by Phil Tucker
"No!" Audsley slapped his hands together and unleashed hellfire upon the closest group, immolating a dozen men and women. Then he raised his arms and swung them about, bathing the battlements.
Huge arms snatched Iskra up. Tóki cradled her to his chest, pressing her head against his beard as he pounded toward the postern.
"Put me down!" Iskra struggled, but Tóki held her firm. "Now!"
The darkness was lit every few seconds by a new blast. Heat rolled over them, again and again, accompanied by screams and the scent of roasting flesh. Iskra gripped Tóki's jerkin and pulled herself up so she could look over his shoulder just before he ran through the gate. Her last sight was of Audsley, sobbing, his face gleaming with tears as he killed again and again and again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Tiron was riding east. To the north lay the coastline and Otran. To the southwest lay the capital city of Ennoia, while straight west lay Lord Laur's lands. The choice thus was simple. He'd saddled his horse after Iskra had departed, taken one good last look at his ruined estate, and then ridden away.
At first, it had felt strange to ride with no destination, no urgent goal, to be free for the first time after years of obsession and rage, devotion and despair. So he simply rode. The path was broad and smooth, the countryside given to farmland, and the weather was fair. He was wearing no insignia, no armor, only a dark woolen cloak and his family blade at his hip. He was nobody, not even a knight. Simply a traveler in a countryside torn by war.
Always, his thoughts turned to Iskra. Had he made the right choice? Should he have cast his high ideals aside and ridden at her behest? Didn't Laur deserve to be paid back for the crimes he had committed? Tiron turned those questions over and over in his mind, and doubt began to assail him. Where was his certainty, the clear conscience of a man dedicated to justice? His younger self might have ridden away without any hesitation, but Tiron had lived long enough to know the world was dappled in gray.
He'd made a choice. Would he regret it?
He left the Kyferin lands and entered those of Lord Nyclosel. There were no obvious markers, but Tiron knew these lands almost as well as his own. He'd bled in a field only half a mile to the north six years ago, when Enderl had ridden to Nyclosel's aid against a rampaging band of bandits. The land was steeped in memories, and he was eager to be quit of it.
He camped that night under the branches of an evergreen, his bed made of heaped needles, with only the soft blowing of the wind through the trees to keep him company. He lay for hours with his fingers interlaced beneath his head, staring up at the branches, listening to his horse stomp and shift its weight.
He was surrounded by silence but for the crickets and the call of some night bird. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody needed him. Solitude – he found it to his liking.
The next morning, he rode on an empty stomach, his cloak wrapped tightly around him as a fine mist seemed to float down from the gray skies. He didn't mind the cold. Decades spent campaigning had long since inured him to such privations. His horse walked through the mud, hooves slurping with each step, head hanging low.
Tiron saw the ruins of Mad Nyclosel's keep far to his left, an ancestor of the current lord. The legends of what had happened in those dungeons were as infamous as they were improbably. He was reaching the border of Lord Ramswold's lands. The farmland would be coming to an end, the mountainous wilderness beginning.
Tiron sat up and surveyed the road ahead. It was empty, and no wonder. Lord Ramswold had been a fearsome enemy of Enderl's father. Decades ago, that was. Tiron's own father had ridden into battle against Ramswold's knights several times, and as a young boy Tiron had expected to do the same one day. But twenty-five years ago, the Black Wolf Ser Haug had cut the old Lord down in the midst of battle, and that had put an end to the rivalry. The widow Ramswold had pulled what remained of her forces back into the rugged hills and gulches, had ceded the contested lands to Nyclosel, and the age of vendettas and bloodshed had drawn to a close.
Still, the old stories came to mind: Tiron's father recounting the ambushes and skirmishes, the ploys and uneasy truces. Ramswold's land was too wild to be farmed, the old Lord's wealth having come from secret iron and silver mines.
Tiron rode on, a frown on his face. What had happened to the widow Ramswold and the babe she was said to have borne her lord husband? Tiron couldn't remember.
The mist soaked through his cloak. He was glad to be quit of his plate armor and chain. He drew his hood low over his face and rode on, enjoying the melancholy beauty of the land as the fields came to an end and he entered a second-growth forest.
It was almost midday when he saw the wild tracks churned in the mud ahead of him. He'd ridden deeper into the hills, the path cutting around their bases and following the bottoms of gorges, often plunging Tiron into gloom and shadow as trees leaned out overhead like inquisitive neighbors. That he could make out the tracks in this steady mist meant that they had been made recently. He touched his reins, and his horse came to a stop.
The violence of the impressions meant the riders had been traveling at speed, yet for some reason they'd halted abruptly just ahead of him and then clearly had ridden off the trail. Tiron scanned the underbrush, then looked behind him, but could see no reason why a party of men would stop here in the middle of the wilderness.
He knew he should ride on, but curiosity and a stiff rear end caused him to swing a leg over his saddle and drop down into the mud. It squelched thickly over his boots, so he stepped off the path onto the grassy shoulder. Leading his horse by the reins, he walked up to the tracks. Four riders, he guessed. Not destriers, but good horses, judging by the length of their paces and the size of their hooves. Twelve hands, perhaps.
Tiron pushed his hood back and scratched at his beard. The four riders had galloped to this spot, then turned aside. Why?
Tiron led his horse after them, moving slowly and carefully, peering through the bushes and past the trees in an attempt to spot his quarry before they saw him.
He'd only gone a dozen paces when he saw the horses. They were all tied up at a fallen tree. Tiron stopped, patted his horse's neck, and looped its reins over a branch.
The four horses were standing with their heads down. No effort had been made to take care of them in anticipation of a longer stay. There wasn't enough room for a camp, nor had any attempt been made to make one.
The mist dampened his sense of smell. Still, Tiron sniffed, trying to detect a campfire, but found nothing. He stood still for a while as the mist drizzled down, drops falling from the leaves overhead. The horses occasionally nickered. Otherwise, all was silent.
Was it curiosity that impelled him forward, or a premonition? He couldn't say. But an old instinct urged him on, an itch that he could only scratch by investigating further. He circled around the four horses and found the men's tracks. They'd hurried through the woods, but not in single file. He saw a broken branch here, a footprint there. Strange. They'd moved forward in a horizontal line. Were they searching for something? Hunting?
Tiron ghosted after the tracks. The land here was sharply folded, rising to high, sharp ridges that gave way to ravines and clefts before rising once more. The ground was thick with fallen leaves, slick and matted to the forest loam, and the trees were slender saplings, obscuring vision only a good twenty paces out. An innocent landscape, but Tiron moved quietly with his hand on the pommel of his sword, alert, his gaze flicking from side to side.
The tracks led up a sharp rise that grew so steep, Tiron had to grasp at tree trunks to haul himself up. He saw foot-long gouges in the dirt where a man had slipped, the toes of his boots digging into the loam.
The rise turned into a rocky ridge that overlooked a narrow path some eight yards below. Another ridge on the far side was almost close enough to leap onto.
Tiron crouched and considered. He'd not crossed this path yet on the road he was taking. It had to intersect ahead, which meant the men he was tracking had ridden past it, then doubled
back to this spot.
Moving slowly, taking his time, he crept along the ridge, weaving slowly around the slender trees, pausing to crouch behind boulders, freezing when he saw movement ahead. Still the mist fell, making his boots heavy, and his cloak dragged at his neck. Tiron reached up and unclasped it, then laid it down carefully behind a rock. Instinct bid him draw his blade. He didn't argue, didn't try to rationalize why he shouldn't. He drew his sword and moved forward.
There: a hunched form waiting behind a rock. Dressed in browns and greens, he blended in neatly with the forest, and would have been invisible if Tiron hadn't been looking for him. He was a young man, perhaps nineteen, clean-shaven and pale, and he was holding a loaded crossbow down at his side, which meant he was expecting to fire it soon.
Where were the others?
Tiron scanned the line of the ridge, cautious and patient both. Something moved perhaps five yards beyond the man with the crossbow. A boot – that was all, extending out from behind an old and wizened apple tree.
Tiron heard the sound of horses approaching. He leaned out and looked up the length of the narrow path below. A small force was trotting their way. Another young man rode at the front astride a beautiful white horse; he was clad in shining mail, with a burgundy and crimson cloak flowing from his shoulders.
Those were the Ramswold colors.
The first man in green and brown swung his crossbow up and aimed it at the lead rider.
There was no more time to think. Tiron drew his dagger. He took a step forward and threw it at the other man's side and immediately began to charge after it.
The dagger hit the assassin pommel-first and bounced off. The man stiffened in shock and turned to stare at Tiron, his eyes wide with surprise. Tiron didn't give him a chance to react; he slammed his fist, with all his weight behind it, across the young man's jaw. The man twisted down and around under the blow. Tiron ignored him, taking the crossbow from his limp hands before he could drop it.
The riders were nearly below them. Tiron raised the crossbow to his shoulder, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.
The bolt thocked into the ankle of the second man, who let out a strangled cry and fell backward, his crossbow suddenly tangled in his arms. Tiron was already moving, having dropped the crossbow, loping forward, ducking under tree limbs and leaping over rocks.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The far ridge. The two remaining men were rising to their feet, crossbows in hand.
Shit.
Tiron threw himself into a rolling dive as the second man fired his crossbow at him. He heard the bolt whine overhead. He came up, nearly lost his footing as his right knee twinged in sharp protest, and slid the point of his sword into the man's chest. It punched through the leather armor and sank down till it hit rock.
The man gasped, wrapping his hands around the blade with a question in his face, but Tiron withdrew the sword and stepped back to eye the distance across the ravine. Five yards. The other two men were lining up their shots. Either they'd not heard him, or they were remarkably disciplined.
"Watch out below!" Tiron's cry was muffled by the rain, but he'd grown used to giving orders over chaotic battlefields. His bark echoed, but he wasn't done yet. He was accustomed to fighting in full plate; at the very least, with chainmail. Today he was wearing rain-soaked clothing and nothing more. He backed up three yards, to where the slope became sharp, then threw himself forward into a desperate sprint.
Both men had already taken their first shots. Tiron heard hoarse yells from below, cries of outrage and panic. His boots barely touched the dirt, and then he reached the edge and hurled himself out over the void, both hands clutching his blade overhead.
The man across from him was in his thirties. He was down on one knee, desperately reloading his crossbow, drawing the metal string back. He looked up at Tiron, jaw going slack in shock, and raised his crossbow and fired it empty just before Tiron landed on him.
Tiron's sword cleaved down between the man's shoulder and neck. The sheer force of the blow lodged the blade a foot into the man's chest. Tiron's feet landed on the edge of the ridge. He felt himself falling backward and clutched his blade, hoping it would anchor him, but it pulled free and he fell back.
His desperate flail caught hold of a tree that beetled out over the gorge just as his sword fell from his fingers onto the path below. Tiron arched his back, straining to keep his boot heels on the crumbling ridge, clutching that blessedly solid branch with his left hand.
The fourth man – the oldest of the four – had paused in loading his crossbow, stunned by Tiron's arrival, but he set to doing so now, winching back the wire with everything he had. Tiron strained, grunting, and managed to swing his right hand over to grab the tree. His whole body was arched over the void.
Tiron hauled himself along the tree limb, hands slipping on the wet bark, his body almost at a forty-five-degree angle. He watched the assassin load a bolt into the crossbow. He yanked himself closer to upright, grimly focused on each handhold.
The man raised his crossbow, grinned, and squeezed the trigger. Tiron froze. The bolt hissed past his ear and shot over the far ridge into a tree. Tiron heard it thunk into something hard. They both remained still, staring at each other, the assassin's expression almost comical in its dismay. Then he dropped his crossbow and dragged his sword clear.
Tiron hauled on the branch and pulled himself up onto the ridge just as the older man charged him. He swayed to the side, avoiding the thrust, and smacked the man hard in the shoulder with an open palm, knocking him off-balance.
That was all that was needed. The man teetered on the edge of the ridge, let out the beginning of a curse, then fell headlong into the gorge below.
Tiron bent over, breathing hard, hands on his knees, and stared at the leaves and rocks between his feet. He could still hear the quarrel flying just past his head. At that range, it would have burst his skull open like a rotten piece of fruit. Tiron ignored the shouts from below for a few moments longer, then pushed himself upright, heaved in a final breath, and turned to look down.
The party had drawn to a halt. It was only a dozen strong, and the path was too narrow for the horses to do anything but walk single file. The young Ramswold was sitting on the ground, surrounded by his retainers with their blades drawn. At the sight of Tiron, a short young woman whose mousey face was completely at odds with her glare and chain armor pointed at him with her blade. "You there! Who are you? Come down here!"
Tiron arched an eyebrow at her, surprised to see a woman in armor, then sighed. He stepped up to the edge of the ridge and looked down. It was a fair drop, and his knees were already complaining. He squatted, took hold of an angled root, and swung himself over the edge. He made his way down carefully and dropped the last yard with a wince.
Tiron could hear the young lord protesting ineffectively that he was fine; his retainers were insisting on removing his chain to make sure. When he reached the ground, the young woman stepped up to him, sword lowered by her side. She was short, with a rounded figure, her face speckled with birthmarks and her light brown hair tied back in a functional bun. She bristled up at him, her shock at the suddenness of the attack seeming to have made her aggressive. The mark of a fighter, he noted, and began to search for his sword.
"You, good ser! Your pardon!" She didn't sound apologetic as she dogged his heels. "What just happened? Who are you?"
Tiron saw his sword half-buried in a patch of clover and took it up. The young woman and her followers drew back at the sight of the bloodied blade. Tiron pulled out a cloth and wiped the sword clean, taking his time to examine the company. They were young, all of them, terribly young. Their chain and leather armor looked new, their scabbards were clean, their shields were free of dents and notches. Their horses were fine beasts, steady and calm, and probably more experienced at combat than the lot of them.
"I'm Tiron," he said, giving his blade a final wipe before sliding it into his scabbard. "That would be Lord Ramswold?"
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"That is correct," said the young woman. "I am Osterhild, his boon companion and member of the Order of the Star." She said this defiantly, as if she expected him to scoff. "We are all sworn to his protection." She paused and surveyed the scene. "Though we haven't done very well on our first outing."
"Let me guess," said Tiron, thinking of Kethe. "You were also inspired by the legend of Lady Otheria and the Order of the Ax."
Osterhild's face flushed scarlet. "And if I was? Do you doubt my skill with the blade?"
Tiron was saved from having to respond by a cry from farther down the gorge. "Lord Ramswold!" One of the young soldiers was crouched by the fallen assassin. "It's Elbel!"
A shock seemed to run through the small crowd, and Lord Ramswold elbowed himself free of his attendants to rise to his feet, tugging his chain back into place. He was a slender man, with a long nose and a high brow; his hair was golden and fell in almost childlike curls down to his shoulders. His skin was pale, almost waxen, though there was color high on his cheeks, and his eyes were gleaming as if he was fevered.
He strode up to the dead man and stared down at him, then looked over to Osterhild. "It's Elbel."
Osterhild's face grew hard. "This will be Lord Warmund's doing. He's gone too far, my lord. Too far by half."
Ramswold took a deep breath and then strode up to Tiron. "It seems you've saved my life. You have my thanks, good man."
Tiron inclined his head. "Just luck, my lord. I was riding by when I saw the tracks. They looked suspicious. Or at least, intriguing enough to warrant my stretching my legs."
Ramswold looked up at both ridges. "You are alone, then? You had no help?"
"Help?" Tiron shook his head. "No help."
A tall, gangly young man in ill-fitting chain stepped up. "He leaped right across the gorge, my lord. I saw him do it. Blade held over his head like some avenging Virtue."
The other young men and women nodded their ascent. Ramswold eyed Tiron, then looked at Osterhild. "Send people up top to collect the bodies. We're bringing them with us as evidence. Hurry."
