard near Philson’s feet.
“You’d better watch yourself fat man,” Argalle sneered. “This ain’t over. You mess with us again and we’ll come back and burn your tavern down. You hear me? Think it over, fat man.”
Philson snorted. “You come back . . .” He patted his massive belly. “And I’ll personally turn you into shit.”
The Yordicians ran off. Philson glanced down at Lumist, his dark, beady eyes blinking rapidly. “I . . . uh, uh . . . I know you. You’re Captain Caleachey’s friend.”
Lumist nodded. He must be leaking blood fast, he was already feeling cold.
“You need a healer.” Philson muttered.
“I thought you didn’t get involved.” Lumist gasped.
Philson shrugged his wide, rounded shoulders and his rolls of fat jiggled. “Don’t usually. But something your friend said . . .” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Maybe if I help you, Captain Caleachey could . . . uh, uh . . . could introduce me to . . . uh, uh . . .” He waved his hand again. “Uh . . . never mind.” He grunted as he bent over. “Let’s see about that healer, huh?”
Lumist’s face twisted in pain as the fat bartender lifted him like he was a collection of twigs bound in scraps of cloth. He felt tired, so cold and tired. Perhaps if he closed his eyes for just a moment . . .
chapter 24
Lord Oliver Orrington’s new butler was helping the staff of attendees, dressers and maids clean the last of the foyer when the door chime rang. Quickly rising from his knees, he hastened to answer the door before the visitor could pull the cord again. It was well after midnight, an odd time for a caller, but then, the entire day had been one exhausting event after another. Shortly after Lord Orrington had left the estate for his luncheon with Lady Cecily, the old butler was found at the bottom of the main stairs with a broken neck. As second-butler, he had immediately been thrust into the unenviable position of having to dispose of the body. Into the ground the old butler went, right on the edge of Lord Orrington’s ever-expanding flower garden. The new butler had seeded the fresh plot of dirt and come summer, red, yellow and gold sunflowers would brighten the unmarked, un-mourned grave.
He had just finished cleaning the dirt out from beneath his nails when Lord Orrington returned home much earlier than anyone expected. A spring storm was closing in on the city. Perhaps the lord had decided to avoid the rain and . . .
“How dare she!?” Lord Orrington bellowed, barging through the front door. “How dare she stand me up?”
The new butler grimaced. He didn’t need to hear any more to discern what had happened and with his master now in an even blacker mood, the day promised to be a long one. A serving girl hastily retrieved a tray of glasses and a bottle of fine Yordician white wine. It was a duty she performed every time Lord Orrington returned home. This time though, Lord Orrington eyed the wine and his face darkened. The soft contours hardened. His brilliant eyes went dull. With a snarl on his lips, he snatched the bottle from her hand and hurled it through the nearest window. He vented his anger on the glasses next. Each of them died violently, shattered against the foyer walls. Tiny shards of glass sailed everywhere. A small piece struck the serving girl’s cheek and with a cry she dropped the tray and fled the room in tears. Lord Orrington’s nostrils flared as he surveyed the damage.
“I thought I told you I wanted this estate cleaned . . .” he spoke softly, barely more than a whisper. He spun about on his heels and stalked off toward his private suite. “Death to anyone who disturbs me!”
The threat started soft too and finished loud and it was followed by a slamming door. The new butler let out a long sigh. It was going to be a long, long day.
The storm hit. Lightning struck one of the trees outside and split it in half. Slanting rain blew through the broken window and soiled one of the rugs. One of the dressers knelt on a large piece of broken glass and bled all over the freshly polished floor . . .
If it wasn’t one thing, it was something else, but now, finally, many hours later, the estate was clean and . . . and the person at the door was pulling on the bell cord again . . . and apparently, his day was not quite done yet.
The butler yanked the front door open and glared at the man standing there. “May I help you?”
The man, a messenger by his dress, held up a scroll case. Rain and mud dripped from the trailing edge of his long coat and he stank of a wet horse and stale ale.
“A letter for Lord Orrington . . .” His words slurred only slightly. He started forward, obviously intent on stepping
in out of the drizzling rain.
“Thank you.” The butler blocked his way. “I’ll see that he gets it.”
“But . . . I’m supposed to place this in his hands . . . personally.”
“Lord Orrington is indisposed at the moment and cannot for any reason be disturbed.”
“I have my orders,” the messenger insisted. He wiped his runny nose with the back of his damp sleeve.
“As do I,” the butler declared. He snatched the scroll case out of the messenger’s hand.
“You can’t do that!”
The butler shoved the door shut.
“What do you think the message is about?” one of the attendees spoke up.
“Perhaps it’s about those clanging bells we heard earlier,” a second voice said.
“If it’s from Lord Ian, don’t bring it to him!” another voice offered.
“Do you take me for a fool?” the butler asked. He opened the case and pulled out the scroll. “It’s from the castle.”
“Don’t break the seal!”
“Perhaps it’s important. You should wake him.”
All eyes in the room turned to stare at the last speaker. The young man’s cheeks reddened.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait until Lord Orrington wakes on his own,” the butler decided. Silently, he prayed he had made the right decision. He rubbed his neck and swallowed the lump in his throat.
He didn’t fancy the idea of ending up like his predecessor out in the garden pushing up flowers.
chapter 25
By the time Kylpin reached the shabby, two-story warehouse, the Shi’kwarans had already engaged the Bloody Fists. Two men were down, no, not just down, dead, Kylpin corrected himself when he spied their severed heads a few yards away. These were probably the sentries. He followed the sound of battle into the warehouse and immediately found Xo-Taro and Mai-Jun fighting back-to-back against a handful of determined men wielding an odd assortment of weapons near an empty wagon. In the center of the warehouse, Kin-Tar fought alone, surrounded by six or seven men.
Kylpin charged forward, eager to help, but Xo-Taro waved him off. “This is our battle. You will only get in our way.”
One of the men fighting Mai-Jun however, peeled off and rounded on Kylpin. He was a big man, thick in the chest and arms, and he wielded a heavy metal pry bar. Kylpin ducked away from the first few blows but was forced to parry the third with his sword. He cringed inwardly as he felt his blade vibrate in his hand. His sword would quickly lose its keen edge against the thick, blunted bar.
Kylpin ducked beneath the next blow and came up on the backside of his attacker. He slid his sword between the man’s ribs, and then realized too late he should have used the butt of his sword to knock him out instead.
“Don’t kill them all!” Kylpin shouted above the noise. The large man he’d just killed slid off his blade and collapsed in a small pool of blood.
Kylpin checked on Xo-Taro and Mai-Jun, but the two elder Shi’kwarans were quickly dispatching the men around them. They fought efficiently, without any wasted movement. No fancy footwork, no grand flourishes, no feints, just simple, straightforward, nonstop attacks. Their greater heights and reach allowed their thrusts to come from further away, and their speed . . . Kylpin could barely keep his eyes focused on them. Their blades sank deep into their opponents’ flesh tearing through muscle and cutting bone with seemingly little effort. But perhaps most eerily of all, the two Shi’kwarans fought in tandem without uttering a sound. Kylpin marveled at the grace and skill of the two warriors, their speed and agility were easily unmatched, and for a moment, he imagined what the invading Yordicians had seen all those years ago; copper-skinned Shi’kwarans dropping out of the trees, cutting brutally through the ranks of armored men like so many sharks during a feeding frenzy.
It would have been a slaughter.
Kylpin glanced over at Kin-Tar to see how the youth was faring against the overwhelming odds and found him growling like an angry beast, releasing his pent-up fury bit by bit with each vicious strike. He didn’t kill as quickly as his parents, but not because he lacked their abilities, or because he worked alone. In fact, of the three, he looked to be the superior fighter.
He simply wanted to make the men he faced suffer.
And he was willing to gamble with his life by prolonging the battle too. However, even at the slower rate, the young Shi’kwaran never seemed at great risk of being injured. Kylpin tried to join him, but the look the young Islander gave him penetrated deep and spoke of an unyielding rage and a fiery temper.
“Don’t kill them all!” Kylpin tried again.
But the young Islander ignored him. He lopped off one of the men’s hands and it spun away still clinging to its sword. Defenseless and howling in pain, the man tried to flee, but Kin-Tar chased him down and hacked off a few more pieces of flesh. Finally, in front of the remaining two Bloody Fists, he leapt screaming into the air, and struck the man’s head off. The two Fists surrendered immediately. They dropped their swords and began pleading and begging for mercy. Kin-Tar placed the edge of his sword against the first man’s neck.
“Kin-Tar!” Xo-Taro shouted. “No!” He ran toward his son, leaping from one crate to the next.
But Xo-Taro was too far away. The young Islander dragged his sword across the man’s throat opening a wide red smile that reached from ear to ear. The man’s eyes widened in alarm and pain and he clutched frantically at his torn flesh. A crimson fountain of blood sprayed into the air and across the youth’s face. Kin-Tar did not flinch. The last man jumped to his feet and ran.
“Kin-Tar let him live!” Kylpin shouted, following close on Xo-Taro’s heels.
The young Islander did not seem to hear him. He spun around and threw his sword at the escaping man. The deadly weapon cut viciously through the air and punched through the man’s back, pinning him rudely against the back wall.
“We need one alive!” Kylpin cried as he ran past Kin-Tar, hoping perhaps the last man would live long enough to talk.
But the skewered man gasped, spat a mouthful of blood onto the wall in front of him, and slumped forward. Kylpin stalked back toward the young Islander. “How are we going to interrogate them now?” He raised his sword as he spoke. “Dead men can’t tell us where Evie or your sister is!”
Kin-Tar slapped Kylpin’s sword aside, and before he could recover, the young Islander’s other hand was wrapped around his neck.
“KIN-TAR!” Xo-Taro roared and jumped onto his son’s back. The older Islander bellowed something more in their strange dialect. Kylpin wasn’t sure what the phrase meant, but staring into Kin-Tar’s cold, murderous, unblinking eyes, he could see the young Islander did. The iron fingers around his neck loosened. The youth’s blue eyes found their focus. A frown appeared on Kin-Tar’s face. He jerked his hand away.
Kylpin dropped to his knees coughing. Mai-Jun knelt beside him while Xo-Taro pulled Kin-Tar to one side.
“Our son,” Mai-Jun spoke softly, “in battle, fights not only his opponents, but himself as well. Sometimes, when the rage takes him . . .” Her gentle words trailed off as she gestured at the mutilated bodies scattered all around them.
Kylpin sank back on his heels. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Kin-Tar watching him, and then without a word, the young Islander brushed past him and wrenched his sword out of the dead man’s back. The body slid down the wall leaving a bloody stain behind.
Mai-Jun sighed. “The loss of his sister has devastated him.”
Kylpin raised his hand to stop her. He had been young and quarrelsome not too long ago . . . well, maybe it was ten or fifteen years ago, but understanding aside, he wished Kin-Tar hadn’t killed them all. One of them might have been able to reveal Lipscombe’s or Evie’s or Rai-Lin’s whereabouts.
“Where do we go now?” Xo-Taro asked. He sounded slightly out of breath.
Kylpin stood and surveyed the warehouse. The Bloody Fists were dead. Fifteen in total. But that wasn’t all of them. He had he
ard rumors of their numbers pushing upwards of a hundred. Perhaps more. The rest of the gang had to be somewhere. Perhaps the other warehouse . . .?
“There are two more places we can check, my friend,” Kylpin began, “a brothel and another warehouse, but, you need to keep your son in check. If he kills everyone we meet, we’re never going to find . . .”
“They deserve to die,” Kin-Tar growled.
“Yes, perhaps they do, but unless we question one of them first, we may never find your sister,” Kylpin replied. “Do you understand?”
“Your man . . .” Kin-Tar pointed. “He only had a metal bar. He is dead.”
Kylpin sighed. “I made a mistake.”
Kin-Tar’s copper face hardened. “It is no mistake to kill these men. You have not seen what they have done to our people!”
“I mean I should have let him live.”
Xo-Taro spoke in their own language and Kin-Tar immediately stepped back, sheathed his sword and fell in beside his father.
Kylpin raised an eyebrow. “What did you tell him, my friend?”
“I reminded him we waste time talking. Rai-Lin is waiting.”
Kylpin nodded. “Indeed, let us . . . leave . . .”
A symbol on the side of one of the crates caught his eye. The black Weatherall Dragon! He glanced around at the other crates and spied the same, small symbol.
“What are these doing here?” He crouched beside the nearest one.
“Let us go to the next location.” Xo-Taro urged.
Stolen Justice Page 14
