That settled, he rose from the chilly water, dressed in a pair of clean trousers, and laid his knives on the night stand before climbing into bed. It wasn’t until his head rested on the cheaply-made linen pillow that he realized how exhausted he was and despite the jagged pain that tore at his throat with each breath, he was soon fast asleep.
CHAPTER
THREE
Aaron awoke with a start, jerking up in bed. “Who’s there?” He asked, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he stared around the darkness of his room. There was no answer. He stilled his thoughts and listened for the tell-tale noises that would indicate an intruder, but the only sound was the rapid beating of his own heart. He sighed and shook his head. He didn’t remember what he’d been dreaming or what wakened him, but he’d been sure there was someone in the room with him. Just your nerves, he told himself, annoyed. The woman’s got you jumping at shadows. Next thing you know you’ll be hiding under the covers with a candle, scared that some bogeyman is going to get you. He yawned heavily and glanced out the window of the room. It was still dark, and judging by the gritty feeling of his eyelids, he hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours. The large, rickety window let in enough moonlight for him to see that no one shared the room with him. Why, then, did he have the unshakable feeling that he was being watched?
“Because you are.” A voice spoke from beside him.
“What the fuck!” Aaron fumbled for his knives, miraculously managing to grab the handle of one without slicing his fool hand open and whirled to the sound of the voice only to find nothing there. He frowned, blinking his eyes, “I must be losing my mind.”
A girlish giggle, behind him. He turned and lashed out with the knife reflexively. It struck the headboard of the bed and was knocked from his grip, falling to the floor. He hissed a curse, jumped out of the bed, and scanned the room, poised in a fighter’s crouch. He was just becoming convinced that he really was going crazy when a small orb of glowing magenta, no bigger than his hand, winked into being and hung in the air in front of him. He lashed out with his fists, calling on speed and reflexes honed from years of training, but the orb danced around his strikes with ease.
What kind of magic is this? He struck again, and the orb of light retreated to the other side of the room. He grabbed the bed and, grunting with the effort, upended it and heaved it at the ball of light. The mattress and the box springs slammed against the wall with a crash. He waited for several seconds, sucking in deep heavy breaths then grinned, satisfied. “Got you that time, bastard.” He shuffled to where his blade lay and was reaching for it when the ball of light winked into being in front of his face. He stumbled backward, nearly tripping on his own feet, and swung at it again. This time the orb did not move, but instead of striking something solid, his fist passed through the glowing light as if it was no more tangible than air. The only evidence that he’d touched it at all was a tingling sensation that lingered in his hand.
“Enough!” He shouted, backing up a step, his fists still raised, “if you’ve come to kill me stop wasting my time and do it!”
I haven’t come to kill you. The voice didn’t speak out loud this time. Instead, the words came from inside his head as if some being shared the space of his mind with him. It was a woman’s voice, and he frowned at the laughter he could hear in it.
“If you didn’t come to kill me then why are you here?” He demanded, “What in the name of the gods are you?”
“I am here because you are here,” the orb answered, and he was relieved, at least, that it spoke out loud once more, “and if you like, you may call me Co. My last companion did.”
“What are you talking about?” He realized that he was shouting but didn’t care.
“You are my master—my new companion. It is only right that I should be here.”
He watched the orb floating in front of him disbelievingly for several seconds. Finally, he barked a harsh laugh and rubbed at his eyes, “I’ve got to be dreaming. Damn Flinn, what did he put in that drink?” He shook his head, “I’m going to have to have a talk with that innkeeper he—“
“Wait.” The words were shouted, aloud and in his head at the same time, and he grunted, grabbing his temples.
“Not so loud, damnit.”
The orb flickered for a moment then its color darkened to a deep, foreboding crimson. When it spoke into his mind again, the humor was gone from its voice, They are here. They’ve come for you. You must run.
Aaron squinted his eyes, confused. “I swear this is the strangest dream I’ve ever had.”
“This is no dream, Aaron Envelar,” the orb said, its voice tense with emotion. “They have come for you, and if you do not leave this place now, they will have you.”
He frowned at that and took a cautious step back. “Wait a minute. How do you know my name?”
The orb flickered and wavered from side to side, clearly agitated, There’s no time. You must go now.
Aaron laughed, “Go where? Listen, I’m not in the habit of listening to dreams, and even if I wa—“ His voice cut off as a woman’s scream echoed from downstairs. Dream or not, she sounded terrified. “What in the name of Talen was that?” He slung his sword across his back and hefted his knives, reassured by their weight in his hands. No sooner had he done so, then a blood-curling shriek—far worse than the first—split the silence and sent goose bumps up his back. Slowly, painfully aware of the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet, he crept toward the door and eased it open with the blade of his knife.
A roar of anger from downstairs, and Aaron recognized the voice as Flinn, the barkeep. He eased out of his room, went to the head of the stairs and peered into the common room of the inn. What he noticed the first was the corpses, half a dozen lying scattered across the plank floor like broken dolls. Five men stood in the center of the room, their swords drawn. Two more had pressed the innkeeper against the counter, and Aaron saw that his mouth was bloody.
A thin man walked out from behind the others with an unmistakable air of authority. He frowned at the innkeeper, his hands behind his back as if he were out for a stroll in some lord’s garden. “We know you know where he is, old man,” he said in a nasally, bored voice, “there is no reason for you to make this anymore unpleasant than it already is. The man’s crimes have nothing to do with any of you here, and His Highness Belgarin rewards well those who serve him.”
Belgarin, the High Prince, Aaron thought, his heart hammering in his chest. Gods, I’m fucked. The thin man started to say something else, but his words were drowned out as the innkeeper roared, broke free of the hands holding him, and slammed his fist into one of the men’s face. The man’s head snapped back, blood and teeth flying, and he crumpled to the ground as if he’d been clubbed. Flinn bellowed another roar and charged the thin man, but one of the others stepped forward and rammed his sword into the innkeeper’s chest, and the blade exploded from the innkeeper’s back in a spray of blood. Time seemed to freeze for a moment as the innkeeper’s wide eyes took in the bloody steel protruding from his chest.
Then the man ripped the blade free with a sickening squelch. Flinn grunted, tottering. He took one shuffling step toward forward then collapsed in a heap. “You bastards!” It wasn’t until the soldiers turned and looked up the staircase that Aaron realized he’d shouted the words out loud.
“That’s him,” the thin man screeched, “get him!”
Idiot, Aaron cursed himself as the men started toward the staircase, his mind working rapidly. Eight men inside. That meant probably three, maybe four waiting outside in case he got away. “Damn that woman,” he growled. He ran back to his room, slamming the door closed behind him. Footsteps sounded on the stairs as he grabbed the flipped over bed and heaved it in front of the door.
His gaze darted across the room frantically in search of a means of escape. He took in the small table, the turned over bed and, finally, the window. Probably a man outside, watching it. The men had obviously known he was here or at least that
he had been here, and they’d been willing to kill in cold blood to find him; they wouldn’t have taken any chances.
The footsteps outside his room grew louder and with a curse he rushed to the window and threw it open. He could only hope that the darkness would obscure him from anyone watching from below. He was barely halfway out the opening when something struck the wall beside him. He snapped his gaze to the side and saw a crossbow bolt quivering in the wall, close enough to touch. He ducked his head back in, scanning the shadowed streets below him but couldn’t make out anyone in the darkness.
Behind him, there was crash as something struck the door. He risked a glance back and saw that a large crack running up the wood. “Shit.” He risked another peek out the window and saw the outline of the edge of the roof only a few feet above him. He stretched his hand out, but it was a good two-hand lengths out of his reach. Growling with frustration, he braced his feet on the windowsill and took a deep breath. Another few seconds and the men would be in the room. His only option was to jump and to pray to Iladen, God of Luck, that the clay tiles of the roof didn’t slip out of his hands. That was, of course, assuming that he managed to reach them without falling and bashing his head on the street below.
There was another crash, louder than the first, and the door flew off its hinges in a shower of splinters. “The window, fools!” The thin man shouted.
Aaron saw something out of the corner of his eye and turned. The orb was floating in the air beside him. You can make it, the young girl’s voice spoke in his mind, but you must go now.
Another crossbow bolt zipped by him, striking the wall only inches from his face, and he winced. “Must be nice to float around all day,” he growled. And then he jumped. For a moment, he was sure he wouldn’t make it, sure that he would fall and splatter on the ground like some rotten fruit, and he let out a breath of relief when he felt the clay tiles beneath his hands. He started to pull himself up, but the roof was slick from the recent rain, and his fingers began to slip. One of his hands lost purchase as the tile he’d been holding slid away, missing him by inches and smashing on the streets below.
Desperately, he lunged at the empty space where the tile had been and was able to get a firm hold. He glanced at the scattered pieces of tile in the street and swallowed hard. Thunk. His eyes widened as another bolt struck the wall nearby. Gods, but the son of a bitch was a good shot. If not for the darkness, he was sure he’d have been hit already.
Not willing to trust to his luck for another shot, he heaved himself up, oblivious of the tile scraping and cutting his arms and chest as he drew himself up over the lip of the roof. He was almost over when something flew out of the darkness and stuck into his leg. Pain, hot and fierce washed over him, and he let out a choking gasp, nearly losing his hold. He turned to the street and could just make out the crossbowman’s shadowy form near the opening of an alleyway. The man was bent over his crossbow, cranking it back and preparing another shot.
Aaron bared his teeth and jerked himself over the side of the roof. He rolled away from the edge and lay on his back, gasping against the pain. He looked down and saw a crossbow bolt sticking into the meat of his right thigh, blood staining the leg of his trousers crimson. “Son of a bitch shot me,” he hissed, tearing a strip from his shirt and hastily wrapping it around his leg to stem the flow of blood.
They are trying to kill you, the girlish voice spoke, you must flee.
Aaron glanced over at the orb floating next to him and frowned past the pain. “Really?” He growled, “What gave it away? As for fleeing, I’d love to, you see, but the thing is I have a gods-cursed arrow in my gods-cursed leg.” Gritting his teeth, he took hold of the shaft of the bolt and broke it off, hissing in agony.
“It is the pain,” the orb spoke out loud, “it is too much for you.”
“Rather good at stating the damned obvious, aren’t you, Moe?”
“It’s Co,” the orb said testily, “and I can make the pain lessen.”
“Yeah? How about you go kill all those bastards while you’re at it.” A head peaked over the edge of the roof and Aaron lashed out with his good leg. The soldier screamed in pain and surprise and was still screaming as he flew out into the empty air, disappearing from Aaron’s view. He struck the street below with a crash and the screams came to an abrupt halt. Seconds later, an arrow struck the corner of the roof, and Aaron rolled away as splinters of tile and wood scattered around him.
He struggled to his feet and hobbled toward the other end of the roof in a low crouch. The treacherous footing of the rain-drenched tiles was compounded by the agony that lanced up his right leg anytime he put any pressure on it, and he only just managed to keep himself from falling as he trudged stubbornly along the rooftop. With each step, the pain grew worse, and less than halfway to the other end it forced him to a panting stop.
As soon as he was still, the orb floated to his leg, and began to drift around it in lazy spirals, touching it from time to time and making the flesh around the wound tingle. Aaron opened his mouth to tell it to stop, but before he had a chance the orb flickered brightly, floated toward his leg, and disappeared. “What the—“ he stopped speaking as a dull numbness spread over his wound, easing the pain. It still hurt, but it was a small ache when compared to what it had been before, and easy enough to ignore.
Now go, the voice spoke inside his head, and he was sure that he could detect a hint of strain in it, while there is time.
He was just about to ask the orb what it had done when another head peaked over the edge of the roof. He reached down, pulled one of the clay tiles up, and threw it, but the man had already ducked back down. He surveyed the area around him and, seeing no other options, started across the slippery tiles in a limping, shuffling run. “I don’t know what you did,” he muttered, “but we’re talking about this later, Joe.”
It’s Co, the voice said, but he paid it little attention, focused instead on the rapidly approaching roof’s edge and the five foot gap between it and the next building. Under normal circumstances, the jump would have given him little difficulty, but the water-soaked tiles made the footing treacherous even without taking into account his wounded leg.
He glanced back and saw that one of the men had made it on the roof, and that there was another coming up behind him. No time to stop, no time to think. He sped up, almost slipped, recovered his footing, and leapt.
He fought the urge to close his eyes as he soared through the air, sure that he was going to plummet to his death like a bird with a broken wing. Instead, he went farther, faster, than he’d intended, and he hit the roof in an awkward roll, grunting as the wind was knocked out of him on the hard tiles. Gasping, he rose and forced himself into a stumbling walk across the rooftop. When he made it to the edge, he turned and looked back. In the pale moonlight, he could just make out the forms of four of the soldiers as they came to a skidding halt at the end of the roof. One of the men didn’t manage to stop in time and nearly stumbled over the edge before one of his companions grabbed him and pulled him back.
He smiled smugly at their curses for a moment—then he remembered the crossbowman. The man would probably be circling around. It would take him longer on the ground than on the rooftops but not much. Aaron guessed he only had a minute or two tops before the man was able to work his way through the alleyways. He walked to the edge of the roof, careful of his footing, and looked down. The roof of the building didn’t overhang as much as the inn had—thank Iladen for that.
He crouched low and lowered himself over the edge carefully, terribly conscious of the hard pavement of the street below. Unlike the inn, the building had enough windows that he was able to work his way down, using the sills as hand and foot holds. He took extra care to be quiet; the last thing he needed was some wench screaming her head off because she saw him in her window and thought he’d come to steal what little virtue she had left. After what he estimated could have been no more than a minute and a half, his feet came down on the pavement, and he br
eathed a shuddery sigh of relief.
Still, there was no time to rest. He glanced down one side of the shadowed street and then the other. “What do you think, Blinkie, which way’s he coming from?” The orb didn’t respond. “Fine then,” he said as he headed for the shadowed entrance of a nearby tailor’s shop, “be that way.”
He tucked himself into the doorway, satisfied that he was hidden in the darkness and as he waited, he focused on getting his breathing under control. A hiding place didn’t do much good if you were breathing like a blacksmith’s bellows.
It wasn’t long until the bowman appeared out of one of the nearby alleyways. The man scanned the rooftops warily, his crossbow held at the ready as he made his way down the street drawing closer and closer to where the sellsword was hidden. Aaron resisted the urge to draw one of his blades. The night was quiet, and the slightest sound could give him away. He waited until the man was only a few paces away from him then lunged out and grasped a fistful of the soldier’s hair. Before the man could cry out, Aaron jerked his head back and brought a fist down on his throat.
Something in the man’s throat gave under the blow, and he let out a hacking, gurgling sound, struggling against the sellsword’s grip, but Aaron held on grimly, hitting him in the throat again and again until the other man’s struggles weakened then he let him fall to the ground in a heap. “Surprise.”
Watching the man labor in vain to get a breath past his ruined throat, Aaron felt an unexpected stab of pity. The man was dying, that was certain. He was dying because Aaron had killed him. Not just dying either, but suffering. So what? He thought, angry at the unexpected shame he felt as he watched the man squirm and paw at his throat helplessly, the bastard tried to kill me. It was true—he had the wound to prove it—but the nagging, unfamiliar feeling of guilt didn’t go away.
A Sellsword's Compassion_Book One of the Seven Virtues Page 3
