Fortune's Toll (The Legion of the Wind, Book Two)

by Corey Pemberton

  What are you doing out here, you fool? Go back to bed.

  Argus smiled, and decided to do just that. When he opened his eyes the sun's first rays warmed him. He turned away from the street. Opened the sliding door.

  Thunk.

  Something metal landed on the terrace.

  Argus jumped, nearly stumbling over another one right beside him.

  He reached for Reaver.

  Nothing there. She was in the bedroom with Janna. He glanced down to examine the metal objects. They were hooks with many prongs, almost like harpoons the fishermen used in the Comet Tail Isles. Thick chains trailed behind them, all the way across the terrace and over the railing.

  Argus blinked, but they were still there.

  Then those chains started moving, dragging their hooks behind them. He watched as they skidded across the terrace. Their retreat continued until the hooks caught on the railing, where they lodged tightly.

  Argus froze. He peered across the street, scanning darkened windows.

  A hissing sound.

  A glimpse of brilliant yellow fletching… right before the arrow pierced him.

  Suddenly he was on the ground, clutching desperately at the broadhead lodged in his shoulder. His blood ran hot; he wallowed in an ever-expanding pool of it. He needed to pull it out—had to—but couldn't find the strength to do it.

  Grabbing the arrow with both hands, Argus groaned. He stayed low and took cover beneath the railing. More arrows whistled overhead, skittering across the terrace.

  Argus bit his lip and pulled. He screamed. In his blood-slicked hands he found a broken arrow. No. This was worse. The broadhead was still inside, digging into his shoulder. He dropped the splintered arrow and focused on staying conscious.

  Breathe, just breathe.

  He couldn't.

  “Janna!”

  Argus tried to get up, slipped in his own blood, and crawled toward the door.

  He heard a clinking sound and glanced back. The hooks tugged against the railing. In the purple predawn light he saw the chains behind them tighten. Whoever held the other ends kept pulling until every link was taut.

  “Janna! Wake up!”

  He'd had enough ale and wine to hobble even Siggi, and she'd matched him drink for drink. She probably hadn't heard, deaf in her Turning stupor.

  Argus reached for the door and started to pull himself up by the handle.

  Then came a ripping sound behind him.

  In the gaps between the rooftops, two enormous shadows fluttered. They plunged toward him and for a moment he was certain they were the largest falcons he'd ever seen. But when the ripping sound ceased—when pale hands popped into view just beyond the railing, busy with the chains—he realized he'd been mistaken.

  Argus froze, then lunged for the hooks. If he could remove them before they pulled themselves up… He was only halfway across the terrace when two pairs of gray eyes poked over the railing.

  He grabbed his wound, then, and pressed it with everything he had. White flashes exploded in the corners of his vision, brighter than the fireworks they'd seen earlier. Argus was vaguely aware of a low, groaning noise spilling through his chattering teeth.

  There was nothing he could do to stop it.

  “Come on, you bastards.”

  Argus balled his free hand into a fist. He'd had more than his share of boxing matches and table-upending, crowd-clearing tavern scuffles. He still felt naked without his sword, but he wasn't afraid to bite and claw if the situation called for it.

  If I don't pass out first…

  The gray eyes dipped below the railing.

  Argus allowed himself a moment to celebrate that his challenge had scared them off. But he knew better—knew it was false hope.

  Four legs flopped over, like appendages from a single monster of the ocean deep. Boots pounded on the terrace. Somehow his attackers landed standing up. They were little more than wiry black shadows, and moved as if weightless. But their long daggers seemed solid enough.

  Black cloaks. Black hoods. Glowing blue-green blades of Viridian.

  Argus knew those blades well.

  The Whispers.

  He'd heard rumors of their secret order, but had never had the misfortune of seeing them work firsthand. The Whispers veered apart, splitting his focus. They padded ahead silently, gracefully, without a single wasted movement. Their eyes regarded him with ease, almost curiosity, like the little curly-haired boy he'd seen watching a balloon float away earlier.

  If even half the rumors he'd heard about the Whispers were true, Argus figured this fight would end quickly.

  He steeled himself anyway. Used his magic to staunch the bleeding from the shoulder wound, even though it cost him precious energy. Soon there would be more wounds than he could attend.

  The Whispers exchanged a look, and glided forward in a single motion.

  Argus watched, waited, tried to decide which one to attack first. A scream behind him. The whoosh of a sliding door.

  “Argus!”

  He glanced back and found Janna draped in the bedsheets. Her hair was matted against her face but her eyes were wide open. She screamed again when she saw the assassins and all the blood.

  “Get the blazes away from here! I'll come find you later!”

  Her footsteps scrabbled toward him instead. Argus tried to keep himself between her and the blades, which were closer now. The Whispers stayed far apart, shifting side to side; every few seconds one of them would dash in, testing his defenses.

  They're playing with me. Like alley cats toying with their supper.

  “Here!” said Janna.

  Argus turned.

  “Look out!”

  Her mouth fell open just as he snatched the scabbard from her outstretched arms. Argus drew Reaver, whirled, and was knocked down in a shower of sparks. The Whispers were on him, collecting the daggers he'd just slapped out of their hands. Argus yelled for Janna to run. Then it was just him and those gray eyes.

  He thrust and rolled, blood splashing from the puddle, but no matter what he tried he couldn't land a blow. Every time he lashed out there was nothing there but air.

  The Whispers never made a sound. Their cheeks flushed and Argus got the feeling they were enjoying this. Like the game was more interesting now that their quarry was armed.

  I'm the one they're after, right? Oh, gods. I used Janna's real name…

  No time for such thoughts.

  Argus feinted, changed the course of his blade at the last instant, and clinked against an assassin's belt buckle as the other slithered away. They were still on top of him. Somehow. Even though they looked too light to remain on the ground after an angry gust of wind.

  They're letting me drown, he thought. Riding the waves I'm creating.

  So Argus did the last thing that came naturally: he stopped struggling. Reaver screamed for blood—a scream that vibrated in his bones—but he forced himself to ignore her. He stopped fighting and went completely still.

  The only sound was his ragged breathing.

  Those gray eyes lowered. The fire in them dwindled. They were almost sad, as if they knew the game must end but were disappointed it couldn't go on longer.

  Jagged Viridian collected the early morning light. Those daggers were hewn in secrecy, from elusive rocks found only in the densest forests of Harlock. The Whispers preferred their blades that way. Nice and serrated, so the more you struggled the more you bled.

  Those daggers hovered above him, waiting to plunge.

  What are they waiting for?

  Then Argus knew. Killing wasn't enough; what they wanted was submission. For him to accept that this was the only way it could end. All it would take was a subtle nod.

  He gave it.

  The blades fell, and those gray eyes glinted.

  The daggers sliced his skin.

  Argus chanted—and prayed he'd done enough.

  His back lifted off the terrace, and in those gray eyes, doubt flickered. The Whispers scrambled to
keep him pinned. But this wave was larger than the ones he'd made before. This was a tsunami.

  Argus watched it all from someplace far away. Like it was happening to another man. Touch magic sent his body into motion. The only thing left to do was let it happen.

  First there was pain. A good deal of it, and even more when he shot upward into a sitting position. The daggers poked in a bit deeper before falling away. The Whispers fell away with them.

  Argus hurtled into the air.

  His stomach churned, full of ale and bleeding from the stab wounds. He was completely off the ground. Weightless. The Whispers flew toward the railing much like their grappling hooks.

  It had been a few months since Argus tried this piece of touch magic, and his abilities had progressed considerably. For one terrifying moment he was certain he'd sail straight over the railing. But he crashed onto it instead, clutching with one hand, dangling above the street.

  His fingers were sweaty and slicked with blood. One by one they peeled off, adding more strain than his wounded shoulder could bear. Argus tried another spell. Useless. The last one had taken everything he had—and then some.

  He grabbed with his free hand just as the other slipped free. Groaned. He clambered back onto the terrace, but nearly stumbled over one of the Whispers, who was crawling for his dagger, dazed.

  Argus kicked him square in the face.

  The assassin stiffened and seemed to melt into the terrace. His limbs gave out all at once. He became nothing more than a heap of black fabric. Grunting, Argus reached down and hoisted the unconscious Whisper over his good shoulder. He wobbled toward the railing and tossed the man over.

  Silence.

  A second later came the satisfying crunch of bone on packed earth, and a smattering of excited voices.

  “Look out!”

  A sword whistled close by, but the clash was clumsy enough to dodge even in his weakened state. His sword. The first time in a while that Reaver's angry blade had been turned against him.

  Another thrust came.

  Argus backpedaled and found himself on the railing again.

  The Whisper edged closer, gray eyes flickering. Behind him, across the blood-splashed tiles, Janna and Morgan held each other with their mouths wide open.

  “I said run!” Argus roared, and regretted it as soon as the assassin whirled.

  Now the Whisper pointed Reaver at Janna and her chambermaid. No need to chase. Not when it would be easier to take a hostage and draw him in.

  Argus yelled once more, and this time Janna and Morgan listened. They bolted inside with the Whisper behind them. He moved slower now, hindered by a mangled shoulder and an ankle that quivered with every step.

  So he's the one who crashed into the terrace wall.

  Argus picked up one of their heavy Viridian daggers, aimed, and hurled it at the Whisper's back. The dagger spun awkwardly, dropping toward the legs when he'd meant to hit higher. It wasn't a killing blow. But it was good enough to earn a grunt from the assassin while he tugged at it in his wounded calf.

  Soon he'd have that dagger out, and it would be in much deadlier hands.

  Argus didn't give him the chance.

  He tackled the Whisper, ducking another wild Reaver slash. He grabbed a wrist and slammed it against the tile until his sword clattered away, unattended. As he pummeled the assassin with his fists, only then did he realize she was a woman. He felt breasts, a small waistline and hips. When the woman struggled, brunette hair tumbled from her hood.

  She kicked him off.

  Argus bore the blow with a smile. What's another sore rib? All was right with the world because he had Reaver again. Her grip burned hot in his hands.

  He slashed the Whisper in her belly. She groaned and started to crawl away. Squirmed like a beetle looming under a heavy boot. But Argus couldn't allow her to escape.

  She knows Janna is here. She might come back.

  He thrust. Reaver shredded her cloak. The Whisper moved faster without it, leaping over the railing in a single bound, hands reaching for one of the chains.

  With all the strength left in him, Argus slashed.

  The railing caught him, though his torso lurched over the street. A ribbon of blood spewed from the assassin's back as she leaped for the chains—and fell.

  When the woman landed she wasn't a woman anymore. She splattered onto the street in two separate pieces, upper body and legs.

  Beside her, a live woman shrieked.

  The small crowd of onlookers who'd gathered around the first Whisper corpse shielded their faces, wiped away blood. Wild eyes looked up at him.

  Woozy, Argus retreated from the railing and hurried inside. He raced downstairs, glad to find the abandoned blacksmith empty, and ducked out the side door into a maze of alleyways. Away from the voices he ran, focusing his mind on his wounds. Just relax. Slow the bleeding.

  The streets were mostly empty. He stepped over revelers sleeping off the first night of the Turning. Ignored the strange faces and questioning looks.

  Argus kept running until he reached the harbor, which was deserted except for an army of seagulls. They squawked as he stumbled past, seeming to mock him. Momentum carried him into the stern of a small sailboat. Grunting, he lifted Reaver and hacked the rope mooring her.

  Next thing he knew the sailboat was rocking, drifting away from Azmar. His destination was unimportant. All that mattered was those trained killers never finding him or Janna again.

  Saltwater doused the deck. Cold. But not cold enough to keep him awake as his boat washed out into the open sea.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Argus awoke with his mouth full of seawater.

  He coughed violently, and kept coughing while he managed to flop onto his side like a beached seal. Each convulsion sent a burst of agony through him. More water splashed onto the boat. He shut his eyes and tried to ignore it.

  Argus used touch magic to assess his wounds. His legs were fine, tired from the running and fighting but no worse for the wear. But his upper body was in agony. An aching rib, a pair of angry dagger slits in his chest, and an arrowhead still biting his shoulder.

  He'd spent months on Davos teaching himself to heal, even going so far as intentionally injuring himself for practice. But that was only one wound at a time. Now he had so many he didn't know where to start.

  One step at a time, a voice said. It spoke inside his head, but he couldn't decide if it originated there or somewhere else. One step, it urged, with all of your focus.

  Argus opened his eyes.

  He hadn't heard that voice since the night Willow died in Garvahn. But she spoke like she was right there in the boat beside him.

  The arrowhead needed to be drawn out. There would be a lot more blood. But if he treated the lesser wounds first and conserved his strength…

  Argus took a deep breath and tried to follow Willow's advice. He focused on the rib, on the worst part of the pain, and magnified it until it was large enough for his mind to grab hold of. As he writhed on the deck, he panted the special words to pluck it away.

  He took a cautious breath.

  Thank the gods.

  He inhaled again, still expecting the electric shock that had accompanied every breath. Argus repeated the process with the dagger wounds, stitching the skin until the last stubborn blood drops flowed. When he recovered, he turned his attention to the arrow.

  The ship, the sea, the entire world fell away.

  There was only him crumpled against the mast, screaming, begging for the pain to stop. It kept on. It kept on so long he was convinced he'd slip unconscious again and this time never wake up.

  Argus kept saying the words, though. Screaming them.

  He chanted until the broadhead spiraled out of his flesh and fell onto the deck. A part of him wanted to keep it as some kind of morbid memento—like Siggi had done with his severed hand.

  Now it was time to mend the hole. When it was done, Argus slumped against the mast and lay there until he felt strong enough
to adjust the sails. He found himself well southeast of Azmar, whose harbor had dwindled to the size of a seashell.

  With this wind he would reach his destination within just a day or two.

  The only question was whether he'd survive.

  * * *

  Somehow, Argus did survive.

  Lying completely still helped. He let the waves rock him into a state of oblivion, where nothing felt quite real. Reaver lay beside him. It was impossible to believe he'd wielded her just a few hours earlier.

  He thought while the wind carried him, thankful the waves were calm. The more he thought the more troubled he became. Nothing made sense. Even if the Whispers had managed to discover his true identity, which he doubted highly, Lord Syrio's bounty demanded him alive, so he could face trial and be hanged according to Azmar custom.

  His shoulder throbbed, and the pain brought another question to mind:

  If they wanted me alive, why would they fire all those arrows?

  He'd never heard of a Whisper hunting bounty. They were paid killers—the tools of wealthy merchants and kings tired of politics and manipulation. Bounty hunting seemed somehow beneath them.

  He supposed they could have been after Lord Syrio's daughter, but the assassins had ignored those opportunities. The only time those gray eyes had strayed was when the Whisper realized Janna meant something to Argus.

  Someone has it out for me, he thought. But who?

  Hunger gnawed at him, and soon his lips were parched from the midday sun. He felt his skin baking. There was nothing to do but sail on and hope he arrived before he turned into a sack of dead leather.

  Argus thought of Janna. Craved her touch. Kicked himself for not making love to her one last time. As much as he despised the way they parted, leaving Azmar was his only choice. If he stayed she would demand to stay with him…

  And then she'd get herself killed.

  The sky was clear—not a single cloud in sight. When the waves started to strengthen, Argus strapped Reaver around his waist and stretched his weary muscles.

  He looked over the edge of the sailboat and swallowed hard.

  Rocks filled the horizon. They were tall, jagged things poking out of the water like teeth of an enormous whale. Those rocks were slick and moss-covered, and planks from a thousand broken ships swirled all around them.