Bonds of Vengeance: Book 3 of Winds of the Forelands (Winds of the Forelands Tetralogy)

by DAVID B. COE

  The barkeep glanced at the coin, but remained where he was. “I think perhaps you’re in the wrong place, friend,” he said, the word friend devoid of any warmth. “The Silver Whale is down the next lane from here. I believe you’d be more comfortable there.”

  “Thank you, friend,” Tihod answered in the same tone. “I intend to take a room at the Whale. But I’ve heard that you serve a fine ale here, and I’ve heard as well that you have a singer who’s worth hearing. I was hoping to speak with him.”

  “I haven’t seen him today.”

  “That’s all right. I’ve nowhere in particular I need to be. Why don’t we start with that ale, then?” He sat, placing his travel sack on the stool beside him and making it clear that he had no intention of leaving the tavern anytime soon.

  “It’s a bit early for ale, isn’t it?”

  “I had a long night.”

  The barkeep stared at him for several moments before finally taking the five-qinde piece and filling a tankard. He started to make change from the gold piece, but Tihod stopped him.

  “There’s no telling how long I’ll be here. We’ll consider that payment for the next few ales.”

  The man frowned, then nodded and turned his back on the merchant, perhaps hoping to convince himself that Tihod wasn’t actually there.

  Tihod was still sipping this first ale—he had to admit that it was quite good—when he heard voices coming from the top of the tavern stairs. Glancing back, he saw three men, two of them were clearly brothers. They both had yellow hair, fair skin, and the same lean build. The third man, however, was tall and dark, broad in the shoulders, with long black hair, sharp pale eyes, and a beard. Looking closer, the merchant saw a scar on the side of the man’s face. Judging from the descriptions he had heard of the assassin, he knew that this had to be Cadel.

  He turned fully so that he was facing the men. Still, none of them appeared to notice him until they had reached the bottom of the stairway. Even then, the brothers gave him no more than a passing glance. But Cadel faltered when he saw him, the smile fleeing his lips, leaving a look as deadly as any blade the man might have carried.

  The brothers halted as well.

  “You all right, Corbin?” one of the brothers asked, looking from the singer to Tihod.

  “Yes, fine,” the singer said, never taking his eyes off the merchant.

  “Why don’t the two of you go ahead and eat? I’ll be along shortly.” The other men hesitated and Cadel looked at them at last, flashing a quick smile. “It’s all right.”

  The two men moved off toward the back of the tavern, and Cadel approached Tihod, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

  “What is it you want?”

  “We need to talk. Perhaps we should go somewhere more private.”

  “No. Here is fine.”

  “I disagree, Corbin.” He put just the faintest emphasis on the name, but it was enough to make the assassin’s eyes flick toward the brothers.

  “Where?” Cadel asked, his voice thick.

  “You tell me.”

  The singer exhaled through his teeth before walking back to where his friends were sitting and speaking with them briefly. Striding back toward the stairs, he cast a dark look at Tihod, and said simply, “Upstairs.”

  Tihod followed him to a small room with a single bed and a large chair. Cadel closed the door behind them, then whirled toward Tihod so suddenly that the merchant backed away.

  “Now, who are you?” the assassin demanded. “And what do you want with me?”

  “You may not believe this, Cadel, but I’m a friend. As to who I am, I won’t give you a name, but I think you know already that I’m with the movement.”

  “I have no friends in the movement.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you say so. And here I came all this way, just to warn you that Lord Tavis of Curgh is on his way to Helke to kill you, along with a Qirsi companion who is a somewhat more formidable foe than the boy.”

  Cadel’s eyes had widened slightly at the mention of Tavis. “How far are they from here?”

  “They passed the night in Krilde.”

  The man shook his head. “I don’t know Wethyrn very well.”

  “It’s a small village about two leagues south of here. They should be reaching Helke today.”

  “Demons and fire.”

  “As it happens, I’m here to kill the Qirsi, so if you can take care of the boy, we should be able to eliminate this threat without too much difficulty.”

  Cadel regarded him with obvious mistrust. “And after that?”

  “As it happens, I do have a small task that lends itself to your particular talents.”

  “No,” he said shaking his head. “I don’t work for you or your movement.”

  “You’ve taken our gold in the past.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It does to us.”

  “I’m a hired blade. I’ve taken gold from many people, but that doesn’t mean that I work for them.”

  “We’re willing to pay you a good deal for this, Cadel, more than we have for any previous work you’ve done on our behalf.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Three hundred qinde.”

  The assassin gaped at him. “Just who is it you want dead?”

  “The king of Eibithar.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Cadel said with a small nervous laugh. “I’d have to be a fool to make an attempt on the king’s life. Audun’s Castle—”

  “He won’t be in the castle. He’ll be riding to battle within the next turn. We aren’t certain yet exactly where he’ll be, but I would assume it will be the north coast of Eibithar, near Galdasten.”

  “He’ll be surrounded by his army. He might as well still be in the castle.”

  “We didn’t expect that this would be easy, Cadel. That’s why we’re paying you so handsomely.”

  He shook his head again. “No. I’m not doing this.”

  Tihod said nothing for several moments. He could tell that Cadel meant what he was saying—this wasn’t some ploy intended to increase his pay. “Very well.” He stepped past Cadel to the door. “I wonder how your friends downstairs will react to the news that you’re not really a musician, but rather an assassin who’s been killing nobles throughout the Forelands for the past eighteen years.”

  “I’ll kill you if you go anywhere near them.”

  “No, I don’t think you will. Have you ever seen what a shaper can do to a blade, or human bone for that matter?”

  For a long time neither of them spoke. Tihod kept his back to the man, but he could sense Cadel’s frustration, his rage, and, at last, his surrender.

  “I’ll help you kill the boy and his Qirsi friend.”

  Tihod released the door handle and turned. “That’s a start.”

  “That’s the end of it. We’ll kill them, then part ways. Shaper or not, if you come near me again, I’ll kill you.”

  “This isn’t a matter for us to discuss right now. Let’s just start by dealing with Grinsa and the boy.”

  Cadel stared at him, clearly unwilling to concede even this much. After a some time, however, he nodded. “Do they know to look for me here, as you did?”

  “Yes.”

  “How is that possible? Have I been that careless?”

  “They learned that you were at the Grey Seal from a peddler in Krilde who spoke highly of your singing.”

  “But how did they track me to Helke?”

  “From a woman you knew in Ailwyck, who was looking for you as well.”

  “Kalida,” he said, his voice as soft as a planting breeze. “She betrayed me?”

  “I don’t think she did so knowingly.”

  “Does she know . . . what I do?”

  “I believe she does now.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “I’m a fool. It will follow me everywhere, won’t it?”

  “You mean the movement?”

  The assassin shook
his head. “Never mind. We’ll take care of this matter, and then perhaps I’ll take your gold after all. I seem to have little choice in the matter.”

  Tihod smiled at that. “Splendid!”

  Bells began to ring from the city gates.

  “Midday,” the assassin said.

  “Yes. They’ll be here soon. We should prepare for their arrival.”

  Tavis and Grinsa entered the city of Helke an hour or two before the ringing of the prior’s bells. The gleaner had made certain throughout the day’s travel that no one followed them from Krilde, but at the same time he sensed that there had been no need for such caution. The feeling of being watched, even hunted, that had haunted him for the past several days had vanished completely. Rather than easing his mind, however, this only served to deepened his apprehension, as did the dark sky looming before him, and the distant, but unmistakable growl of thunder that now rode the wind.

  Tavis was even more withdrawn than usual, his silence as ominous as the freshening wind and the smell of rain.

  They walked through the marketplace, asking a Sanbiri trader there where they might find the Grey Seal. From there, they made their way to the western end of the city. Tavis was walking quickly and as they drew near the alley leading to the singer’s tavern, Grinsa laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Slow down,” he said, keeping his voice low. “This doesn’t seem right.”

  “You mean because we’re not at the shore?”

  Grinsa shook his head, scanning the lane, searching for something—anything—that might explain this feeling of foreboding that had taken hold of him.

  “Do you think that we’re being followed again?”

  And abruptly he did.

  “Watched, yes.”

  Tavis drew his dagger from the sheath on his belt. “Do you think it’s been Cadel all along?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I’m not certain. I suppose we should find the tavern. But be watchful, Tavis. We may not be at the shore, but I think this is the day that I saw in my vision.”

  As if to prove the point, the sky brightened for an instant, and a few seconds later thunder rumbled through the city, louder than Grinsa had expected. The two companions shared a look and walked on.

  They found the alley described by the trader and entered it warily. Grinsa had his weapon in hand as well, and he kept a loose hold on his magic, so that he might draw upon it at any moment. They hadn’t gone very far when the gleaner felt a sudden, brief gust of wind brush past him, like a wraith. He faltered in midstride, struck by an odd sensation. That was magic, he had time to think. Before he could give voice to the thought, however, he saw a dark form emerge from a doorway and hurry off in the opposite direction.

  “That was him!” Tavis said, as if scarcely believing his good fortune.

  He started forward.

  Grinsa grabbed for his arm, but wasn’t fast enough.

  “Tavis, wait!”

  The boy spun. “No!” he shouted. “You’re not going to keep me from doing it this time!”

  “I don’t mean to. But this is a trap.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Did you feel that wind a moment ago?”

  But the young lord was already looking over his shoulder in the direction the shadow had gone. “He’s getting away! Are you coming or not?”

  Cursing the boy, cursing himself for having allowed matters to come this far, Grinsa followed. Tavis was running now, heedless of whatever danger awaited them in the alley, and the gleaner had little choice but to do the same. At any moment he expected to come face-to-face with the assassin, or perhaps the Weaver. He wasn’t certain anymore who it was they were hunting, or who in turn was stalking them.

  As it happened, though, there was no ambush, at least not in the alley. They ran for some time, following the twists and turns of the narrow byway until it suddenly opened up onto a far broader lane just a short distance from the city’s western gate. Stopping in the middle of the lane, Tavis turned a quick circle, desperation on his face.

  “Where is he?” the boy shouted. “Where is he?”

  Grinsa scanned the street as well, though not for the assassin. He was certain now that someone was following them, even as they chased Cadel.

  “There!”

  Tavis was pointing beyond the gate. A moment later Grinsa saw it as well: a man with long dark hair, dressed in black and running from the gate, toward the water. Of course.

  Immediately the boy took off after him, and again, as if swept up in his wake, the gleaner ran with him. Lightning arced through the sky, followed quickly by a tremendous clap of thunder.

  They were through the gate in seconds and running across the moor, stumbling on dense tufts of grass and hidden rocks. The waters of the gulf looked angry and dark, and the waves pounding the rocky coast sent plumes of spray high into the air.

  His vision. It was all coming to pass.

  Except that in the next instant his entire world shifted in ways for which that dream couldn’t have prepared him.

  He could still see the assassin making his way toward the shore, and Tavis running after him, not losing ground, but not gaining any either. But he also realized that someone was behind him again, far closer than before.

  He halted, started to turn, glimpsing a white beard and pale eyes. Still, he didn’t understand the nature of this threat until it was too late. He felt the pulse of magic as only a Weaver could, and so had a split second to ward himself, though it wasn’t nearly enough. He couldn’t take hold of the other man’s power—he had no hope of turning it back on his attacker. It was all he could do to recognize the magic—shaping—and to deflect it with his weaving magic. Had he not done that much, the man would have succeeded in crushing his skull before Grinsa could even see his face.

  As it was, the magic missed its target by just a single span. Pain exploded in the gleaner’s shoulder, searing and unbearable, as the bones there splintered like dry wood. Grinsa fell to the ground, a cry torn from his chest. He knew the second attack would be immediate, and he forced himself into motion, rolling over his good shoulder, gritting his teeth against the agony. Even as he scrambled to his feet, trying a second time to reach for the man’s power, he felt the bone in his leg shatter, driving him to the ground a second time.

  He couldn’t see for the fire in his limbs, the pulsing anguish screaming in his mind. Magic could save him; he knew that. He could heal his mangled limbs. He could turn his attacker’s power back on itself. He could shatter bones and burn flesh. He was a Weaver, and all of these magics were his. But pain held him like iron shackles, denying him his strength and his will.

  “I’ve bested a Weaver,” a voice said, seeming to come from a great distance.

  And as the words echoed in his head, like the tolling of far-off bells, Grinsa sensed the man gathering his power one last time to strike the killing blow.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Nine

  A voice in his mind—Brienne’s perhaps, or his mother’s—screamed at him that this was folly, that he was racing headlong to his death. But still Tavis ran, his eyes fixed on the assassin. He was vaguely aware that Grinsa was no longer with him and he felt certain that this was important somehow. But he didn’t stop to think it all through. The singer fled, and Tavis pursued.

  The heavy clouds over the Gulf of Kreanna continued to darken, breakers hammered at the rocky shore, and lightning sliced across the sky, seeming to pierce the water’s surface like a blade. Wind clawed at Tavis’s clothing and thunder roared like some great beast from Bian’s realm, but still no rain fell.

  As Cadel drew nearer to the shore and the great rocks that withstood the gulf’s assault, he glanced back, as if marking Tavis’s progress. Whatever he saw must have pleased him, for he stopped abruptly, a slight smile on his lips, and turned to face the young lord. Tavis noticed that he had a dagger in his hand.

  The boy stopped as well, pulling his b
lade free and glancing about quickly. He saw no sign of Grinsa. Was that what the singer had been hoping to see? Had he been trying to separate Tavis from the gleaner? If so, it meant that all this had been a trap, just as Grinsa feared.

  Tavis started forward again, far more slowly this time.

  “Come on, then, Lord Tavis,” the singer said, his voice barely carrying over the wind and the pounding of the surf. “You’ve followed me this far. Don’t tell me that you intend to stop now.”

  Tavis said nothing, but neither did he break stride.

  After a moment, the singer’s grin broadened and he began to nod. “Good. You’ve got some courage. I’ll give you that much.”

  Approaching the man, Tavis pulled his sword free as well. He knew the footing wasn’t right for the longer blade, but he thought it likely that Cadel had been preparing himself for a knife fight, and it occurred to him that anything he could do to upset the assassin’s plans would work to his advantage. And indeed, seeing the sword, Cadel’s smile vanished and he began to back away, seeming to search with each step for more favorable terrain. Soon they were off the grasses and on the slick rocks that fronted the gulf.

  Tavis closed the distance between them quickly and while still in motion leveled a blow at the assassin’s head. Cadel danced away easily, waving his dagger at the young lord, but doing no damage. Tavis swung his sword a second time to the same effect, then tried chopping down at the assassin’s shoulder. This time, however, rather than backing away, Cadel turned quickly to the side, switching his blade to his left hand in a blur of flesh and steel, and slashing at Tavis’s arm.

  The boy knew immediately that he’d been cut, and he took a step back, allowing himself a quick look at his forearm. Blood was soaking into his torn sleeve, but he could still move his hand freely. Cadel was eyeing him closely, crouched low, his blade ready and the grin on his lips once more. Tavis raised the sword again and crept forward, searching for an opening. He feinted with the sword, hoping to strike with the dagger he held in his left hand, but the assassin gave him no opening. They circled each other, wind whipping around them, waves crashing against the rocks and dousing them with spray and foam.