“What a pretty thing this is.” The Corporal stared into the ruby. “I’m getting a promotion for this.”
Shawna had never liked her mother’s armlet. It gave her an odd feeling, as if an invisible weight charged the air in its presence. Even now, she was more anxious about the gem than the armed man in the room.
Everyone I love is dead because of that thing.
Shawna edged toward the Corporal as his eyes peered into the gem. If she could reach him and attack before he noticed, she may have a chance of winning. She had to do it quietly, though, or the rest of the men below would hear. Heart beating in her ears, she stepped toward him.
Without looking up, he pointed his dagger at her throat. “Don’t be so quick to follow your father into the Void, girl.”
Shawna scowled. “You’ve got what you want. Now, go!”
The corporal smiled. “You kept your end of the bargain, didn’t you?”
“Please.” A chill washed through Shawna’s stomach. “Just let me go.”
“Let you go?” The Corporal smiled, his eyes flicking over her body. “You Cambrellian girls—you don’t all wear riding pants like that, do you? The others were wearing dresses. It just isn’t proper, is it?”
“What?” Shawna’s breath caught in her chest at the hungry look in his eyes.
“You’re noblilty—a Lord’s daughter.” His eyes narrowed. “Never had one of them before.”
In the space of a breath, he closed the distance between them and pulled her against his body. He smelled of steel oil and horseflesh, and Shawna pushed away from him as he struggled with her arms. She thought she might win free, but he slammed the back of his hand into her face, and her legs went weak. She sceamed through clenched teeth and flailed at him with desperate strikes, but he pulled her close, pressing the tip of his dagger to her throat.
“There, now—be quiet!” He pawed at the ties to her breeches, breath coming in ragged gasps. “That’s a good girl. You’re going to be a good girl, right?”
Shawna struggled, but he was much larger than her. With her body pulled so tightly against his, with his muscles and sweat and stinking breath, all she could do was close her eyes and fight his searching hands. In the blind chaos of the struggle, she touched the dagger clenched in his hand, and held tight to his wrist.
“Wait! Wait—please!”
“Truth told, I’ve been waiting all day, love. That’s long enough.”
The knife moved away, but she clutched it in a desperate grip.
“Please! Please!” A bout of nausea rose in her belly. “I’ll let you. I’ll let you!”
His struggles quieted and he looked in her eyes, the dagger pressing a warning into her neck. She held onto his knife-hand like it was a snake too close to her skin. He peered into her face, suspicion painting his expression.
“You’ll let me, will you?”
“Just you.” Shawna gulped a mouthful of bile back into her throat. “Just you, not them. Please—just don’t give me to them.”
She pushed on the arm holding the knife to her throat, moving it away from her skin. His smile grew as his hand relaxed, teeth gleaming like a predator about to devour a meal. His eyes left hers to slither over her body again, and he uttered a chuckle under his breath.
Shawna moved with all the desperate speed and strength she could summon. She twisted his wrist and shoved the blade of the knife toward his face, using her other hand to post his elbow. The dagger went into his eye with a wet squelch, and blood flicked over Shawna’s white shirt.
The Corporal released her with a pained shriek, his hands going to his face. Shawna grasped the hilt of his longsword and planted her foot into his gut, pushing him backward with a kick. The sword slid free of its sheath as he stumbled back, but he was too busy pulling the dagger from his eye socket to notice. Shawna gripped the sword in both hands and stepped into a practiced thrust, stabbing the blade tip into the Galanian’s throat. The point sank home with little resistance, and the man fell to the floor with a strangled grunt.
Shawna watched him kick his heels on the floor and gurgle through the last seconds of his life. Blood pooled beneath him in a growing puddle, and the one eye he had left regarded her with a mystified expression before his soul left for the Void. He died still clutching the wound in his neck.
I’m holding my breath.
Shawna inhaled through her nose, eyes locked to the body on the floor. Her legs shook with fierce energy, and the urge to collapse filled her body with despair. The smell of his armor was still in her nose, now coupled with the stink of his blood. Shawna gripped the hilt of the sword until the wrappings bit into her palm.
Breathe. I’ve got to breathe. Just—
“Corporal?” A voice in the hallway—Pellim, from downstairs. “Corporal, is everything alright?”
Shawna closed her eyes, forced them open again. She took the hilt of the sword in both hands. She changed grips. Her whole body shivered—she could barely move.
Do something!
“I told you not to kill her until—” Pellim stepped into the room and went silent. His face danced between anger and surprise, eyes flashing between the Corporal’s body and the sword in Shawna’s hands. He made a startled noise and reached for the sword at his belt.
Shawna moved in a flash and licked out with the heavy blade, chopping into Pellim’s hand as it found the hilt of his sword. He cried out as blood flew from the ruined hand, but his screams cut off as Shawna whipped the blade in the other direction and sliced open his neck. He hit the floor with a thump, gurgling through a spout of his own blood.
There was a commotion downstairs in response to the screams. Shawna’s eyes tracked over the white sheets of her father’s bed, now covered with the spattered blood of the two intruders. She looked to the busted shrine and her mother’s mask. Rage and heartbreak swelled in her chest, entwined and poignant beyond the pain.
Take the armlet and go!
Her father’s voice spurred Shawna to movement, and she rushed to where the first man had dropped the armlet. It lay amongst the busted remains of the shrine and the pooled blood of the Corporal, its silver bands reflecting the daylight. She picked it up with the tips of her fingers and placed it back into the silver box. She hesitated upon seeing the rest of the things her father had put in the shrine—an old letter and a lock of her mother’s red-golden hair, so close to her own color. Grimacing, Shawna grabbed the lock of hair and stuffed it into her belt. There was no time to clean up the rest.
Shawna dashed from the room and down the hallway toward her chambers. Grumbling voices drifted up the stairs, and her stomach climbed into her throat. She had never done more than wound someone in a contest, and never more than a flesh wound. Now, in the space of a short morning, everyone she loved was dead, and she was neck-deep in violence.
There will be more before I can escape.
Shawna ducked through the entry to her rooms ahead of the voices, shutting the door behind her. She wanted to scream, but she clamped her mouth shut on her emotions. Her stomach fluttered so hard it threatened to make her vomit. She closed her eyes and took slow, deep breaths.
“Calm down.” Her words whispered through shaking lips. “Breathe!”
Footsteps thumped past her doorway—two men, by the sound of them—headed toward her father’s room. Shawna held her breath until they passed and dropped the bloody longsword onto her bed. She dropped the box with her mother’s armlet beside it and wiped her bloody hands on her shirt. There were spatters across the white fabric, bright red spots already drying.
With another steadying breath, Shawna turned to the corner of her room.
A crude arming stand rested near the window. It bore a leather arming kit she’d never had to wear. Her father had grumbled when she’d purchased the armor, and the memory brought a fresh bout of tears to her eyes.
Have the gods abandoned us?
She had no time to don the armor—what she sought hung around the leather cuirass on twin swor
d-belts. Shawna grasped the hilts of her swords and pulled them free of their sheaths, relishing the familiar weight of the blades. They were elegant but simple, balanced and deadly, the steel forged by Infusers in Lesmira and imbued with a minor touch of sorcery. The blades uttered a low, musical tone as they met the air, and Shawna’s reflection glared back at her from the reflective sheen of sorcerous metal.
Her face, like her shirt, was spattered with blood.
Shouts rang down the hall—the Galanians discovering the bodies in her father’s room. Shawna took a series of deep breaths, her hands tightened on her swords. Her blades were shorter than the weapons wielded by the Galanians, but she was comfortable with them. They felt right in her hands, as if their presence completed her resolve. Her eyes flashed to the tattoos on her wrists—grapevines twisted around a sword.
If I don’t move now, I’m dead!
Shawna took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. The muscles in the middle of her back threatened to knot, and her legs quivered. She forced them to move with determined steps until she was opening her bedroom door and stepping into the hallway. She turned toward her father’s room just in time to see the first Galanian emerge.
“There!” He raised his sword in her direction, his bared steel tight in his hand. A shadow appeared in the room over his shoulder, but the first man was already advancing into the hall.
Shawna’s heart thundered in her ears. He was big—fully two heads over Shawna’s modest height, and his face was contorted with anger. His longsword was like a willow switch in his hands.
Strength is a fearsome advantage, but its counter is simple—greater skill. Treat every blade as a deadly thing, no matter the arm wielding it. If he is strong, you will be faster. If he is fast, you will be more skilled. Do not whine to me of strength, of size, or youth. Skill counters all.
The tension in Shawna’s muscles sharpened as her lessons came flooding back. She glanced at the brute’s wrist and took in the way he was holding his sword—like a cudgel hefted for a tavern brawl. He had no awareness of the point of his blade as he stomped in her direction and didn’t bother to assume a guard position.
He thinks he’s going to teach me a lesson.
Shawna closed the distance to the big man in two quick steps and licked out with one of her blades, sliding his longsword to the side. As big as he was, his reflexes were sluggish to respond, and Shawna was inside his guard in the space of a heartbeat. She took his throat with a contemptuous flick of her opposite sword, and he went down with a surprised gurgle.
The second Galanian—a smaller, lither opponent—thrust toward Shawna’s eyes as the behemoth fell to the floor. She slipped backward, keeping body of the first man between them as she danced out of range. The Galanian soldier advanced, thrusting high and low, keeping his sword from tangling with hers. Shawna slid his attacks wide, or tapped them away from her body with smooth, confident motions. With each movement, she felt more confident, until the energy behind her defense was no longer fear, but something hot and righteous.
The flaw in the Galanian’s technique revealed itself as he advanced with a high cut, bringing his blade down toward her head. Shawa blocked his attack his ease and countered with her off-hand—a straight thrust to the torso. Her sword slipped easily into his guts, the chainmail no obstacle to its path. His face twisted with pain as his longsword clattered to the floor. He glanced between her swords and the twin tattoos on her wrists, eyebrows climbing with surprise.
“Bugger…the gods!”
Shawna pulled her blade from his guts and left him to bleed.
She stood for a moment, surveying the mess. The two Galanians lay dying. Blood was everywhere. Shawna looked down at her shirt and was unsurprised to find it spattered with the evidence of her killings. She listened for sounds of alarm, but the only thing she could hear was her own labored breathing.
How am I alive? Gods in the Void—how am I still breathing? She held her swords up to examine them, and found the slick, sorcerous steel covered in blood. It trickled toward the hilt like it abhorred the metal—some trick of the magic used in the blade’s forging. Shawna flicked her wrists to the side, flinging the blood to the floor and clearing it from the blades. With one last look over the bodies, she turned and ran toward her room.
She donned her armor, nearly forgetting to shrug her way into the padded tunic first. The boiled leather was made to her measurements and easy to adjust. She grabbed a pair of saddlebags and threw handfuls of clothing inside, barely looking at what she packed. Her ears focused on the sounds of the manor, and she stiffened with each loud noise.
Shawna paused as she came to her mother’s armlet. The ornate silver box was closed, but an ominous feeling hung in the air around it. Shawna’s hand hovered on the edge of picking it up.
So much bloodshed for such a small thing. Maybe I should leave it. If they find it here, maybe they’ll leave. Maybe they’ll take it back to wherever they came from.
Shawna glared down at the box. Her mother’s shattered mask flashed through her mind, accompanied by her father’s dying words. So many had died already. Would they chase her if she ran? Had her father charged her with a life on the run?
Grimacing, she grabbed the silver box and stuffed it in the bottom of her bags.
Her father had been right. If she left it here, then everyone who had died—her father, her sisters, and everyone she had ever loved—would have done so in vain. The gods could take everything else, but Shawna wouldn’t let their deaths be wasted.
Belting her swords in place, she grabbed her saddlebags and fled the room.
She rushed down the stairs, clutching the hilt of one of her swords, and reached the bottom without encountering another Galanian. She glanced toward the kitchens and hesitated—she needed to fill her waterskins. Her father’s body was inside one of the pantries, savaged and bloodied.
I can get water from the well outside. Grimacing, Shawna turned away and headed in the opposite direction. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she cursed herself for a coward as she rushed toward the back of the manor.
She encountered no one in the main hall. She picked her way over destroyed finery, averting her eyes from the destruction. She passed the bodies of some of the serving staff, mostly young girls and children. A cry of horror slipped from Shawna’s mouth when she saw the tiny corpses mixed with the rest, scattered like so much trash over the polished floor. Clamping down on her disgust, she gathered her resolve and stepped over them.
Shawna rounded a corner near the storerooms and ran into a grinning Galanian toting a small wooden crate full of loot. He let out a startled cry and stumbled backward. The crate clattered to the floor as he reached for the dagger at his belt, a curse forming on his lips.
Shawna was too quick. Her free hand whipped to the side and drew one of her blades in a smooth, contemptuous motion. The sword hummed as it sliced through the mail and opened a wound in his stomach.
The man gasped in pain as his knees buckled, and he fell to the floor. His hands scrambled to his belly, trying to hold in a tide of gore. Shawna raised her sword to finish him off, but the faces of those children flashed through her mind. She lowered her arm and backed away, regarding him with a cold, furious expression. Incredulous whimpering noises escaped his mouth as he tried to gather his insides.
Shawna left him to die with his loot.
She moved through a darkened hallway which led to a rear exit. The manor was silent now that she’d killed so many, but there were more outside. Coming to the door, she placed her ear against the hardened wood and strained to listen. She heard nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat.
Shawna had planned on an early morning ride when the Galanians had attacked. She enjoyed taking the younger horses—the ones with too much will and energy—on trips through the hills, or down the narrow roads to the villages in the barony. With any luck, the mare she’d saddled for the morning was waiting where Shawna had left her. All she had to do was make it to the trainin
g stables.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Shawna opened the door.
The sun shone on the winter-brown grass behind the manor house. Her father’s barony included some of the most idyllic land in southern Cambrell. It was green, fertile, and forested, and it lay just a day’s ride from the sea. The land rolled downward to the east, where the training stables occupied the corner of a large, fenced pasture. It was a long run from the manor to the stables, and over open ground, but Shawna had little choice.
Just a quick sprint to the stables. Just a short little run.
Screams echoed around the side of the building as she made to leave, and Shawna froze. The voice was high and feminine, and it pleaded between terrified shrieks. Distant laughter answered the pleas for mercy, and cold anger writhed in Shawna’s stomach.
Sergeant Janks has a girl outside, but she’s not as pretty as this one. The words of the dead Galanian flashed again through Shawna’s memory. Her eyes went from the stables to the sky and back again. She clenched her jaw and cursed through her teeth.
If she ran now, she might escape while the rest of the men were distracted. A wave of nausea went through her as the thought crossed her mind, but it surfaced, nonetheless. Her father would doubtless have told her to go.
You’re not a warrior, Shawna. You learned the sword academically, but you’re no cold-blooded killer. You should run! She could almosts hear him shouting the words at her.
Martial skill was considered prestigious for firstborn sons of the nobility, and Shawna had earned her Mark to prove a point to her father—that she could be just as valuable to their family as her late brother had been, and she was worthy to take his place. She’d dueled in tournaments, faced challengers, but she’d never imagined that one day she would be forced to kill with what she’d learned. The gods, it seemed, had forced her to become the warrior her skills demanded.
But did they have to take everything in the process? Why? Why would they do this?
Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1) Page 2
