by Jasmine Walt
Tariel nodded. “We’ll take it down here, with some mead.”
They got the room key from the woman, then went around the desk and into the inn’s pub. It was jam-packed in this weather, full of travelers and traders bundled in furs against the cold. Tariel and her men had been on the road for days after successfully slipping through the capital’s gates disguised as monks. They had pawned a few other trinkets from the mansion in exchange for coin, and had pilfered warm traveling clothes from their unwitting host’s closet, but even so, they had scant provisions, certainly not enough to last them the journey.
“I wish we could have stayed longer to gather a few more supplies,” Calrain said as they sat around a table near the hearth, waiting for their stew. A serving girl came by with three mugs of mead, and Tariel clutched the hot mug eagerly, breathing in the steam and letting it warm her frozen face.
Riann shook his head. “That would have been folly,” he said. “You saw those sketches the royal guard was passing about.”
Tariel shivered. The queen had gotten a good look at her face, and had commissioned an artist to draw a wanted poster. The likeness had been remarkably good, but then again, she imagined the queen would not soon forget the face of the witch who had broken into her chambers and interrogated her. She wished she had changed her features a bit, but in her excitement, she had not thought of it.
“We spent far too much time in Kalsing anyway,” Tariel said, trying to reassure them. “The coin we have will last us a day or two longer. By then, we will have crossed the Carlissian border.”
“Where we can hopefully find work,” Riann said. His eyes lit up at the prospect. “Sir Jerrold will have a harder time finding us, since the authorities will not cooperate with him. We might be able to hide in Carliss long enough to build up some resources.”
“And without stealing this time,” Calrain added with a frown.
“Agreed.” The three of them had felt guilty for taking advantage of the mansion’s absent occupants, though Tariel knew they had not truly hurt their coffers. She had tried to pick items she thought would have the least sentimental value, although one could never tell for certain what items someone might treasure. The silver forks they’d pawned might have been a wedding gift from a treasured friend, for all they knew.
The stew finally came, and the three dug in eagerly, filling their growling bellies and banishing the last of the cold. They had been traveling for nearly a week on foot, unable to find any horses to commandeer—the area they were traveling through was mountainous and barren, with no manors or farms around, only goats and sheep, which made for good eating but not riding. Tariel had made the journey a bit more bearable by using her magic to make their shoes more comfortable, but even so, they were footsore. They were lucky to have come upon this inn, especially as it had started snowing this afternoon.
“Hang on,” Riann said, his eyes narrowed. “Is that who I think it is?”
Tariel followed his gaze across the room. “Itolas?” she gasped. He wore a deep red fur coat over dark traveling clothes, and she caught the glint of a saber hanging from his side, but there was no mistaking the Maroyan noble’s striking good looks and violet eyes as he sat, staring grimly into the distance as he supped. Four other men dressed in similar, but less fine clothes, were seated with him, and Tariel assumed those were his servants. “What is he doing here?”
“He must have decided the city wasn’t safe for a Maroyan, with Jerrold and his knights about,” Calrain said. “The eastern passage is no longer viable.”
“Ugh.” Tariel scrubbed a hand through her hair. “Just our luck. If he’d only decided to leave two days ago, we could have tried to convince him to take us with him.”
“We’re better off without him,” Riann said, glowering at Itolas. “If he hadn’t told the countess about our conversation, we might not have been forced out of the city so quickly.”
“We can’t blame him for that,” Tariel said. “He didn’t know who we were. I wonder if he would have aided us had he known who I really was.”
She was about to rise to go speak to him when the door blew open. Her heart flew into her throat as Sir Jerrold stomped in, six of his witch hunters following single file behind him. Their hair and cloaks were dusted with snow, and they looked downright grumpy.
“S-Sir Jerrold,” the woman behind the counter stammered, jumping to her feet. Everyone knew the witch hunter by sight, even if just from stories about him. Parents often used him as a warning for children to behave, as if he were some monster who could jump out from the shadows and eat them, rather than a flesh-and-blood brute. “Will you be needing rooms tonight?”
“Four.” He slapped some coins down on the counter.
“We are quite booked for the evening, but I can get you two—”
“Four,” he repeated in a steely tone that brooked no argument. “And my men and I require food and ale as well.”
He stalked past the stuttering woman and into the pub, which had fallen completely silent. The witch hunter’s gaze went to Itolas first, and Tariel watched curiously as the two men glared at each other. Was there history between them, or did Sir Jerrold always react this way to foreigners?
“Sir Yarim,” Sir Jerrold said with a sneer. “Running with your tail between your legs?”
“At least I am not chasing mine in circles out in the cold,” Itolas retorted, his eyes flashing. Tariel and her men exchanged glances at the Maroyan’s boldness.
Sir Jerrold clenched his jaw and stepped forward, closing the distance. “My men require food and rest,” he said, looming over Itolas. “You and your ilk will vacate this table immediately. You may return when we are finished.”
Itolas merely crossed his legs at the ankles beneath his table, and his servants did not move. “I think this table is just the right size,” he said, smirking up at the knight. “I’d suggest you find someone else to intimidate.”
The witch hunter snarled. “You are far too cocky for a puny man, and one so vastly outnumbered at that,” he said, pulling a metal rod from a pouch swinging at his belt. There were strange symbols embossed on the side, and the sight of them made Tariel shiver inexplicably. “One must wonder if perhaps the Maroyans have been lying, and that their men are witches as well.”
“I—” Itolas began, but his eyes widened as the implement vibrated in Sir Jerrold’s hand. “What is that vile thing?”
Sir Jerrold gave him a wolfish smile. “A magic-finder,” he said, drawing his sword. “It reacts whenever a magic user is near. You, sir, are a witch, and are under arrest!”
“Like hell I am!” Itolas shouted, springing out of his chair. He drew his saber, and the inn filled with ringing steel as the knights and Itolas’s servants all drew their weapons. Sir Jerrold lunged for Itolas, but the smaller man spun out of the way, quick as lightning. Their swords clashed as he swung for the giant’s back, and Sir Jerrold turned to meet him with his own blade.
“Come on!” Calrain shouted, yanking Tariel from her chair. The rest of the travelers were exiting en masse through the inn’s back door. “Now is our chance!”
“Wait!” she cried, pulling him to a halt. Blood arced through the air, filling her nose with a copper tang as the men hacked and slashed at each other. Itolas moved through the air like a dervish, his sword a blur as he thrusted and parried and weaved between the men in a violent dance of blood and metal. One of Sir Jerrold’s men was down, but Itolas had lost two of his, and the knights still vastly outnumbered them. “We have to help him.”
“Are you mad?” Calrain barked, but Tariel ignored him, wrenching her arm from Riann’s hand. Dropping their disguises, she gathered her magic, then flung out her hands in something she’d never attempted before.
“Aieeeee!” one of the knights screamed, his arm bending backward. He had been just about to drive his sword into one of Itolas’s remaining servants, but his sword clattered to the floor as his elbow bent completely backward with a crack that rent the room. The knigh
t stumbled into the wall, howling in pain.
The remaining fighters froze, all eyes on Tariel, whose palm blazed with lavender magic. Itolas’s violet gaze widened in shock, and then he burst into a delighted grin. The servant who was about to be skewered gaped at her, but then recovered quickly and severed the knight’s head from his shoulders in one smooth motion.
“You!” Sir Jerrold snarled, spittle flying from his mouth. He lunged for Tariel, but Riann jumped in front of her, meeting the witch hunter’s sword with his own. The two engaged, swords blurred as they unleashed a flurry of blows, and Tariel jumped to the side. Panting, she drew on her magic and turned her attention to another knight, but the coppery stench of blood and the sight of gore splashing everywhere was disorienting. It was also harder to do this, both because this was her first time manipulating bones and tendons, and also because she was not actually touching the men.
“Dammit!” Calrain snarled as one of the five remaining knights rose up behind Itolas, who was engaged with another enemy. He grabbed a chair and smashed it over the knight’s head, and the man crumpled to the ground.
“Thanks!” Itolas shouted, then leapt over the body to engage another knight. This one Tariel got, pulling both of his arms out of his sockets until his screams of agony were abruptly cut short by Itolas’s blade.
“Three left,” Riann panted, his sword clutched in both hands. He and Itolas stood in front of Tariel and Calrain, facing off against Sir Jerrold and his final knight.
“Do you surrender?” Itolas demanded. One arm bled profusely, and Riann favored his right leg, but the two stood firm. The same could not be said of the rest of Itolas’s men—all four of them lay on the ground, their eyes glassy as their lifeblood soaked into the floorboards.
Sir Jerrold bared his teeth. “Never,” he barked. His free hand went to his hip, and in the next moment, a dagger whizzed through the air, straight through the small space between Riann’s and Itolas’s shoulders.
“No!” Calrain yelled, jumping in front of Tariel. He took the dagger meant for her, and Tariel cried out as he crumpled to the ground.
“Calrain!” Riann cried.
“Nooooo!” she screamed, white hot rage filling her. Magic burst from every pore in her body, surrounding her with an intense lavender glow that filled her vision. Every nerve ending in her body sizzled with pain and power, and she flung her hands out, aiming straight at the knights.
“Look out!” Itolas shouted, grabbing Riann.
They hit the ground as Tariel unleashed a giant ball of energy. It screamed through the air, sending shimmering heat waves through the room as it barreled straight toward the enemy, and the lavender glow washed over Sir Jerrold’s terrified face as it slammed into him and the remaining knight. The two men flew across the room and straight through the opposite wall, punching through layers of plaster and stone.
“By the goddess,” Itolas gasped, lifting his head to stare at the giant hole.
Her legs wobbled, and she collapsed next to Calrain, every ounce of strength completely drained from her body.
“Tariel.” Riann grasped her shoulders, his face swimming above hers. “Tariel, are you all right?”
“Help…Calrain…” she mumbled as the last of her strength left. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she gave herself over to the darkness encroaching on her mind.
28
“Tariel!” Riann cried as he shook his beloved by the shoulders. Her head slumped to the side, and she did not respond no matter how loudly he cried. “Tariel, wake up!”
“Leave her be, man!” Itolas barked, knocking his left arm away. “She is fine,” he said when Riann turned a ferocious glare on him. “Merely exhausted from expending too much energy too quickly. What we need to do right now is help your friend, and get out of here before someone else comes along.”
“Shit.” Some of the panic cleared from Riann’s mind, and he looked over at Calrain, who was bleeding profusely. The scholar groaned, his pale face contorted with pain as Itolas knelt at his side.
“We need to get that knife out of him and stitch that up.” Itolas pressed his lips together. “Unfortunately, I am no doctor.”
“I have some field medic training,” Riann said, his brain finally kicking in. He leapt to his feet and raced to the bar. “Stay with him, and don’t touch the dagger. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“You’re going to be all right,” Itolas said to Calrain, adopting a soothing tone as Riann vaulted over the bar. After some rummaging, he found some whiskey buried deep in one of the cabinets—likely reserved for high-paying clientele—and in a closet outside the office, a small sewing kit.
“How are you feeling?” Riann asked as he knelt by his friend’s side.
“Like I’ve been stabbed,” Calrain groaned, his silver eyes crackling with annoyance. Riann sighed a little in relief—if Calrain had the energy to be angry with him, then he wasn’t as bad off as he’d feared. “Are you going to get this thing out of me, or shall I spend the rest of my life with a new appendage?”
Itolas snorted, then grabbed the dagger and yanked it out in one smooth motion. “A fine weapon,” he said, admiring the bloody blade. “I could be wrong, but it doesn’t seem like it went through your back.”
“Lovely,” Calrain said through gritted teeth as Itolas used the blade to cut Calrain’s shirt off. His body began to quake in the cold, and Riann ordered Itolas to use the bloody shirt to put pressure on the wound while they dragged him closer to the hearth.
“Take a swig,” Riann ordered, pressing the bottle of whiskey to Calrain’s lips. “This is going to sting.”
Itolas held his head up as Calrain gulped down several mouthfuls, sputtering.
He splashed a generous amount of whiskey on Calrain’s wound, and the scholar let out a string of oaths he was certain no Brother of Roisen had ever used. Taking the needle and thread he’d prepared, he quickly pierced the flaps of skin and knitted them back together. Once finished, they double-checked that his back didn’t have a puncture wound, cleaned him off, then covered him with a tunic from one of the dead knights that was three sizes too big for him. His enhanced healing would have to do the rest, at least until Tariel woke and could patch him up fully.
“You did well,” Itolas said, patting Calrain on his uninjured shoulder. “Not every man would throw himself in front of a blade for a woman.”
“Thank you for saving Tariel’s life,” Riann said, a wave of gratitude washing over him. He looked over at Tariel still passed out on the floor. “I don’t know what I would have done if the dagger had struck her.”
Calrain’s cheeks colored. “I only did what any man would do for the woman he loves,” he said, sounding slightly uncomfortable. He struggled to his feet, groaning all the way. “We need to get out of here.”
The three of them gathered what little belongings they had, then stumbled outside to go and retrieve Itolas’s horses. The snowfall had turned into a raging blizzard, and it was all Riann could do to stay upright as he carried Tariel, the wind howling and blasting all around them. Gritting his teeth against the ice pelting his face, he cradled her limp body against his. His stomach twisted with guilt, noting that her chest barely rose and fell. Tariel was so vibrant, so full of life and energy and formidable with her magic, that sometimes he forgot she was fragile, a woman who still needed the protection of steel and muscle.
“Finally,” Itolas panted as they made it into the stables. His arm was around Calrain, who looked as though he could barely stand. “It looks like we have quite a collection of horses to choose from,” he said, his eyes gleaming.
Riann’s eyebrows rose as he followed Itolas’s gaze. The knights’ horses were still in the stables as well. “If not for this damned blizzard, I’d suggest we take them with us. We could sell them for quite a bit of coin.”
“Shouldn’t there be more than six?” Calrain asked, a worried note in his voice as he counted the steeds. “There were seven knights, including Sir Jerrold.”
&
nbsp; Riann’s stomach turned to lead as he looked at the ground. “Bring your torch closer,” he said to Itolas. The Maroyan noble did as he asked, and Riann swore as he saw the fresh bloodstains tracked through the dirt and hay. “It must be Sir Jerrold.”
Riann and Itolas rushed over to the destroyed wall, leaving Calrain and Tariel in the stables. It was nearly impossible to see anything through the blizzard, but as Riann crouched in the snow, he found the knight who had been standing by Sir Jerrold. He was lying amongst the snow-covered rubble, his armor crushed and his face unrecognizable. But Sir Jerrold’s body was nowhere to be found.
“Blast it!” Calrain swore. “He must have survived.”
“But how?” Itolas shook his head in disbelief. “No one could have survived a direct blow like that.”
“Sir Jerrold is not like most men,” Riann growled. “He must be badly wounded, but we would be fools to underestimate him. We need to get back on the road.”
Itolas shook his head, his teeth bared in a snarl. “That bastard needs to pay for all the blood he has shed,” he said, his violet eyes glowing with rage. “He killed my servants. They were good men, with families they sent their coin back home to. And now they have nothing.”
Riann’s heart clenched with sympathy. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, clapping Itolas on the shoulder. “But if we do not leave now, while we still have the advantage, this will all be for naught.”
They hastily saddled the horses, then took off on the snowy road, riding for Carliss. They took an extra horse to carry their baggage, but Tariel rode with Riann, cradled safely in his arms. He didn’t dare strap her to one of the horses in case the animal had an accident, or worse, some bounty hunter came upon them and tried to target her.
“By the gods,” Itolas shouted through the storm, nearly an hour later. “Will this infernal blizzard never let up? How do we even know where we are?”
