Time slowed as the world once again came into sharp focus. Dormael could see the muggers frozen in mid step, coming inevitably towards him. He could feel the mist hanging in the cool night air, every tiny droplet an individual entity. He could taste the steel of the knives they carried, hear their hands tightening on the leather grips in anticipation of the kill. Dormael felt every hair on his body tensing, building to a crescendo that would end in a violent expulsion of power. He could hear the thieves’ heartbeats, and his own heart began to beat in time. Through it all the magic flowed like an invisible song, connecting him to everything—the buildings, the air, and even the muggers.
Slowly, as if he were moving through jelly, his arm rose and pointed at the rasping leader.
The world leaped back into motion with a loud crack as lightning arced from Dormael’s outstretched hand to slam like a charging bull into the skinny, unwashed little thief. He was lifted into the air and thrown back into a nearby building, his knife flying across the alleyway as he hit the wall with a dull thudding sound. He slid to the ground and lay motionless, his chest smoking where the bolt had burned a hole clean through his ratty shirt to sear the flesh of his torso. He was dead before he stopped smoking.
The second thief had been thrown back as well, and was sitting on his rump in the alley, dumbfounded by this unexpected turn of events. He looked once from Dormael—who stood now with unspent electricity arcing from his arm into the alley—to his dead partner. Then, with a small cry of alarm, he rose and bolted into the night, his panicked footsteps ringing off into the distance.
Dormael turned to face the man at his rear, and found him standing wide-eyed with abject terror. He stepped back once, but only tightened his grip on his knife, as if tensing for the confrontation. Dormael sighed loudly, and then addressed the large man.
“Listen, we don’t have to do this. Turn and go back the way you came. Let’s both find somewhere to get in out of this cold,” Dormael said.
The thief took his advice, and backed away before turning and bolting down another alleyway. Dormael kicked a piece of trash in frustration before turning back to the horse. The lightning had made just a bit too much noise, and he would have to get out of this alley before someone came looking.
Suddenly, the girl uttered a weak cough, and Dormael rushed to her side. She was struggling to move about on the horse’s back—a futile attempt that ended in a weak cry of pain. Her breathing was becoming strained as she spoke.
“Alton?” she said. “Where…am I?” She tried to move, but Dormael steadied her as she nearly pitched from the saddle.
“Don’t move, or you’ll upset your wound. Who are you looking for? Who are you?” Dormael asked her.
“Alton…Alton Dersham…my cousin,” she managed between weak coughs. “Who…who are you? Take me to Alton. He’s…nobility…a rich man. Where…,” and then she fainted again, her body too weak to continue.
Great, Dormael thought, who in the Six Hells is Alton Dersham?
Whoever this person was, Dormael was going to have to find him, and fast. The sky was beginning to turn a sullen blue with the rising of the sun, and people would be in the streets again soon. Gathering his gear, he began leading the horse down the alleyway. At least now he had something to go on.
I guess it’s a good thing that I didn’t finish that last tankard, Dormael thought, or I might have hit myself with that lightning.
Lords, Swordswomen, and Fools
The whole room smelled like blood and char. Grant wanted to kick something, wanted to scream. His men, though, were watching.
“Explain it to me again,” Colonel Grant said as he paced in front of the two idiots before him. “How was it that the two of you—trained by the Empire in the arts of horsemanship, archery, melee, and tactics—were evaded by a single country sweetheart, hmm?”
The scouts stood at rigid attention, though Formin—a youth with barely a beard grown—was regarding him like a confused cow. Grant stood a head taller than both of his soldiers, and was wider across the shoulders. He loomed over them, making sure to hold back the rage that made his left eye want to twitch uncontrollably. It wouldn’t do to lose his military decorum in front of his men.
A whole contingent of scouts lost, the locals slaughtered, the manor burnt, and this fool blinks at me like a herd animal.
“Speak, Formin,” Grant commanded through his teeth.
“She had a fresh horse, sir,” he tried.
“A fresh horse, did she? Oh, well that certainly changes things, doesn't it? And I imagine, being the intelligent, resourceful members of the emperor's elite force of fighting men that you are, that you employed your bows against this dashing little minx?” Grant forced a smile onto his face.
“Ah...we did, sir,” Formin nodded. The little bastard was off balance, and Grant gestured for him to go on. “Tamst put a shaft through her back. I killed the other one myself.”
The little cunt actually puffed his chest out at that comment.
“And a fearsome target she was, Formin. Almost the weight of a large boy, and wearing that terrible dress. Have you notched your dagger to mark the glory? Have you offered her kill to Aastinor?” Grant asked, still smiling through his teeth.
“Ah..no, sir,” Formin said, eyes going to the floor.
“Of course you haven't,” Grant nodded, still smiling, though his jaw was hurting from clenching his teeth together. “Why is that?”
“Because...well, she was a girl, sir.”
“A girl,” Grant nodded, turning away. “A girl in a ripped kitchen dress, wielding nothing but the fabric itself. You must be so proud.”
“Sir, I—”
“Shut your fucking mouth and stand at attention!” Grant barked. Formin and Tamst stiffened. “Do not brag to me of killing a defenseless girl, Formin. In the event that I order you to do so, I expect that the challenge the task presents will be negligible to your level of skill. Now—what I want to know is how this other young lady managed to kill eight of my scouts and escape with the very fucking thing we were looking for. Can you tell me that, Formin?”
“She...she outran us, sir. Our horses expired before we were able to bring her down.”
“Quite the resourceful little bitch, isn't she? If, as you said before, the house was secured, then she must have been in custody. Which means that somehow she escaped, and in the process, killed eight swordsmen. Then she scatters my column with a stampede of horses. Unbelievable. I'm almost inclined to admire her resolve, but this...this is an embarrassment, Formin. A complete and utter embarrassment. Do you understand?” Grant asked, coming to stand directly in front of Tamst.
At least Tamst had the good sense to keep his mouth shut and his eyes forward.
“Yes, sir,” Formin nodded.
“I don't think you do. Where was your sergeant?”
“He was at the manor, sir. I was guarding the perimeter. I didn't see what happened to him.”
“He was killed, Formin. That's what happened to him, you drooling idiot. Why did he choose to attack the manor against my explicit orders to wait?” Grant asked.
When the column had been charged by a stampede of thoroughbreds, Grant had nearly killed someone on the spot out of sheer anger. The mission had been to intimidate the Baron Llewan into selling the artifact. Violence was supposed to have been the last resort—a likely outcome, but not the first option. Sergeant Janks had ever been a problem, but this new transgression was too far.
The man was lucky he was dead.
“He—well, he—,” Formin stuttered.
“Speak up, Formin.”
“Sir, he said that the manor was ripe. That there were barely any fighting men, and we could get the job done and have everything ready when you got here, sir.”
“No fighting men, indeed,” Grant said. “This woman, though...she managed to kill most of you. Would have killed all of you, had it come to blades between you. I'm sure of it.”
“I'm...not sure, sir,” Formin replied
, clearly unsure of what to say.
“The bodies of your comrades tell a different story,” Grant snapped. “I thought we had this little talk about bragging, Formin. What Sergeant Janks wanted was loot. Rapine. Doubtless he had you prepare a story?”
“He said that the point was to take the manor by storm in the first place, sir. He said that we were just acting on our existing orders.”
“Your orders were to scout the manor for defenses. That's your job, Formin—you're a fucking scout. What do you think the baron would have done when faced with so many fearsome members of the emperor's Red Swords? Do you think he'd have bravely shut the door in my face, and told me to go back to Shundovia? No, Formin. He would have given the thing to me, because he didn't want everything he had to be burnt to the ground. People care about their place in life, Formin. They spend so long building it, you see.
“Now we have a major problem. We've got a pile of bodies on our hands, and some of them my own men. My entire contingent of scouts, in fact. How bothersome do you think that is for a commander, Formin? Not only that, but you fools left someone alive—someone apparently resourceful and dangerous—and she escaped with the very thing we came here to find. Chances are she's nobility, Formin—or do you think the kitchen girl learned the sword in her spare time between cleaning pots?” Grant spat.
He could feel the anger growing in his chest like a flame kindling slowly to life.
“I'm not sure, sir,” Formin ventured.
“Not sure, indeed. So now we've gone and slaughtered a country baron's entire household, save for one girl—likely his daughter. Which means that now, she's a baroness. She fled to the north, and there's only one thing in the path of that road, Formin. Do you know what it is?”
“No, sir.”
“Ferolan. One of the busiest ports in Alderak, and the center for trade in all of Cambrell. Doubtless she'll go to the local nobility there and make her case. Far and wide the cry will go that Galania has made an attack on another sovereign nation. Do you know what happens then, Formin?”
“Ah...war, sir?”
“War, indeed. Someone has to answer for this, you know.”
“Sir?”
“Well, Sergeant Janks is dead, so naturally someone must be punished,” Grant said.
He snapped his fingers twice, and two of his men grabbed Formin and Tamst by the arms. Neither man struggled, their military discipline winning out over their fear. Would that had been the case this morning, Grant would not be standing here.
“Sir?” Formin asked again.
“Gods, boy, you really don't know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?” Grant asked, coming to stand in front of him. “You violated my direct orders. You participated in the slaughter of innocent people. Not that I particularly care about that, but then you left someone alive to tell the story. You fucking failed so gods-damn spectacularly that I have to get political. Do you think the emperor won't hear about this? He is going to shit on me, and I'm going to have to shit on someone. Guess who wins the honor of receiving it?”
Grant turned to the men holding the two scouts.
“Crucify them.”
“Sir?” Formin asked again, his voice taking on the distinct tone of a bleating sheep. Tamst still had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. Grant almost spared the man for his silence, but stopped the urge in its tracks. He couldn't be seen to show favorites, after all.
“Take them away,” he said, dismissing them. The men struggled for a moment as they were pulled from the room, but Colonel Grant was already turning away. The shouts faded as the door was slammed behind them.
“Fuck the gods!” Grant swore as they left.
“This is quite the situation, sir,” Lieutenant Havram said from the side of the room. Grant turned to spit vitriol at his aide, but stopped himself short. Yelling at Havram would get them nowhere.
“I need to write to the Lord of Ferolan. We need to get ahead of this, change the story. Let's say that the girl is a criminal. That we're pursuing her for crimes against the Empire. Do you think that would work?” Grant asked.
“It might work, sir. How do we explain the slaughter?”
“We don't,” Grant replied, rubbing his chin as he thought it through. “By the time these ruins are discovered, we will be in Ferolan. By the time word reaches anyone that matters, we will be to sea again and bound for Shundov with the artifact in my possession. There will be suspicion, but no proof. The King of Cambrell may ride against a single company of Red Swords, but he will not risk open war with the whole Empire.”
“Should I bring a quill, sir?”
“Yes, and find me somewhere to sit that hasn't been charred to all Six Hells. She had to go and burn the place, didn't she? I'll need to write both to the Lord of Ferolan and make my report to the emperor. Get me a fast horse and someone willing to ride through the night. Tell the rest of the men to take their ease. We'll camp here tonight and move north in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Havram said, banging out a salute, fist to chest.
“And Havram?” Grant said as the Lieutenant turned to go.
“Sir?”
“Tell them not to bother erecting a cross. Just nail those two to the side of the barn and have it done. And have the condemned gagged. I don't care to listen to their screams all night.”
“Yes, sir,” Havram said.
Grant sighed and kicked a burnt piece of detritus across the floor. Things had devolved far past the point they should have. Grant should have been having a civilized meal with the baron after a hard-won negotiation. A true battle of wits between gentlemen, perhaps over the local tea, followed by a shared pipe afterward, to bless the transaction—that had been the way Grant had seen it this morning. That had been the plan.
Instead he stood in a charred ruin, surveying the damage his men had wrought. His career would probably end just as the house had, now that this travesty had happened on his watch. The emperor would not be pleased.
A tentative knock at the door sounded, and Grant called for them to enter. An old woman tottered into the room leading a little girl, brown hair over downcast eyes. Grant's stomach fluttered with anxiety as he saw her, but the girl kept her eyes to the floor and said absolutely nothing. The child looked so familiar, so much like her. The old woman shot him a hateful glance, but hid it as soon as Grant's eyes caught sight of it. Grant knew the old hag hated him, and he accepted that.
He hadn't realized how angry he was until this moment. He could feel his arms tightening just at the sight of the girl, and dark thoughts began to flash through his mind. The cloaked man had given him an unexpected gift in her, though he did not know the hold she had over Grant. She was a small thing for her age, but when Havram had found her she had been nearly starved to death. He was supposed to be taking her back to Shundov, but as every day passed he started to question that course of action.
Whatever the cloaked man wanted with the girl, it wouldn’t be pleasant.
As much as Grant wanted to protect her, it could not be. The cloaked man was more dangerous than anyone Grant had ever had the misfortune to become tangled with. Grant would never be able to keep the girl from him. Still, he shivered as he regarded the youngling.
“Take her to the kitchens,” he grunted. The kitchens were made of stone, and as such, had mostly survived the blaze. The stone would hold in the screams, as well, which would serve to keep things a bit more discreet. The old woman did as she was told, though every bone in her body silently protested the order. Grant wasn't even looking at the hag, though. His eyes were locked to the little girl.
Someone had to be punished, after all.
***
The girl's name was Shawna.
That was what her cousin—the mysterious Alton Dersham—had told Dormael. It had been quite the scene when Dormael had finally found the Dersham household. Alton was a rich man, and his household guards had been understandably suspicious of the outlander towing in the Lord's wounded cousin. There had been a ten
se moment, but once the dangerous nature of Shawna's wound had been realized, everyone had concentrated on her. The manor had risen into an uproar. Dormael imagined that they didn't get much excitement on most days.
Alton Dersham had turned out to be a man of a height with Dormael, with a chiseled jawline and hair as brown as mud. He had a self-assured and distinguished air about him, though he didn't seem to Dormael to be the arrogant type. Alton had interrogated him about what had happened, but Dormael hadn't been able to tell him much. When Dormael had answered Alton's questions to his satisfaction, he had been offered a room for the night.
A loud knocking jolted Dormael from his sleep the next morning, and he grumbled under his breath as he blinked in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. The bedding wasn't the softest in the world, but Dormael was used to sleeping on the road. An actual bed was a luxury to him, and he was loathe to climb from it, no matter how simple it was. The knocking came again, more insistent this time, and Dormael sighed as he rose and tossed away the sheets.
Alton Dersham's serious face greeted him through the door.
“Did you get some rest?” Alton took in Dormael's shirtless, disheveled appearance, and grimaced at the sight of him. “You look like you've been dragged behind a horse. You've still got some of Shawna's blood on you.”
Dormael squinted down at his hands, blinking his eyes into focus. Alton was right—dried blood was soaked into the creases of his hands, and smeared on his forearms. He remembered examining the girl's wound the night before, and sighed.
“I hope I didn't ruin your bedding,” he replied, trying an apologetic smile.
Alton sighed, “It's nothing to worry about. Do you mind?” Alton gestured into the room.
Dormael stepped aside and opened the door.
“No, of course not. It's your house, after all.”
Alton smiled, “True enough.”
He stepped into the room and looked around. Alton ran his eyes over the quarterstaff that leaned over Dormael’s rucksack and cloak, raising his eyebrows as he noticed the guitar. A further look of consideration crossed his features for the number of knives and daggers that Dormael had tossed on top of the cloak while he had disrobed. He always kept a number of knives on his person, though he grimaced as Alton saw them. He had been too tired to hide them after the ordeal with the girl.
The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection Page 6
