by David Weber
He glanced over his shoulder at the tall, slender young woman with her arm around her brother’s shoulders, her own expression calm and confident because that was what the boy needed her to be. Then he looked back at the Charisian Imperial Guardsman and saw those blue eyes watching him.
“Don’t worry, Sergeant,” Merlin said quietly, voice pitched for only Raimair’s ears, and his expression was far more sober than it had been. “I know it’s … complicated, but I give you my word. You can’t possibly want those two to reach safety more than I do, and between us, that’s exactly where we’re going to get them.”
“If you say so, Captain.”
“I do say so,” Merlin replied, resting one hand lightly on the sergeant’s shoulder for a moment. “And you remind me of another sergeant I met a couple of years ago—a fellow by the name of Seahamper. I think you’ll like him when you meet him. And do me a favor.”
“Favor?” Raimair asked just a bit suspiciously.
“Stay alive and in one piece,” Merlin said very seriously. “Prince Daivyn and Princess Irys need you. Unless I’m mistaken, she needs you more than he does at the moment, as a matter of fact, and I think she’s already lost enough people she needed. Don’t you?”
Raimair stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly, his expression one of wonderment.
“Aye,” he said after a moment. “Aye, that she has.”
“Then let’s not make any more holes in her life.” The hand on Raimair’s shoulder tightened, and then the reckless, confident grin reappeared under the waxed mustachios. “Now, you were saying about the opposition?”
“So I was, Sir.” Raimair gave himself another shake. “There’s no more than half the usual detachment here tonight. The Colonel could call up reinforcements from the local militia, and there’s a full regiment of militia dragoons in Talkyra. Take a while to get them rousted out of bed and pulled away from their dinners, though. And, to be honest, I don’t see any reason he’d be thinking he needed ’em, come to that.” The sergeant shrugged. “These are good lads I’ve got here, but there’s only a dozen of ’em, when all’s said. Even with only half the detachment, he’s four times that many.”
“Understood.” Merlin’s expression turned serious again. “You do realize that the instant they see me, you’re all going to be guilty of treason and consorting with heretics in both Mother Church and King Zhames’ eyes?”
“Thought had crossed my mind,” Raimair replied with sour irony. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to change out of that armor of yours?”
“Sergeant, it’s not going to make one bit of difference in the long run.” Merlin chuckled. “The moment Grand Inquisitor Zhaspahr discovers Irys and Daivyn have slipped through his fingers alive, we’re all dead men if he ever gets his hands on us. That being the case, I prefer to fight in my own colors.”
“And if seeing you in them causes Colonel Sahndahl’s lads to come at us harder, my own lads are going to find any bridges burned behind them,” Raimair said.
“A point which had occurred to me,” Merlin acknowledged. “Of course, that’s another way of saying it’s going to get them focused on staying alive and keep them there, isn’t it?”
“Sounds better that way, anyhow,” Raimair said, then laughed. “And truth to tell, we’ve burned our bridges already.”
“That’s fortunate,” Merlin told him, raising his head and cocking it to one side, “because unless I’m mistaken, Colonel Sahndahl’s on his way right now.”
* * *
Fraihman Sahndahl walked across the paved courtyard with a grim, determined stride. Three squads of Guardsmen followed him, and he sensed the men’s confusion. They had no idea why they’d just been ordered to arrest—and, if necessary, kill—men they’d been drinking beer with only that afternoon. The presence of half a dozen Schuelerites, including Bahldwyn Gaimlyn, who’d been one of King Zhames’ secretaries for almost a year, discouraged any speculation on their part, however. And with those damned inquisitors watching, there was no doubt in Sahndahl’s mind his men would do whatever they were ordered to do.
God, I hope Raimair and Coris are smart enough to surrender for the kids’ sake, he thought. Yet even as he told himself that, another thought ran deeper down, counter pointing it. Given what Zhaspahr Clyntahn was capable of, if he were one of the men in that tower and he believed the Inquisition had come for him, they’d take his weapons only out of his cold dead hands … and the last thing he’d do before he died was cut both of Prince Hektor’s children’s throats to keep them out of the Inquisition’s hands, as well.
Stop that! he told himself sternly. It’s not doing a bit of good and it’s not going to change a thing.
“Wait here,” he told Mahgail, and continued across the courtyard to the steep flight of steps leading up to the tower’s open door.
He climbed the steps heavily. A pair of lanterns burned at its top, one on either side of the massively timbered door set deep into the tower’s ancient stonework, and he was acutely aware of the archer’s slits in the wall above him. He allowed no sign of that awareness to cross his expression, however, as Rahskho Mullygyn—who would have been Sergeant Mullygyn, if Tobys Raimair had dared to be open about the nature of the “footmen” and “servants” he’d assembled around Irys and Daivyn Daykyn—met him in the doorway.
“Evening, Colonel,” Mullygyn said calmly, glancing past him at the block of Guardsmen in the courtyard. “Can I help you, Sir?”
“I need to speak to Earl Coris, Rahskho,” Sahndahl said.
“’Fraid he’s already turned in for the evening, Sir.” Mullygyn smiled slightly. “Said something about not feeling too well.”
“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to go and get him up,” Sahndahl said flatly, and looked Mullygyn straight in the eye. “It’s official, Rahskho, and I’m under orders. Let’s not make this any messier than it has to be.”
“Messy, Sir?” Mullygyn had many virtues; thespian talent was not among them, and his lack of surprise was all the confirmation Sahndahl needed that Tobys and his men had at least sensed what was coming. That was going to make things ugly, given their position inside the tower’s thick walls. Nonetheless.…
“Just go get him, Rahskho,” the colonel said in that same flat voice. “And you might ask Tobys to step out here, too. I need to talk to both of them.”
“See what I can do, Sir,” Mullygyn replied, and stepped back inside the tower.
Sahndahl was tempted to follow him, but he suppressed the temptation easily. He doubted Mullygyn had been the only occupant of the guardroom just inside the doorway, and he wondered if it might not have been wiser to just go ahead and rush the place without warning anyone inside he was coming.
No, you were right the first time, he told himself. Too good a chance the girl or the boy’d get killed in the confusion, even if you got inside on the first rush. And if they really have figured out you’re coming, trying to “rush” a tower like this would be a good way to get half your men killed at the outset. So—
His thoughts broke off in an abrupt mental hiccup as someone else stepped out of the tower door. Not Mullygyn, and sure as hell not Earl Coris! The man in front of him was taller than either of them—a good two or three inches taller even than Captain Mahgail—with sapphire eyes, black hair, and a scarred cheek. Sahndahl had never seen him before in his life, which would have been cause enough for surprise in itself, but finding himself face-to-face with someone in the livery of the Charisian Imperial Guard hit him like a punch in the belly.
“I’m afraid Earl Coris and Sergeant Raimair are … occupied,” the impossible stranger said. “Perhaps I might be of assistance, Colonel?”
“Who … who—?” Sahndahl realized he sounded entirely too much like a stupefied owl, and he gave himself a sharp, tooth-rattling jerk.
“Captain Merlin Athrawes, Charisian Imperial Guard, at your service.” The man bowed, apparently blissfully unaware of the insanity of what he’d just said. “
And I’m afraid, Colonel, that Prince Daivyn and Princess Irys have requested asylum in Tellesberg. It seems”—those blue eyes looked past the colonel and into the dumbstruck brown eyes of Father Gaisbyrt—“Vicar Zhaspahr has ordered that they be killed, much as he did their father, and they’d prefer to avoid that outcome. Undutiful of them, I know, but”—his smile could have frozen Lake Erdan in mid-summer—“I’m sure you can understand their viewpoint.”
“That’s … ridiculous,” Sahndahl managed, feeling his hand creep to the sword at his side.
“Oh, come now, Colonel!” Athrawes chided gently. “You know I’m telling you the truth. Clyntahn’s decided murdering Daivyn may destabilize Corisande again. Especially if he can blame it on Charis … again.”
Those blue eyes were even colder than his smile, a fragment of Sahndahl’s mind observed.
“Lies! Lies!” Vandaik shouted suddenly from behind Sahndahl. “This man is an acknowledged heretic and blasphemer—an enemy of God Himself! How can you even consider the possibility he might be telling the truth?!”
“Ah, now there’s the problem, isn’t it, Father Gaisbyrt?” Athrawes asked, and the Schuelerite stiffened at the revelation that the Charisian knew his name. “And a bit of a problem for Father Zhames and Father Arthyr and Brother Bahldwyn and Brother Zhilbyrt, too, isn’t it?” the heretic continued, naming each of the inquisitors in turn. “Because you know they are considering it, don’t you, Father? Thanks to that butcher in Zion you serve, everyone’s considering it, aren’t they, Father?”
“Lies!” Vandaik screamed. “Yield now, heretic, or die!”
“Let me see.” Athrawes tilted his head to one side, eyes contemptuous. “Surrender, and be tortured to death later for Clyntahn’s amusement, or die now, seeing how many of his inquisitors—and their flunkies I’m afraid, Colonel,” he added, eyes flitting back to Sahndahl, “I can kill first. Let me see, let me see. Which one should I choose…?”
“Heretic bastard!” Vandaik screamed. “Do your duty, Sahndahl! Seize him! Seize him and all the others, as well, or answer to Mother Church!”
“I—” Sahndahl half drew his sword, then froze as Athrawes waved an index finger at him like a chiding tutor. The Charisian Guardsman’s sheer force of will seemed to freeze all of Sahndahl’s men. It certainly froze the colonel himself!
“If you try to execute that order, or to seize Prince Daivyn or Princess Irys, or to prevent them in any way from leaving this castle of their own free will, Colonel, a lot of people are going to die.” There was no humor at all in Athrawes’ voice. “Most of them will be yours.” He looked very levelly into Sahndahl’s eyes. “I have no desire to kill any man simply because he has the misfortune to serve a corrupt and evil master, but the choice is yours. Stand aside, or try to take us. Live or die, Colonel. Make the choice.”
* * *
“He’s insane!” Irys Daykyn whispered, watching from the third-floor window, listening to the conversation with Earl Coris’ arm around her shoulders. “My God, he’s out of his mind!”
“Maybe he is,” the earl replied, shaking his head, but there was something very like admiration in his tone. “Maybe he is, but, Langhorne, it feels good to hear someone take one of those sanctimonious pricks on in public!”
Irys’ head turned. She looked up at Coris’ profile, and her eyes widened as she saw the fierce, triumphant grin on her guardian’s face.
“You like him!” she said almost accusingly.
“Like him?” Coris cocked his head consideringly. “Maybe. I don’t know about that, Irys, but by God you’ve got to admire his style!”
* * *
“That’s bold talk for one man alone standing in front of fifty,” Sahndahl replied at last.
“There’re good men enough standing behind me,” Athrawes said evenly, “and you’re standing in front of me. If you want to survive this night, Colonel, be somewhere else. Now.”
Sahndahl stared at him, ice crawling through his veins as he digested the total certitude in the Charisian’s voice and remembered all the fantastic tales about “Seijin Merlin.” But the colonel was a veteran. He recognized tall tales and impossible legends when he heard them. And he was no coward. It was entirely possible Athrawes might kill him, especially at such a short range, but not even a seijin could defeat forty-five Royal Guardsmen plus the inquisitors with them.
And better to die cleanly fighting someone like Athrawes than answer to the Inquisition if the Prince or the Princess get away, a small, still voice said deep at his core.
“I thank you for the warning, Captain Athrawes,” he heard his voice say, “but I think not.” He drew a deep breath.
“Take them!”
* * *
Sahndahl’s sword came out of its sheath.
That, unfortunately, was the first—and last—thing that happened the way he’d planned, because Merlin Athrawes’ hands moved.
Phylyp Ahzgood, watching from the window above the tower door, hissed in disbelief. No one could move that quickly—no one! One instant the seijin’s hands were at his side, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes locked with Colonel Sahndahl’s. The next instant there was a pistol in each hand, as if they’d magically materialized there and not been drawn from the holsters at his side.
And then they began to fire.
It was hopeless, of course. One man, with only two pistols, against fifty? Even if he was a crack shot who never missed, the most he could hope for would be to fell four of them before the others charged up the stairs and swarmed him under. But Merlin Athrawes seemed unaware of that, and the blinding brilliance of a muzzle flash ripped holes in Coris’ vision.
The seijin fired from the hip with both hands, and the measured “CRACK,” “CRACK,” “CRACK” of his fire pounded the ear like a hammer. Yet even as he fired, Coris realized something was wrong. There were no flashes from the pistols’ pans. No up-flash of igniting primer, no sparks as chipped flint struck the frizzen. There were only the long, stabbing flashes from the muzzles, more brilliant than ever against the night’s darkness as they spewed flame, smoke, and death.
And they went right on spewing all three of those things.
Impossible! Coris thought as the seijin fired his fifth shot. Then his sixth. His seventh! His eighth!
Sahndahl had been the first to fall. He sat at the top of the stairs, both hands pressing at the blood-gushing wound in his abdomen, head shaking in either disbelief or denial while his eyes glazed their way into death. Captain Mahgail screamed in rage as his commander fell and charged the stairs, sword in hand. Behind him, forty-five more men hurled themselves towards the single figure in the blackened armor standing at their head.
But each time Merlin Athrawes squeezed one of those triggers, another man went down—screaming, unconscious, or dead—and he went right on firing.
Courage that might have brushed aside his fearsome reputation was no match for the drumbeat of death and destruction thundering and flashing from his hands. The cloud of gunsmoke was so dense they could scarcely even see him through it, but still he fired, each muzzle blast illuminating the cloud of smoke like Langhorne’s Rakurai, and the heavy bullets plowed through them like the sword of Chihiro himself. As their formation tightened to charge up the steps, some of those bullets tore through two or even three bodies, and King Zhames’ Guardsmen broke.
They fell back, stampeding into the darkness, and the Inquisitors who’d launched them gaped at the demonic apparition at the top of the stairs.
Merlin Athrawes had downed thirteen Delferahkan guardsmen with ten shots, and he raised his right hand deliberately.
“My regards to Vicar Zhaspahr, Father!” he called, even his deep voice sounding somehow high-pitched and frail after the thunder of so much gunfire. “He’ll be along shortly!” he added, and an eleventh thunderbolt leapt from the pistol. Gaisbyrt Vandaik was almost fifty yards from the tower stairs, but the heavy, soft lead bullet struck him squarely in the center of his chest and punched cleanly through his he
art.
“And I haven’t forgotten you, Brother!” the seijin called, and Bahldwyn Gaimlyn squealed in sudden terror before the pistol in Merlin’s left hand ended his squeal forever.
.VIII.
Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, and Sarman Mountains, Kingdom of Delferahk
Merlin stood on the front steps, shrouded in a cloud of powder smoke, slowly fraying on the breeze. He surveyed the body-littered courtyard with ice-cold blue eyes and holstered his left-hand pistol, then heard a sound behind him.
Human ears battered by that much gunfire would have been unable to hear it, but Merlin Athrawes’ ears weren’t human. He turned towards the soft noise and found himself facing Tobys Raimair. The ex-sergeant’s sword was drawn, his face tight, and his eyes were hard.
“I’m thinking all those tales about you being a demon or a wizard aren’t so far-fetched after all!” the sergeant grated.
“I can see where that might occur to you,” Merlin replied calmly. “On the other hand, there’s nothing at all demonic or magic about my pistols, Tobys.”
“Oh, aye, I can see that!” Raimair said caustically. “Why, just anyone could shoot for an hour or two out of one wee little gun like that!”
“No, not for an hour,” Merlin corrected in that same calm voice. “Just six shots, Tobys. Only six.”
“Six?!” Raimair glared at him. “Why not ten? Langhorne, why not thirty?!”
“Because they wouldn’t fit into the cylinder,” Merlin told him, and Raimair looked down as he heard a metallic clicking sound. His sword never wavered, but his eyes widened as he realized the seijin’s pistols weren’t like any other firearm he’d ever heard of. For one thing, they seemed to be made entirely out of steel, except for the wooden handgrips. For another, some sort of heavy cylinder had just come out of the center of the thing to rest in the palm of the seijin’s left hand. It left a queer, squared-off gap or opening in the middle of the rest of the weapon, and Merlin held it up where he could see it.
