by Simon Haynes
She left Spadell standing there, watching her. As she led Thonn down the narrow passageway with its worn flagstones and smoking torches, she noticed most of the cells stood open, their occupants already having faced the executioner. She realised her freedom was probably fleeting, and that when her attempt on the queen failed, as was inevitable, she would be back in these same cells facing the same fate as their late occupants. The only difference was that after she tried to kill the queen she'd be tortured … and worse … before they killed her. Wouldn't it be better, she thought, to return to her cell now, and get it all over with?
Thonn stumbled in the near-darkness, and she put an arm around him, supporting his weight. No, she couldn't give up, for if she did, she would be denying Thonn his chance of freedom as well. Once the lad recovered from his beating, he could make for the hills, and he'd be safe no matter what they did to her.
"Halt!" said a rough voice ahead of them. "Who goes there?"
"Tiera and Thonn. Captain Spadell released us."
"Is that so?"
The guard was seated behind a wooden desk, where a huge ledger sat next to an inkpot with a quill. The book stood open, and Tiera could see a neat line ruled through every name … bar two. As the guard studied the writing, his lips moving with every word, she felt an icy chill in her stomach. Now that she'd decided to take her one chance at freedom, putting her trust in Spadell, how cruel would it be if this guard dragged them off to the executioner instead?
"Tiera and … Thonn," said the guard. He was about to check the big ledger when the door behind him opened, and a dozen guards poured in. One held the door, while the rest appeared to be carrying a big bronze statue, although Tiera could have sworn its eyes moved.
"Orders from Lord Chylde," said one of the newcomers. "We need a cell for this."
"Plenty to choose from," said the guard, gesturing at the pages of crossed-out names in the ledger. "We're nearly empty, so take your pick."
The big group of guards departed, their boots echoing off the stone walls. Tiera watched them go, then turned back to their own guard. "Well?"
He checked the ledger, inspected a signature next to their names, then nodded. "You can go."
The icy chill in her stomach dissipated, and Tiera's hand trembled as she opened the rough wooden door beside the guard post. There was a small courtyard outside, and she looked around, fearfully, in case half a dozen archers or swordsmen were waiting to cut them both down. She'd heard of such cruel tricks before.
But no. Across the courtyard there was a double gate, which stood open. Beyond was the city, and Tiera's knees went weak at the sight. Still supporting Thonn, she stumbled across the courtyard, and together they passed through the outer gates into the sunshine.
"I think I can walk unaided," said Thonn, his voice low and weak.
"Nonsense."
"Wh-where are we bound, my lady? I have no lodgings."
"I have a room nearby. You can stay with me."
"My lady!" Thonn looked at her, scandalised. "In my village, such a thing would be unthinkable. Why, the suggestion alone—"
"First off, we're not in your village. Second, I'm no lady. And third, even if you were capable of anything in your condition, I'd gut you before you got your breeches down around your ankles. Is that clear?"
"Y-yes, m-my lady."
"Call me Tiera."
"Yes, my Tiera." Thonn took a painful breath. "I will always be in your debt."
"I know." Speaking of debts, thought Tiera, there were ten gold guineas with her name on them, and the second she'd dropped Thonn at the tavern she intended to collect them. She was still thinking of the fortune in gold coins when she almost bumped into three curious characters. She eyed the tall priest, raised an eyebrow at the beefcake fighter and tried not to stare at the tousle-headed halfling. All three were in a hurry as they headed towards the city square, and she stood aside to let them past.
Then she set off in the opposite direction, towards the tavern. The sooner she got her hands on those guineas the better. And if Spadell was correct, and the gold coins were fake, then her lying scum of an employer would come to rue the day he was born.
Chapter 10
"It's time to execute the lying, traitorous Lord," said the queen loudly. Her timing was impeccable, because Chylde turned a ghostly white, thinking she was referring to him.
Then a guard signalled to the executioner, and Lord Greyfinger was dragged from the cells and onto the stage once more. At the sight of the wretched man, Chylde's colour returned, and he aided it by downing two glasses of wine in quick succession.
Greyfinger protested volubly, but was no match for the big, strong axeman. With a nod from the queen, Greyfinger was forced to his knees, and seconds later the axe came down, ending his protests — and behind-the-scenes machinations — for good.
The queen nodded in satisfaction, then looked at the crowd. They seemed a little lifeless now that the executions were complete, much like Lord Greyfinger, and she decided to give them one last chance for glory. Standing up, she walked to the cordon of guards separating the haves from the have-nots, and raised her voice.
"Last chance, my beloved subjects. If anyone wishes to raise a hand against my champion, they might earn themselves fame everlasting. Otherwise, I will declare the tournament ended."
There was no reply from the beloved subjects, who didn't mind seeing someone else butchered, but were a little less willing to put their own necks on the line.
"Very well, I declare the tournament over. Sur Loyne, once again you are—"
"HURM FIGHT!"
There was a commotion from the rear of the crowd, which parted to admit a huge, hulking fighter with a bulging loin cloth and the biggest sword the queen had ever seen. The newcomer's accent, what little she'd heard of it, reminded her of the uncouth barbarians of the North. She'd only seen one, from a distance, and she'd never forgotten his mighty weapon. This man's was twice as large.
"Too late," said Sur Loyne quickly, chilled by the sight of his potential opponent. "Tournament's over. Try next year."
"Hold, Sur Loyne," said the queen. "I am of a mind to permit this newcomer's challenge."
"But I've already started taking my armour off!" protested Sur Loyne, quickly undoing a leather strap.
"Then you can put it back on again," said the queen, unmoved.
"And my sword is broken."
"Get another one."
To Sur Loyne's dismay a nearby guard quickly obliged.
Sur Loyne realised he had no choice, but he consoled himself with the thought that a brainless, beefy barbarian would be no match for his years of training in the fine art of swordplay.
Meanwhile, Queen Therstie had an eye on the barbarian's muscled physique. His limited intellect was a plus, too, because there was nothing worse than endless post-coital chatter about the merits of one bladed weapon over another. Of course, before she got that far, this Hurm person had to defeat Sur Loyne. Still, whatever happened it would be a fitting end to the tournament. One always liked to finish the day with a couple of half-naked heavyweights thrusting away.
Hurm drew his sword and tossed the scabbard aside. He was breathing hard from his run to the square, and his bronzed skin was slick with sweat, but he stood ready to fight all the same. Sur Loyne took plenty of time checking his armour, ensuring there were no gaps through which an enemy could thrust a weapon. Then, at last, he declared himself ready.
"Fighters, face off," shouted the queen.
The men strode into the square and readied their weapons.
"Fighters … wait for it, wait for it … NOW!" shouted the queen.
— ♦ —
Sur Loyne put his left hand to his waist, and circled the giant barbarian with his sword expertly wielded in his right. Hurm just watched him, unmoving, unblinking. Loyne found this extremely disconcerting, because he'd expected the idiot to charge him.
He darted forward and tried a feint, drawing the big man's sword, then chan
ged direction and lunged. Instead of finding flesh, his sword met the barbarian's impressive weapon, the force of the clash jarring Loyne's forearm.
Hurm smiled, and Sur Loyne's blood ran cold. He'd faced many opponents over the years, some of them upright and not completely drunk, but he'd never seen any of them smile. He whirled around, then advanced with a flurry, his sword fair singing as it cut through the air here and there. Unfortunately, it didn't cut through Hurm.
Sur Loyne stepped back again, still flourishing his sword even though Hurm was ignoring every feint. The big man had catlike reactions, and clearly wasn't going to be distracted by anything but a killing blow.
However, Sur Loyne had a plan. As he circled his opponent, Hurm slowly turned to face him, and eventually the big fighter had his back to the queen. Sur Loyne looked around his opponent, and put his left hand to his ear. "Sorry, my queen?," he said, barely loud enough for Hurm to hear him. "Oh, you want to speak with Hurm?" He pointed. "The queen wants you, Hurm."
Hurm turned to look, and the second his back was turned, Loyne ran at him, swinging his sword with a vicious, two-handed killing blow aimed right at the thick, muscled neck. Hurm was still looking over at the queen, but he heard the swish of Loyne's sword, and casually raised his gigantic weapon behind his back. The angle was just so, and the heavy blade deflected Loyne's stroke straight over Hurm's head. Then Hurm whirled round and opened Loyne's forehead to the bone, with a touch so delicate the queen's champion didn't realise he'd been wounded … at first. It was only a shallow cut, but it bled profusely, and Loyne was forced to retreat as he dashed the blood from his eye.
Now Hurm moved, advancing with the big sword at the ready. He feinted this way and that, and Sur Loyne parried desperately, giving it everything he had. It wasn't enough, and with a sick feeling, it dawned on him that he was about to die. His opponent might be a brainless oaf, but his skills were sublime, his reactions cat-like, his swordplay just too good. So, Sur Loyne did the only thing he could under the circumstances: he raised his hand, calling a halt to proceedings. "Just a minute. I've got something in my eye."
Hurm paused, his two-handed sword drawn back for a final, devastating strike.
"Finish him!" shouted someone from the crowd.
"Chop 'is 'ead orf!"
Loyne covered one eye and turned to the queen. "Majesty, I think a piece of grit has lodged in my eye, and I cannot see clearly. May we postpone the fight until I am fit?"
The queen sighed. "Sure, I guess."
There was a groan from the crowd, quickly silenced as the guards surrounding the royal party dropped their sword hands to their hilts.
Relieved beyond measure, Sur Loyne gave Hurm a brief nod, then sheathed his sword and strode over to the table, where he pressed a snowy white napkin to his brow. "Such a pity," he proclaimed. "I would have taken him with my very next blow."
"Taken a sword to the gut, more like," muttered one of the guards.
Sur Loyne shot them an angry look, trying to pick out the one who insulted him so, but the guards were all studying the crowd conscientiously.
Meanwhile, the queen beckoned to Hurm. "Come here. Kneel before me."
Hurm approached cautiously. The last time a woman had asked him to kneel before her, strange things had happened to him. However, he did as he was told, going down on one knee before the queen, and bowing his head. The queen selected a silver knife from her place setting, and touched him on the shoulder. "I anoint you Sur Rogate, my substitute champion. All hail Sur Rogate!"
The crowd gave Hurm three cheers, and when he looked up at the queen she put one hand on his shoulder and gave him a winning smile. "Hi, I'm Therstie," she said.
Hurm, ever the gentleman, reached for a flagon and poured her a glass of wine. "Have drink."
"Why, I don't mind if I do."
Further down the table, Lord Chylde watched events with a sour look on his face. Sur Loyne was an inbred bully incapable of giving the queen a child, but this Hurm character looked fertile enough to father a brat with a ninety-year-old crone. He'd have to deal with the interloper, and judging by the queen's behaviour towards the muscle-bound moron, he'd have to deal with him very, very soon. His niece was practically licking her lips, her eyes aglow with passion, and she was acting more like a breeding mare from the royal stables than their divine ruler.
Fortunately, Sur Loyne looked furious at the sudden turn of events, gripping his wine glass as though it were Hurm's throat. The fight with the mechanical man had been a circus, and now he'd not only lost in a straight fight with a fellow human, he'd also lost favour with the queen.
Chylde realised there was a useful ally to be won, provided he handled the situation just right. And if there was one thing Lord Chylde was good at, it was turning a situation to his own advantage.
Chapter 11
Tiera was exhausted by the time she reached her lodgings, for Thonn was heavier than he looked, and the further they travelled the more he relied on her to keep his footing. They took the rough stairs to the tavern's second floor, pausing for breath on every one, and finally she managed to tip him into her bed. He lay there, his breathing shallow, his face grey, and she realised there was one more thing she had to do before she could collect her payment from Regis. She had to find a healer, and fast. Either that, or an undertaker, and healers tended to cost a lot less.
"Wait here," she said, and she took the stairs to the ground floor.
The place was deserted, the regular patrons having gone to watch the executions and subsequent tournament. Only the barkeep remained, and he looked upon his only customer with heightened, and misplaced, expectations. "Good afternoon, young lady. What delightful beverage can I serve you today?"
"I need a healer."
"Hmm, I've not heard that one before. Do you have a recipe? Does it perchance involve ale?"
"No, I need a real healer. My travelling companion has been injured."
The barkeep's face fell, as there was no profit in helping his fellow beings. "Down the street, fourth door on the right. Tell 'em Norm sent you."
"Will that give me a discount?"
No, thought the barkeep, but it would get him a kickback. "Of course!"
"And is he any good?"
"Superlative. And, if the worse happens, he'll get you a fair old rate on the corpse. He's always got buyers lined up."
Tiera felt there was a huge conflict of interest, but time was of the essence so she threw off her doubts and hurried down the street. When she reached the fourth door on the right she stopped in confusion, because she was looking at a man in blood-stained clothes selling choice cuts of meat from a filthy counter. "Excuse me, do you know where I can find the healer?"
The man grinned and wiped his bloody hands on his even bloodier apron. "That's me. Let me get my bag."
Tiera eyed the slabs of meat on display, then shrugged. They'd been carved with great skill, and she supposed dead and living flesh was much the same to a sharp knife.
The man returned, now wearing black robes and carrying a leather case. They hurried towards the tavern, and Tiera noticed the man sported a necklace with a small, grey stone. It was a curious thing, since the stone looked like nothing more than a polished pebble, and was scarcely of value enough to bother mounting on a silver chain.
"What's the case?" he asked her. "Injured in the tournament?"
"No, Sur Loyne beat him with his fists for the fun of it. I'm worried he's got a broken rib, maybe internal bleeding."
The healer tutted and shook his head, but said nothing.
They reached the tavern, where Tiera led him up the stairs to her room. Thonn struggled to sit, but the man put a hand on his chest and held him down. "Lay still, son. I need to examine you." He proceeded to tap on Thonn's abdomen, before pressing his ear to the young man's chest. "Breathe in and out. Steady now."
"I feel better already," said Thonn.
Tiera gaped at him. The colour had returned to the lad's face, and instead of a husky whisper, h
is voice was almost normal. "Holy spit," she muttered. "Healer, you work miracles indeed."
The man looked confused. "But ma'am … I have yet to do anything!"
Thonn sat up and stretched. "Do they serve food here? I'm fair hungry, my … I mean, Tiera. I have not eaten these past two days."
The healer stood. "I do not know the reason for your little jest, but it will cost you. My fee is five pennies, with one extra for making me run here."
"Sir, I swear …" began Tiera.
"Save it."
Tiera paid the healer, who left in a huff. Then she rounded on Thonn. "I suppose you think it's smart, feigning injury so I'd take pity on you."
"Tiera, I—"
"I carried you halfway across the city, you louse! I gave you my bed, found you a healer—"
"My lady, I was injured, I swear it. You saw the bruising, you heard me struggling to breathe!"
Tiera's eyes narrowed in anger, and she prepared to give him a piece of her mind before kicking him down the stairs. Then, as she saw Thonn's unmarked chest, her eyes opened wide in shock. "By Zephyr, you speak the truth! Your bruises … they are no more!"
Thonn seemed as surprised as Tiera at the strange turn of events, but then a strange look crossed his face. He looked around, even though they were alone, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "The healer … he used magic."
Tiera laughed. "In this city? Don't be a fool."
"I swear to you, my lady, I have performed magic such as this myself. At the time, I was under the influence of perlstone. T'was but a splinter, but its mere presence was enough to imbue me with powers beyond measure."
Tiera eyed the strip of a youth doubtfully. If there was ever a less likely user of magic, it was this skinny farm boy with his ragged loin cloth. Then again, wasn't the butcher and part-time healer even less likely still? After all, if the man could perform miracles such as this, he would have been executed long ago as a wizard. "This perlstone … what does it look like?"
"It was like the night-time sky."
"Black, then."
