The man grinned, “Not yet.” Even before he was finished speaking, he was dashing forward, his blade whistling as it darted through the air toward Aaron’s throat.
Instead of retreating as he had before, Aaron lunged forward, ducking under the blade and whipping his blunted blade around at the man’s midsection. The brown haired man grunted in surprise and just managed to get his own blade back in time to stop the strike. The air rang with the sound of metal striking metal, and they stood there, their swords locked, each of them struggling to force the other’s blade aside. “Just die, you bastard,” the man growled, his smile gone.
Aaron didn’t waste energy talking. Although Co was alleviating his pain, he was still weak, and it took all he had to keep the smaller man’s sword at bay. Still, he knew that it wouldn’t last long. Already, he could feel his strength leaving him, and he knew it wouldn’t be more than a matter of seconds before the assassin managed to knock his blade aside and finish it.
“You’ve already lost,” the man snarled, “you just don’t know it yet. Your woman, and the fat man, both of them are as good as dead. See for yourself.”
Aaron shot a glance over his shoulder, and saw that Gryle and Adina were no longer sitting on the bench, but being forced back toward the entrance of the arena by a group of rough looking armed men, and though several of the people in the crowd were staring curiously, even angrily, no one made a move to stop it. Gods no.
He pushed harder, forcing more strength against the other man’s sword, so that the assassin had to exert more pressure of his own. Then, without warning, he pulled his left arm away from his sword. The second that he did, the man grinned and knocked his sword aside. He was still grinning when Aaron let out a growl of rage and smashed his fist into the man’s face. There was a loud crack as the assassin’s nose snapped, and he bellowed in agony as he tumbled backward, his sword tumbling to the ground.
Aaron dove on top of him, “Kill me will you?” He drove his fist into the man’s face again. The assassin’s head rebounded off the tightly packed earth, and Aaron clamped his hands around the man’s throat and began to squeeze. A small part of his mind noted that the arena had grown eerily silent. The only sounds to be heard were his own growls and curses of rage and the assassin’s choking gargles. “Stop!” An unfamiliar voice shouted. I’ll be damned if I do, Aaron thought, and he didn’t flinch as the assassin struck him in the sides, didn’t feel the pain at all. Instead, he squeezed harder, digging his fingers into the man’s throat.
He felt a twinge in his side and looked down to see a knife sticking out of it. Must have been hiding it in his tunic, the bas—the rest of his thoughts were blasted from his mind as Co suddenly let out wretched, agonized scream so intense that he was sure his head would shatter from it. The Virtue’s tortured wail stretched out, impossibly long, and soon he was shouting himself, not at his own pain—the Virtue was still blocking that—but at the impossible, gut-wrenching dimensions of Co’s agony, an agony that he somehow felt without feeling, an agony that he knew was supposed to be his own.
He snarled, feeling as if he’d go insane from the terrible sound of Co’s scream, but his grip on the assassin’s throat did not relent. The man’s lips were turning blue, and his eyes bulged from his sockets, but he still managed to get his hand around the blade and twist it. The pain was a faint, distant thing, but Co’s tormented scream rose in pitch, threatening to drive all rational thought from his head. He held on to one thought with the desperation of a drowning man struggling for the surface. Adina. They were going to kill Adina.
He didn’t know how long he crouched there, growling and cursing and squeezing, his eyes closed against the Virtue’s agony, but when he finally looked down the man’s dead eyes stared back at him in a look of surprise, and his own hands trembled and shook violently.
Aaron, the Virtue whimpered, I can’t … hold it back anymore.
Not yet, Co, he thought back, not yet. They have Gryle. They have Adina. He struggled to his feet and took several, shuffling steps in the direction of Adina in the others. Then, without warning, an agony like nothing he’d ever felt tore through his body, a roaring inferno that drowned out everything else. The strength went out of his legs, and he crumpled to the ground, howling in rage and pain.
Get up damn you, he thought fiercely, but his legs wouldn’t respond to his demands. Snarling, he started forward at a crawl, his expression set in a grimace of twisted rage. His chest heaved and his straining effort caused fresh blood to pump out of the wound in his side. Darkness started to creep its way steadily into his vision, and he fought against it as he drug himself across the dusty ground, heedless of the bloody trail he left in his wake.
The darkness grew deeper, so that his vision consisted of a thin, rapidly shrinking tunnel. Then, like some beast that had been lurking, waiting for the right opportunity, the darkness reared up, relentless and implacable and pounced. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he could just make out the sound of footsteps beside him. “Get him,” a man’s voice said, and then it was gone, and there was only the pain, and the darkness, and then nothing at all.
CHAPTER
FORTY-TWO
The men led Adina and Gryle toward the arena’s entrance. Adina tried to think of some way to escape, but her thoughts kept going back to Aaron, to the bloody cut across his chest, the last thing she’d seen before the men had taken her. And that scream. Had that really been Aaron? Was he dead already? Please, she thought desperately, please let him be okay.
It’s your fault, a part of her said as hot tears glided down her face. If not for you, he’d be safe in the Downs. If he’s dead, you killed him as much as the man with the blade. She’d wanted to make the world a better place, a place where people didn’t have to live in fear of Belgarin and his men, but she had failed. Eladen had died, Aaron was most likely dead, and it was all her fault.
She was so overcome by her brooding thoughts that she wasn’t aware the men around her had stopped until she bumped into one of them. The soldier turned and slapped her contemptuously across the face, and she cried out in shock and surprise, a hand going to her bloody lip. “Watch where you’re going, bitch,” he hissed before turning back to gaze at something she couldn’t see past the soldiers in front of her.
“Get out of our way, old man,” the leader growled.
“Let them go, and I’ll be happy to,” a familiar voice said.
“I don’t have time for this shit,” the leader said, drawing his sword, “Kill the stupid bastard.” As the men fanned out, Adina saw that the old man, Darrell, stood facing them, his sword held low at an angle to the ground.
The soldiers started forward in confident swaggers, and the old man watched them come, his face expressionless. The closest of them brought his blade up to strike, and Darrell exploded into motion. He lunged forward, impossibly quick, and his sword lashed out and took the soldier in the throat. His unlucky victim took a fumbling step back and his sword clattered to the earth. Before the others had a chance to react, the old man took two quick steps back, out of the range of their swords. The man he’d struck wavered drunkenly then fell to the ground in a thrashing heap, the hands he’d brought to his throat staining crimson in moments.
The soldiers glanced at each other, stunned, ignoring their dying comrade. “Watch her,” the leader said to the man closest to Adina. Then, as one, he and the remaining three roared and charged and the old man disappeared in a flurry of swinging and stabbing steel that flashed with deadly promise in the sunlight. Adina watched, terrified, expecting the old man to be cut down. Instead, he weaved in and out of the storm of blows like the wind, ducking slashes, sidestepping thrusts, and knocking the blades of the soldiers harmlessly aside. To the princess, who’d often watched her father’s and her own soldiers practice, he didn’t appear to be fighting at all, but performing some intricate, elaborate dance.
“Kill him!” A frightened, whining voice shrieked. “He’s ruining it! He’s ruining everything!”
Adina turned and saw Claudius standing out of his seat, a turkey leg still in his hand. The fat man’s face was deep crimson with anger, and even from across the arena, Adina could see his jowls shake as he waved the piece of greasy meat like a sword and pointed it at Darrell, “kill him and bring the princess to me!”
At the Duke’s command, guards began to rush out of the benches and across the grounds like ants swarming out of their hive. More than twenty men all told, sprinting across the grounds toward the old swordmaster who was too busy fending off the attacks of the remaining soldiers to notice. “Look out!” She shouted, as a young, blonde haired man—faster than the rest—charged up behind Darrell, and the old man moved just in time to avoid a blow that would have split him in two.
“Run girl!” He shouted, his voice hoarse, as he parried another blow and kicked the nearest man in the stomach sending him to the ground, “You and your man get out of here now!”
Adina knew that the old swordmaster was right. She should run, survive, bide her time. Belgarin might soon gain control of the north, true, but he hadn’t won yet, and as one of the royal line, she was better equipped to undermine her brother’s schemes than anyone else. She also knew that, though she’d had some training with a blade at the hands of Jon Harvend, her father’s Captain of the Guard (her father had insisted that all of the royal line knew enough to protect themselves) she would die if she stayed. Perhaps, given a dueling rapier and matched against one of them, she might have had some small hope, but they’d never give her a chance. Once they finished with Darrell, they’d cut her down with no more thought than a butcher slicing hog’s flesh. And that if she was lucky. These men were not nobles or duelists, and she doubted very seriously if they’d ever even heard of Eralian’s Treatise on the Proper Etiquette of Formal Dueling. In truth, she would have been surprised if any of them could read at all.
Better to run, to hide, to survive. She knew all of this, yet she hesitated, her eyes locked on the doomed swordmaster as he fought an unwinnable fight. When her feet finally did move, she was surprised to find that it wasn’t in the direction of safety, but toward the carnage. She’d taken only three steps when a hairy arm wrapped around her neck and jerked her back. In an instant, a knife blade was poised scant inches from her eye. “Move and die, bitch,” the remaining guard growled into her ear, and she almost gagged at the overpowering, rotten whiskey-stench of his breath.
The chamberlain took a step toward her, and the soldier tightened his grip, bringing the knife to her throat, “Not another step, fat man or the bitch dies, princess or not.” Gryle froze, and Adina just had time to notice that the chamberlain wasn’t looking at her or the man, but over their shoulder, behind them, when the soldier let out a grunt of surprise. He fell, taking her with him and landing on top of her.
The air was knocked out of her, and she struggled wildly for several seconds, anticipating the feel of sharp steel tearing into her before she realized that the man wasn’t fighting back. Finally, she managed to push herself out from under the soldier. Breathing hard more from fear than exertion, she scooted backwards across the dusty earth, trying to put some distance between her and her guard. She looked to see how close he was and froze in shock. Sticking out of the back of the man’s neck was a dagger that looked as if it should be hanging in some collector’s show room. The handle was adorned with gold and at its base held a large, sparkling ruby. Blood, sickeningly similar to the color of the gem, pulsed from the wound in spurts. “Wha—“ she began, then hands were grasping her by the arms, pulling her to her feet.
“Come on, we have to go,” A voice urged, and she let out a gasp of surprise as she saw that her savior was no other than Celes, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed bartender from May’s club back in Avarest.
“You!” Adina exclaimed, “but how—“
“No time for that,” the blonde answered grimly, the playful, flirtatious manner she’d shown in the Downs nowhere in evidence, “If you want to live, we’ve got to get you and your man out of here. Now.”
Adina let herself be pulled along several paces before jerking her arm away and turning back to where Darrell fought desperately for his life. “Wait. What about him?” More guards had arrived, attacking in unison, and the old man’s sword was a blur as he struggled to keep the web of steel at bay. Three soldiers lay dead on the ground, another two writhing and screaming as they gripped the bloody stumps where their sword hands had been moments before. Still, the swordmaster wasn’t having it all his way. He bled from a cut across his chest and one of his arms was cradled against his side, stained crimson from a long cut on his forearm. A short way off more armed men were rushing toward him. “We can’t leave him. He saved me.”
The blonde woman pulled at her, “Dar knows what he’s doing, now come on. Don’t make it for nothing!” She hissed angrily.
Reluctantly, Adina forced her eyes away from the older man and followed the bartender, looking back once to make sure that Gryle was close behind. “We have to get Aaron,” she said, as they pushed their way through a gathering crowd of stupefied, slack-jawed onlookers.
“For a girl who can’t even save herself, you sure do have a lot of foolish ideas,” Celes snapped, “now stop acting like a spoiled princess who expects everything to go her way and come on!”
The woman burst into a sprint, tugging on Adina’s arm, and the princess was forced to follow or have her arm ripped from its socket. Soon, they were out of the arena grounds and running through the empty streets. They wound their way through so many back alleys and side passages that by the time Celes slowed to a walk in one of the wealthier parts of Baresh, Gryle and Adina were both panting heavily, pouring with sweat, and Adina, at least, was hopelessly lost.
“This way,” the woman said as she led them up to the wrought iron gate of an expensive looking house.
“We can’t break in here,” Adina thought, “I’ve seen these kind of gates before. You won’t be able to force them.”
The blonde arched a delicate, perfectly-shaped eyebrow at her, “Break in? Of course not.” She turned back to the gate, and in moments an elderly bald man appeared and opened the gates. “Mrs. Celes, welcome back. They’re waiting for you inside.”
“Thank you, Olo,” she said, as she led the confused princess and chamberlain up the cobbled walk, past richly colored and meticulously maintained gardens to the front door of the sprawling home. She knocked once, and the door swung open.
“I-it can’t be,” Adina breathed, as a familiar face smiled back at her.
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
Aaron didn’t wake so much as get torn out of unconsciousness by the many pains and hurts that he’d acquired over the last couple of weeks. By themselves, each was enough to explain the film of cold sweat that covered his body and convince him that his time of finally come. Soon he would begin the Last Walk through the Keeper’s Fields and would become nothing but another slave toiling under the God of Death’s yolk. He thought of Adina and felt a deep pang of sadness. Sadness, but not surprise.
Salen’s Priests claimed that their god was the most powerful, the most worthy of worship, because everyone who was living was steadily marching toward death. Aaron supposed if that was true then, given his lifestyle and profession, he’d been flat out sprinting. The truth was, he’d known his death was coming—had known it for a long time. He’d never deluded himself into thinking he’d die old, surrounded by loving children and squalling grandchildren to mourn his passing. If he was surprised at all, it was only that it had taken this long.
“There now,” a rough, male voice said beside him, “relax. It’s alright.”
He tried to open his eyes, but he found that he didn’t have the strength. It was as if weights had been tied to his eyelids. “Drink this,” the voice told him, and he felt something pressed against his lips.
His supposed that it was poison. For a moment, he considered drinking it. At least it would make the pain stop. It was a mixture of thoughts of the pri
ncess and his own stubbornness that kept his lips tightly sealed. The bastards could kill him if they wanted—he was in no shape to stop them—but by the gods they were going to have to get their hands bloody doing it. Co, he thought, struggling to keep his thoughts coherent past the waves of pain on which they floated, where are we? What’s happening?
The Virtue didn’t respond.
Co?
Still there was no answer, and Aaron began to worry. What if she’d absorbed too much of his pain, taken too much of it into herself and, so doing, had died. There’d been a time that he would have laughed at such a thought. After all, how could a glowing ball of light die, and what did it matter to him if it did? Well, the fact was, it did matter now, and that was enough.
The glass pressed against his mouth more urgently, “Drink,” the owner of the voice said, “it will help. It will help the pain go away.”
I don’t doubt it, he thought, but he was too weak to reply even if he wanted to. The question was, was there something in the drink that would kill him, or only some remedy that would bring relief to the hot agony that coursed through his body. He decided that it didn’t make sense for it to be poison. After all, if Belgarin’s men wanted him dead, all they had to do was stick a knife in him and be done.
More likely, they wanted him to get better so that they could question him about everything that had happened. Not much point in torturing a man that was already dying, after all. He considered not drinking it anyway. Why give the sons of bitches the satisfaction? The problem was that the pain was growing worse, more insistent. Reluctantly, he opened his mouth and let the liquid pour down his throat. “That’s good,” the disembodied voice said approvingly, “Drink all of it.” Whatever the mixture was, it tasted bitter and left a sharp after taste in his mouth, but he complied readily nonetheless. He hadn’t realized how parched he’d been until he tasted the cool liquid.
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