Crown of Crimson

by Rose Reid

I try to scowl at him but it probably looks more like a grimace in the painfully cold rain that runs off my skin. A violent shiver rolls through my body and by this point my hands and feet are numb.

  “She’s not one of us.” Lyom growls from where he is being shoved back to the ground, clearly furious that the Reaver implied that I could ever be a swordsman.

  I evaluate the situation. There are many more marauders than swordsmen but these men have been trained by Lyom, yet that all stand there. Waiting for their Swordmaster, perhaps?

  That’s when my gaze goes to Lyom, who is hardly even worried about anything. He is still on his chest in the mud, hands at his sides as if he is ready to push off the ground at any moment but he doesn’t.

  The marauder laughs and approaches me quickly, but he is hardly looking at me. His gaze is on the red cloak that sticks to my form. He grabs it, wringing out the water in his fist as he displays the fabric.

  “She wears the color of the king, just as you all do.” he growls.

  A laugh tears through my throat, the kind that sounds maniacal and insane. I suppose I am.

  The Reaver’s leader spins on his heel, staring at me. Out of the corner of my eye I see Lyom staring at me, too, a warning for me to be silent. Something in me whispers, Listen to him. Don’t say a word. But my fingers are itching for action, my whole body is trembling from the cold, and I have enough frustration bottled up in me to take down every guard along the Adaaian border.

  “Excellent observation, but I believe you’ve drawn the incorrect conclusion.”

  Lyom’s eyes narrow into a glare. He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it, rephrasing whatever he was about to say. “Evodine,” he urges. “This is no time for your arrogance.”

  The Reaver arches a brow. “So she is one of you.”

  “She is no one.” Lyom assures him, which only awards him a boot to the back. He grunts and tries to get off his stomach but he is kicked back down to the ground. He all but growls at the Reaver that has cast him back into the ice-frosted water. “We picked her up along the way. She was traveling alone and we thought it best to bring her along for her own protection.” he bites out through gritted teeth.

  The Reaver’s leader shakes his head. “Unlikely story. But, I don’t hate the king, I suppose, so I will let you and your men go, Swordmaster — though I must admit I am disappointed that it took so few of us to take you down. I only demand your gold, jewels, and the girl. We, too, would like to —” The Reaver’s gaze finds mine and something wicked glints in his eyes, even in the dark of night. “— protect her.”

  A half laugh, half rumble escapes the marauders. The sound of it makes my insides twist painfully. A memory threatens to flash to the forefront of my mind and I push it away instantly. I need to solve one problem at a time.

  “I need no protection, and I am going nowhere with the likes of you. I do not waste my time with the weak and helpless.”

  I hear the man’s fist connect with my face before I feel the blow. My head snaps away from the punch and I hear my neck pop. Pain immediately flares up in my cheekbone but I ignore it, turning back to glare at the Reaver. Little does he know that his fit of anger is all it takes to push me over the edge.

  I jump up and kick the knees of the men holding me out, dropping them both to the ground instantly. One of them reaches for me as I step away but my foot meets his temple and he collapses.

  I hear something behind me and turn to find Lyom on his feet, mud and sleet soaking through his white nightshirt. The four men around him have collapsed on the ground. I find myself staring at him in complete shock for a long moment. How did he …? But then Lyom’s gaze flickers up and meets mine and I see more ebony in his eyes than blue, hate swirling in them. It is enough to knock me out of my trance.

  In our swift actions, control over the other swordsmen is broken as the Reaver clan attempts to recapture us, taking the places of their fallen brethren. I back up against Lyom, taking down any man that comes near me with my hands while Lyom takes up a staff thrown to him by Jamas. Not surprisingly, the Swordmaster is a master of more weapons than one.

  Swords are drawn and the Reaver marauders drop like flies. The leader of the clan draws his own sword, slashing through his own men to reach the two of us. Before Lyom can even see the Reaver coming, he’s on us. His brutish form throws me to the ground and I land a few inches away from another marauder, who smiles down at me like I am his new prize. I narrowly roll out of the way before his axe descends, nearly slicing me down the middle. I scramble to my feet and prepare myself to take down the brute.

  It’s not as if I have never taken someone of his size down before.

  It is true, Quay never sent me on missions with burly men as the targets. Sebastien and Cicero were the twin terrors that were given those missions, but it does not mean I cannot handle my own.

  The axe is swung my direction and I sidestep it before I am caught in its blade. I bump into someone behind me and the strangest cold and electricity spills over my shoulders. I spin, ready to strike, but it’s only Lyom, who is engaged in combat with the Reavers’ leader. I’m only given a second to see him easily ducking beneath the swings of the saber before the barbaric ogre has materialized behind me.

  The man grabs me by my neck, trying to toss me away like the wench he thinks I am, but before he can cast me aside, I grab onto his shirt and whip myself around him, scissoring my legs around his neck. I quickly somersault, pulling the marauder with me. He crashes into the ground and tumbles through the mud. I quickly jump to my feet and prepare to take him on again when Jamas appears out of the darkness behind him, swiftly ending the Reaver with his sword.

  Then, I hear a loud, sickening crunch.

  I turn around see if the leader has bested Lyom but find the Swordmaster standing over the body of the marauder, his staff in his hand. I stare down at the body of the fallen Reaver and see the odd tilt of his head, the elongated shape of it. Lyom broke his neck.

  With a staff … he broke it.

  He lets out a breath and turns around. It’s hard to see his expression in the darkness but I can tell he is ready to depart now.

  “Prepare the horses.” he shouts to his men, which all stand around us, waiting for orders. “We need to move from this location.”

  Behind me, Jamas nods his head and sheathes his weapon, returning to his tent to grab his saddle. I do the same, carrying my saddle and bridle to my mare, tacking her up with haste. She does not appreciate my sharp cinching but we don’t have time to be gentle.

  As the men bestride their horses and take the tents down, I look around at the fallen bodies. I see where Lyom was cast to the ground and the four men laying unconscious or dead there. I see several other men that seem to be in a line to where the broken-necked leader lays, already becoming one with the Earth. I have to force myself not to look at Lyom with suspicion. At least nine of the dead marauders were killed by his hand.

  We head out quickly once the tents are packed up, moving out at a quick pace with Lyom in the lead as usual, leaving the bodies of the Reavers behind us. Sleet pelts my face and my entire body feels numb. I have lost all feeling in my hands and feet by the time we arrive at the Badger more than an hour later.

  Jamas is the first to get off and I follow quickly after. Lightning strikes somewhere nearby and one of the horses spooks, rearing up on its hind legs. The serviceman on the horse falls off backwards, landing on the ground hard. Lyom glares over his shoulder at the fallen swordsman.

  “Soldier,” he barks. “Get off the ground. Get the horses stalled.”

  The soldier picks himself up off the ground as others dismount, snickering as they pass him. I step up under the marquee of the inn, shivers rolling through my body. Lightning flashes again, illuminating Lyom’s form as he gets off his steed, handing his reins off to Carnahan. In the brief flash I see a streak of red but don’t know what it’s from until Lyom moves into the light of the flickering candle behind me.

&nb
sp; Lyom’s tunic is soaked through with blood, starting at the line that streaks across his chest. He moves fluidly, however, and acts as though he doesn’t even realize he’s been slashed. When he steps up onto the porch, I raise a brow at him.

  “The leader prevailed after all?” I inquire.

  He just scowls and strides past me to encounter the innkeeper inside. I decide to let him do the talking. We will have a better chance with the kindly old innkeepers if I stay outside, even with Lyom’s jagged cut ruining the civility of the mood.

  Jamas walks up the steps and moves past me but I wait until Lyom tells us he has rooms before I actually walk in.

  Inside I see Lyom holding a towel to his wound, still speaking with the innkeepers. The inside of the Badger is quaint and quiet, lit with warmth, just like it was the last time I was here. The stairs lead up straight from the foyer of the small inn and rooms on the first and second floors lead off from the main foyer. In my mind’s eye, I see myself, three years ago, with shorter hair that has been pinned up under a cap. I was disguised as a young stable boy traveling with his master, a man who also had no idea who I was.

  The old couple — Bhedo and Neena — halfheartedly speak with Lyom but their real attention is on the rest of the room, surveying the swordsmen that enter. They’re suspicious, of course. I would be as well if the Queen of Crimson had swept through my small in only three years prior.

  I step up beside Jamas, out of sight of the innkeepers.

  Jamas looks curious. “What are you doing?”

  I shrug. “Let us just say it would be best if the innkeepers do not know I am traveling with you.”

  Jamas sighs loudly. “Find someone else to hide behind. I must return to the Swordmaster.”

  I walk upstairs and claim a room while I am waiting for the servicemen to all settle down for the few hours we have left until dawn breaks. When I am sure Bhedo and Neena have returned to their personal quarters, I walk outside and find the Swordmaster’s quarters after opening several wrong doors.

  Lyom is in a room just like mine with Carnahan and Jamas. His shirt has been cast aside on the floor, still soaking wet, and his bare chest is only partly covered by a bandage but blood seeps through it. How deep did the sword cut?

  For a brief moment I find myself staring at Lyom. It’s not that I’ve never seen the bare chest of a man before, it just feels strange to see his.

  He has broad shoulders, broader than I expected they would be, and his clothes do little justice to the muscles that lie beneath. While Lyom’s form is lean, his muscles are toned and absolutely present. He is no spindle. But none of that is what strikes me as odd.

  He has no scars.

  Zero.

  Not even the remnant of one.

  How is that possible? The Keep must have miraculous healers, or perhaps he’s managed to elude the swords of his enemies until now. One thing is for sure: this wound will scar.

  Carnahan growls. “Is her presence necessary?”

  Lyom doesn’t even look at me. “She’s fine.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks when I realize I’ve been staring at Lyom’s bare chest for the past thirty seconds. Blushing. I’m blushing! I could kill myself now.

  Clearing my throat and regaining my composure, I remind myself of why I came looking for Lyom in the first place.

  “No one was on guard?” I try to demand it but it comes off as more of a passive question.

  Lyom shows no emotion but Carnahan rolls his eyes, seemingly saying, Here we go. Jamas’ shoulders are slouched as if he does not have the energy to listen to my protests but that is too bad for him because I have a bone to pick.

  “Those ravagers walked into our camp, Lyom.” I inform him as if he were not there to witness it all. “They waltzed in like ballerinas and tore us from our tents.”

  “I know.” Lyom states evenly.

  “They picked us apart like petals on a rose!” I exclaim.

  I watch the rise and fall of Lyom’s bandaged chest as Carnahan wraps another layer of gauze over it. “I’m aware.”

  I barely hear him, too much blood rushing in my ears. “How does that happen? Are your men so weak that they cannot withstand the sleet of their own land long enough for an hour shift each? If you had let me, I would have guarded the camp. I would have done better than your buffoons, that you can be —”

  “Enough.” Lyom shouts, standing up sharply. His blue eyes burn with fire, the first real emotion I have seen on his face all day. “I understand, Assassin. It was an oversight. But you can’t exactly expect me to trust you, can you? So no, it would not have been as easy as placing you over the guards and allowing you to watch over us while we sleep. Trust isn’t something you’re given; it’s something you earn, and you have done nothing to deserve my trust,” growls Lyom. He takes a step closer, towering over me. His voice drops to a threatening octave. “You are a horrible mix of characteristics. You are not brave enough to do what is right but are just arrogant enough to believe that you can do anything and get away with it. You will never be able to fight and win because you have too much of a conscience, and too little of one. You are neither hot nor cold, and that makes you a liability.”

  My jaw tightens. Insults do not sway me. I have about the thickest skin of anyone I have ever encountered. Yet for some reason Lyom’s words affect me. They don’t cut deep, nor do they make me want to cry at the truth of his words, they just sit strangely in my chest. Probably because I know he is right. What he does not know is that when I am on an assignment, I have no qualms about killing. It is one of the things I despise about myself.

  I tilt my chin up defiantly. “And what are you, Swordmaster? Are you the one with too much of a conscience, or too little?”

  His gaze darkens and he tilts his head down further so I am the only one in the room that can hear his words. “Everything you have heard about me is true,” he hisses in a deep whisper. “I am the one without a conscience.”

  My pulse skitters and I feel my stomach twist into a knot. Somehow, I wish I hadn’t heard him say it. It is the answer I expected from him, but for some reason I did not expect him to own up to it. I would never admit that I had no conscience aloud, but the Swordmaster seems almost proud of it.

  His gaze flits to something on my face, breaking eye contact only momentarily. Without losing any of his rigidness but raising his voice slightly, he says, “You should have Carnahan clean that.”

  Clean what? I wonder. The throbbing sensation at my cheekbone indicates a slight cut or perhaps just an abrasion but it’s nothing serious.

  Then Lyom shoves past me, walking out of the room. The door slams behind him and Jamas winces at the sound of it. Carnahan chuckles and wipes his hands off, taking up a bandage.

  “Lyom said to clean your wound …” Carnahan says.

  I give him a deadly glare. “Lay one hand on me and I will slit your throat.”

  Jamas glowers. “Not instilling trust.”

  “That is not what I am here for.”

  I leave the room, heading back to my own. When I get back inside, I strip my top layer of clothes off and collapse onto the bed, falling into a dreamless sleep. When the sun rises, we settle into a routine motion, tacking and leaving the Badger. I manage to avoid being recognized by the innkeepers as we leave, thankfully; I don’t need to stir up old ghosts while the Swordmaster is already strung as taut as a bow. While I do not mind Lyom and his distrust of me, I will mind his constant hostility if I am to stay at the Keep for the next while until the king draws up my pardon. I cannot imagine having to deal with him every day.

  We ride for days, keeping a quick pace. The cut on my cheek has healed slowly compared to the slice across Lyom’s chest but never once do I ask for medicinal aid.

  In less than five day’s time, the coming of dawn springing forth over the mountains in the Menca Denu, Helmfirth comes into view. The village has not even awoken yet. Helmfirth is a sleepy town, not known for causing much trouble. The inhabitants earn their co
ins from selling tradable goods to Zenith Milbourn, who then brings the goods into the Menca Denu, the expanse between Adaai and Evrallon, to be traded for other valuable items, such as the precious gems that can only be found here.

  The homes are made of wood and colored roofing shingles. The street that runs through the center of Helmfirth and forks outward from there is not of cobblestone but rather slate and brick, pieced together to make an interesting pathway through the village. The large windows of all the houses glitter with the early morning sunlight. Helmfirth looks peaceful and quiet at this time of day, and it mostly is, but I have been to one or two of the record keeper’s gatherings, and they are never the admirable of sorts.

  Lyom’s men pull to a stop before we ride into Helmfirth, which I appreciate. Carnahan huffs a loud groan and dismounts, pulling his horse to the safety of the lush trees to conceal him. The other soldiers follow his lead and then return to where the Swordmaster sits upon his horse.

  “We should be back before nightfall, assuming the assassin does her job correctly.” Lyom tells Carnahan.

  I glare. “As long as you remain unnoticed, all will go according to plan.”

  Lyom just nods, keeping his gaze on Carnahan. “Set up camp away from the road, and keep the men away from the villagers of Helmfirth. We cannot afford one of them returning with news of an envoy’s arrival.”

  “Understood, sir.” Carnahan grumbles.

  Moher, Jamas, Lyom, and I ride down into Helmfirth after Lyom hands his black cloak, red belt, and pendant over to Carnahan. Moher and Jamas also give over their colors and become indistinguishable from the villagers of Helmfirth.

  As we ride down the slate and brick street, the sleepy village begins to stir. I hear a horse call out to one of ours and my gray mare perks her ears up, head raising. I pat her on the neck to return her attention to me and ride on.

  A few merchants are already in the streets, preparing their booths for the approaching day. Men and women slowly begin to get around when we tie our horses up at the only tavern in Helmfirth — the Cask. It is a tavern of average size and, from what I recall, is always open for business, especially in the early hours of the morning. I dismount my mare and turn to face Lyom, who has already looped his steed’s reins around the hitching post.