Palmer did not scream, he did not cry. He simply stared at me, a horrible truth burning on his whispering lips, “You are damned. Doomed.”
The blade came out, and flew in the light, sprinkling red rain against the walls as I danced around Palmer, lifting his arm to expose another artery and plunging the iron tongue in. He gargled on blood and bent over backwards. But then my knee was there, supporting him like a short table and offering his chest to my rage as the blade shot down over and over. I drew it back, hot and wet, from its business as his mouth worked silently.
Then he said, “I saw it on your back.”
The blade flashed forward one last time, entering one side of his throat and exiting the other, cutting off any more thoughts that sought to escape. There was no need to bend my sword tempered arms to pull the dagger out the front, spraying blood in a deadly fan even as I stood and spilled him onto the floor.
I did it anyway.
Battle-worn mental walls held me apart from the moment, kept me above it as he bled across the snowy white marble. Everyone had seen him attack me one last time, and die for his trouble. I was completely in the clear.
No matter that I had been the one to yank the dagger in his weakened grip, that I had cut myself, that I had calculated his murder in full sight of twenty people in such a way as to appear blameless. It was all crystal clear, now, clearer than any thought had been in my head since I had awoken weeks ago: This is the kind of man I am.
Horatio’s guards, suspiciously fully armored for war, burst into the vaulted entryway from three sides. No one wanted to talk as they came cautiously forward with weapons bared.
“Keep still.” One of them growled.
I stepped smartly on the crosspiece of the Angel, flipping it onto the top of my boot. A flick of my foot sent it spinning into the air where my hand snatched the hilt like an acrobat at the circus.
“No.” I replied.
It is a well known fact that guards do not like to be told “no,” in fact “no” is one of those things they like to beat out of peasants using truncheons. It is NOT something that they use as an excuse to point naked weapons at the bodyguard of a visiting noble and advancing menacingly. “I am the bodyguard of Aelia Conaill, Grand Duchess of-”
One took a tentative poke at me with a spear. The Phantom Angel lashed out, beheading the spear, cutting in half the spear of the man next to him, and ringing off the helmet of the next in line. I leapt back, over the body of the late Lieutenant and giving myself a few seconds to talk, to escape, to… in my mind’s eye I was seeing myself open up every one of these tin coated cans and spilling the blood trapped inside. I wanted to cheer at the images.
I shook my head violently, feeling caught between conflicting urges, being acted on by forces written in stone barely hidden in the Fog. NO! Have to focus, have to stay calm. I pointed the bloody tip of the Phantom Angel at the beribboned letter on the floor, only now being overtaken by the spreading pool of Palmer’s blood. “He had a dispensation to duel and attacked me.”
The guard didn’t even bend over to pick it up, didn’t even look at it, “The Duke does not authorize dueling.”
Palmer was not the trap. He had been the bait. Now there were many, so many. So this is it? I raised the Phantom Angel, but they kept coming. One last try, “You have to wait. The Duchess will be here in a moment-”
One swatted at me with a sword, testing me. I expertly caught it on the hilt of the Angel and twisted viciously, bending the blade off true and snapping it at the base with a disturbingly musical tone. That guard retreated, but was replaced with two more, and they kept coming. They were not intimidated, they did not hesitate.
I felt the drumbeats begin inside, the music of death that kept time with my racing heart. The Beast inside howled once and then went silent, cowed by the Dark Thing blown in from the Fog that curtained off my mind. Cold, exacting, it plotted a course between the heavy, slow soldiers that left four of them dead in the first three seconds. My chances were fifty/fifty to be alive to face the rest, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing, but the dance.
My hand tightened upon my sword, then loosened as I took a deep breath. I raised the Phantom Angel in a parody of a salute. Following some unspoken command, four of them stepped forward as one. Still I retreated, back, back, showing them weakness so that they would overestimate their own strength. I led them into the corner, let them crowd one another, let their arms tangle and their feet touch. Then I struck.
The servants finally ran as blood fountained in red rivers and scarlet spatters. Steel pealed as the Phantom Angel slammed into vambracers, chest plates, helmets and paltroons, splitting them open and exposing the red goo inside. Three wounded men retreated before my onslaught, one dragging the man who could not make it on his own. More of Horatio’s men yet were coming into the room, but cautiously now, afraid now.
Soon bows would be fetched, and I would die, but until then I would kill and be filled by their deaths. Their words meant nothing. Time meant nothing. Every one of them could see the darkness flying behind my eyes and feared my sword. That was all that mattered.
Fear.
Mayhem.
Power.
A crystal scream, pure and resonant, called out. It slammed into me, billowing the Void and casting the Dark Thing back into the Fog, obscuring the Animal within. It caught in my mind and funneled into my chest where it built up power, echo after echo; Shattering the fortresses of ice and hate within me. My soul emerged red and raw, bleeding and sending shocks through me. A stabbing pain thundered from between my shoulder blades, worse than any before. I fell to my knees, retching as the guards leapt back, expecting some kind of trick.
Then one gathered his spirit and raised his axe.
Aelia’s voice resonated like a church bell, “Do not touch him!”
But the guard did not even pause to listen. He was intent on his prey. He raised the scarred and slightly rusty weapon above him as my head erupted in blinding misery. It started to fall as a cool rain washed the agony from behind my eyes. A silver sliver shot forward and rang against the axe, halting it midair a few fingerlengths from my upturned face.
I saw the acid etched roses on the blade first, and groaned as I saw the wrinkled but powerful hand that held it the sword. Not him. Please not him.
But it was. He had his sword in one hand, holding off my death with a perfect block, while the other hand held a long, thin dagger that was perched with the tip just inside the visor of the axe wielding guard. Roehm took a deep breath and let his voice echo off the walls, colored by his disdain, “The Grand Lady said not to touch this bastard.”
And even having just insulted me, there was not one heart in the room that did not wholly believe that he would kill anyone who even attempted to defy her.
My back spasmed again, and the world lost focus. I shook my head and the whole room had changed. The guards had backed off, Horatio was on the stairs a deep frown creasing his round face. Gelia was over me, her expression unreadable.
“Lay still,” she said.
Again it felt like a flat piece of steel, white hot and horrible, was being inserted between my vertebrae and twisted. I don’t know if I screamed, but the whole room was empty when I opened my eyes- No! It was not empty, it was filled with easily a dozen men, O’Loinsigh, Palmer, O’Conner, the assassins, and many more. Bandits from the trail, the soldiers at the fort, but no, not a dozen: Dozens, hundreds.
Gelia used a cool rag to wipe the images from my eyes, bringing me back to the here and now. Everyone stared at me as if I were mad, and a few even made signs to ward off evil spirits. My ears stopped ringing long enough to hear Aelia say “Get him to his room.”
But as Jon- where did he come from?- lifted me my back clenched again. I squeezed my eyes so tight that maggots twisted behind my eyelids, spiraling across the world in a wiggling white blindfold. I opened my eyes, or I tried.
The world was in color, bolder and richer than I had ever seen. Corpses s
tood, eyes angry and wounds still fresh, packed impossibly deep in this hallway, stretching for a mile in all directions. Two statues held me in mid lift: Jon sharply carved out of innocent marble and Roehm cast in dull metal… I lifted my head from my chest to stare at a cloaked angel standing before me, towering above.
I had always known he was there.
Something began to scrape my heart with veins of frost as the figure raised his arms. Two hands, carved of aged alabaster, emerged from within the robe woven of webs and night. In one palm sat a silver ring, worth a few coins, but old and so blackened with age I could barely make out the crude raven carved in the surface. It hardly mattered in his left there was a golden crown adorned with rubies and ivory, built into patterns that twirled in endless knots of gold and gems. Every facet, every curve, led one to stare at the grand star on the brow of the crown, gold and ruby blazed in the shape of a lidless eye. He seemed to be offering both to me, waiting with the patience of one who has no life left to trickle through the hourglass.
But I felt the crowd pressing in on all sides, their hate an army of hot pokers that bounced behind hollow eyes. I could only smell dust and the dead, could hear their screams whispered at me in deaf ears. The Eye called to me, but I could see the nails sticking inward from the brow, crusted with old blood. I recoiled from the crown, and the bodies began to press in on all sides, their hands turned to talons and breath so cold it burned.
I came to on the floor of the suite, hands clasping my head so hard the nails were close to drawing blood. I let go, but I could feel my hands still, nightmarishly like the grasping claws of the dead. I thought I was alone, but I should have known I wasn’t that lucky.
“You could have at least told me you had the falling sickness. If you have infected Milady with your malady I will end you, cur.” Roehm towered over me, Phantom Angel in one hand, other on his hip.
I rubbed my star blinded eyes with the palms of my hands, trying to crush out the gritty pain that still echoed inside them. My fingers found the deep cut I had inflicted on myself with Palmer’s dagger, sealed shut by one of the priestess’ balms, “Where’s Gelia?”
He obviously debated, but he answered, “The nurse has stayed with the Grand Lady. They have entered into negotiations with Grand Duke O’Riagáin to discuss your punishment for the murder-”
The words were propelled out as if from a heated kettle, “He attacked me!”
“You seek to play games, Crow. You know nothing of discipline or the law.” Roehm shook his head, “You may have helped the Grand Lady on the road, and for that I will not kill you, but the Grand Duke will likely as not see your neck stretched yet.”
The reaction inside me was equal parts sharp ice from the sky and rampaging forest fire, “He will try.”
Again, Roehm shook his head, as if at a village idiot for not knowing he was covered in dung. He snapped his fingers, summoning four of Aelia’s soldiers from behind me. None of them were the Boys, I looked, and all of them looked at me as if I were a particularly unsavory piece of meat. Going along quietly looked like the simple answer until Roehm said, “Take him to The Grand Lady’s room.”
Real panic began to set in, then. My mind raced, “She said to take me to my chambers!”
Roehm was adamant, his eyes casting upon me the way some people look at sewage. He didn‘t even address me, “No, Gods know how many weapons he has secreted in there. Take him to the Lady’s room. We will move him to the camp later. “
“You’re going to leave me in Aelia’s room without a guard?”
Roehm smiled, obviously feeling the better man, “We moved her effects into my quarters while you were unconscious.”
I felt a deep hatred stir inside me for Roehm, for while he was stupid, he was proving an inspired enemy, “She ordered that?”
His smile widened slightly, telling me all I needed. He opened the door with Aelia’s key and stood to the side. The soldiers bodily took me inside and dumped me onto the floor. It was, indeed bare to the rafters of most everything but a bed, a wardrobe standing empty, a smaller servant’s bed in the corner, a wide glassed window to let in light, and sumptuous mirrored vanity, “At least give me my things. That’s my sword, Roehm.”
He held up the Phantom Angel as if he had never seen it before. “Is it?”
Old wounds bled from inside the Fog, leaking building rage across my boots, “Give me my sword, or I will kill you.”
“No.” He whispered back.
From the Fog, a fake self poked out his head and I snatched him like a murderer. I lunged forward, pulling on the disguise. Roehm raised the blade, only missing my jugular by a hair's breadth as I grasped the front of his vest, tears welling up, “We’ve had our differences, man, but you can’t cage me here like an animal.”
He lowered the weapon, the sneer on his face had an odor. “If I had my way you would be caged like an animal, not in Milady’s quarters.”
I banged my head hopelessly against his chest, “But you can’t-”
“I can and I have.” He twisted my hands from his clothes then thrust them back toward me without even catching a hint of silver in my palm. “Now have some dignity, fool.”
And he tromped out of Aelia’s room with his men. He was happy to lock the door and march off, his world once again taking its rightful shape, unmindful of the marginal lightness of his belt.
Moving the chair to block the door was child’s play, sliding under the bed even more so. The mattress of the bed, like mine, was held from the floor by a long, twisting length of rope woven back and forth through holes in the frame. It came free easily. The rest of the bed frame created an excellent anchor point for the hemp, though I had to snatch the chair from the door to smash the window before tossing out the rope. In seconds Roehm was unlocking and opening the door, he and his men piling into my makeshift cell.
Sometimes stealth is about painting a picture. If a guard enters a room, sees the window shattered, the furniture dismantled, a rope leading out of the window, they are going to think only one thing. While they will look out the window, and not see you, they can’t assume that you haven’t already found the ground.
But the skeletal bastard may not be a complete fool. The first thing he will do is scan the open rafters above, but you are not there. His eyes may probe left and right in the room, pouncing on the only bit of furniture big enough to hold a man and fling open the door. But you wouldn’t be short sighted enough to be in the wardrobe. Then he and his men will obviously prepare to leave when he turns back, sword in hand, and madly slashes and stabs at the mattress laying dejectedly on the floor- his men joining in. The explosion of feathers will be spectacular, and more than a little humorous as goose down is attracted to men with the highest level of undeserved dignity in any room. But goose down is all they will have slain.
The jailor you have just foxed may or may not growl “Find him!” that is not guaranteed.
If you are very lucky, however, they will pile out of the room to go look for you. Even better, the walking corpse may take a second to re-lock the door, figuring that if you circle back around, you would still be stuck in the makeshift prison.
That is when you silently climb back in the window, fingers and toes raw, legs and arms shaking from the effort, and secure in the knowledge when someone sees a rope leading down, they very rarely look up to the sill above.
There are basically three components to a prison: Walls, doors, and guards. I waited ten long, slow breaths as they loudly make plans to go find me and left the apartment with the tromp of big, heavy boots. Then I reached into my shirt and brought for the master key, taken from the assassin, confiscated by Roehm, and then cleverly liberated from Roehm’s pouch as I begged him for mercy. With it, the door opened easily.
Now if I had a bit of advice for the novice escapee, it is this: Be wary. If you exit into the common areas of a suite and your gear- as well as your sword- are sitting on the table, you should ignore it. No, really, there is no reason for it to be
there, so do not focus upon it. It is not just a weapon, it is a symbol of power, and in taking it from you your opponent is assured that you will chase him down to get it back. All he has to do is hold onto it and he is assured to have another shot at you.
That is why I ignored it. No, I should leave it alone. Really, damn it! But, of course, Left and Right had other ideas.
Of their own volition, my feet crossed to the center of the room and my hands picked up the Phantom Angel like an old friend, a first love. The balance perfect, the edge immaculate, the dark surface of the steel smoky and warm. When the sibilant sound of steel on leather came from behind me, I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t even disturbed. And, to his credit, he had gotten rid of all the goose down. I knew I was going to enjoy killing this man.
I was even a little delighted, because of course, whatever I might think of his rigidly simple ethos or single minded morality, my jailor was not a stupid man. He was a dangerous killer, and he was even now constructing a situation where he could murder me with no culpability. Just like I had with Palmer.
I spun, Angel leading the way, and the heavy hand and a half sword clanged off of Roehm‘s rosy short sword. I leapt away from the table, having to spin the Phantom in a tight circle to meet no less than three lightning ripostes from the Conaill family bodyguard. His face was blank, purposeful, his sword moving in tightly regimented drills. His perfect form could have been lifted whole from woodcuts on the proper methods of swordplay. He came relentlessly, probing with a steel finger for any weakness in my defenses, only to be swatted aside by the larger, heavier Phantom.
He did not say things like ‘I have studied the blade for thirty years. You have no chance.’ or perhaps ‘I am a master of five fighting styles with this blade alone.’ he certainly did not ask for surrender, or promise to end things quickly. He did not have to. He was a man who had spent his life on the drill field and dueling floor, honing his edge to razor sharpness. The problem with too thin an edge was that it would shatter the first time it met real resistance. His timing, while precise, was regular. His thrusts, while deadly, were disciplined to the point of predictability. If he wasn’t so damned fast, I could have killed him already.
I Know Not: The Legacy of Fox Crow Page 20
