by K. C. May
The Nilmarion squeezed out, closing the door quickly behind him. As before, he wore black head to toe, but now a pair of scabbards hung at his hip. He held his hands up. “What have I done?” he asked, his empty eyes wide with mock innocence, his accent lyrical, charming.
“Where’s Risan Stronghammer?”
“Who? I’m sorry, I don’t know that name. I recognize you, though. You’re the young lady I sat next to at the Lucky Inn a week or so ago. If I remember correctly, you... oh. Yes, I remember now where I heard that name. The tale about a Farthan blacksmith solving the King’s Runes. Don’t tell me you believed that ludicrous tale.” He laughed.
Daia climbed down from her horse and drew her sword. “Where is he?”
Tyr gestured to the empty coach. “As you can see, he’s not here. You’ve made a mistake.”
She’d heard someone call her name. “Who’s in there?”
“No one’s in there,” Tyr said. “Now, if all your questions are asked and answered, I’d like to be on my way.”
“Open the door. Let me ascertain that all’s well, and I’ll let you proceed.”
“Be my guest,” Tyr said, gesturing toward the door. He stepped away from the coach and held his palms up.
When Daia reached for the door handle, she heard a ring. From the corner of her eye, the flash of steel glinted in the sunlight. She turned, angling her blade toward him. He held in his hands not one sword but two.
Toren drew his short sword and stepped into a defensive stance. While Gavin’s blade was longer, it was also heavier. Against an equally matched opponent, he would tire sooner. Gavin lowered his sword to his favored mid-guard position and flexed his gloved hand around the grip.
“You’re making a mistake, Kinshield. You’ll lose your warrant for this.”
“Killing you’ll be worth it.” He beckoned with his right hand for Toren to come.
Toren jabbed lightly with his sword, like a poke with his finger against Gavin’s chest an insult to provoke an attack. Gavin flicked the tip of his sword, deflecting Toren’s blade to the outside. His ears rang with the shriek of steel kissing steel. Toren parried hard, yanking Gavin up close. Toren’s breath smelled like a fly-swarming slop bucket. Gavin threw a right hooking blow to Toren’s jaw. Two battlers pushed back to sword distance.
“Damn, Meobryn. Ever hear of a teethbrush?” Gavin asked.
Toren swung, his blade aimed at Gavin’s throat. Silver flashed and clanged and screeched as their blades met and swept against each other. Toren was stronger than Gavin had given him credit for. This fight wouldn’t end quickly. Gavin blocked Toren’s overhead swing with a hanging guard. He swept the blade around his head for a strong slice to Toren’s face. Their blades clashed, shrieked, clashed again. The battlers’ labored breathing grew louder. Gavin’s muscles began to burn. Toren swung a downward blow at Gavin’s chest. Gavin parried it aside and swung at Toren’s arms. Toren parried, then lunged at Gavin’s chest. Gavin blocked, thrust at Toren’s face. Both men grew sluggish, their breathing ragged. As they danced and swung, parried, jabbed, their free fists and feet struck out, along with a hissed breath, a grunt, a snarl of anger.
Toren stepped back and held up a hand. “We have time... to kill each other... No hurry... Let’s pause... for a minute.”
Gavin made no move to lower his blade.
“Kinshield,” Toren huffed, “allow me... one honorable trait. I am no coward.”
Gavin tipped his blade back to rest on his shoulder. He wouldn’t have asked for a respite, but he was glad to have one. Toren bent over, propping his left hand against his thigh, and looked past Gavin.
Steel rang against steel behind Gavin from the left. Daia and Tyr. The weapons clanged again and again, the tempo furious. Damn, how could she keep up that pace?
Toren’s eyes went wide and he grimaced as though in sympathy. Gavin turned to look, unable to resist.
Tyr slashed at Daia with two blades. She was so busy parrying his attacks, she couldn’t offer an offensive strike of her own, but her speed and skill were impressive. Gavin heard her grunts of exertion and knew she was tiring. He had to hurry and get to her.
“Awright, Meobryn, let’s--” He turned in time to see Toren’s foot swing up. Dirt and sand flew into Gavin’s face. His eyes blazed. He shut them and backpedaled away, moving his blade to guard. Through his closed lids, he sensed Toren’s haze closing the distance. “Cowardly cur.” He couldn’t sense the blade in Toren’s hand, nor the hand that held it, just an egg-shaped mist. Gavin pivoted on his heel, holding his sword in front of him, as blind to the fight as though he could see no haze at all. The cloud before him flashed and he jerked back. Toren’s blade whistled past his chin. He thrust his sword at the haze, felt it parried to the side.
And then a violent agony seared his chest.
Chapter 44
Daia whipped around in time to parry the sword-edge that whistled toward her. In his right hand, Tyr held a scimitar, and in his left a short sword.
Daia backpedaled as Tyr chased her, his swords glinting as they sliced at her. She parried like she’d never done before. The Nilmarion, lithe and quick, centered his eyes on her chest as he came after her. His dual swords whistled as they sliced the air. At first, Daia thought she was out-matched by his two blades, but she quickly noticed a pattern. His strikes were slicing, never thrusts, and evenly spaced. He swung the short sword more as a shield than a weapon, giving him time to whip the scimitar back again. She might take a cut, but she could get in with one strong thrust and be done.
She counted his strikes, learned his pattern. With every slice, she was better able to predict where the next would strike. Her blade blocked it, her rhythm matching his. But she began to tire and Tyr showed no sign of slowing his pace.
Someone cried out. Gavin’s voice. With a glance, Daia saw him take Toren’s sword in the chest. GAVIN!
Suddenly nothing mattered but getting to him. She timed Tyr’s strikes. As he pulled back with the scimitar, she started to lunge with a thrust to the heart. That’s what he’s waiting for. She dropped to a crouch instead. As though anticipating the lunge, Tyr pivoted to his right. Her sword would have sailed by him, exposing her back as she stumbled past. But she was not where she should be. She spun toward him on her haunches. With all her strength behind it, Daia drove her sword upward. The blade lagged as it cut into his side and slid up under his ribcage. Without waiting for him to die, she yanked her sword free and turned, looking for Gavin.
The blade scorched Gavin’s insides like it was being forged in his chest. He crumbled to one knee. The sword ravaged him once again as it slid out. Gavin coughed a spray of blood, tasting its bitter tang. He stuck his right hand between the fasteners of his cuirass and pressed against the wound, hot and wet. He pushed back to his feet and staggered. The sword fell from his hand and landed with a whisper in the weeds by his side. The ground rose up and hit his knees. Black spots whirled before his closed lids.
“Sorry it had to end this way, Kinshield,” Toren said. “The King’s Blood-stone will probably stay in the tablet for another couple hundred years, but it wasn’t going to be you anyway. The throne belongs to someone... else.” He laughed. “Anyone else would suit me fine. Anyone but an ignorant peasant.”
Gavin hung his head, gritting his teeth against the burning in his chest. He took in shallow breaths. “Stupid... bastard,” he hissed through clenched teeth. Toren was a fool for standing there taunting his opponent rather than finishing the fight. The burning began to lessen. Gavin bent down and groped for his sword.
“You’re a stubborn clodpate, aren’t you?” Toren asked. “Don’t make me—”
Daia growled. Gavin heard quick footsteps in the grass, a grunt of effort, a soft clink of metal on metal. He had to see. Gavin forced his eyes open. His eyes watered, the grit burned. He blinked rapidly. When his vision cleared he saw Daia standing nose to nose with Toren, looking up into his eyes, her face contorted in a grimace.
No! Dai
a!
She jerked once. And then Toren slumped to the ground, the hilt of a sword flush against his mailed chest.
Chapter 45
Brodas waited while Warrick unlocked the bedroom door. “Watch it,” he said. “We don’t want a repeat of the courtyard incident.”
“Trust me, Brodas,” Warrick said dryly, pointing at his bruised and bloodshot eye. “I’m on my guard.”
“Why don’t you let me heal it?” Brodas asked. “You don’t need to prove your toughness.”
Warrick snorted. “The pain reminds me to be more careful.”
Brodas shrugged and followed Warrick into the room, now dark except for a few slivers of light that gleamed through the cracks between the boards covering the window.
“Good morning, Risan. I trust you slept well,” Brodas said.
Risan sat up on the bed and swung his legs over the side.
“I’m Brodas Ravenkind. I apologize for having to be rough with you. We mean you no harm. In fact, I healed your broken ankle as a gesture of good will. Warrick and I simply want a little information, and then we will send you on your way back home to your lovely wife. Arlet, is it?”
Risan said nothing, nor did he struggle against the iron shackles that bound his wrists.
“I must say, this sword…” Brodas turned it over in his hands. “…is an exquisite piece of workmanship. I commend you on the design. I suppose these symbols etched into the blade here are for luck? Courage? Something to that effect?”
Risan said nothing, but gave Brodas a fierce glare.
“Interesting,” Brodas continued. “But what interests me more are these gems. What depth. The only gems like these I’ve ever seen were in a cave not far from here.”
Risan continued to glare, his mouth pinched tightly shut.
“Who did you make the sword for, Risan? I know you’re not the rune solver, but this leads me to believe you know who is. Tell me his name and you’ll be free to leave.”
The little man was obstinate. And stupid.
Brodas turned to Warrick. “Get behind him and hold him tightly.”
Warrick pulled the Farthan to his feet and locked his arms around Risan’s shoulders, holding him in place. Risan tried to pull his head back as Brodas leaned the sword against his chest. The pommel came to his chin.
“Just relax, this won’t hurt. I just want you to tell me who you made this sword for.” Brodas closed his eyes and drew from his spiritual center. When he opened his eyes, he focused on the gem in the pommel, the snake’s eye. Sola Spekken.
A sharp flash of steel pierced his mind. Brodas shrieked. He reeled, his arms flailing to catch himself. The sword clattered to the floor. He hit the wardrobe with a loud crash, and barely caught himself before he fell to the floor. “Damn that treacherous thing,” he yelled.
“By the gods,” Warrick said. “What happened?”
Brodas righted himself and tugged sharply on his tunic to straighten it. “The bloody sword attacked me.”
Risan let out a triumphant hoot. Warrick kneed him in the small of the back, and he fell to the floor, grimacing, but with a sparkle still in his eye.
Remembering Toren’s warning, Brodas narrowed his eyes at the Farthan. “The symbols are an enchantment, aren’t they? Some sort of heathen magic?”
Risan smiled broadly and stood.
“Tell me who you made it for, Risan Stronghammer. You don’t want Arlet to suffer for your obstinacy, do you?” Risan’s smile fell away and found its way to Brodas’s face. “Yes. I think you understand me now. Tell me who you made the sword for.” Risan said nothing, but the set of his jaw and the hardness in his eyes told Brodas that the blacksmith would do anything to prevent any harm from befalling his wife. “I’ll send someone to retrieve your wife. Then we’ll see how cooperative you can be.”
Risan growled and launched himself at Brodas. Warrick caught the Farthan and threw him hard against the wall. Risan crumpled to the floor. Warrick stood ready to intercept another attack. But the blacksmith did not hasten to rise.
“Not smart,” Warrick said. “I don’t mind hurting you. Call it repayment.”
Brodas snatched the sword and left. Warrick backed out of the room and locked the door behind him. Their eyes met in the hall and both men looked down at the sword. Brodas ran a hand through his hair. The weapon actually protected its maker. Brodas realized then that had he attempted to use the gems in the sword to injure the escaping blacksmith in the courtyard, the results could have been disastrous. “Have Lilalian send one of her battlers to Ambryce. Perhaps the lady Stronghammer knows who we’re looking for.”
“Even if she’s as stubborn as her husband is, he’ll talk if he’s made to watch her suffer.”
“Warrick, you snatched the words off my tongue.”
As they jogged down the stairs to the great hall, the manservant opened the front door and admitted Domach Demonshredder.
“Domach, what excellent timing you have,“ Brodas said. ”I have a task for you.” He clapped the swordsman’s shoulder. “Upstairs in the guest room is a blacksmith. He made this sword for someone, and I want to know who. Go and find out.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Warrick handed Domach the key to the room.
“Come to my library when you have the name,” Brodas said. “And be on your guard. The blacksmith is prone to violent outbursts.”
“Yes, my lord,” Domach replied as he started up the stairs.
Risan watched the battler pace for several minutes. Neither of them spoke. If Risan hadn’t already decided that anyone working for Ravenkind was, himself, evil, he might have thought the man wrestled with the task assigned him. The lack of a tag around his neck proved he was no warrant knight. Risan wondered whether such a battler, hiring his blade to whoever paid the most money, possessed a conscience.
“If you think you will get hidegild,” Risan said, “you are mistook. I have no coin.”
“Why don’t you tell him what he wants to know?” the battler asked finally. “Where’s the harm in that?”
Risan sighed. “Because I am not kind of man to betray someone I owe debt just for sparing my own handsome face.”
“Why not tell me, then? You’ve no reason to keep the name from me.”
“Aside from you will tell Ravenkind? Aside from you work for thief?”
“Listen,” the battler said in a low voice, “tell me the name and I’ll withhold the information from Seer Ravenkind until you’re well on your way.”
“You do not understand,” Risan replied. “I am not giving away my friend to your lord. And even if I do, I am not enough fool to think he will let me walk out from here and straight to Lordover Sohan to tell my tale of kidnap and theft. I am alive only as long Ravenkind does not get what he wants from me.”
“You were kidnapped?” The battler stopped pacing and looked at him with wide eyes. “It’s Gavin Kinshield, isn’t it?” he asked in a whisper.
Risan drew back. How did he know that? To lie would be too obvious. To remain silent would be an admission. “I will not say who it is to you or to Ravenkind.”
“Listen,” the battler whispered. “Kinshield and a Viragon Sister named Daia are looking for a kidnapped friend. I sent them to Sithral Tyr’s farmhouse near Calsojourn, thinking they might find him there. It’s you they’re looking for, isn’t it?”
Praise Yrys. When Gavin discovered that Risan was not at Tyr’s house, he might come back. This battler would be able to lead Gavin here – if he knew that Risan was, indeed, the friend Gavin sought. Oh, he hoped he could trust this man. Did he have any choice?
“Are you the friend they’re looking for?” the battler asked again, his voice low. “I swear I won’t tell Ravenkind. I’ll tell him you refused to talk.”
Risan nodded. “Yes. It is Gavin. You swore oath. To betray him would be most terrible of crimes against Thendylath because of he will become king.”
The battler gaped. “King? Gavin Kinshield?”
Risan
nodded. “Gems in sword Ravenkind has – they are Rune Stones. Gavin solved King’s Runes and gave me gems for putting into sword.”
The battler drew a deep breath and puffed it out, then nodded once. “You can trust me. I’m a friend of his.”
“Ah, Domach. You’re finished,” Brodas said, looking up from his book. “What’s the man’s name?”
“He wouldn’t tell me,” Domach replied.
“Let me see your hands,” Brodas said as he stood. Domach held out his hands, palms up. Brodas turned them over. The knuckles were clean and white. No blood, no bruises. “Did you kill him?” he asked with alarm.
“No, my lord. I didn’t touch him.”
“Domach, I thought I made myself clear.” Brodas maintained an even tone despite his annoyance. Demonshredder was soft. It would take some time to harden the man to a point where he might actually be worth what he was paid. “Go back up there and get the name of the man he made this sword for. Don’t come down again until you get it.”
“Are you saying you want me to hit him?”
Brodas took a deep breath, summoning the last remnants of his patience. He used the tone normally reserved for slow children. “Again and again. If he falls to the floor, kick him -- until he begs you to stop.”
Domach’s jaw dropped. “My lord, I can’t. I don’t have the stomach for such tactics.”
“Domach, Domach, Domach.” Brodas put a hand on the swordsman’s shoulder and turned him toward the door. “You assured me when you signed on that I could trust you. Don’t disappoint me.”
“No, Lord Ravenkind. I’m not the man for the job. I must resign from your employ.” He started to leave.
“I suggest that you reconsider,” Brodas said to his back, “for the sake of your sister.”
Domach stopped.
“Brawna has been a tremendous disappointment to me. She’s alive only because I’m willing to give you a chance to buy back her life.”
