The Blackguard (Book 2)

by Cheryl Matthynssens

  Aorun slowly straightened up as well, still clearly angered even though he held Sordith in high regard. “You have work to do. What time will the man be here?” he growled, crossing his arms.

  “In two hours,” Sordith replied coldly. “I will see to it that a couple of your men brings those gathered into the receiving room.”

  “Good. I expect your numbers on my desk at the end of the day,” Aorun stated.

  Sordith nodded. “Of course, my lord.” He turned to set about his duties when Aorun called to him again.

  “Sordith. One last thing.” Aorun waited until Sordith stopped and turned around to look at him. “I want you at my side while the stable lord is in the hall.”

  “I have no desire to be anywhere near that business.” Sordith’s voice was tense.

  “Exactly! Which is why you will be. Owen is far too willing offer his services, and it is distracting.” Aorun’s tone held disgust, but it also left no room for argument.

  Sordith took a deep breath. “As you command.” He bowed low, then turned on his heel and departed.

  Aorun watched him go, shaking his head. He counted on Sordith’s honor and skill in areas where Aorun was less proficient. Sordith did kill, but he had this sense of warped justice that sometimes reared up the way it just had. Aorun was fairly sure Sordith had never taken a wench to his bed that hadn’t sought it first. The rogue had never even taken advantage of the stable lord’s offer to come to the third tier. Sordith lived simply, as was evident by his room; it had what the man needed, all of fine quality, but not much more.

  Aorun walked alongside his walls, running his fingers along the inset stone shelves, which were full of treasures from all around the world. He liked looking at new and odd things. From strange books to beautiful pottery, his was a collection of world travels he longed to take, but on which he’d never venture. He sighed softly and wandered back to the balcony to stare out at the ships.

  Sordith had called him a coward. In one way, Aorun knew he was. His fear of water would always keep his feet on this isle, locked into a position of power from which there was no escape. It had been his decision to seek the heart of the last Trench Lord, and it wasn’t a choice he regretted. But in many ways, Aorun realized he was as much a prisoner of position as a ruling lord. He sighed again and went back to his desk, opening the drawer, and removing a silver flask of smalgut, from which he took a straight shot. Grimacing at the burn, Aorun closed his eyes, letting the alcohol scald its way down and accepting its gentle release of his anxiety.

  Sordith joined Aorun at the appointed time. His right hand’s face was tightly schooled to hide his displeasure, but Aorun knew that Sordith was still indignant by the stiff bearing of his posture and the way he kept one hand on the hilt of his sword. Unlike Aorun, who wore a sword on his back, Sordith favored two smaller swords at his hips. Aorun had to admit that if any man were quick enough to best him, it would be Sordith. It was just another reason he kept Sordith close. A man quick enough to kill you had best be on your side; the alternative was to dispose of him, and Sordith’s quick mind for business was too valuable to waste. “Still angry about being here?” Aorun asked with amusement.

  “Best we not discuss it.” Sordith’s terse response was confirmation enough. The belated “m’lord” he added was clearly nothing more than deference to Aorun’s rank.

  “Oh, why is that?” Aorun glanced at Sordith, knowing he was pushing the man’s tolerance and anger, but delighting in it nonetheless.

  “I like living.”

  Sordith’s cryptic reply was not lost on Aorun, who chortled and opened the door to sweep into the room. At his entry, those present except his men dropped to a knee. He wandered down the line of those that had been gathered. There were five half-breeds: three women and two men. There were also several Lerdenian women, some dirty and unkempt. Two were obviously from the plain's farms. All of them were beautiful to look at, despite the fear and soil of being housed in the kennels. There were also two full-blooded Daezun men, their eyes filled with hatred as they looked at their captor. “Well, here is a surprise,” Aorun said. “Where did these two come from?”

  One of the men guarding them stepped forward. “We found them on the outer edges of the farms, claiming they were outcasts. Apparently their own people turned them out. Won’t say what they did to be thrown out of The Peoples’ lands.” The man gave a sharp salute to his chest and stepped back.

  Aorun moved before the two, looking at them in consideration. “I do not think the stable lord will be seeking full-blooded Daezun males. I could be wrong, but it is outside the realm of what he usually orders. We will leave them for now and see his reaction. He is going to be disappointed in our numbers this week.” Aorun noted that the Daezun men were well secured, and when he noticed the disdainful expression from the one on his left, he kicked him in the face. Aorun didn’t care about causing permanent damage; he only looked on as blood spewed from the fallen man’s nose. Aorun hated the Daezun, a fact that he did not conceal from any that lived in the trenches. “You will keep your dog faces down until spoken to,” he hissed. His eyes moved to the second Daezun, who slowly lowered his gaze, though his fury and hate were evident as it dropped.

  He glanced over to where Sordith stood by the door. Aorun’s right-hand man didn’t seem to see anything in the room, but he noted the white fingers that curled around the hilt of his sword. Aorun was pleased with his restraint. He walked back to Sordith casually. “What do you think of those before us, Sordith?”

  “You didn’t bring me here for my opinion. You are well aware of that.” As if to make his point, Sordith stepped out the doorway to stand guard on the other side.

  Aorun grinned but did not follow to rebuke the man; Veaneth, the stable lord, was approaching. Veaneth had two of the Blackguard with him. The half-Daezun looked young, but hard. Their faces held no emotion as they walked a half-step behind the mage. Aorun bowed only slightly as Veaneth entered. The man was of the third tier, and normally he would not have bowed at all, but the High Minister had commanded Aorun to work with the man. He had no respect for Veaneth, who was soft and held little magic. What little he had was in the way of charms and illusions.

  Aorun did not regret his own inability to channel magic; he watched those who had it and it seemed to Aorun that most mages served themselves. Few truly did anything worthwhile with the skills they had, other than to make others with less magic fawn upon them. Aorun had earned respect through steel and action. It seemed far nobler than those who waved magic to stand apart, like this man before him.

  Veaneth was balding, and his face was cruel; not like Aorun’s hard look, but like someone who enjoyed what he did. Veaneth only acknowledged him with a slight nod. Aorun frowned, but decided to let the slight go. He heard Sordith’s soft growl and was glad the man had stepped outside. Perhaps Aorun should have brought Owen, after all…he would keep that in mind for future meetings.

  Veaneth moved down the line of bowing Lerdenians and half-breeds, tsking as he went. “This is the best you could find?” He looked over at Aorun, then stopped in front of the two Daezun and scrutinized them. “These are not half-breeds.”

  “The specifications for your needs are not like loose stones just lying about to pick up. Yes, those are full Daezun found on our borders. We had never brought Daezun in before, but thought to offer them should they meet your needs.” Aorun spoke as if they were bartering silks or art. “I am sure that such a pair would be good for your stables. There is certainly a man or two who would pay to degrade them.”

  Veaneth nodded. He pulled out a strange little stone he used when he assessed the merchandise. As usual, the fleshy mage went down the line one by one, starting with the half breeds. He put the stone in the hands of the first one. It lay mutely in her hand, and she looked up at him, her dark brown eyes filled with confusion. Veaneth shook his head and moved to the second, a solid male with deep sapphire eyes that had a hint of sparkling silver in them. The stone hummed
softly in his hand, and he too looked up at Veaneth with confusion.

  “I will take this one.” Veaneth said, scooping up the stone. A Blackguard grabbed hold of the man and hauled him off to the other side of the room.

  Veaneth moved down the line to test each one, taking the two half-breed men, one half-breed woman, and all of the Lerdenians except one very beautiful farm girl. She was fair in face, with golden locks and the silver of power in her eyes, yet Veaneth had not wanted her.

  Aorun was surprised at this. “What is wrong with that one?” he asked curiously. “She meets all that you have asked.”

  “Hips are too narrow,” Veaneth said bluntly, approaching and assessing the two Daezun.

  “What of these two?” Aorun asked. If the mage didn’t take them, he’d send them to the mines or the inner sewers.

  “Look at me,” Veaneth stated firmly to the two men. Both men forced their gaze up, their Daezun spirit dancing in their eyes.

  “They are fresh, and not of the mines?” Veaneth asked, licking his lips as if anticipating a great meal.

  “Yes, as I said, we found them at the edges of the farms,” Aorun replied, watching Veaneth closely.

  “I will take them both,” Veaneth answered softly.

  Aorun nodded to his two men and they each grabbed ahold of one of the two Daezun and half-dragged them over to the others; the Daezun’s feet had been bound, and they couldn’t walk themselves. Aorun nodded at his two remaining men, who responded by taking the three women out of the room. Aorun followed behind them. He did not know what Veaneth did once he left, but Aorun knew he wanted no part of it. “Take these three down to the brothel and see if Aerius will take them.” The three women began to cry, and Aorun was startled to feel a hand on his arm.

  “I want the Lerdenian farm girl.” Sordith’s voice was hard, but his words held respect.

  Aorun looked at him with surprise. Sordith had never asked for a woman before, let alone one that was not there by her own choosing. He eyed his man carefully; Sordith’s eyes were on the woman, and there was something there in them. Lust, maybe? Aorun smiled slowly. “About time you became truly one of us.” He smacked Sordith on the back. He’d had enough of women who didn’t know what they were doing last night. He doubted this lass had much knowledge, given the fresh farm look of her. “She is yours. Go and do what you will.”

  Sordith looked at Aorun coldly, with hard and calculating eyes. “Anything I want?”

  For a moment, Aorun almost felt sorry for the girl. “Of course. I cannot deny one of my best. You may do with her as you please. She is yours. You have my word that none will interfere.”

  The young woman cast herself at Aorun’s feet. “Please, milord. Just let me go home, I beg of you! I will insure my father gives extra in exchange, beyond the general tax.” Her hair was spread at Aorun’s feet as she kissed the toes of his boots.

  Aorun wrinkled his nose at the obvious groveling. Groveling had never moved him. “Get her out of here before I ruin that beautiful face,” he said disdainfully to Sordith.

  Sordith grabbed the woman by the arm and started down the hall. The girl was kicking and screaming as she was pulled, and in exasperation, he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder as he strode off.

  “Have fun, my friend. I think that one is going to tire you out,” Aorun called after him. He laughed outright, his laughter trailing after Sordith and his squirming prize.

  It was a good hour before Veaneth and his men reopened the door. Owen had joined Aorun after Sordith left, and both had waited outside. Aorun with far less patience than Owen. The latter seemed content to clean his nails with his knife.

  Veaneth came through first. Like every other time, those that he’d chosen walked single file between the two guards, even the two Daezun. They had a familiar glazed look in their eyes as they filed past. Veaneth stopped beside Aorun as he handed him a purse. “Sorry that took so long. The two Daezun took longer than I usually need. One of them is extremely strong-minded.”

  Aorun just nodded. He didn’t like the look of pleasure on Veaneth’s face as he watched the line stroll by, he just wanted the slimy dung bag out of his house. “It is always my pleasure to serve the council.” Aorun bowed and spoke as was expected.

  Veaneth nodded and followed the last guard out. Aorun managed to hold his disgust till they were out the front door, and only then did he look at Owen. “I feel dirty. I will be in my rooms taking a bath,” he snarled as he bounced the bag in his hand. “This is far too light. Send two squads out and have them look for Daezun too close to our border. He seems to pay better for them.”

  Aorun turned on his heel and strode to his room. He wanted the sour stench that the mage had left behind washed far away. He could still hear the screams coming down the hall from Sordith’s room, but they were replaced suddenly by silence. Good, the man had finally gagged the wench. Aorun finished his way into his room, closing the door to solitude and leaving the rest of the world behind him.

  Chapter Five

  Alador’s scream of warning was cut off as the cascade of dirt and rocks landed on the wagon. He’d managed to bring a hand up to shield his face, but that wasn’t enough to deflect the rock from sending lights shattering through his vision. The world became a tumbling mass of rock and dirt, and terror coursed through Alador as he fought to shield himself with his arms.

  His last moments of recollection were the wagon tipping over the edge of the road. He was flung from his seat and into the cold, murky depths of the river. The sunlight above the water seemed too far away – How would he make it back to the surface? – And then darkness took him.

  Alador could hear water rushing nearby when he awoke, spluttering, and lifted his head slightly to cough water from his lungs. He was lying in the shallows of the river, his body scraping against sharp rocks. Everything hurt. His head pounded like a death drum at a funeral, slow and felt throughout his body. Despite the warmth of the summer evening, he was freezing. He had no idea where he was or how long he’d been there. He carefully flexed his limbs, relieved when he found that nothing was broken. He forced himself to crawl up onto the rocks farther out of the water until he finally reached a sandy section of the river bar.

  Despite being fairly sure nothing was broken, every inch of him screamed like he’d just been beaten by Trelmar again. There had been plenty of times when Alador could have sworn Trelmar and his friends had broken something after one of their beatings, but they’d always been careful not to break anything, they just made everything hurt. It was an unpleasant and yet not an unfamiliar pain that he suffered now. Alador flopped down and let the late sun warm him. It hadn’t fallen behind the hills yet, but it would soon.

  It took a while for the memory of the landside to come to him, and when it did, Alador forced himself onto his knees with a groan. Henrick might still be buried, or he might be in the river. He could still be alive. Alador looked around, trying to get his bearings. The rockslide must have pushed the wagon over the edge and into the river that hadn’t been more than a few feet below them.

  The problem now was that Alador wasn’t familiar with the area, and had no idea how far downstream he’d gone. Based on the sun’s position at the cliff’s edge, he’d been out for at least an hour, which only gave him about two hours of usable light left. Alador patted himself down and noted that he had nothing but his knife, which thankfully hadn’t come free of its sheath on his belt.

  Alador forced himself to his feet. Based on the direction of the water’s flow, he was on the wrong side of the river. Just upstream, however, it looked like the river was calm enough that he’d be able to wade or swim across before it shoved him down to the next rapids. Alador forced himself to move, every muscle protesting. His boots were wet and uncomfortable, but he dared not take them off. He didn’t want them to shrink, and the thought of trying to cover the rocky ground barefoot was an unpleasant one.

  It took Alador about a quarter of an hour to work his way up to the head
of the still water. He waded out carefully, hoping the river would stay shallow enough for him to wade, rather than swim. Luck was not with him; Alador was forced to swim a good third of the distance. He finally stood on the other side, winded and shivering, and concerned that he felt so cold.

  Alador stood for a moment, hugging himself for warmth. He needed to get dry. He remembered the cantrips he’d worked on the morning before and focused. It took him longer to find that well within him, but when he did he focused his thoughts to dryness. Hoping this would work, Alador closed his eyes and pushed his hands down and out, imagining the water leaving him. He opened his eyes and frowned: he was steaming, but that wasn’t really what he needed. It was warmer, at least.

  He tried again, imagining the water returning to the river as he shoved down his hands and then pushed them to the river. He smiled as the sense of wetness left him. He opened his eyes to find that, except for his boots and his belt, he was naked.

  “Dammit,” he muttered in frustration. Now what was he going to do? Yes, he was dry, but being naked was worse off in the wilderness. Not only that, but his knife had disappeared, as well. He should have just stayed wet. He had to get to Henrick, and he was delaying when time could be precious.

  “If you are done playing, we really have work to do before dark.” The lazy amused tones that could only belong to Henrick drew Alador’s eyes to the bank above him.

  “I was trying to get dry.” Alador muttered. His head hurt, his body hurt, and he was standing there, more embarrassed that the spell had failed than that he was without clothing.

  “You succeeded,” Henrick quipped back with a deep-throated laugh. “You appear quite dry.

  “Yes, we are all amused.” Alador’s anger was evident in his voice. His arms flailed about in frustration at his predicament. “Any suggestions on how I can get them back, and...Are you okay?” He frowned up and scrutinized the mage. Henrick seemed whole, and he was completely clean, as if they hadn’t just been wiped off the road by dirt and rock.