Torturous Alliance

by Kristine Lichtlider

  Worse than the stares, which the big man told himself he had best get used to, were the whispered comments of those he passed. He had changed out of his ruined, decorative scale mail and into a ring mail tunic provided by Murdoch, but still folk seemed to recognize him. It seemed as if the watch had loose tongues, and had wagged them all over Port Gar about the scarred dragon slayer.

  Not having much else to do while Stella prepared the incantation she boasted would find the wretched beast, Seamus found his feet taking him into a tavern. It was a bit nicer than the places he normally drank at, which were hole in the wall dives that sold cheap mead and ale. The fat purse at his side, a generous stipend offered by the Port Gar Merchant's Council, encouraged him to aim his sights a bit higher.

  The brightly painted sign outside proclaimed the place The Mermaid's Rest, which he knew to be slang for a sailor drowned at sea. The picture on the sign was cheerful, however, and depicted a large bosomed fish woman with alluring, come hither eyes. Unlike many taverns, it did not have an accompanying inn, and the midday crowd seemed to indicate that the fare was at least passable.

  He pushed open the swinging door, nearly bumping into another patron. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noted that the conversations in the room became more muted. Indeed, when his vision was clear enough he saw many eyes cast furtively his way. The big man frowned, wishing that he had Roikza's comforting presence on his shoulder. He was surprised to realize that it had been over a week since he had even thought of caging her.

  He began to tromp across the floor, self-consciously cupping his maimed hand underneath his good one. A scowl crossed his face when he realized the bar was full, and no empty tables remained.

  “Drink with me, dragon slayer,” said a gruff voice from behind him. He turned to face a man sitting near the front corner of the establishment. The stranger had merry, twinkling blue eyes set in a face lined with age and tragedy. His bulbous nose perched above a bristly mustache, which connected to an even more bristly black and gray beard. Though Seamus did not much care for company at the moment, he felt compelled by politeness to join the man at his table.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “No,” said the man “thank you for doing what the watch lacks the nerve to.”

  “Likely,” said Seamus bitterly “I will go to my grave like my brother before me.”

  “Aye,” said the man, slapping a thick gnarled hand on the table “you likely will at that...unless you are properly equipped.”

  “What are you driving at?” said Seamus, his brows coming low over narrowed eyes.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” said the hairy man “I am Daveed of Maklarnay, late a humble blacksmith.”

  “Seamus, with no family who will claim him,” said the big man, chuckling a bit “lately a scarred cripple.”

  “Bah,” said Daveed, motioning for the barmaid. He ordered two tall glasses of an ale that had hints of honey and blueberries. The drink was refreshing on Seamus's hot, parched throat.

  “The problem with fighting dragons,” said Daveed “is that when you stick 'em, their blood squirts out and melts whatever you stuck 'em with.”

  “I know that, better than most...” said Seamus darkly.

  “Of course you do,” said Daveed, a trifle embarrassed. “I didn't mean to...at any rate, the Templars up north, where the dragons are a bigger problem, they got this wonderful stuff called Bestas. If you work it into the steel when you're shaping it into a weapon, no dragon blood will ever melt it.”

  “The witch was saying something like that,” said Seamus, wishing he hadn't listened to the arrogant little git with half an ear.

  “A witch?” said Daveed, frowning fearfully.

  “Never mind,” said Seamus “so I take it you know where to get some of this Bestas?”

  “Actually,” said the smith “I was hoping you knew where to acquire some, being a dragon slayer and all.”

  “I normally hunt much smaller dragons,” said Seamus, biting his lip as memories of his slain brother bubbled to the surface of his mind.

  “Well,” said Daveed “if you can come across some, or discern how it's made, I can forge you a fine set of weapons and armor, free of charge...if you share the secret of Bestas with me.”

  Seamus's jaw set hard. He had been viewing the upcoming dragon hunt as nothing more than a good way to commit suicide. However, if the smith could truly do what he claimed, there was a chance he could win. A slim one, no doubt, but still...

  “Very well,” said Seamus, spitting in his palm and offering it across the table to Daveed. The man added a dollop of white froth to his own palm before clasping Seamus's hand. They shook vigorously, and Seamus was surprised at the strength in the man's hand.

  “My shop is near the shipyards, where the smells and incessant hammering don't disturb the rich folk,” said Daveed “look for the banner bearing a hammer on a blue field.”

  “I will, Daveed,” said Seamus, draining the last of his ale. He looked at the bottom of the glass in amazement, because he could not fathom how it had disappeared so fast.

  “Another round?” said Daveed, his grin ear to ear.

  “Thank you,” said Seamus, smiling through his scars.

  Quinn hunched low, his nose mere inches from the playing board. An intense look of concentration knitted his brow as he scanned over the marble red and white playing pieces. There were many more figures of his color remaining, but that fact did not decrease the worry in his blue eyes.

  Across the game table, Kate sat relaxed, her chin cupped in one hand. A slight smile was across her ruby painted lips. They were sitting in a tea room on the second floor of her father's manor. Rich drapes the color of red wine blocked out the hot midday sun, allowing only a smattering of red tinged light to lance across the checkered tile floor. Nearby, a tray laden with half eaten crumpets and a jar of honey sat on a rolling cart.

  Quinn at last moved his hand towards a piece, one of his Towers. He paused when he heard a disapproving grunt from Kate. The first sword met her gaze, hand still suspended above the piece.

  “You don't believe that to be a good move?” he said with a bit of irritation.

  “I said nothing,” said Kate with faux innocence.

  “Hmm,” said Quinn, returning his attention to the board. “For someone who's lost half her pieces, I'd think that you wouldn't have time to criticize my strategy.”

  “Then why do you hesitate, oh master of the blade?” she said sweetly.

  Quinn frowned, though a ghost of a smile tried to shine through it. With a sudden, decisive movement he slid the piece across the board and crossed his arms.

  “Check,” he said triumphantly. “Mate in four moves.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows, then leaned forward to consider the board. After a mere half minute of calculation, she picked up one of her Templars and used it to capture a Priest.

  “Check and mate,” she said, leaning back against her comfortable chair and delicately sipping at her tea.

  “What?” said Quinn, scowling as he stared at the board. “Bloody unbelievable! You created that opening just to get me to drop my britches, and that's just what I did.”

  “Father won't play with me anymore,” said Kate with a mock pout “says I'm much to devious a player for his taste.”

  “I can see why,” said Quinn “had you been born Lord Mannix's son, no doubt the king would grant you your own legion to command.”

  Kate scowled a bit. The casual mention of her sex's inferior status annoyed her for some reason. It was one of the things she had so found attractive in Bruno. Something of an outsider himself, he had never treated her like an inferior because of her womanhood.

  “Is something wrong, my lady?” said Quinn.

  “No,” said Kate “nothing, just remembering the fancies of a young girl. Thank you for the game, First Sword.”

  She rose from her seat, Quinn rising as she did and offering a bow of hi
s head. She gathered up the hem of her olive green gown and headed for the garden. Eschewing a change of clothes, she walked right into the hot sun in her fancy dress. She had planned only to sit and stare at her plants for a time, but here there were rose bushes that needed trimming, and there her daffodils were being choked out by weeds. Soon she was on her knees in the dirt, sweat running down her brow as she went about her ministrations.

  A frown crossed her features. The black rose bud, the only one on a bush of red flowers, had fallen off. She carefully picked up the wilted petals and brought them to her lips.

  “Can you feel this, Sir Bruno?” she said. “I wish you could. I wish many things were different...”

  A thought occurred to her, one that had been dancing about in the shadows of her mind. The bard's tales were rife with stories of privileged maids who ran away from their lives of opulence and led simple lives with their one true love. Perhaps she could run away herself, go to that distant village in the south that Bruno had been sent to protect....

  The idea died in her breast before it had truly taken root. Sir Bruno's sense of duty would force him to return her to her father, forcibly cast over his shoulder if necessary. Too, she thought of her father, of how miserable and embarrassed he would be by the whole affair.

  Still, it was a tempting thought, and she found her spirits lightened just by the idea of going through with it. She found herself whistling merrily as she worked. Working for over an hour in the hot sun made her feel parched, and she soon made for the cool confines of the manor.

  A serving girl noticed her sweaty brow and had a glass of cool water in her hand before she had even had time to adjust her vision to her dimmer surroundings. She drained the glass, then held the cool vessel against her forehead, gasping a bit.

  She was surprised to find Quinn pacing outside the door to her chambers, a deeply troubled look on his face.

  “Quinn,” she said in surprise “what has happened? You look as if you found a snake in your boot.”

  “Worse, my lady,” he said grimly “please, might we have this discussion in your chambers? There are many ears about...”

  “Of course,” she said, opening the unlocked door to her chamber. She offered refreshment to him, but he declined.

  “Your father is busy making preparations for the Harvest Ball,” he said “so I took the opportunity to...access his puzzle box.”

  “And?” said Kate when the man appeared reluctant to speak. “Does he have a mistress, or an illegitimate child, as we feared?”

  “I wish it were so, lady...” said Quinn sadly “I wish it were so. Where you present when your father dismissed Duncan Davros from his service?”

  “Yes,” said Kate, frowning at the unpleasant memory “half the court saw it happen. They were shouting at each other fiercely, and my father...he struck Duncan across the mouth, drawing blood...”

  “So I have heard,” said Quinn “but have you ever known the reason why these two men, long fast friends, would suddenly turn to hatred?”

  “The only thing that father has said,” Kate replied slowly “is that Davros insulted him. I thought it was strange as well, but what can one do?”

  Quinn sighed, then looked into her eyes earnestly.

  “Davros,” he said “has turned traitor to the crown. He leads a small army of rebels in the forests many miles south of here.”

  “What?” said Kate, blinking her soft brown eyes “That's impossible! How do you even know such a thing?”

  Quinn reached into his jerkin, withdrew a rolled up parchment that he handed to her. She peered at the missive, frowning when she recognized the author.

  “This is my father's hand,” she said “but...but it says that he...that he...”

  “Is providing aid to the rebels,” said Quinn grimly.

  “Oh, father,” said Kate “what have you done? Quinn.”

  He looked up into her eyes, attentive and loyal.

  “Who else have you spoken to about this?” she said.

  “No one but you, my lady,” he said.

  “We must conceal this fact,” she said stiffly “return the missive to my father's puzzle box, and utter not a word of this to anyone. I will speak with my father, and try to convince him of the foolhardiness of his actions.”

  “By your will, my lady,” he said, bowing his head.

  “Quinn,” she said sadly “I have just asked you to commit treason against the king. How can you agree so quickly?”

  Quinn smiled slightly, took one of her hands in both of his. He gently kissed the back of her hand, his whiskers tickling her flesh.

  “Is it not obvious, my lady?” he said, before turning on his heel and leaving her alone. Kate plopped heavily into a chair, feeling fearful and giddy all at once.

  “Oh father,” she said “what have you gotten us into?”

  Chapter 4

  I am fine, Bruno,” said Aven as the knight continued to fuss with the wounds on her wrists. He was using a cloth treated in herbs good for preventing infection, dabbing gently at the cuts on her flesh.

  “He bound you like a slave,” growled the ebon skinned man, the set of his jaw saying that the blood he had already spilled was not enough to sate his appetite.

  “Aye,” said Aven, putting a hand on his cheek “but now you must stay your wrath, my brave knight. This father Cornelius, or One eyed Bruce, whoever he really is... only he can unravel this mystery. Do not the severed limbs and viscera you left outside slake your thirst for vengeance?”

  “No,” he said “they do not. There may be more blood spilled yet; Those who overtly rebelled are vastly outnumbered by those who hold rebellion in their hearts. Worse, many of the men slain today were brothers, husbands, fathers...”

  Aven nodded sadly. “It is not safe for you to remain in Ravensford, my lord.”

  Bruno grunted, finishing the bandage on her wrist. She felt guilty knowing that a slight expenditure of her magical energy could close the stinging cuts, but there was a certain thrill to be had watching the knight dote over her.

  “Once I have learned what I can from those two,” said Bruno “I shall away for the capital. The king must know of this brazen attempt to usurp order.”

  “You would leave us, then?” said Aven.

  “Aye,” said Bruno, frowning at her “though it pains me that we must part, my fair Allison...”

  He leaned forward to kiss her, which she returned. It was her hands that shoved him away, however, her green eyes glinting with anger.

  “So that is it,” she said “you will rut about in my hairy ditch, kiss me, then be off never to return?”

  “Allison,” said Bruno, placing a hand on her cheek. She swatted it away, a low growl escaping her throat. “Do not...do not speak so. I...I care for you...”

  “I... care for you as well,” she said, fighting the stinging tears that threatened to well up in her eyes.

  “Return with me,” he said suddenly, a light gleaming in his eyes “I have modest lands, some of the earth tilled by my own hand, and my house is not the largest, but, it could be your home as well...”

  “What are you saying?” said Aven breathlessly.

  “I think,” said Bruno, seeming not to believe his own tongue “that I am asking you to be my wife.”

  “Oh,” said Aven, and now the tears did come, flowing hot down her cheeks. “Oh, Sir Bruno, I would love to come with you, but there is something you must know-”

  Hector walked into the kitchen, saw the tender scene before him, and instantly turned to leave, nearly running into the bound and gagged Lily. Hector had taken to keeping her leashed, the rope tied to his waist.

  “Forgive me,” he said. He had only took a step when Bruno called him back.

  “What is it, Squire?” he said.

  “The...er...” said Hector “the priest is awake.”

  “I'll be there presently,” said Bruno. Hector nodded and gratefully made his exit.

  “What is it you wished to say?” said Bruno,
putting his hand over her own.

  “It can wait,” she said, her eyes narrowing. She sniffled, wiping the mucous from her nose with the back of her sleeve. “I would hear what this priest has to say for himself.”

  Hector untied the rope from his waist and yanked hard on the free end. Lily was forced up to her tiptoes, choking as he sternly berated her.

  “You be a good girl, now,” he said. His hand closed about her nipple in a vice like grip, forcing her to kneel. He put his foot on the back of her head and forced her face to the dirty floor. Using the rope, he bound her to the stout leg of the table, leaving her so little slack she could not even raise her head.

  “Now, stay,” he said, kissing her gently on the cheek. Bruno rolled his eyes at the tender display. It seemed his squire would never learn.

  They tromped down the stairs to the residence's cellar. The cool air felt good on their skin, though the sensation seemed lost on their captives. Davros had been bound about the torso with twine, his hands lashed together in his lap. The troublesome priest was similarly secured, but while Bruno's old friend was comfortable in a chair, Crown was lying on his bottom in the dirt. A large swollen knot was on the side of his head, partially closing his left eye.

  “So,” said the little man, addressing Aven “it seems as if our positions are reversed. I admit I underestimated you, my dear.”

  “Shut up,” said Bruno, grabbing the little man by his face. “You don't speak to her. Never speak to her again, understand?”

  He roughly shook the man's head from side to side, so fiercely Hector and Aven feared his neck would snap.

  “Of course,” said Crown, staring somberly up into Bruno's eyes. “Instead, I will bargain with you, oh knight.”

  “Bah,” said Davros, turning his baleful gaze upon the assassin “what have you to offer, except lies and deceitful acts, 'Bruce?'“

  “Had you been able to fulfill your end, we would not be in this position,” said Crown with a slight smile.