And then the sword pierced the front of Senke’s chest. The man arched back, his eyes wide. His limbs trembled, and blood dribbled from his lips. As his body collapsed, slipping free of the blade, Haern was too stunned to even scream. Behind him, now occupying the doorway, stood Ghost, the white paint on his face speckled with red. His grin was as wide as Senke’s had been.
“I found you,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in the confined room.
“Why?” Haern asked. It was the only question he seemed able to think. “Why? Why now?”
“Because I have a reputation to keep, Watcher. I’ve been paid to kill you, and so you’ll have to die. It’s the way things work.”
He lifted his swords into position, and slowly, as if in a dream, Haern did the same. In the back of his mind he felt anger building and building, like it belonged to someone else yet would soon be given to him whether he wanted it or not.
“You monster,” he said, crouching into position.
“Monster? I see one body at my feet, Watcher, and five at yours. How am I the monster?”
What could he say to that? That his kills had a pure motive? That he wasn’t motivated by greed? The arguments felt hollow, petty. They were two killers, and they eyed one another with an understanding so few could know.
“Then I’m the monster this city needs,” Haern said. “But we don’t need you.”
Ghost lunged, no doubt hoping to catch him off guard while he talked. Haern was better than that, though still his heart leaped in his chest. How could the man be so huge and yet so fast? With little ground behind him, he refused to retreat. His sabers met the swords, and they rang with deafening volume. Haern’s tired arms jolted with pain.
“Need?” Ghost asked, and his voice washed over Haern like a physical wave. With every word he struck again, hammering away at Haern as if Haern were a door barring his way. “This city needs its eyes opened. It needs its cowardly heart ripped from its chest and held up to the light. What it does not need is some damn fool vigilante.”
So fast were his movements, and so strong, Haern could only twist and parry without hope of retaliation. The few times he blocked, he felt the impact travel all the way up his arm. Even at the peak of his skill he might have struggled to win. Now, after a full night without rest, his nerves frayed, his energy spent, he had only one last desperate gasp to hold on to, fueled by the corpse of Senke slumped beside the door.
“No,” he whispered, a denial of everything before him. Of failing so close to his goal. Of letting Senke’s murderer go unpunished. Of succumbing to the anger in those brown eyes surrounded by paint and blood. Of dying.
“No.”
At the end of the room was a single large window, and Haern turned toward it, running with a speed Ghost could not hope to match. He crossed his arms, ducked his head, and leaped through. Glass shattered, and he felt its edges cut into his flesh. It didn’t matter. Hitting the ground, he rolled, then dug his heels into the earth. He glared back at the window, suppressed anger bursting free with a fire he felt sear his veins. Not caring about the blood, not caring about the jagged edges still lodged in his arms and forehead, he took two steps and leaped back through.
He caught Ghost pulling up before the broken glass, and his sabers slashed an X across his muscular chest. Their bodies collided. Haern’s knee rammed into Ghost’s groin. His forehead slammed the man’s neck. The glass lodged in his head tore skin, blood ran freely, but several shards ripped into Ghost’s throat. Despite Haern’s momentum and surprise, Ghost refused to go down. He held his ground, matching Haern fury for fury. With no room to cut or thrust, he punched Haern in the chest with a hilt, then caught his chin with a roundhouse. Feeling a tooth fly loose, Haern dropped to his knees and rolled forward. His sabers slashed out, cutting the tender flesh above Ghost’s heels. The giant man’s shriek rewarded his efforts.
But Haern wasn’t done. Tears filled his eyes, born of pain both physical and from the torment of Senke’s corpse refusing to fade from his sight. He kicked back into Ghost then stabbed his sabers. Warm blood poured across his hands. Steel pierced flesh again and again. Ghost crumpled to his knees, then fell upon a gore-filled smear atop the bare floor. Haern hovered over him, one eye swollen shut, the cut on his chest reopened, his face rivulets of blood from shards of glass, his clothes equally soaked. And then he screamed, the saddened, burdened, victorious monster.
Slowly the sane part of him returned. He thought to carry Senke’s body, to make sure they could bury him properly, but he knew he lacked the energy. Limping over, he knelt and kissed the man’s forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Thinking of a distant memory, he reached underneath Senke’s bloody shirt and retrieved a pendant—that of the Golden Mountain.
“I hope you’re with him now, Senke,” Haern said, slipping the pendant around his own neck. “Think well on me. Might not be long before I need you to plead my case to enter within.”
Beside him Ghost let out a moan, somehow alive despite his many wounds. Blood dripped from his lips as he pushed his head up. Haern slowly stood, and he pointed a blade toward the man’s neck. He felt his rage ebbing, leaving behind something hollow deep within his chest.
“Do you want mercy?” Haern asked him.
“Not…” Ghost coughed, the sound wet and certainly fatal. “Not from you.”
Haern sheathed his sabers, went to the broken window. Ghost’s head settled back on the bloodied floor, and he let out a long, shuddering breath.
“Suffer as you wish,” Haern said before stepping out. “But it’s your choice.”
He stayed close to the house, wary of any more traps. At the front he followed the path. The gateway was empty, and dimly he wondered where Tarlak had gone off to. He stood there dumbly, looking, and then saw him two blocks down the street, his yellow robes rather hard to miss. As he approached, he saw that Tarlak was slumped against a building.
“Had to get away,” the wizard said, sounding drowsy. “Just in case he … just in case he came back.”
All across the front of his robes was an ominous circle of blood.
“How bad?” Haern asked, kneeling beside him so he could check the wound.
“Not bad,” Tarlak said, his eyelids drooping. “Better than you, from what I see. Where’s Senke?”
The name nearly made Haern choke. Every last bit of his self-control kept him speaking, kept him moving.
“He won’t be coming back,” he said.
Tarlak heard this, started to ask something else, then remained quiet. Tears fell from his eyes.
“He’ll be with Ashhur now,” he whispered.
“Come on,” Haern said, putting an arm around him to help support his weight. “We’ll be joining him if we don’t hurry. I think there’s about to be a lot of angry people on the street.”
“I think I agree.”
They limped down the street, and whether through luck or the grace of Ashhur, they made it to the Crimson and Delysia’s healing hands without any further trouble.
CHAPTER 32
Come the morning, Alyssa awoke feeling like her temples were ready to explode. The dim light hurt her eyes, and she covered them with an arm.
“Milady?” she heard someone say.
“What is it?” she asked. “Can it not wait?”
“Forgive me, milady. My name is Cecil Glenhollow, and I come with a message from Lord John Gandrem of Felwood.”
Alyssa removed her arm and glared. The knight stood over her, looking a mixture of awkwardness and impatience. She wondered what fool of her guard had let the man come to her, especially with her so indecent. She pulled her blankets tight about her and sat up.
“Whatever business you have, it can wait,” she said. “Have my servants prepare you some food, and my guards will—”
“My lady,” said Cecil, “it is about your son.”
Her mouth dropped open, and then she saw the parchment in the knight’s hand. She took it from him and unrolled it. Her
eyes scanned, not reading, only looking for the one sentence that meant everything. She missed it the first time, but there it was, just the second line of the entire thing.
I believe you will be pleased to know that, contrary to what you have been told, your son Nathaniel is in my company, and alive and well.
Alive…
She flung her arms around the knight and hugged him as tears wetted her face.
“Thank you,” she whispered. The knight stood shocked-still, as if unsure what he might or might not do to avoid insult. Pulling back, she kissed the man’s scruffy cheek, then rushed for her bedroom, not caring that she wore only loose bed robes.
“You’ll take me to him?” she asked even as she exited the room.
“But, yes … of course,” said Cecil, having to hurry to keep up.
Alyssa couldn’t believe how giddy she felt. The Watcher had not lied. Nathaniel was alive, and now she could go to him, could hold him, could keep him close for the rest of his life as he grew into the man to lead her fortune.
Nathaniel was alive. No matter how many times she told it to herself, it never lost its impact. Nathaniel was alive, alive, praise the gods, alive!
When she arrived at her room, Cecil respectfully remained outside. Hurrying about, Alyssa opened a closet and ran outfit combinations through her head. Someone else knocked on the door, and she told whoever it was to enter without a thought. In stepped a younger man, a distant cousin of hers named Terrance. His features were soft, his reddish-blond hair carefully trimmed. He walked into her room trying to put on a somber face, but he was clearly giddy with news. When he saw the joy on her face, his own lit up. He must have thought she’d be grieving Arthur’s loss, she realized. Foolish man.
“Forgive me for the intrusion,” Terrance said. “When I heard about Bertram’s … betrayal, I went through his things. I’m learning my father’s trade, you see, and he works with accounts and…”
“Hurry it up,” Alyssa said, yanking off her robes and pulling a loose dress over her head. The man flushed a deep red, and he stammered a bit, but he continued.
“Anyway, rumors have it that you wouldn’t be able to pay the mercenaries, or to help with repairs. Bertram told my father that, anyway, and several of the servants.” He saw the look she gave and so he skipped to the point. “Thing is, Bertram was lying. I found his ledger for the mercenaries’ payments, and it only comes to a third of your current wealth. Expensive, to be sure, but not near what he…”
She kissed the man, laughed, and then tied a sash about her waist before flinging open another closet and searching for a thick-enough coat for the ride north.
“I need a replacement for Bertram,” she said. “And I have no time to search for one, so you’ll have to do, Terrance.”
His jaw nearly hit the floor.
“Me? But I’m still an apprentice, and my father says I can’t own my own store until I reach my twentieth year. To try and manage all this …?”
“Well, you start today.”
“But why? Where are you going?”
Alyssa laughed again.
“I’m going to get my son.”
Matthew Pensfield felt the first twinges of consciousness pulling at him, and he resisted. Dull aches felt like the only welcome awaiting him. His gradual awareness thawed from whatever cold sleep it’d fallen into, and he remembered fighting, protecting the boy, Tristan. Or was it Nathaniel? And how was he alive? He was alive, right?
His eyes fluttered open, and there in front of him sat the boy with two names, his head in his hands as he stared at the floor.
“Tristan?” Matthew asked, his voice coming out like a strained croak. The boy startled, but his surprise didn’t last long. A smile spread across his young face, and it lit up his eyes.
“You’re awake!” he said.
“I reckon so.”
Tristan hugged him, eliciting a cough. It felt like half his body was full of fluid, the other half aches. He tried rolling over in bed, was denied by a terrible spike of pain from his shoulder. He glanced at it and saw an impressive amount of stitchwork in his flesh. A bruise spread from the wound all the way across his chest. Cut, that was right, he’d been cut down through the collarbone by that bastard at the castle gate.
“What happened to him?” he asked.
“Who?”
Matthew grunted. “Never mind. You’re alive, and so am I, so it must have worked out fine.”
“Lord Gandrem’s said you should be treated as a hero.”
“That so?”
Tristan bobbed his head up and down. Matthew chuckled.
“If this is how heroes feel, count me out. The plow fits me better than the sword.” He frowned. Tristan kept looking to the door, and his smile never seemed to last long.
“Something the matter, Tristan? Well, guess I should call you by your real name, shouldn’t I? Not much point in hiding who you are now.”
The boy obviously looked embarrassed, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond.
“You can call me Tristan still, if you want, sir.”
“I guess I’ll let the habit linger, least until I can get out of this damn bed. What is the matter? You look like you’re expecting the executioner.”
Something about the way Tristan’s face paled made him wonder what he’d said wrong.
“It’s nothing,” Tristan said. “I just, it’s … nothing. I’m glad you’re awake. Really glad.”
Matthew’s head felt groggy and stuffed with cotton, but he pushed through to see his surroundings better and to make sense of them. He was in a small room with stone walls, a single red carpet, and a large bed with sheets stained with what must have been his blood. Tristan wore fine clothing, far beyond anything Matthew could have afforded at his farmhouse (before that Haern guy dumped a pile of gold in their hands, anyway). It didn’t look like everyday attire, but then again he was hardly knowledgeable about the ways of courts and castles.
“They treating you well?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Tristan.
“Something bothering you?”
He looked once more to the door.
“Is it … is it all right if we just talk for a while?”
Matthew smiled. “Sure, son. You care about what?”
When he shook his head, Matthew began discussing his plans for the farm. He prattled on about cattle, where he bought his pigs, and how if Nathaniel ever should get into the business in the north, to never ever buy from the Utters in the middle of winter unless he wanted to bend over and let them have their way with him. Tristan remained silent, but it seemed as if the tension drained out of him, until at last his eyes sparkled and he laughed at what few lame stories Matthew had to tell.
Every bit of that tension returned, though, when John Gandrem stepped into the room.
“Milord,” Matthew said, tilting his head to show his respect. Getting up and bowing was obviously out of the question.
“I’m pleased to see you well,” the lord said, though his voice hardly carried much pleasure. “You’ll be rewarded handsomely for protecting young Nathaniel here. Once I found someone who recognized you, I sent a rider to inform your loved ones of your stay in my care.”
“Thank you, milord,” said Matthew. “My wife will much appreciate knowing.”
“Rest, Matthew, and when you’re better, we can discuss giving you and your family appropriate compensation. For now, I must borrow Nathaniel. We have matters to attend to.”
“I’ll talk to you tonight,” Matthew told Nathaniel. “Right now, I feel like eating a little, and then sleeping for a while, so don’t worry about me.”
They left, and servants arrived immediately after, carrying bowls of soup, and bread, and changes of clothing. While they buzzed about, Matthew thought of Nathaniel, and offered a prayer for whatever trial seemed to await him.
Nathaniel followed after Lord Gandrem, feeling like an obedient dog. The thought was unfair, for he had been treated absurdly well. But already he heard the mu
rmuring of the crowd as they climbed the stairs toward the front wall of the castle. The sunlight was glaring when they emerged, and the crowd of hundreds below cheered at their arrival. Four guards flanked them upon the ramparts. Directly ahead, atop a retractable plank of wood hanging over the wall and with a long rope tied about his neck, was the man named Oric.
Lord Gandrem waved his greetings to the crowd gathered to watch the execution.
“This man was a coward and a traitor,” he cried out to them. “He dared lie to the lord of the lands, to mock the honor of Felwood! My allies he struck against. This fiend, this foul murderer, even sought to coat his blade with the blood of children. What fate does he deserve?”
Those gathered below howled for his hanging. Nathaniel heard their cries and shivered. Lord Gandrem turned to him and beckoned him forth. His feet feeling made of lead, he approached. Oric’s face was covered with a black cloth, and his hands were tied behind him, but still he appeared dangerous.
“He’s bound and gagged,” John said, seeing his hesitation. “And even if he weren’t, you should not show fear. The eyes of the people are upon you, and more than anything, they want certainty from those who rule their lives.”
Nathaniel nodded.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
The older man guided him to where a lever waited, connected to various gears and wheels that would drop the platform Oric stood upon. It was as tall as him, and when he put his hand upon it, he worried he might be too weak to move it.
“This way,” said a nearby knight, gesturing the direction for him to push. Hurling his weight upon it, Nathaniel felt the lever budge, then lurch forward. The crowd gasped, and before he could look away, Lord Gandrem took hold of his shoulder and forced him to watch. Oric fell, the rope snapped taut, but as he swung, his feet still kicked. A sickening groan floated up to them, barely audible over the cheer of the crowd.
“Bastard’s neck didn’t break,” said one of the knights, leaning forward so he could see him.
“Just following orders,” said the man beside him. “John wanted to send a message.”
A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2) Page 34
