“Should have turned him over,” Ingle said. Their eyes met, and for that brief moment he could tell Matthew thought the same. Behind him the guards approached, alerted by the boy. Fear bubbled up in Ingle’s throat. Even if he lived, what might Oric do for such a screw-up? The least he could do was kill the stupid man who had given them so much trouble. He thrust, the tip nicking ribs before Matthew managed to parry it aside. Stepping closer, Ingle pulled his sword around, smacking it against Matthew’s, which had pulled back to defend, and then he slashed once more at exposed flesh. Matthew fell back, but he was too slow, too unprepared for the maneuver. He was a farmer, not a trained fighter.
The sword cleaved through his shoulder and shattered his collarbone. In the distance Ingle heard Nathaniel scream. Matthew coughed once, his sword falling from limp fingers. His eyes grew wide. His lips quivered, his skin turning white. Ingle put a boot on his chest and kicked him back, freeing his crimson blade. The body clumped to the ground and lay still.
“Stubborn little shit,” Ingle muttered as he wiped his sword clean on Matthew’s leg.
“Drop your blade!” ordered the two gate guards as they arrived. They had their swords drawn, and Ingle promptly obeyed. He gave a smile to Nathaniel, who cowered behind the two guards, tears on his face.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked one as he picked up Ingle’s blade. The other circled around and pressed the tip of his sword against his back to ensure he did nothing stupid. A hand reached in, yanking his dagger from his belt and tossing it to the dirt.
“I can explain, though Oric can do it better,” he said. He pointed to the body. “That man there’s a kidnapper. I know it ’cause we been searching high and low for him. And that boy there, well…”
He turned to Nathaniel, whose eyes looked like white saucers. He grinned, for he felt his lie building, the slow gears in his head turning.
“That’s Nathaniel Gemcroft, back from the dead, as we always hoped.”
The guards looked to the boy, whose skin had gone pale.
“I wasn’t kidnapped,” he insisted to the guards. “I wasn’t. He was helping me, and you let him kill him. Why didn’t you run? I told you to run!”
He was crying now, snot dripping from his nose. The first guard took him by the hand while the other grabbed Ingle by the arm and led him toward the castle.
“This is something Lord Gandrem will settle,” said the guard. “Stay quiet, and answer only when you’ve been asked directly, understand?”
“Sure do,” said Ingle. “But don’t squeeze so rough. You’ll be treating me like a hero soon enough.”
The four entered through the castle gates, then followed the emerald carpet into the main chamber. Uri and Oric were already there, in mid-conversation with John Gandrem on his throne. He sat up straighter at their arrival, clearly recognizing the boy.
“Nathaniel?” he said, his mouth hanging open.
Ingle saw Oric glaring at him, his eyes ready to bulge out of his head. Not knowing what his captain might have been saying, he knew he should set things in motion, let his captain know what lie he’d created.
“I just saved him from his kidnapper,” he said, loud and boastful. A mailed fist struck the back of his head, and for a moment his vision turned to yellow stars over a purple sky.
“You weren’t addressed,” said the guard behind him.
“My apologies,” Ingle muttered.
Nathaniel rushed into the lord’s arms, and in their comfort he sobbed uncontrollably. John patted his back and whispered comforting words, but his eyes remained drawn to where his missing arm should have been.
“Milord,” said one of the guards, “we found him attacking another who had traveled with the boy, killing him before we could arrive. We’ve brought both here for you.”
“You told me you were searching for a man,” John said, looking to Oric. “Though you said he was merely a thief.”
“And indeed he was,” Oric said. Ingle beamed as his captain took his lie and ran with it. “We suspected him of taking Nathaniel from one of Lord Hadfield’s caravans. Never could we have hoped we’d find him here, of course. Perhaps he had come to issue ransom?”
Nathaniel had begun shaking his head, and Ingle watched him carefully. A child’s story against that of several men shouldn’t matter, but one never knew. If only he’d keep his mouth shut, keep crying.
“I was told Nathaniel had died,” John said. “Learned too late of the funeral, sadly. I was told they’d been given a body, by you in fact, Oric.”
Oric licked his lips.
“We suspected too late it was another child. The body was badly burned, you see. When I thought it might be a trick to throw us off the kidnapper’s trail, we went looking. We learned nothing worthwhile, not yet, so we’ve been keeping our reasons a secret. Don’t want harmful rumors flying about, nor giving Alyssa false hope.”
“He’s lying,” Nathaniel said. “Don’t listen to them, he’s lying! He was my friend, he killed my friend. He helped me!”
Oric’s voice dropped lower.
“Men do strange things to boys in their capture. Given time, he might twist their head around, make them friendly. He needs rest. This all’s clearly been too much for the lad.”
“He called the stranger his pa when running to us,” offered one of the guards.
John nodded, as this bit seemed to support what Oric was saying. He kept Nathaniel close, as if afraid he might lose him should he let go.
“What happened to your arm?” he asked.
“They said my arm got sick and had to be cut off.”
“Who is they?”
Ingle’s eyes widened. This might be tougher to explain. Maybe they could spin some blame onto that wife of his…
“She’s just a filthy liar, that’s all,” Ingle said, ignoring Oric’s glare. “Probably cut the arm off to torture him.”
John’s face darkened at this.
“She?” he asked.
Ingle opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know how to respond to that.
“Meant he,” he said lamely.
“We discovered a lady who claimed her husband had Nathaniel,” Oric said, trying his best to mend the situation but clearly fighting a losing battle. John’s eyes had narrowed, and he had a look like a snake ready to strike. “That’s how we knew to come here is all.”
John patted the boy on the head and leaned closer to him. He whispered something, too quietly for Ingle to hear. Nathaniel whispered something back. When finished, John sank deeper in his chair.
“Take them into custody,” he said to his guards.
“Wait,” Ingle shouted. “You got things wrong!”
Men grabbed his arms and wrenched them painfully behind his back. It seemed like the very curtains had spawned armored guards. Oric reached for his sword, but the sheer number made him decide not to. One of the guards smashed his face with his fists, as if insulted Oric had even considered it.
“I wasn’t there,” Ingle shouted as he was yanked backward, but it only seemed to infuriate the lord more. “Oric was, he saw it all, I was just doing what I was told!”
“Bring him to me!” John roared, standing from his throne.
Two guards dragged Ingle across the carpet, then shoved him to his knees. A fist grabbed his hair and forced his head to bow reverently.
“I want you to watch this,” Lord Gandrem said to Nathaniel. “You deserve it. With your arm as it is, you’ll be living a hard road, and this is something you should always remember. This is how we treat the scum who dare strike against us.”
“No,” Ingle moaned as he felt his head pulled back. John held a beautiful sword, and he pressed its edge against his throat.
“Pull back the carpet,” he said to his servants. “I don’t want to stain it.”
Ingle felt hollow fear building and building.
“Please,” he begged. “I didn’t do nothing, I didn’t, I was just…”
They lifted him up, and whe
n they set him back down, his feet touched smooth stone.
“You killed a good man,” John said.
“Says who?”
“Says Nathaniel, and I trust his word over yours.”
The sword moved. He felt pain, but when he gasped to scream, it was as if he’d been dunked underwater. His exhalation was a pitiful garble. His head swam, and he thought to faint, but still the guards held him upright. Until the darkness came, he watched John and Nathaniel watching him die. There was no mercy in either of their eyes.
Guardsman Mick trudged up the road away from the castle, having drawn the shortest straw of the lot. One of the men’s horses remained standing on the path. The other had wandered off, and he grumbled and hoped it wouldn’t be far. He’d have to stable them both, work out ownership, probably even send one or both back to whoever had originally owned them. Bunch of hassles. Of course there was also the body, which needed to be stripped of any valuables and then disposed of.
Deciding the horses could wait, Mick knelt beside the body, and he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one was, so he put a hand into the dead man’s pockets, searching for loose coin. Of course, not all valuables needed to be handed over…
When the dead body let out a groan, Mick startled, fell back on his rump, and nearly soiled his armor. He closed his slack jaw, put a hand on the man’s chest, and leaned close. Both were weak, but he felt the tremors of a heartbeat and heard the soft hiss of breath.
“Goddamn, you’re a stubborn one,” he said, unable to believe it. He took to his feet and ran toward the castle, crying out for a healer to make his way to the gate.
CHAPTER 23
Haern sat atop the roof of the Eschatons’ home and watched the sun dip below the wall. His elbow rested upon his knee, his chin on his hand. Tarlak’s words haunted him, and no matter how hard he tried he could not shake them from his head.
I don’t care who you think you are, or how good you might be, he’d said. You’re a danger to me, and a danger to my sister. I made you an offer, and I won’t go back on it now, but you better put some serious thought into it, because otherwise you’re just a renegade killer with a vendetta. There’s no reason to house you then, no point. How many more will come storming through my windows, come kicking down my doors? I’m terrified the secret’s out, Haern, or it will be soon. What do you expect me to do? Fight for you? Protect you? Give me a reason. Any.
Haern had none to offer. His neck had flushed, and he’d shook his head. What could he say? I’m sorry a mercenary broke into your home, hurt you, your sister, and your friends, all while trying to find me? He’d always thought he was so careful, but he’d slipped up as usual. What had Senke said? It didn’t pay to be his friend. Yet again that remained painfully true.
He’d left, but lacked the heart to go far, so up to their rooftop he went. Part of it was because he didn’t want to leave them, to say good-bye to Delysia and Senke forever. Part of him also feared that the giant man with the painted face might return, and if he did, Haern wanted to be there, waiting.
“Haern?”
He looked down from the roof to see Delysia peering up at him.
“Will you come down?” she asked. He shook his head. “Then can you help me up?”
Sighing, he grabbed the side of the roof with one hand and hung. He offered her his other hand and she took it, still trusting him for reasons he’d never understand. Using him as a guide she stepped on a window ledge, then with his aid jumped up to catch the roof. Once she had climbed all the way up, he swung himself up to join her.
“I think a set of stairs might be easier,” she said, brushing off her priestess robes.
“And defeat the whole point of me coming up here,” Haern said, immediately regretting it. Why should he snap at her? Her silence showed the comment stung, and he tried to think of something to say.
“Is Senke all right?” he asked.
“I stopped his internal bleeding, and I sealed the wound best I could. He’ll be sore for days, but yes, he’ll be fine.”
He walked back to the center of the roof and sat down. She sat beside him, and immediately he felt himself pulled back to the past. Would Thren arrive once more, a crossbow in his hand?
“I’m sorry about my brother,” she said. “He can be a bit of a hothead.”
“No kidding. Why’d you join up with him, anyway? Mercenary work doesn’t seem suited to you.”
“Because he asked,” she said, as if it should have been obvious. “When I left the priesthood they gave me back my father’s wealth from their safekeeping. It wasn’t much, not after it’d been used to settle my father’s estates and debts. We used it to buy this place. Was all we could afford.”
“But here?” Haern asked, gesturing about. “On the Crimson? You deserve someplace better. Someplace safer.”
She shrugged. “My brother had a place he wanted, but the king refused to even hear his offer. It’s no matter. I spent two years in the temple unable to leave for fear of Thren’s anger. I’m used to keeping inside.”
“It’s not right,” Haern said. She smiled at him.
“You living on the street is what isn’t right. At least I have a warm bed, and a family to share my meals with. What do you have, Haern? What have you done over the years?”
He thought of his deals, his rumors, his ambushes in the night and days spent sleeping with the homeless and destitute.
“I tried to stop my father’s war. I tried to kill until there’d be no one left to fight in his name. I failed.”
She took his hand and held it.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We all make mistakes. You once wanted something more, to understand a life beyond what your father taught you. I think you still do. But you won’t find a new life in vengeance, Haern, only sadness and loneliness. You grew up alone, I could tell that immediately. You change nothing by remaining so.”
Silence fell over them. He let it linger, trying to find the courage to ask what he needed to know.
“Do you hate me for killing?”
“No. I am not so naïve. I would like to live in a world where no killing was needed, but I fear I may never see it. I won’t judge you for what you do, Haern. I can only try to be a light, and to shine as long as I can in a world that seems obsessed with darkness. If you need forgiveness, then know you have it from me, and from Ashhur. If you need guidance, ask, and I will do my best to answer. I’ll heal your wounds, and pray for you before I lay my head down to sleep. I won’t hate you. How could you ever think so?”
He felt like a child, and he clutched her hand tight. She shifted so she might sit next to him, and her head rested against his shoulder.
“All those years,” she said softly. “Where did you sleep? Where did you live?”
“On the streets,” Haern said, feeling uncomfortable speaking of it with her, but forcing himself to anyway.
“Even in winter? How did you survive the cold?”
“Thousands do so in this city every year. In that, I was nothing special.”
“I doubt many of those thousands did so by choice. You are special, Haern. Pretending otherwise is pointless. Why would you endure that? Why not flee, why not become anything else?”
“Because I…” Haern paused. He wanted to answer her truthfully, but that also meant knowing what he himself believed. “Because I couldn’t let my father win. And not just my father. The whole damn underworld that rose up to swallow you, me, and everything else good in this city. I learned the true face of this city, who operates it, who controls what. And then I did everything I could to slowly tear it all down.”
Delysia shifted closer to him, and he felt her arms wrap around his.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “You must have been so alone.”
Again that discomfort, that shame for all he’d done. He didn’t like it. He’d endured the years with a single-minded purpose, a desire for revenge that felt pure enough to justify his squalid conditions, his brutality, his en
tire purpose for existing. The last thing he wanted was to have light shine upon that darkness.
“Will you go out tonight?” Haern asked her, wishing to change the subject. “You and your mercenaries, I mean.”
“No,” Delysia said, shaking her head. “Tarlak didn’t understand the magnitude of what was going on when he first agreed. Our fault for not being part of the mercenary guild, I guess. We gave one night, and that is all Alyssa will get from us.” She paused. “Will you?”
Haern let out a sigh.
“I think I will. I have some part to play in all of this, whether I want it or not.”
She pulled back and gently took his injured elbow into her hands. For the first time he truly looked at her, and he saw how tired she was, the whites of her eyes rimmed with angry veins. Still she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began praying. Soft light shone from her fingers, and he felt their healing magic pour into his elbow. Several minutes later she stopped. The pain had become a vague ache, like a sore muscle, but little else. He flexed the elbow twice, and it felt strong enough for combat.
“I should go,” she said. “It’s not safe for me out here after dark.”
“Please,” he said, taking her hand. “Just … sit with me a while longer. You’re safe at my side. I promise.”
He saw the look on her face, and he wished he could understand what it was she thought. Her hesitation was brief, and then she sat back down. Her arms wrapped around him, and he allowed his own eyes to close. It was only with her that he relaxed, all other times a coiled spring. But there, with her, he felt able to let it go. He had nothing to hide, and no reason to. Together they watched the sun sink farther, until it was nothing but a glow peeking over the wall.
“Help me down,” she said at last. “Senke wants you to see him. He seemed certain you wouldn’t be staying tonight, yet would still be close. I think he knows you better than I.”
“He understands the world I came from. Tonight will be worse, for everyone. I think he knows that.”
The rest were eating when the two came in. Brug and Tarlak seemed to act as if he weren’t there, but Senke greeted him warmly enough.
A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2) Page 25
