Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3)

by Gregory Mattix

  “Indeed, Sol favors us thus far. Let us do as we planned.” She glanced around. “Where’s Ferret?”

  “Here, Majesty.” Ferret came jogging up from where she had been riding with the baggage train due to their shortage of horses.

  Sianna still wasn’t accustomed to the girl’s human appearance. She was dressed in much more flattering clothes than before, a tunic and breeches Sianna had donated to her. A sleeveless leather jerkin completed the outfit. The two were of a size although Ferret was thinner and less curvy, but the clothes Sianna had ordered in Carran were brand new and fit the girl’s slim figure well. Ferret also wore a short sword and dagger at her waist. With her striking violet eyes, stubble of white hair, and manly dress, she actually looked quite formidable. Her sense of newfound confidence aided that impression.

  “Someone find her a horse,” Sianna said with a nod of approval. “Sir Rafe, are your men ready?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty.” He and Iris were holding hands, but she knew Rafe was eager to put this matter to an end so that he might be with Iris more than a few moments at a time once things settled down.

  When Sianna turned back around, Captain Mons had offered up his horse for Ferret, giving her a hopeful smile the girl seemed not to notice. She did accept his gallantly offered boost into the saddle, however, being an unaccomplished rider.

  “All set, Your Majesty.” Ferret smiled, seemingly glad to be of use.

  She beckoned Rafe and Ferret aside for a quick rehash of the plan. Once they were in agreement, the two of them set off with two score soldiers down the country lane through the outlying village. Ferret gave an excited whoop as they sped to a gallop, and Sianna smiled at her enthusiasm.

  Now there is just the traitor Calcote to deal with. She looked around for the person she sought in order to make one final preparation prior to entering the city.

  ***

  Jase calmly leaned against the wall, unobtrusively picking the dirt from beneath his fingernails with a knife, trying his best to ignore the ranting and raving of his boss.

  Ewan Calcote, the Llantry mayor and recently proclaimed Regent of Ketania, cursed the Nebaran Warlord, Queen Sianna, Lord MacTaggert, and everyone in between. His bluster was largely a false front to conceal his fear, of which he practically reeked. The boss’s unease had rubbed off on the other mercenaries filling the Red Cloaks’ Club, formerly the late queen’s audience chamber, which had evolved over the past months into a gambling and drinking den. Calcote finally expended his tirade to catch his breath, and a tense silence fell over the room.

  Bet if someone farted loudly right now, chairs would be kicked over and swords would be in hands.

  Jase smiled at the thought. The others might be jittery, high-strung amateurs, but Jase was a professional. If he was called upon to do his job, he would do so and be well compensated for it. He didn’t give a damn that the city might be on the verge of falling or that some lord double-crossed his boss and now his fat neck was in danger of having a noose stretched around it. Chaos bred opportunity, in Jase’s opinion.

  “We could hold the castle for weeks, milord,” Homar finally said after the uneasy silence stretched too long. The hulking northman was the leader of the red cloaks, Calcote’s private group of mercenary guardsmen. Jase respected Homar, for he was one of the few professionals in the room and a nasty piece of work, to boot.

  “We don’t have enough provisions to last weeks, fool,” Calcote snapped. “That damn cow Cece has let the larders run low. Even the bloody staff seems intent on thwarting me, each with their small acts of rebellion. But it adds up, I tell you. Were it not for more pressing concerns, the lot of them would be hanging from the ramparts.” He glanced over at Tight Fist, his bookish minion and keeper of the coin. “How is the situation?”

  “Milord, the castle has provisions for a week, possibly, and that’s it. With strict rationing, longer. And if some of the… ahem, traitors, are taken care of, that can be stretched a bit longer yet. But I fear no more supplies will be forthcoming.”

  He left off the obvious for fear of setting his boss off again—that the rightful queen of Ketania had just arrived at the city gates at the head of an army, and MacTaggert had made his power play, securing said gates and imprisoning the red cloaks stationed throughout the city. MacTaggert’s lackeys had even formed a cordon to bar supplies from reaching the castle. Queen Sianna would have an unimpeded march directly to the gates of Castle Llantry.

  “Least we’ve enough wine, right, Tight Fist?” one of Homar’s mercenaries joked, too loudly.

  Calcote glared at the man while Jase smiled to himself.

  His options are expended. Now, how long till he accepts his only remaining move?

  “The only way this ends well for us,” Calcote said, “and by that I mean keeping our heads on our shoulders, is if I remain in power.”

  And the only way that can happen…

  “The queen must not reach the castle alive,” Calcote said. His words fell heavy in the silence. Men exchanged surprised glances.

  Jase smiled, for his time had come. He straightened up and flicked the knife back into its sheath with fluid ease. “Want me to take care of your queenly problem for you, boss?”

  Calcote’s watery eyes met Jase’s, and he gave a sharp nod. “Make sure it is done in the city, where it will be a simple matter to frame some simple oaf to send to the headsman’s block. We must keep up appearances of justice, for the people will demand it.”

  “Simple enough,” Jase replied easily. “I’ll need triple my normal fee, based on the mark involved and the difficulty of execution and subsequent escape. And I’ll need it all up front.”

  “Triple?” Calcote nearly choked. “Up front? I think not—”

  “As you said, milord, the people will demand justice, so I’ll need to leave the city while it’s too hot.” Jase shrugged. “Or you’re welcome to take your chances with an amateur.” He nodded with his chin at the lot of mercenaries, a score of hard-faced men, the majority little more than thugs and murderers and rapists.

  Calcote glanced at the mercenaries and evidently didn’t like what he saw either. “Fine,” he grated, as if having to swallow a cup of bitters. “Get it done. If you fail, your life is forfeit. See he’s paid.”

  The last was said curtly to Tight Fist, who held the power of the purse over the Ketanian treasury. If the man had a given name, Jase didn’t know it.

  “Fair enough, boss.” Jase executed a mocking bow. If I fail, my life is forfeit no matter whose hands I end up in. Best not fail, nor be caught afterward.

  With three hundred gold crowns in his purse to go along with the stash he’d accumulated already by greasing the wheels of Calcote’s rapid ascendancy to regency, he could live well for many years if he kept a modest standard of living. He was thinking Arkil would be far enough away from any blowback after his job was complete. The city on the Shimmering Sea, along the far western coast of Ketania, was reputed to be a lovely town with pleasant weather year-round—a perfect retirement haven. Let these conniving bastards fight it out for the throne here in the capital. I’ll be a month or more away by horseback, enjoying my retirement.

  “Poison all right with you?” he asked.

  Calcote waved a bejeweled hand dismissively. “Whatever makes her dead and keeps her that way.”

  Jase grinned. “You’re speakin’ my language, boss.”

  Calcote ignored him. “Homar, draw up a plan to get rid of that bastard MacTaggert once the queen is dead. I know that arse will try to take advantage of the situation, for I’d do the same. The Duke of Carran needs to die, too. He’d be the next to try to seize power. With those two out of the way, I might be able to salvage this yet.” He sighed loudly. “Where’s our allies when we need them? Ah, yes, defeated on the battlefield, of course, by a green lass young enough to be my grandchild.”

  Jase didn’t hear any more of Calcote’s rambling, for Tight Fist sidled up beside him.

  “Come with me, and I
’ll disburse your coin,” the little bespectacled man said in his nasal voice.

  Jase was more than happy to leave the Red Cloaks’ Club behind. The room had started to reek of desperation, a disease that under ordinary circumstances would only be cured by the gallows or the headsman’s axe.

  Fortunately for them, I’m a professional. I’ll drop the young queen and save the boss’s fat arse in the process. Jase could practically taste the ale and feel the sandy beach beneath his bare feet as he left the room.

  ***

  Ferret sat perched in the bough of a tall ash tree, watching the rear of the castle for any signs of activity. Thus far, nothing of interest had occurred, and boredom was taking its toll after more than an hour of waiting. The postern gate, clearly visible from her perch, remained firmly shut. She couldn’t even see any guards atop the wall on this side of the castle.

  She stretched and yawned. Wonder how Dak and the others are faring right now. Sianna too. She knew this was an important mission to be entrusted with, but she couldn’t quite shake the feeling she had simply been sent to the safety of the woods to keep out of the way of another potential conflict. We’re out here missing all the action in town. In her vivid imagination, she pictured the army soldiers heroically storming the gates of the castle to break through, arrest the traitor, and allow Sianna to reclaim her throne. And I’m sitting out here in a tree in the cold.

  “Ferret,” Sir Rafe called up in a stage whisper. “See anything yet?”

  She sighed, for the anxious knight had asked her the same question about every ten minutes. “I’ll tell you when anything happens,” she called back. “If anything happens.”

  “Aye.”

  Rafe sat at the base of Ferret’s tree, while the rest of the soldiers had taken cover in the nearby brush where they wouldn’t be seen. Their horses were hitched farther away in a shallow ravine with a young soldier picked to watch them.

  “I need you two to secure the woods behind the castle to ensure Calcote doesn’t slip out the postern gate,” Sianna had told Rafe and Ferret earlier in the day then reiterated the plan again before they split up. “I need someone I trust in charge of this, for the traitor is a slippery snake, and I wouldn’t put it past him to try to bribe his way free if it comes down to that.”

  Rafe and Jahn had handpicked the men and vouched for their loyalties, which was fine with Ferret, since she didn’t know any of them. And Rafe was selected to lead the party because of his rank and also since he had grown up in the local area and knew the woods well. Plus he’d accompanied the queen when they’d escaped out the postern gate a few months back. Ferret wasn’t certain why she was sent along, other than to keep her out of danger, but the fact the queen had chosen her personally did fill her with some amount of pride.

  After arriving on site, they had decided against climbing the bluff, since they would have had no cover from any archers on the walls. Hiding at the edge of the wood line kept them concealed but also sacrificed visibility, hence Ferret volunteering to climb the tree. One of the men could have climbed it, of course, but she liked to think she was brought along for a reason, and climbing and hiding were two of her specialties. She was the smallest of the group, and with her cloak wrapped around herself and sitting pressed up against the trunk in the crook of the bough as she was, she was barely visible even with the tree’s wintertime lack of foliage.

  Time ticked by, and her buttocks grew numb. The breeze was cutting, and she drew her cloak tighter around herself. She had never imagined how cold a bald head could get. She shifted her position slightly, realizing she’d missed such minor nuisances as a cold head and a numb arse as an automaton—that and hunger and thirst. She had a water skin tied to her belt but wished she’d brought something up to her perch to snack on.

  Come on, something happen already.

  Chapter 53

  Creel’s battle with Taren’s cousin wasn’t going well. His leg was still weak and aching from the poison, and the big man had the strength of an ox. Not only was he strong, but Elyas was skilled. The sword in his hand was only the most obvious danger, for his whole body was a weapon.

  The infernal armor was a mass of impenetrable plates, sharp edges, and spikes, as he’d found out the hard way by getting in too close. The armor’s enchantment emanated a taint to Creel’s attuned senses. Taren’s cousin might have once been a good man, but Creel had his doubts how much of the man himself yet remained.

  He faced a dilemma: how to defeat Elyas without killing him. Taren had been adamant on that point before they entered the hall when discussing the possibility of encountering his cousin again.

  So Creel did his best to fend him off while searching for chinks in the armor, although it didn’t appear to have any. He was distantly aware of an ongoing battle in his periphery—Nesnys had made her appearance, and Mira was desperate to protect Taren from the demoness.

  Elyas attacked with a quick series of stabs and slashes. Creel avoided most, catching a shallow blow on his leather pauldron as he stepped inside. He grunted at the pain as Elyas’s enchanted blade sliced through the leather with ease and into meat, but he was committed. Final Strike’s tip struck directly on the snout of the snarling-fiend helm, near to one of the narrow eye holes. The natural instinct to protect his face made Elyas jerk his head back.

  Time to roll the dice, Creel thought as a desperate idea came to mind.

  Elyas punched at him with his free hand, but Creel ducked and spun aside, probing for a common chink found in the armpit. Final Strike pierced the targeted mail links and bit into flesh, but it didn’t sink in much more than an inch or so. Elyas grunted and turned, took a step back, then suddenly bulled forward, dipping his shoulder and leading with his sword. Steel shrieked and sparked when Creel deflected his opponent’s blade, guiding it down and away at the same time that he slipped past Elyas’s shoulder. Creel jabbed Final Strike at Elyas’s face once again. The move was a feint, but Elyas instinctively leaned his head back again as expected.

  That was when Creel let go of Final Strike. He grabbed onto Elyas’s right pauldron with his right hand and used his momentum to flip up onto Elyas’s broad back.

  Sharp edges cut deep into his hand, and a trio of spikes on the backplate stabbed into Creel’s cuirass, the lowest one gouging into his side beneath the breastplate. Without losing his momentum, he reached over Elyas’s left shoulder and grasped the helmet by the snout. He heaved on the helm, hoping to rip it free and release the enchantment in the process.

  However, the helmet wouldn’t budge more than a fraction of an inch, locked in place to the gorget as it was. But the little give it had yielded an unexpected result. Elyas’s entire body went rigid, and he vented a cry of pure agony. He dropped his sword and desperately seized Creel’s hand with both of his, then leaned over at the waist. With formidable strength, he tore Creel from his back, flipping him over his shoulder to smack hard on the ground. The wind exploded from Creel’s lungs at the sharp blow to his back.

  Elyas loomed over him, wobbling like a brawler who had taken one too many hits to the head. Blood leaked from the breathing slots in the visor, and Creel wondered what had caused Elyas such pain.

  He tried to sit up, but a heavy armored boot slammed into his side, lifting him off the floor and sending him sprawling. Elyas reached down and seized the nearest sword at hand, which happened to be Final Strike. Creel lay facedown, but before he could get back up, Elyas was standing over him, sword raised overhead. His leather backplate provided little resistance as Final Strike impaled the middle of his back, unleashing a surge of white-hot agony. Steel bit deep into stone, either sliding into one of the small cracks in the floor or creating a new one, he didn’t know.

  Elyas released Final Strike and staggered away, groaning and holding his hands to his helm, leaving Creel pinned to the floor.

  The waves of pain threatened to pull him under. Impaled by my own bloody sword… First time for everything, I reckon.

  When the pain cleared to
a small degree, he gritted his teeth and gingerly tried to reach back for the blade, but his blood-slicked fingers slid off the steel while the resurgent pain nearly made him black out. He opened his mouth to call to one of the others for help but saw they were just as bad off. Mira lay crumpled and bloody, and Nesnys was stalking Taren, who was also down and wounded, watching her with wide-eyed horror.

  I’d say we’re in a deep heap of shite here.

  ***

  Nesnys crouched beside Taren, eyeing him as she might some hitherto unknown type of insect discovered under a rock. “You’ve caused me no end of woe, Taren. I shan’t let that go unpunished.”

  His mind raced, searching for a way out of their predicament. Mira and Creel were both down, the latter with a sword jutting from his back, while Elyas had fallen to his knees. The remaining fighters were nowhere to be seen—slain by Nesnys and Elyas or fled, he didn’t know. A wild hope that he might be able to create a gate to evacuate his friends and bring back reinforcements he immediately dismissed as folly. He didn’t have enough time, even if he could distract Nesnys enough to somehow access his magic. Even without his second sight, he could sense the Tellurian Engine growing in power. The Hall of the Artificers was quaking more severely than before. Sounds of cracking rock and strained metal giving way filled the space. Pebbles rained down from overhead, and a metal pipe that was jarred loose collapsed with a loud clang.

  Nesnys seized his chin in a powerful grip and peered into his eyes. “Ah, there’s the flash of anger, the fight. So much like your whore of a mother.”

  Taren lashed out at her, an awkward punch with his uninjured left hand. He only grazed her chin when she leaned back, laughing. She seized his wrist, talons digging in painfully. He slowly relaxed his fist in her grip, knowing continuing to struggle was useless.