by K. C. May
Brodas pinched his lips together. The weasel had him. “All right. Give me the sword -- and promise to do one more favor for me -- and I’ll give you the token.”
“We will make a simultaneous exchange.”
Brodas sighed. “I’ll be just a moment.” He hurried to the kitchen, opened the freezing box, and dug through paper-wrapped meats and vegetables until he found the container in which he’d stashed Tyr’s figurine.
Rust dotted the metal box. Layers of frost crusted its surface. He sent a wave of heat through his hands, causing the frost to melt and its water to drip through his fingers. With a rag, he wiped first the box, then his hands, and returned to the sitting room.
Tyr’s face glowed with anticipation as he rose from his chair and came forward. Brodas set the box on a table and lifted the lid. Tyr reached for it, but Brodas shut the lid quickly and pulled the box away.
“The sword?” he asked.
Tyr thrust the weapon into Brodas’s hands, not taking his eyes from the box. With a delicate touch, the Nilmarion opened the lid, reached in and lifted the cloth bundle, then carefully unwound the wrapping.
Brodas hadn’t looked at the figurine since he’d tucked it away. Once again, he was appalled at the hideousness of the thing, more despicable than he’d remembered.
The cat-shaped statuette was a dull grayish-green color, shiny with glaze, posed in a sitting position, its porcelain tail curled like a whore’s tongue around its body. Its eyes were not the slitted golden, green or blue of a true cat, but round and black. Looking into them sent a shiver down Brodas’s spine. The unnatural color did not disgust him as much as the sense that they were alive.
Tyr whispered and cooed in a stream of unintelligible words, perhaps a prayer in some heathen tongue. Brodas studied him, wondering why the figurine would be so important to him. Not only was it ugly, but it repulsed Brodas to his core unlike even the vilest, most gruesome beyonder ever had. Then he realized what was wrong with it; its eyes had what Tyr’s lacked. At last, Brodas understood the reason for the dead look in Tyr’s eyes and his refusal to return to his homeland without his token: the hideous cat figurine housed Sithral Tyr’s soul. The realization initially stunned him, but when he considered it further, he found it no longer surprised him. The Nilmarion had no sense of morality.
“Now, about that final task,” Brodas said. “There’s an orphan boy living among the rats in my cellar. I need him to quietly disappear.”
“You want him dead?” Tyr asked.
“Heavens no. He’s just a child. He could be useful to someone someday. Your slave-trader friends to the west would undoubtedly find much value in a fair-skinned, fair-haired boy. If you were to sell him, it could be quite profitable for us both.”
Tyr considered this for a moment, then said, “The risk to me is great. The ’ranter Calinor is still on my heels. He nearly caught me last time.”
“I would be willing to give you the larger share of the profit, say, sixty percent?”
“Might I remind you that the risk is fully mine,” Tyr said. “Sixty percent does not make up for that. The share of payment should reflect the share of risk.”
Brodas sighed. While he held the reins, Tyr’s game could be entertaining, but now he found the bartering tiresome. “Keep the entire profit for yourself, then. Just get the boy out of here.”
“I’ll do it,” Toren volunteered. “That way, Lord Tyr can return home without delay. Calinor wouldn’t suspect me of the deed; he thinks I’m a true warrant knight.”
“Perfect,” Brodas said, raising his glass to Toren.
From the back of the manor came a dull thud followed by a clatter.
Warrick shot to his feet. “What was that?” He bolted from the room.
Chapter 39
Risan landed on the roof awkwardly. He flailed his arms to gain his balance. His right foot, lower on the slope of the roof, hit on an angle. He fell down the pitch and over the edge. He landed on a pile of firewood stacked against the wall, scraping his skin and embedding what felt like dozens of splinters into it. The wooden logs rolled out from under him and brought him tumbling to the ground.
Dazed but still aware of where he was, he staggered to his feet. His ankle was on fire. He took a step and stumbled as the pain shot up his leg. Blast it. The pain he could suffer until he got to safety, but the ankle wouldn’t bear his weight. He limped as well as he could, hopping every other step, toward the gate. The closer he got to freedom, the more intense the burn in his ankle. He fell to his knees. All right, then, he would crawl.
“Hey! Stop!”
Risan hauled himself to his feet once again, desperate to make it beyond the gate. Footsteps pounded the grass behind him. He dragged his right foot and hopped on his left leg. It tired quickly. His muscles began to burn. He had to reach the gate, the first barrier to his freedom.
An arm grabbed him around the chest from behind. “No you don’t.”
Risan drew the fork from his pocket and sunk it into the man’s flesh as hard as he could. He felt it stop when it hit bone.
The man screamed, reaching for the fork.
Risan turned and jammed a thumb into his captor’s eye. There. A sword on his hip. Risan grabbed the hilt and drew.
The black-haired man jumped back, one eye bloody but still intact; the other, brilliant blue, glowed. Blood soaked his right sleeve. “Put the weapon down,” he warned from behind a thick mustache. “No one wants to hurt you.”
“Then let me be on my way,” Risan said, hopping backward toward the gate. “You turn around and go into house, and I will cause you no more pain.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You forget who is holding sword,” Risan said.
“Warrick, get back,” someone shouted.
The man backed away, then turned and ran. Risan looked up at the house. Another man with the same jet-black hair stood on the step holding a sword. Holding Aldras Gar.
Risan started to turn, intending – hoping – to get beyond the brick wall.
A light flashed. A line split the air and widened, revealing the most intense blackness Risan had ever seen. A clawed hand reached into the real world from... beyond.
He can summon beyonders. Risan staggered backward away from the emerging monster. An arm, a leg, a fiend’s bulbous gray head, and the smell of sulfur burst forth. The thing stood upright like a man, its skin gray with a film of white mucus sliding down its length. Where the clumps of mucus dripped onto the ground, ice crystals formed and spread. Wisps of frosty steam floated outward and disappeared into the air.
Gripping the sword two-handed, Risan plunged it into the creature’s belly. It screamed and flailed. White mucus splattered onto Risan’s hands, so cold that it burned like cinders from a fire. The splatters turned to frost and spread, growing like vines across his hands, racing up his arms to his shoulders. He could no longer feel his hands or wrists. The sword fell to the ground. His shirt stiffened with cold. Risan tried to run toward the house to escape the creature. His foot slipped. He stumbled, went down to his knees. The numbing cold spread across his torso. It squeezed his chest and slowed his heart. He could barely breathe. Just when it started to creep up his neck, a luscious, thick warmth washed over him. He fell blissfully into darkness.
Chapter 40
Brawna spent the night in a cold, windowless room beneath the main building of the Sisterhood complex. Exploring the confines of the room blindly, she was unable to find an escape. Without a bed, she dozed sitting upright in a corner. Her aching buttocks and stiff neck were far from her biggest concerns.
It made no sense that Lilalian would twist the story and make Brawna the culprit. The same thing had happened to Daia. Lilalian had always been fair-minded before, a risk-taker, certainly, but never so vicious or unreasonable. What had changed? Who was this Ravenkind man they planned to take her to? If Aminda had still been alive, none of this would have happened. Had Ravenkind played a part in her death?
Brawna wrapp
ed her arms around her ankles, laying her head against her knees. Domach. If she could just get word to her brother, perhaps he could save her.
A dim light glowed under the door, brightening with each passing second. A key rattled in the lock. The click of the tumbler sounded like the stroke of an executioner’s blade. When the door opened, Cirang stepped in followed by a girl wearing a yellow sash and holding a lamp. The light casting shadows from below made their faces look positively wicked.
Brawna climbed wearily to her feet.
“You’ve got a busy day ahead of you,” Cirang said with a crooked smile. “You’ll be meeting Seer Ravenkind. He’s not going to like you very much when we tell him you let the rune solver get away. The best thing you can do for yourself, Brawna, is to describe everything you saw: every pimple, every freckle, every hair on the man’s face.”
Behind her, the girl nodded. The kind of girl content to lip-shine the boots of those in power to win favors her low rank would otherwise have denied her.
Seer Ravenkind? A cleric wouldn’t command an attack on the rune solver, but perhaps a wizard would. A wizard who wanted to steal the throne for himself. “What sort of foul magic is he using on you?” Brawna asked.
“It’s called loyalty, Brawna - a concept you and your friend, Daia, don’t seem to understand. Seer Ravenkind will be our new king, and those of us who are loyal to him will reap the rewards. The rest of you’ll pay for your treason with your lives.”
Yellow-sash nodded again.
“Like Aminda?” Brawna shot. “Is she dead because she refused to help him steal the throne from the rightful king?”
“Aminda’s death was a tragic accident, but we’re better off without her. She lacked the forward-thinking vision that will position us to receive the power we’ve worked so hard to earn.”
“Take off the necklace,” Brawna said, a challenge in her tone.
Cirang’s eyes darkened. “This gift from our lord is no mere necklace. It protects us from harm. He’s making such amulets for all our battlers. You, however, are unworthy.”
That must be how he controlled them. “I’m better off,” Brawna said. “I’d rather die free than live as an unwitting slave to a murderer. Or should I say, ’witless?’”
Cirang slapped Brawna’s face. “Shackle her.” She held the lamp while the girl put iron shackles on Brawna’s wrists, then shoved Brawna out of the room and down the corridor. Brawna’s feet dragged as she shuffled up the stairs to meet her death.
Outside, the sunlight stabbed her eyes. She squinted as Cirang jerked her through the compound by her bound wrists. A couple dozen sneering women gathered around while Cirang led her to a waiting horse.
“Is that Brawna the Blade?” someone asked.
“Get a good look, ladies,” Cirang called to her gathering audience. “This is the face of a traitor.”
Some of the women shouted and shook their fists or sliced the air with their knives. One girl spat on Brawna as she walked past, inciting others to join her. Clumps of mucus slapped Brawna’s face, hair and clothes, and trickled down her arms as she walked. Brawna felt like a dog being kicked by its master. Never had she thought that her fellow Sisters would treat another human being this way. As humiliating as it was, Brawna found the courage to raise her head and meet the gazes of her tormentors, burning into her memory their faces in the event she somehow found her way clear of this mess.
“We should call her Brawna the Dismayed,” someone shouted.
The women laughed.
“Brawna the Afraid,” another said.
“Brawna the Dumb Maid.”
“Brawna the Bloody Traitor Bitch Who Let a Sister’s Murderer Go Free.”
That started a chorus of enthusiastic agreement and a renewed rain of spittle.
Not everyone joined in. Some of them stood back and watched silently, shifting on their feet, biting their lips or crossing their arms. As Brawna looked around at her former friends, she noticed that the women who shouted and spat at her wore necklaces, and the quiet ones did not. Except for Lilalian.
The guild mistress stood silently, watching with a haggard face. Her blonde hair hung limply, uncombed and unwashed. Stress lined her face. Her eyes looked sunken and dark. Her fingers twitched, and from time to time, the muscles spasmed in her face, jerking it into the twisted visage of a madwoman. “That’s enough,” Lilalian called out. “Just get on with it.”
Brawna climbed up onto the waiting horse. Cirang mounted another and led Brawna’s horse from the compound and through the streets of Sohan.
Brawna was on her way to die at age seventeen. She’d never wanted children, nor had she been much interested in finding a husband, but she thought she might have liked to experience a man’s kiss one day, perhaps lie with someone she cared for. She certainly would have preferred to die knowing she’d helped people or made a difference in someone’s life. Being someone’s heroine or an evil man’s nemesis hadn’t been too much to hope for. Had it? She would never know the thrill of defending a child against a beyonder or a woman against a rapist, or even receiving her black sash. She’d never see awe or admiration in the eyes of the young girls who looked upon her. Instead, she would be tortured for information about the king and then killed slowly, her body discarded unceremoniously with the trash.
Brawna barely heard Cirang’s taunting, nor did she pay attention to where Cirang took her. The next thing she knew, they had stopped in front of a large white manor, and Cirang was yelling at her to dismount. Cirang led her by the arm to the door. Brawna paused to catch her last glimpse of the sky. She marveled at its vastness as though seeing it for the first time. She began to tremble. She didn’t want to die yet. Not without saying goodbye to Domach.
An elderly man in a crisp white tunic and black trousers showed the two women through the great hall to the sitting room, brightly lit by several windows, and warmed with finely crafted furniture. Surely, Brawna wouldn’t be slain in such a lovely home. Her blood wouldn’t match the green and gold décor. A shrill giggle bubbled up from her throat before she could stop it. Get control of yourself, Brawna.
The steward cast a glance at her as he announced them to the men gathered in the sitting room. His detached demeanor belied the warmth in his blue eyes.
As the two women entered, the host greeted Cirang: a striking raven-haired man with big teeth and intense blue eyes. A second man, taller and with hair equally as black, stood beside him, his sensuous mouth framed by a thick mustache. He wore a patch over his left eye.
A Nilmarion man, decorated with tattoos in the customary fashion of his countrymen, sat in a high-backed upholstered chair caressing a wine glass. That must have been the Nilmarion the king had asked about. A blond battler stood beside him, hands clasped in front of him. He wore a thin beard along his jaw and a passive yet watchful expression on his face.
“Seer Ravenkind, I bring distressing news,” Cirang said. “As you asked, we’ve kept a constant vigil at the Rune Cave, waiting for the rune solver.”
“Oh, that’s no longer necessary. Mr. Tyr has brought me the rune solver,” Seer Ravenkind said, gesturing to the Nilmarion.
Brawna’s eyes flew wide. This Nilmarion had captured the man who killed Enamaria?
Cirang stuttered. “Ah... Is that so? Our young Sister here tells us he solved another rune just yesterday, then murdered one of our battlers. How did you manage to apprehend him so quickly?”
Tyr lowered his head and rubbed his brow.
Ravenkind grew red in the face and turned his blazing blue eyes to Tyr. “So then who did you bring me? A blacksmith? A simple Farthan blacksmith?”
Brawna blinked. The king had asked about a Farthan blacksmith. She felt a thrill race through her and had to suppress the urge to bounce in her excitement. The king knew about the Farthan and Nilmarion. Did he know about this man with the blue eyes or the one with the mustache and eye patch? Surely he would he come here looking for them – that must have been why he and Daia were going to So
han. Once they came here, she would be saved.
The Nilmarion stood and clasped his hands together. “The blacksmith knows the identity of the true rune solver. He made the sword after all.”
Everyone fell quiet for a long moment. Ravenkind’s face softened and he began to chuckle. Eyepatch laughed too, and the Nilmarion joined them. But Ravenkind’s humor disappeared when he turned his eyes once again to Brawna.
“Brawna knows who he is too,” Cirang told Ravenkind. “She let him get away after he murdered her companion.” Cirang slapped the back of Brawna’s head.
“Brawna,” Ravenkind breathed. “Where have I heard that name before? What’s your full name?”
“Brawna Beliril,” Cirang volunteered.
Ravenkind’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Eyepatch. “Warrick, did you hear that? We have Domach’s sister here.”
“I’m sure Demonshredder will do whatever he can to save her life,” Warrick replied.
“You leave him out of this,” Brawna yelled.
Ravenkind back-handed her across the face. “Never shout at me.” He turned to Warrick. “Bring me the sword, will you?”
Brawna felt her knees weaken. He was going to kill her where she stood. She considered running, but Cirang took her by the arm. With three battlers in the room, she wouldn’t get far.
Warrick crossed the room and picked up a sword. As he brought it nearer, it simultaneously drew and repulsed Brawna. It was the instrument that would be her undoing, but it was a weapon unlike any other with its snakeskin-blade and snakeheads on the hilt bearing gems.
Ravenkind took the sword and held it to Brawna’s chest, the hilt just under her chin and the tip of the blade against her shin. She tried to step back, but Warrick stood behind her and gripped her arms. He held her close. On another day, under other circumstances, she might have liked the feel of his warm body pressed against her. She giggled shrilly. She was about to die, and there she stood thinking about her killer’s manly physique.
