Albin’s face darkened. “I take it you don’t get your wick wet much, standing silent or speaking nonsense wherever you go. No wonder you’re so uptight. Women are wooed with words, isn’t that right, Caterine?”
“It depends which hole you’re talking out of,” the servant said curtly.
Albin’s eyes bored into Caterine’s, and she looked away, her hands gripping her dress.
Albin turned back to Tarrik. “What say you to a sparring match? Your spear against my sword. A little fun to keep us sharp and to impress the ladies.”
“I agree,” Tarrik said.
Albin blinked, clearly not having expected so ready a response. He turned to the gathering crowd, which now included servants who’d been passing by. Young men and women watched from windows around the courtyard. Word had spread quickly of Veljor’s plan, it seemed.
“Clear a space!” shouted Albin. “You’ll get to see why spears are for peasants and swords are for noble warriors!”
Cheers rose at his words. More coins changed hands among the soldiers and the servants.
Albin stripped off his armor, revealing a bronzed, chiseled torso that drew the eye of almost every woman and man there. He removed his helmet and face mask, showing a strong, clean-shaven chin and thin lips.
Tarrik looked around for somewhere to place his just-purchased coat and shirt. He didn’t want them to get dirty.
“I’ll hold your clothes,” said Ren. “Make this quick.”
She held his spear too while he unbuttoned and removed his coat and shirt. A murmur ran through the crowd when he turned to face them. His silver-gray skin, lined with sinew and striated muscle, was a stark contrast to Albin’s brown skin and well-defined form.
A hand touched his arm, and he jerked away. Caterine. She swallowed, and her eyes flicked to Albin. “Beware of his speed,” she whispered, and moved aside.
“You must be a savage from the far south,” exclaimed Albin. “Or a filthy San-Kharr. Only they have gray skin.” He raised his voice as he drew a thick leather glove over his left hand. “We have a wild man here, from the dangerous south. An animal not fit to be among us.”
The hubbub rose in volume as the crowd finally realized what was happening. Albin had been sent to teach a lesson to the outsiders. Some cursed their initial wagers, and frantic negotiations of new ones ensued. Tarrik saw men indicating thighs and throats, betting where he would be injured first.
He stepped into a clear space, his spear in the crook of his arm. The crowd had spread into a loose circle around the edges of the courtyard, giving the two combatants ample room to fight.
“Aren’t you going to use one of those wooden practice swords? And I’ll swap for a blunt spear.” He knew the answer already, but wanted to reinforce to those watching that this fight wasn’t his idea.
“My good man, the time for negotiating the terms of our bout was when you agreed to it. It’s too late now to wriggle out of it like the coward you are.”
Tarrik stretched his neck to relax it. “What are the rules then?”
“No rules were stated. It is usual for the man who strikes first blood to be announced the winner.”
Tarrik nodded. This whole thing was a farce, and the sooner it was over, the better.
Albin drew his sword, showing a polished blade a hand longer than usual. He waved it back and forth and squatted a few times to loosen up.
Tarrik remained still, his hands clenched around the black shaft of the spear. He hadn’t taken a drink this morning to deaden his emotions, and now he was glad. His anger rose. This time he encouraged its hot caress. The swordsman was an arrogant fool, a tool to be used and discarded by his lord, though he knew it not.
The same, then, as Tarrik. The realization struck him to his core. His stomach felt leaden for a moment until his mounting rage scoured the sensation away.
“Are you ready?” said Albin. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of having an unfair advantage.”
Laughter erupted. The crowd thought the arrogant puppet already had the bout won.
Tarrik nodded and widened his stance. His heart pounded like the hammers in the forge. Blood coursed through his veins. This human dared to fight him, to appease his bloodthirsty jackal of a lord.
Albin rushed at Tarrik and leaped forward, his sword extending in the blink of an eye. Tarrik pivoted and struck the weapon aside, then again as Albin followed with another attack. The man’s reach was extraordinary. Coupling that with the longer blade and his swiftness, he must have ended many a fight in the first few moments.
As Tarrik jumped backward, he slid his hands along the shaft and brought the spear swinging around. Albin sprang back to avoid the hissing blade and again as Tarrik made another circle with the spear. The weapon felt good in his hands. Far more natural to him than a sword. He admonished himself for getting carried away. Showmanship wasn’t for hardened warriors.
He thrust at Albin again and again, and each time the swordsman dodged or parried the spear. Tarrik kept at it, not giving the man any respite. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
Frustrated, Albin tried to beat the spear down and trap it under his sword so he could step inside Tarrik’s reach. Tarrik twisted the haft and jerked the tip’s wings, dragging Albin’s blade to the side, and the swordsman almost lost his grip.
Albin leaped backward, waving his sword in a flourish as if all was going to his design. His face, however, was contorted with anger.
He backpedaled, and Tarrik let him. The swordsman remained out of range, breathing through his nose, then turned his back on Tarrik to address the crowd. Perhaps he was counting on them to warn him, and on his own speed, if Tarrik should launch an attack.
“Such a show you will see!” he shouted. “This barbarian faces the best Ivrian has to offer. And he will be found wanting!”
Savage roars and cheers followed the idiot’s speech. Tarrik should have sliced his hamstring or stabbed him through the back. No rules meant no rules, though he was sure the crowd wouldn’t see it that way.
Albin turned back to face Tarrik, who jumped forward and thrust his spear two-handed at the man. Albin smacked it away with his sword, once, twice, a third time. As he parried the last attack, he danced forward inside Tarrik’s guard and grabbed his own blade with his gloved hand, driving it against the spear shaft. Tarrik spun to disengage, but Albin was too quick, his half-sword grip giving the blade a speed and weight it wouldn’t normally have.
Albin shoved the spear aside and sliced his blade toward Tarrik’s stomach. Tarrik planted the butt of the spear in the ground, twisted, and vaulted into the air, using the shaft as a pole to spin him away from Albin and his blade.
He released one hand and whirled the shaft in a wide loop to keep his opponent at bay. Albin grinned as he backed up a few steps, letting the spear whistle past harmlessly. His chest was sheened with sweat, and his smile wasn’t as confident as before.
He turned to the crowd again, and Tarrik rolled his eyes. “Nobility against savagery!” crowed Albin. “He doesn’t even fight with style! Poke, poke, poke, like he’s in the bedroom!”
Tarrik looked at Ren. She raised a fist with an outstretched thumb and traced a line across her throat. So be it.
Tarrik focused his anger, using it to quash any misgivings about his next move.
“A blade master’s weapon against a peasant’s spear!” shouted Albin.
Tarrik hefted his spear and cast it with all his might. It hammered through Albin’s back and penetrated up to the side wings of his blade.
The crowd cried out in horror as Albin staggered a few steps, his sword falling from nerveless fingers. He tipped forward and smacked face-first into the packed earth. One leg twitched as the last of his life left him. The spear stood straight up in his back like a flagpole, moving back and forth slightly.
Tarrik’s heart swelled to bursting. Another of this slaver race dead! His blood roared like a pounding waterfall in his ears. He wanted to tear out the man’s liver and eat it raw.<
br />
A moment’s stunned silence erupted into anger and threats. Hands reached not for coins wagered but for weapons.
A boom of thunder ripped through the air, and a tumultuous wind sent dust swirling. Men and women covered their eyes and ducked their heads, their clothes flapping. A low hum vibrated Tarrik’s eardrums, and a circular wall of crimson and violet sprang up around him.
“Enough!” shouted Ren, her voice amplified, resonating like a lion’s roar. “There were no rules specified! Let this be a lesson for all. There is always someone more skilled, a better warrior. And never turn your back on an opponent.”
She nodded to Tarrik, and he walked toward Albin through air made thick with hatred and disgust. With a jerk he tugged his spear free, then looked at the crowd, meeting as many eyes as he could. Did they think this was a game?
He thrust the spear downward. Albin’s corpse shuddered as his spine was severed. Tarrik stabbed again, twisting the tip to horrified gasps. He yanked the blade out, and scarlet dripped across the dirt. He decided not to spit on Albin’s corpse or wipe his spear tip on him, in case such gestures sent the crowd into an uncontrollable frenzy.
What would Ren do then? Would she char their flesh and bones to ash?
When the sorcerous shield dissipated, Tarrik moved back to stand with Ren and Caterine. Blood pounded in his ears, in his groin.
The servant’s face was as white as bleached bone, her mouth twisted as if she’d swallowed something unpalatable.
“That was ill done,” she said.
“He was a fool,” replied Ren.
“He didn’t deserve to die.”
“And my man did? Albin would have killed him, and for what? Because Veljor felt slighted?”
Caterine schooled her expression into blankness, smoothed her skirt with her hands. “Commander Veljor would do no such thing. Captain Albin acted of his own accord.”
“Of course. Let us go, before the situation becomes untenable.”
Hisses and shouts followed the trio as Caterine took demon and sorcerer through an exit and along more paneled corridors and wide stairways. Eventually they came to a door with two guards stationed outside. Tarrik reckoned they’d circled back in the citadel and were somewhere close to Veljor’s hall.
“Your rooms,” said Caterine. “I hope they are satisfactory.”
The suite comprised four rooms: a vast reception space with couches, padded armchairs, and side tables holding candles and a vase of dried flowers; a main bedroom; a smaller one with a single cot; and another bathing and “preparation” area. The furnishings were of high quality, and the thick pile rugs were pleasing to walk on.
Servants entered with the travelers’ gear, and Caterine directed them to place the bags atop a low table in the reception room.
“I will leave you now and return when you are required for dinner,” she told Ren, and hurried away on slippered feet.
Tarrik found a cloth in the preparation room and wiped the gore from his spear. The guards outside hadn’t reacted when they’d seen the sign of slaughter, which spoke of firm discipline and restraint. No doubt by the time their shift ended, the story of Albin’s demise would be widely circulated.
Ren was checking her gear. Before opening her saddlebags, she spoke words under her breath—a sorcerous cant. There were probably a few stable hands massaging their hands right now, like the street rat outside the tailor’s shop.
Tarrik moved his own gear into what he presumed was his room, the one with the single cot. He grabbed the bottle of spirits from his saddlebag. The drink burned going down his throat, and he noticed his hands were shaking. How long had they been betraying him? He had to keep them out of Ren’s view. He feared she was assessing his weaknesses as much as he was hers.
Another long swallow, and the bottle was empty. He tossed it onto the cot and strode back into the reception room. The alcohol had taken the edge off his emotions, but it would be some time before the bloodlust left him.
Ren was in her bedroom, unpacking her clothes. She must have heard him, as she came out straight away.
“Are you upset I ordered the man killed?” she asked.
Tarrik didn’t know what the sorcerer was involved in or what her plans were. But the more he learned of her intentions, the more he could use that knowledge to plot against her and find a way to escape. Although he couldn’t act directly against Ren, he might be able to turn others against her or give her wrong information. And if she were killed, he’d be free.
What concerned him right now was that even nobles supposedly loyal to the Tainted Cabal thought they could get away with so blatant an insult to Ren. Was it because she was one of the Nine?
“Albin was dead the moment Veljor ordered him to maim or kill me. He was nothing. Prey. Meat. Why would Veljor affront you so? Are you not all part of the Cabal? Does this have something to do with the Nine?”
“The less you know, the better. All that matters to you is my protection. The spear is a decent weapon. Are you going to name it?”
Name it? A tool? Humans were strange. “No. It is a weapon, an extension of its wielder.”
Ren nodded slowly. “I would not normally use you in such a way. When Albin appeared, I knew we had no choice. I find I have plenty of lives to spend, and I do not have the luxury of virtue.”
“And yet you did use me.” And he’d enjoyed it. The violence, the bloodlust, the release . . .
“I wish it didn’t have to be this way—”
“It doesn’t! Say the words, and unbind me. Return me to my realm.” Tarrik wasn’t strong enough to return himself yet.
“I cannot. You are here to protect me. I own you, body and soul. Do not forget it.”
How could he?
“Why do you need me to protect you from mad commanders and arrogant minions? You could burn them to charcoal and scatter their remains with a few arcane words!”
“I preferred it when you were silent, insolent demon! Do not question me!”
Ren snarled a cant, and the Wracking Nerves pummeled him. Agony scorched Tarrik’s skin, scoured his bones. He cried out, fell limply to the floor.
The punishment faded. Tarrik kept his eyes closed and fists clenched. I’ll see you dead! I’ll gouge out your eyes and carve your skin to a bloody pulp.
He hauled himself up, swallowing blood, and glared at Ren.
“Enough of your disrespect,” she said. “I need to rest and plan. Speak no more of what happened.”
Tarrik glowered at her but remained silent, as she wished. His legs felt weak, and he ground his teeth at his contemptible feebleness.
“You will accompany me to the dining hall tonight, but I have a task for you while everyone is eating. I do not know who of the Nine is also here, but I suspect they were the instigator of the assault upon me at the tower and during the days before.”
She gnawed on her already-chewed knuckle, realized what she was doing, and ceased.
“This place is full of arrogant fools and vipers,” Tarrik said. “I do not like it.”
“Neither do I.”
Tarrik wanted to keep his peace but could not stop himself. “One of the Nine attacking another of the Nine?”
“We all serve our savior, Samal Rak-shazza. But he has given us leave to fight for position among ourselves. Only the strong survive, as it should be.”
“Apart from wanting you dead, does this sorcerer present a threat to your plans?”
“Leave my plans to me, demon. The less you know, the less you can reveal.”
“I am bound to serve you.”
“And yet in certain situations you are able to harm me. It follows that you may also be able to reveal more about me than I wish.” Ren rubbed her eyes. “Get some rest. We’ll wait here until we’re called to dinner.”
Chapter Five
The dregs of the bottle of spirits had dampened Tarrik’s emotions for a short time, but the rage had returned with a vengeance. It burned in his veins, causing him to grind his teeth a
nd his hands to shake uncontrollably.
If Ren noticed, she said nothing. She sat cross-legged on her bed, eyes open but unfocused, as if staring into a realm only sorcerers were aware of.
She remained that way the entire day, not reacting to Tarrik’s impatient pacing around the reception room or the honing of his spear. He eventually settled himself and tried to calm his thoughts. But he needed a drink.
Tarrik faced the prospect of the commander’s dinner at Ren’s side with dread. Not because he was afraid of Veljor or what the deranged meat-bag might devise next, but because of the fever of wrath that still burned in his veins.
There was a knock at the door.
Ren blinked, turning her head toward the sound. Tarrik rolled to his feet and grasped his spear. He was over by the door in a heartbeat.
“Lady Branwen,” came Caterine’s muffled voice. “Commander Veljor would have your presence at dinner.”
Ren rubbed her eyes and stretched her neck. “We will be out presently.”
For a long moment there was no response; then Caterine said, “I will wait outside so I may escort you.”
“Excellent. I will not be long.”
Ren levered herself off the bed and knuckled the small of her back. Ignoring Tarrik, she brushed imaginary dust from her charcoal skirt, then tugged on her short coat. Only as she buckled her sword to her back and adjusted the chest strap to avoid her brooches did she deign to notice him.
“Come here,” she said.
Tarrik obeyed, stopping a pace from her.
“Firstly, you need to blend in more. You’re too . . . reptilian.”
He had no idea what she meant, and frowned.
“Lizardlike,” clarified Ren. “You’re completely still for minutes at a time, and when you do move, it’s quick and precise. And you hardly blink.”
“I am a predator, not prey. I conserve my energy and strike when it’s most opportune.”
“Just . . . try to move more. Mimic humans.”
Should I trip over my own feet and drool like a mindless idiot?
“I’ll try.”
Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) Page 9
