Trial of the Thaumaturge (Scions of Nexus Book 3)

by Gregory Mattix

  But Jase was a professional. There was no shortage of two-bit killers out there, but an assassin’s reputation was everything. If word got out, and it surely would somehow, that he’d neglected to complete this contract, then he would be done professionally. He was planning to hang up his crossbow and poisons after this job anyway, but his pride wouldn’t let him go out as a failure. No, he would do as he’d been paid then slip out of the city and head to Arkil and a life of leisure awaiting him.

  He shifted his position slightly to prevent a cramp. The tiled roof radiated cold even through the blanket he had spread out beneath himself, and the ridges of the tiles were uncomfortable. After an hour lying there, his target was finally in sight.

  I’m getting too old for this. Good thing this is the last contract—a suitable one, taking out a queen. Nice to go out in a blaze of glory.

  Sianna and her retinue steadily drew nearer, and the crowds continued their ear-splitting cheers and screams and applause. Some fools even were throwing flower petals in the street before her and her entourage.

  Jase had an excellent view from his position atop an inn along the Royal Way, the long main street that traversed the city and led all the way up to the gates of the castle. From his prone position on the peak of the roof, his line of sight was almost four hundred paces, which had given him plenty of time to observe the queen’s approach. Now she was within a hundred paces. When she reached fifty, he would put a poisoned quarrel in her pale throat. No reason to risk the slight chance her shiny breastplate might turn the quarrel. If the wound didn’t kill her outright, the potent poison would do the job in mere heartbeats. Her death would be humane at least—that much he could give her.

  He gripped the stock of his crossbow more tightly, careful to keep the weapon low and out of sight, just as he pushed back the cowl of his reddish cloak that matched the roof color. He brought the stock in closer and sighted along the loaded quarrel.

  Just a little closer, Your Majesty. He went over the sequence again as he always did. Loose the bolt, verify the mark is down, then crawl backward a few paces and slide off the roof to the balcony. Drop down to the ground, cut through the alley to the next street, then I’m home free.

  He was a bit hungry and was tempted to stop at one of the taverns he favored just inside the gate to get some food and ale. Nay, fool—put the city behind in the event they lock it down. Once the walls and that damned army are well out of sight, then I can play it safe.

  Sianna was in range. She was waving to the crowd, an oblivious smile on her face as her procession drew ever closer, a fifteen-minute ride from the gates of the castle at their slow pace.

  Calcote’s powdered arse is probably puckered up nice and tight right now. Jase grinned as he slid his finger up against the crossbow’s trigger. Never you worry, boss, your stolen throne is secure for now. He briefly wondered how Calcote planned to eliminate his rivals and cement his grip on the throne, but he realized he had no reason to care. No matter who came out on top, he’d be hundreds of miles away, drinking ale on the beach.

  Sianna turned her head slightly to speak to the blond woman beside her, exposing her creamy throat. Recognizing the optimal moment, Jase fired instantly. The crossbow bucked, and its bolt was gone, about to send another royal soul to the afterlife.

  A moment later he blinked, shocked, when nothing had happened. He’d somehow missed, and missed badly from the look of it, for nobody had sprouted a quarrel in the vicinity of the queen.

  I never bloody miss. His shock lasted only an instant, however, and he pushed his primary crossbow aside and gripped the one in reserve. It too was loaded with a poison-tipped quarrel. He sighted down that crossbow at the queen again, who was a little nearer, perhaps forty paces away at most—a simple shot Jase could make in his sleep.

  He aimed for her throat again and fired.

  “There is no bloody way,” he snarled when that shot too went astray.

  The angle had changed slightly as the procession kept advancing, and this time, Lord MacTaggert’s horse went down directly behind the queen, a poisoned quarrel in its neck. The lord spilled into the street almost comically, but Jase had no appreciation for humor at the moment.

  “Assassin!” The cries went up almost immediately. “Protect the queen!”

  His jaw dropped as the scene in the street blurred and shifted. Where the queen had ridden was a tightly packed row of marching soldiers, all with raised tower shields locked together, providing a wall of protection. One of the shields had his first poisoned quarrel protruding from it. Sianna herself rode a full ten paces behind, following Lanthas and MacTaggert. Not only that, but she was already being pulled from her horse with bodyguards shielding her.

  Jase cursed profusely. So unnerved by his failure was he, that he rose up to his knees in plain sight, rather than slipping stealthily backward. He noted fingers pointing in his direction the moment before he turned and fled. His mind snapped back to his immediate predicament of escape. He would mull over every element of the bewildering scene and his improbable failure later, but for now, he was concerned only with getting away.

  His soft-soled boots provided good traction as he raced along the peak of the roof. With pursuit imminent, he switched to his backup route: leap across the gap at the next street to the adjoining building, cross that roof, then drop to a wall, run along that, and drop to the alleyway a block over. He even had a disguise prepositioned in that alleyway.

  The edge of the roof was coming up rapidly. He gathered himself, feet striking the roof in staccato steps as he adjusted his stride for the substantial jump ahead. In the exact moment he was placing his plant foot to make the leap, a fiery lance of pain tore through his left calf. Already committed to the jump, he threw himself into the air, face grimacing with the pain.

  Oh, shite, I’m not gonna—

  The eave of his intended roof slammed into his chest like a mule’s kick, blasting the breath from his lungs. His fingers scrabbled desperately at the tiles as he slid backward, a two-story fall awaiting him. Flecks of clay scraped away, and a fingernail tore off.

  Then he was falling through open air with a cry. He tried to brace himself as best he could for the landing, but he struck the top of a rain barrel, which disrupted any hope of a safe landing. His right shin struck the rim of the barrel, which exploded from his weight. His shinbone shattered, and splinters of wood stabbed into his leg. Then his hip and shoulder met cobblestone. Something cracked in his hip, and the dual shocks of hot pain and cold ice-rimed water doused him simultaneously. He lay there dazed, the torrent of pain nearly overpowering. As he stared at the blue sky overhead, a clear and sunny winter day, he couldn’t help wondering how that same sky looked in Arkil.

  “There he is—arrest that bastard!” someone shouted in a harsh voice.

  Boots pounded the pavement, and silhouettes of angry guardsmen blotted out the pale-blue sky. Sunlight glinted on naked steel aimed at his throat.

  “Nice shot, Kav,” the same person said. “Her Majesty was right about Calcote having assassins about.”

  A burly man with blond hair and beard peppered with gray stood over him. He was dressed in the queen’s colors. “You there—are there more assassins, or are you working alone? Speak true, and you might get a more merciful fate.”

  “Just me,” Jase replied with a pained wince, for the game was clearly up, and he had all the pain he could handle for the moment. “I always work alone. The rest of that lot are bloody amateurs.”

  The blond man nodded and signaled to someone out of view.

  Jase looked down for the first time and noticed an orange-fletched arrow jutting from his calf, the wound bleeding heavily. He couldn’t decide whether that or his broken shin or whatever was wrong with his hip hurt worst.

  That was a damn fine shot to hit me on the run like that. Jase could certainly respect the work of another professional.

  His last thought was to wonder if he’d end up swinging from a noose beside Calcote after all.


  Then a spear butt struck his temple, and everything went dark.

  ***

  The abruptness with which the postern gate burst open and men began spilling out took Ferret by surprise. One moment, all was quiet, and the next she nearly choked on the mouthful of water she was drinking from her skin, inadvertently spitting some down the front of her cloak. A dozen or so rough-looking bastards with crossbows, obviously mercenaries, were spreading out to the edge of the bluff and peering down the switchbacked path to the forest.

  “Rafe,” Ferret hissed. “Men are coming out.”

  “How many?”

  “A dozen so far. They’ve all got loaded crossbows.”

  As she said that, a corpulent man in dark-orange robes came out of the gate behind the mercenaries. He spoke to a large warrior for a moment, then the mercenary—a northman by the look of him—was giving orders to the others. The group of crossbowmen moved down the trail, obviously alert for trouble, while the man in the robes beckoned urgently to the gate.

  “I think it’s that Calcote whoreson,” Ferret added. “Oh, and they’ve got horses too.”

  “I see them,” Rafe replied. He called something to the waiting men that she couldn’t make out.

  Ferret counted roughly thirty warriors, plus the fat nobleman and an aide. They had only six horses, three of which were loaded up with heavy saddlebags.

  Bastard is robbing the treasury, I’d wager.

  “We’re getting into position,” Rafe called up in his stage whisper. “You coming down?”

  “Aye, in a minute.” She wanted to make sure no further reinforcements would appear from the castle to surprise them.

  The first of the mercenaries was nearing the final switchback when she decided no more would be joining them. She quickly shimmied down the back of the tree so they wouldn’t spot her. Below, Rafe’s men were lying prone, spread out a good distance so that they could surround Calcote’s men.

  Ferret crouched at the base of the trunk, an eagerness running through her at the prospect of taking down the bastard who was responsible for Rada’s death. If Calcote hadn’t double-crossed Sianna and gotten Creel locked up, then his woman would have never died in the rescue attempt. That was how Ferret calculated it, at any rate. She barely even knew Rada, but she felt she owed the traitorous worm payback on Creel’s behalf.

  “Hold right there!” Rafe bellowed. “You’re surrounded! In the name of the queen, surrender and lay down your arms.”

  His demand didn’t go over well. The response was a volley of loosed crossbow bolts that forced Rafe to hit the ground as they streaked overhead. A frenzied exchange of arrows followed. Mercenaries fired their crossbows upon Rafe’s men, who in turn rose up and loosed a volley of their own. Ferret wished Kavia was with them, for she admired the barbarian woman, an amazing archer, but the queen had kept her close.

  Calcote and his men were shouting and frantically running and taking cover. A Ketanian soldier only a few years older than Ferret screamed as a quarrel pierced his neck. He clutched at the bolt while blood spewed from the wound. Ferret could only stare, eyes wide, thinking she should try to help the man, but she knew already his carotid artery must have been pierced, from the amount of blood jetting from the wound. He made a choking sound, his feet drumming the ground. After a long moment, he lay still.

  Another quarrel thudded into the trunk of Ferret’s tree, forcing her to duck. She cautiously peeked around the trunk again and saw the frenetic activity was continuing: mercenaries were running for cover or hastily reloading crossbows, others drawing steel. A number of Calcote’s men lay on the ground, riddled with arrows. Beyond the chaos, she spotted a flash of orange robes as Calcote lumbered toward the horses, a small bespectacled man urging him on.

  The northman leading the mercenaries barked an order, and several men formed around him, unslinging shields and bracing them together to form a protective wall covering Calcote’s escape.

  Rafe’s archers fired another volley, then he and his men charged the remaining two dozen mercenaries still standing. Before she realized what she was doing, Ferret had her short sword drawn and was following the others, though she kept to the back of the pack, for the warriors knew their business much better than she did. Without her armored hide, she wasn’t particularly eager to explore the limits of the incongruity that granted her newfound toughness.

  A quarrel hissed past her by a handspan. Someone grunted and cursed behind her—a soldier who had been slow getting to his feet had taken the quarrel in the thigh. Steel rang out as the warriors met resistance. Rafe slammed into a mercenary, bulling the smaller man back until he lost his footing. A swift stab finished him. Ahead of Ferret, an axeman and two swordsmen attacked the mercenaries with linked shields. They hacked and slashed for a moment, seemingly without effect, before a sword slid out between shields, and one of the attacking swordsmen fell. The axeman caught the upper rim of a shield with the beard of his axe, pulling hard and causing the man to lose his place in formation, then he swiftly slammed the spiked tip into the mercenary’s face. His victory was short-lived, however, for the big northman split his head open with an axe of his own.

  Ferret looked past the fighting in time to see Calcote’s aide handing the usurper the reins of a spare horse. She looked around for help but saw Rafe was already engaged with two men, while the nearest swordsman was tied up with the shielded mercenaries. The soldier behind her was limping toward the fray with a quarrel through his thigh and wouldn’t be much help. The other soldiers were either too far away or otherwise engaged with opponents.

  Damn it, that whoreson’s about to get away. She was at first inclined to make a run for her horse but then remembered they were a good hundred paces or so away.

  A wounded mercenary staggered toward Ferret. He had a gash in his thigh, but his sword was already bloodied, and he looked determined to add her blood to it. He slashed at her, but she ducked and slipped past him, her short sword lashing out instinctively and grazing the wounded man across the ribs. Her satisfaction was short-lived, however, for the big northman suddenly appeared right in front of her when she turned her head back around. He shield-bashed her, sending her flying. Ferret dipped her shoulder and did her best to tuck into a roll. She rolled but came up short when her shoulder struck a large rock. Pain flared at the impact, but with her adrenaline surging, she shrugged it off and scrambled back to her feet.

  Calcote was in the process of getting one foot in a stirrup. The way before him and his crony was momentarily clear, with his mercenaries effectively holding off Rafe’s men, although the soldiers were slowly gaining the advantage and forcing Calcote’s men to retreat.

  Looks like I’m the closest, but I’ll never make it there in time. Although…

  She spared a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t in any immediate danger from the northman or one of his mercenaries. When she saw she wasn’t, she had Rabbit-sticker in her hand in an instant. The throw wasn’t easy at about twenty paces, but she slung the blade before even considering the difficulty.

  Her toss was one for the ballads, and she knew Creel would have been proud. However, to be fair, Calcote did present a pretty large target. He was attempting to swing his leg over the saddle while his crony held the reins. As a result, his wide arse suddenly found a small dagger protruding from one cheek.

  Calcote squealed like a hog, losing his precarious balance and falling back out of the saddle. The horse spooked, and Calcote’s leg twisted when he hit the ground, foot still caught in the stirrup as the horse bolted. The nobleman was dragged, bouncing and cursing, across the ground.

  Ferret sheathed her short sword and raced in pursuit. The mayor’s aide watched wide-eyed as his master was ignominiously dragged through the woods. He didn’t even see Ferret when she sprang onto the back of his horse. She shoved the little man off then scooted into the saddle and nudged the mount with her heels. It took off after its fleeing stablemate, evidently wanting nothing to do with the
combat around them. Ferret wasn’t much of a rider, but she had to simply hang on for the most part, the horse picking its own path in pursuit of the other animal. They swiftly gained ground on the first horse, the mayor still bouncing and skidding through the mud and dead leaves and slowing the animal.

  Ferret guided her mount alongside the mayor’s horse. She gathered herself and then leaped for the other horse. Her jump, unlike her throw, was unworthy of the ballads, for she missed the saddle, instead coming up short and smacking against the animal’s flank. A moment of panic ensued as she feared she’d fall and be trampled underhoof, but then she caught the saddle’s pommel with one hand. Her feet landed on the hapless mayor, and she rode him like a sled for a couple bounds before she got her balance enough to make another leap for the saddle. She got her foot in the stirrup this time and, using her natural agility, swung into the saddle. A firm pull on the reins drew the horse to a stop.

  “That’s good… Good horse.” She patted the animal on the neck then dismounted, feeling shaky from the adrenaline.

  Calcote was bruised and bloodied, barely coherent. His fine robes were torn and filthy. Ferret untangled the mayor’s foot from the stirrup, noting his ankle was twisted at an angle that clearly indicated it was broken. Then she knelt beside him.

  “Guess what? You’re under arrest.” Ferret smirked, having never thought in a hundred years she’d be the one saying those words to someone else, rather than the other way around.

  Calcote’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he fell unconscious. The problem now was how to get the corpulent man back to the others. She was tempted to just drag him as the horse had done but decided against it. This fat bastard probably weighs as much as four of me. Guess I’ll see how much of my strength I’ve still retained.

  She surprised herself when she was able to heave the heavy nobleman across the saddle on his belly like a sack of grain. She gathered the horse’s reins and began walking back. The horse she had ridden was a short distance away, so she collected it as well and rode back.