Gylfalen shook his head. Beneath his cowl, Ragget caught a glimpse of his shadowy visage. The darkened skin was pulled tight across his face, taut with pain. “Three Islanders . . .”
“Escaped slaves?”
Gylfalen shook his head again. “They moved . . . too fast . . .” he wheezed. “I think . . . they were . . . Shi’kwarans.”
Ragget glanced over at Amarias. “I thought I told Lipscombe to avoid Dondagla.”
“You did,” Amarias replied.
Ragget ran a hand through his long blond hair and turned to stare out the window. He noticed the added presence of the city patrol on the streets though they weren’t exactly doing much more than standing around. In the distance near what he assumed would be the heart of Little Ryerton, plumes of smoke rose lazily in the morning air.
Were his Ragget Loyalists under the guise of Yordic Militia already rounding up Gyunwarians and burning their buildings? Excellent!
Between gasps and wheezes which reminded Ragget of a leaking bellow, the wind mage retold the events of the warehouse.
“So, it would seem we have yet another problem,” Ragget said. The Shi’kwarans wouldn’t have left their island unless one of their own had been taken and until they were returned, the stubborn tree-dwellers would not stop searching for them. “You said you killed the three you faced?”
Gylfalen nodded. “They were all dead . . . or dying . . .”
“More will come.”
“How would you like me to handle it, M’lord?” Amarias asked.
“Unless they come for me directly, the Shi’kwarans aren’t your problem,” Ragget swung his gaze over onto the wind mage. “Since you’ve shown some success against them, I’ll let you handle them when they come.”
“Why not just give them Lipscombe or their missing kin?” Gylfalen suggested.
“I’m in no mood to hand over assets to tree-dwelling savages,” Ragget said. He swung his gaze back over to Amarias. “Start the rumor-mill. Ian had accomplices. Many of them. Kylpin Caleachey. Lumist Tunney. Garett Navarro . . . Claim the fire mage burned the warehouse and the ship on Ian’s orders to cover his fraud.”
“What about the girl? What about Josephine?” Amarias asked.
Ragget considered his options and finally shook his head. “No, don’t include her name, not just yet. We need to be more cautious with her.” Her potential for magic made her valuable. Too valuable for some street thug to try and subdue. No, he needed her alive, if only to find out what she knew, what she was capable of, and if a third party was aiding her.
Kylpin, Lumist and Garett were expendable. If they could be captured alive and publicly executed, fine. If not, their bodies could be shipped to the factory for . . . reimagined reanimation. That’s what Stephano Di Rygazzo had called it.
Gylfalen sighed deeply and his entire body seemed to sag within his dark cloak.
“Do we need to summon an earthen healer for you?” Ragget asked.
Gylfalen flinched at the mention of an opposing elemental mage and he shook his head vehemently. “I just need a few hours to rest.”
Ragget’s face hardened. “A few hours without any communications, I assume?”
Gylfalen sank deeper into the cushion. “By Ian’s trial, I’ll be healthy again.”
“Don’t disappoint me,” Ragget warned. The carriage rolled to a stop. “We still have much to do.”
Gylfalen’s form softened, faded, and he disappeared out the window with a puff of wind.
“When we get back to the estate,” Ragget said to Amarias as he slid toward the door. “I want you to begin searching for new wind mages and the next time he fails me, remind me to have you kill him.”
Amarias nodded, but he didn’t move to follow.
Ragget hesitated. “Is there something wrong?”
“I need a few stones,” Amarias said. “A sapphire and an emerald for now and a ruby for later.”
“I just gave you some yesterday.”
Amarias shifted his mighty bulk and leaned forward. “If you want me capable of killing Gylfalen, I’ll need to prepare.”
Ragget reached into a pouch and pulled out the three requested gems. Amarias swallowed the sapphire and the emerald and stowed the ruby. “Just give me a moment . . .”
Ragget climbed out of the carriage and took a few steps toward the massive mausoleum in front of him. In bold letters, carved into the stonework over the building’s main door was the name, ‘BOLODENKO’. Behind him, he heard a low groan and the carriage shuddered violently. The team of horses shifted about and pawed at the stony lane. The driver called out to each of them by name in a low soothing voice to quiet their discomfort.
The carriage door flung open and Amarias squeezed out. His armor strained to cover his more massive chest and the sleeves of his tunic were split by a new layer of hard corded muscle. He shook once, like a dog shedding rainwater and lumbered over to join Ragget. A bit of his fluid gracefulness was gone, but the ruby later would return most of it.
“What are we doing back here again?” Amarias asked.
Ragget glanced around at the vast city of dead and smiled grimly. Thousands of headstones and grave markers dotted the rolling hills of green. In the distance, a handful of mighty oaks huddled together atop one peak, and Ragget couldn’t help but notice the stone door built into the side of the rock. The Ragget sepulcher. Inside was his entire family.
He headed over to the entrance of Bolodenko’s mausoleum. “We’re here to buy Lord Pilarro’s debt.” Ragget said. And to take another step away from ever resting alongside my father, he added silently to himself.
But that was his secret, and it went way beyond ruining Lord Ian Weatherall and the cleansing of Yordic or the spreading of war across the Gallesian continents.
He smiled to himself. According to an ancient tome he’d discovered buried far beneath his family’s estate, in a secret chamber that had long ago been sealed up, these events had been predicted thousands of years ago, and chronicled by one of his ancestors.
An ancestor, he had been surprised to learn, who was still very much alive and watching over him still.
chapter 44
“You’re quite the gambling man.”
Warm water sloshed over the sides of Lord Pilarro’s large cast-iron tub as he jerked awake. Standing at the foot was the tallest, broadest, meanest looking man he’d ever seen. The giant was easily seven plus feet tall and his obscenely bulging muscles were mostly covered by a fierce suit of black leather and chain armor.
“What . . . who . . . what are you doing in here?” Lord Pilarro stammered. “I’m going to call my . . .”
“Guards?” The giant drew a very long sword and rested the tip on his naked chest. The damn thing was heavy and Lord Pilarro could see his reflection in the blade. He looked scared. Old and scared. “No. You don’t want to do that.”
“I don’t?” Lord Pilarro tried to keep the whine out of his voice, but he didn’t succeed.
“No. Your guards will come through this door and they’ll die. Badly. Then I’ll get mad and I’ll kill everyone else in your house. Painfully. Then, I’ll come back in here and I’ll finish you off. Slowly. A piece at a time.”
Lord Pilarro swallowed hard. Just moments ago, he was having the most wonderful dream. He’d finally won big at the Blackmore Casino and the proprietress, a beautiful, voluptuous young woman was counting out his winnings while riding atop him naked . . . and now, the dream was gone, and he was faced with this nightmare. This very real nightmare.
“What do you want?”
The giant smiled. It might have been a genuine smile, but it only made him look scarier. “I want to deliver a simple message, with two simple parts. If you listen and comply, you will never find me standing over you like this again.” The man’s smile cooled and Lord Pilarro swore the water cooled around him as well. “Ignore me and you won’t know when I’ll come back, but I will. And I won’t be so polite.”
Lord Pilarro nodded. “I’m list
ening.”
“I bet you are,” the giant said. “Your debt to Bolodenko has been paid. His stone-faced men will not bother you anymore.”
Lord Pilarro blinked. His debt was paid? But, its total had been greater than his entire holdings, his estate, and his lands here and abroad. “How . . .?”
“In return for this most generous favor, you will forfeit only your foreign lands in Gyunwar and Euclacia.”
“That’s it?”
“No. You will also promise to remain silent at Lord Weatherall’s trial.”
“But, he deserves a fair . . .”
The sword tip pressed down on his breastbone. Lord Pilarro winced.
“You’re talking, not listening,” the giant said. “You will remain quiet during Lord Weatherall’s trial or your wife and children will find themselves out on the street with nothing but your rotting corpse to keep them company. Is that simple enough for you to understand?”
“Yes.”
“Let me hear you repeat it back.”
“I forfeit only my foreign lands in Gyunwar and Euclacia . . .”
The giant nodded once.
“And I keep quiet at Lord Weatherall’s trial. If I do this, I am debt-free, and I never see you again.”
The giant nodded again. “You don’t even have to give me your answer now.”
“I don’t?”
“No, we’ll be watching you at the trial. We’ll know if you want to live well or die horribly messy depending on what you choose to do there.”
Lord Pilarro swallowed hard.
“Now, I suggest you get out of that tub soon. It smells like you’ve pissed yourself.”
Lord Pilarro glanced down and saw his yellow urine mixing with the tepid water.
When he looked up again, the giant was gone.
chapter 45
“Do you yield old man?” Lord Orrington’s brutish champion sneered. “Or shall I continue my butchery?”
Wynston backed away, clinging stubbornly to his sword. He hadn’t tasted the hard edge of steel for fifteen years, but he was getting his fill today. His old suit of light armor was working about as well as his sword arm, good enough to keep him alive, but not good enough to keep him safe. While he had landed a handful of blows, the larger, stronger, younger, quicker, and heavier-armored knight had begun his vicious assault the moment the duel had begun and until now, had not ceased his attack. Wynston felt his blood leaking from several wounds. None singly were going to kill him, but cumulatively, he knew his time was running out.
The Champion snickered and charged in, his sword arm rising and falling almost too quickly to follow. Wynston dodged, ducked and parried as many blows as he could, but a tactic of pure defense would not lead to victory.
He had to attack, and soon, or he would lose too much blood and die.
A vicious blow slammed against his already damaged fauld and the Champion’s blade cut deep into his left hip. Wynston grunted against the pain and shoved the blade away. The world tilted. He fought to keep it steady. To stay on his feet. He stumbled, caught himself and backed slowly up the hill toward the ruins, pressing his left hand hard against his bloody hip. The One save him! Another strike like that and he’d be cut in half!
The Champion followed, not willing to let him catch his breath. Wynston dodged and parried the Champion’s latest onslaught, using the broken rubble and rocky terrain to keep out of harm’s way, but still the Champion came on, fighting tirelessly.
“You are done in, old man,” the Champion taunted him. “Yield or you will bleed out.”
Wynston conserved his strength and did not respond. He had decided he would not yield, at least not while he still had his sword. To yield would shame not only Ian, but himself as well. He was the last Peace Walker, a former knight and protector of the great hero Lord Alan Weatherall, and he had upheld the Weatherall name and honor for fifty years!
He would not yield!
The Champion parried one of his feeble attacks and sliced wildly at his neck. Wynston felt the blade clang against his gorget, and though the metal held, the force of the blow was great enough to knock him off his feet. He fell sideways, into a rock wall and down onto his injured side. Blood pooled beneath him.
But he retained his sword.
“Stay down, old man,” the Champion stood over him. “Stay down and yield!”
Wynston swung viciously at the Champion’s legs. His blade struck the side of one thick greave and cut the leather strap holding it in place.
“What was that for?” the Champion backed a couple of paces down the hill and looked at his damaged armor. “If you’re going to fight, then stand up and fight me like a man. If you can!”
Wynston smiled weakly to himself. Toe-to-toe, he didn’t stand a chance against him, but Gyunwarians had never been able to fight Yordicians on level ground. The Yordician armies had always been too great, their numbers too many.
Wynston tucked in his arms and rolled down the hill toward the heavily armored knight. The Champion tried to step out of the way, but Wynston slammed into his legs and bowled him over. The Champion went down with a crash.
Grunting against the tremendous pain in his side, Wynston regained his feet first and stepped on the Champion’s blade before he could rise. He leveled his own sword at the Champion’s helm. “Do you yield, sir?”
The Champion made to push himself up, but Wynston banged his blade against the side of the knight’s helm hard enough to dent it. “Do you yield?!”
“I yield!” the Champion shouted. “I yield.” He released his sword and raised his hands to signify his surrender. “Victory is yours!”
“That is not fair!”
Wynston turned and followed the whiny protest back to Lord Orrington’s fancy carriage. The lord was leaning out one of the windows and pointing fiercely. He was dressed all in white brocade, while twin rows of gold buttons marched proudly down his puffed-up chest.
“Your man has yielded. The duel is over,” Wynston said wearily.
“You cannot use that barbaric tactic against my knight!” Lord Orrington shouted. “I declare victory by forfeiture!”
Wynston limped toward Lord Orrington’s carriage, leaving a trail of blood behind him. “There was nothing said at the beginning of the duel about barbaric tactics being unlawful.”
“In a civilized society, such vulgarities are automatically known to be against the rules,” Lord Orrington retorted. “I’m sure you do not understand since you are a foreigner, but that is not my concern. You have cheated, sir. Your victory is nullified.”
“Your man yielded. He did not protest the victory, therefore you cannot either,” Wynston replied sharply. Winning the duel had not infused him with any reserves of energy, but this battle of words with Lord Orrington was proving enough to stoke his anger. He jammed his hand against his injured hip and tried to staunch the bleeding. “I declare victory for Lord Ian Weatherall!”
“And I declare,” Another voice called out, “in the king’s name that you are all under arrest.”
Wynston turned around. Captain Wolfe Straegar emerged from the ruined keep’s main building. He was accompanied by a dozen royal wardens.
So, this had been a trap! All the better that he had come alone. Tyran had tried to follow him, but he had sent the young man back home, twice.
“Fly!” Lord Orrington shouted to his men, but his carriage was overrun by another dozen wardens emerging from a nearby grove of trees.
Wynston sheathed his sword and leaned against a broken section of wall, feeling cold. The great loss of blood was beginning to take an effect, and for a moment, he regretted not asking his nephew, Sebastian, to join him.
“Lord Oliver Orrington, I’m sure you are aware that dueling is against the king’s law,” Captain Straegar said, as two wardens dragged him kicking and screaming up the hill toward the ruins.
“I was only answering a challenge issued by Lord Ian Weatherall!” Lord Orrington shouted defiantly. “I had to defend my honor.”
“Lord Ian is imprisoned for regicide and other nefarious crimes,” Straegar replied coldly. “Surely, your honor could not be tarnished by such a lowly criminal?”
Lord Orrington’s jaw dropped, and he turned, glowering at his army of attendees and dressers. “Why was I not informed about that?” he screamed.
Wynston would have laughed if he had the energy. Instead, he slid down and braced himself against the wall. He was very tired, and his eyelids were growing heavier by the moment. He had won. A faint smile creased his ashen lips. He had upheld the Weatherall name and honor one more time.
One last time.
There was so much he still wanted to do . . . to say . . . to Ian, to Tyran . . .
To Gertrude.
He gripped his old sword and leaned his head back against the crumbling wall and stared up at the serene sky. In the distance, he heard more shouting, and more arguments, but eventually that quieted, and the world grew still, and the feelings of regret and pain slipped away. Wynston closed his eyes.
chapter 46
Hidden in a clump of bushes not fifty paces away, Tyran watched the old man slump against the wall. At first, he wanted to believe that Wynston had taken a nap, despite the sudden appearance of Captain Straegar and his men, but when the Captain crouched down in front of the old man and removed his helm, Tyran was forced to face the terrible truth.
Wynston was dead.
“Toss his body in the wagon,” Straegar ordered, “and be quick about it. I’m needed at the courthouse today.”
Tyran almost rushed out of his hiding spot to demand that Wynston’s remains be treated with respect. But then, he imagined what the old man would have said to him about acting impulsively and decided instead to remain silent and still. He wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.
Why did doing the right thing always feel so cowardly?
Stolen Justice Page 25
