‘Loosen up, Bloodhound,’ his mentor once said. ‘Being too stiff will kill you. All the skill in the world won’t save you when your instincts fail. Trust in them.’
Creed always had good instincts. He could size up an opponent quickly. A dipped shoulder. A slouched posture. Too much weight on one leg. Short arms. Long arms. Everyone had a weakness to exploit. Not this one.
Holding one sword behind his back, Kierway swung.
Clang!
“There. I’m making it easy for you. Swing back.”
He wanted to swing.
The Cowl on his head wanted him to swing.
But one mistake would be fatal. He almost died the last time. He didn’t want to die today.
Clang! Clang!
Kierway swung.
Creed parried. Backward he went. Stepping around dead bodies.
“Are you going to bleed to death?” Kierway said, eyeing his wounds. “I thought you wanted to fight. Give me a challenge, Human. Give me a fight of some sort before you die like the coward you are.”
“Coward?” Creed said, his voice a little less mortal. It made him mad. His mind surged. “You―whose kind strikes at women and children in the darkness―are calling me a coward?”
“Yes, a soft one. A coward and a shoddy swordsman.”
Torn between caution and rage, Creed had to choose. Sometimes you have to trust your instincts and let loose. He lowered his chin. Swish. Swish. “Let’s finish this.”
He attacked.
The Cowl rejoiced.
But Kierway was already spinning away. He’d seen the move before it happened.
Slice!
Creed clipped Kierway’s shoulder. Red-black blood was spilled.
Kierway snarled and cut at his belly.
Creed sprung backward ten feet.
“Did you feel that, Underling?”
Kierway’s eyes were molten.
Creed noticed something. An awareness. A second sight. Go with it, Creed. Go with it!
Steel crashed against steel like an armory caught in a tornado. Back and forth they went. Blood was let. Sweat dripped. Attack. React. Anticipate.
Creed’s mind, body, and blades were one. His skill and instincts melded together. He turned. He changed. From a swordsman into a fearless fighting machine.
Slice!
Kierway ducked and countered.
Chop! Slice!
The underling’s blade ripped into Creed’s shoulder.
He drove his pommel into the underling’s chin.
Kierway stuffed his knee in Creed’s gut.
Steel flashed again. A pair of tireless storms trying to wipe out one another.
Duck!
Jump!
Parry!
Strike! Strike! Strike!
Creed didn’t know if it was him commanding his body or The Cowl, but he was doing things he’d never done before. The underling’s strikes came, precise and fatal, but they missed their mark, time and again. He bled. He fought. He learned.
“Such improvement, Human.” Kierway said, “Unexpected. Impressive.”
Master Kierway’s hardened face lathered. His thin coat of fur showed a sheen.
Creed’s own chest was heaving. He’d never fought so long. So hard. Pressed. Possessed. He fought on. Kill the underling!
Seconds passed that felt like minutes. Sparks of hot metal flew in the air.
Clip!
He caught Kierway below the knee cap.
Clip!
And under his left sword arm. His blades cut armor like bread.
“What manner of man are you that fights like many?” Kierway said, breaking off his attack, wiping the blood from his lips. The underling lowered his blade and stuck one in the ground. “A parlay, perhaps?”
Creed opened his mouth to speak.
Whish! Whish! Whish!
The underling’s knives flicked through the air.
Creed battled one away, then two, catching the third in his chest.
“Now that’s just dirty! Who’s the coward now, Underling?” Creed plucked it out and slung it back.
Kierway ducked under it and laughed.
“Such words have no meaning to our kind. Your time to die has come, Human.”
Chest burning, Creed shrugged is broad shoulders and stood tall in the face of his enemy. He might not have much time left to live, but he still felt like fighting. Make the most of it!
Kierway’s swords came at his neck and thigh.
But Creed had seen them coming two steps ago. Lunging forward, he punched his right sword through Kierway’s side.
Bang!
He head butted Kierway in the face, breaking his nose.
Kierway hissed, tearing himself away and clutching at his bloody side, copper eyes wide as saucers.
“Impossible!” he said, eyeing Creed as if he were someone else.
“Nothing’s impossible!”
Creed charged. Inspired. He spun. He swung.
Kierway’s swords were ready.
Creed shattered both of the underling’s blades with his first blow.
Slice!
Kierway’s head popped from his shoulders with the second blow. Blood sprayed. The underling fell.
Creed clutched at his chest and fell to his knees, sucking for breath and spitting blood.
“Now that was some glorious fighting. If I can only live to tell the ladies about it.”
CHAPTER 65
It was strange, standing alongside one of the most powerful women in the City of Bone, having her huddle in his arms.
If we had a soft bed and a secure room, I bet I could teach her a thing or two.
In little more than a stitch of clothing and without even a weapon in hand, Melegal prepared for his last stand.
“They won’t kill you, Lorda,” he said, pushing her between the wall and his back. “But I don’t think they’ll spare me.”
“True,” she said, her nails wrapped around his belly “but I may be able to convince them otherwise.”
The idea had promise, but sooner or later, the odds of surviving were bound to catch up with him. Cats have many lives, but perhaps rats have more.
“I appreciate that,” he said, “but you don’t need to risk yourself. No one lives forever. Save yourself.”
“How noble, Detective. You have a charming tongue. I wish we had more time.”
Melegal’s ears perked up, and Lorda Almen gasped.
Two underling soldiers came closer, black hair braided and old gold hoops in one’s ears. One scraped his hand-axe along the wall, and the other let out an unfriendly chitter.
Melegal’s grip tightened over Lorda’s hand as the other pair closed in. Dark faced and armored in leather, there was something evil about them. Something sinister. Melegal never meddled in the affairs of underlings; he let Venir The Darkslayer handle that. The stories he heard and the things he had seen were more than enough to keep him away from the twisted breed.
Lorda pressed her soft lips into his back. “Sorry, Detective.” She stepped into the clear.
The underlings stopped.
She pointed at Melegal. “I am the Lorda of this castle, and this man is my servant. No harm should come to me or him, Underlings.” She had a convincing way of speaking. “Seize him if you must, but don’t you dare lay a hand on me.”
The nearest underling, red eyes glimmering, lowered his weapon, walked over and back handed her in the face.
“Silence, Human.”
Lorda fell to the ground, gaping, rubbing her reddened cheek.
Another underling lowered a spear at Melegal’s belly.
Melegal crept back into the wall, the spear tip nicking his exposed belly.
“This man will die, a painful death,” the underling said, “but you, Woman, your death will look like an accident.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, shocked. “My husband is in good standing with your Lords. They’ll punish you for this.”
“No,” the underling sai
d. He pinched her face in his hand. “Human life has no meaning to us. No use to us. They’ll be rid of you soon enough.”
“You overstep your bounds, Black Swine. You’ve no order to kill or harm me, just him,” her eyes flicked to Melegal, “… maybe?”
The longer they talk, the longer I live. His stomach groaned. A shadow darted between the walls. What was that?
“Put a hole in the noisy one’s stomach.”
Chop!
An underling’s skull was split open.
Slice!
The head of another underling leapt from its shoulders, freeing Lorda.
Melegal twisted. The spear tip jabbed at his center.
Slice!
The underling spear-wielder lost both hands from forearm to finger.
Melegal turned.
Taller than him the battle-splattered warrior stood, eyes glowing a pale green through a dark cowl. Melegal blinked, thinking of Venir, but his man was different. Agile and swift. Quick and merciless. The face was obscured somehow. But he was certain it was Creed.
The last underling charged Lorda Almen, cutting at her throat.
Melegal dove for her, but he was too far away.
In one long stride, Creed cut the underling off and ripped his sword across its belly, spilling its bowels.
Creed sheathed his swords and clutched his chest. Reaching down, he lifted Lorda back to her feet.
“Who are you?” she said. Her fingers grazed his broad chest. “You’re wounded.”
“Aye, but it’s already getting better.” He bowed a little. “I’m Creed the Bloodhound, Lorda.”
“No,” Melegal said, getting back up, “that’s not what you are, not right now.” He craned his neck. “And more soldiers are coming.” Melegal grabbed her arm. “Anything left in the arena?”
“Just the dead.”
“Good,” Melegal said. “That’ll be our way to sanctuary then. Come on.”
Through the entrance, down the steps and over the wall they’d gone when Melegal’s keen eye caught something in the rack of weapons.
“I’ll be,” he said. He rummaged through the rack, strapping his swords, the Sisters, around his waist and finding something else. “Yes!” He grabbed his dart launchers and snapped them on. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” Lorda said, trying to help.
“My cap.”
“I’ll buy you all the caps you want,” she said, running her finger over his ear.
“No,” he said, looking at her. “Have you seen it? Do you remember—”
“Yes, I remember. Last I saw it, well,” she picked at her lip and shrugged. “It was in my husband’s throne room, under heavy guard.”
That bothered Melegal. Had they discovered the secret of his cap? Why else would they guard it? Must get it back.
“And the Keys?” he said.
“Same place.”
“How many did you see?”
“Five, I think. But Kierway had one.”
Finishing the last buckle on his dart-launchers, he searched the headless body of Kierway. Nothing. “Are you sure he had a Key on him?”
“I’m certain.”
His neck snapped to the last spot he’d seen Jarla. She was gone.
“Slat! The witch has it!”
“What’s so special about those Keys?” Lorda asked, brushing her hair out of her eyes.
The question struck him. There was little reason to believe that Lorda knew anything about the Keys. Lord Almen was a man of many secrets. As for the Keys, the easy way out of this was gone. He had no idea which Key went where, or what they all did. Did they need a door from the chamber or could they be used elsewhere instead?
“Did you notice the gemstone in it?”
Lorda’s perfectly plucked eyebrows scrunched down.
“Sapphire, I believe,” she said. “I only caught a single glimpse of it.”
I didn’t matter. It wasn’t the one Melegal had used anyway.
Swish. Swish. Swish.
Creed was whirling his blades around his body in a marvelous fashion.
“Astounding,” he said, “I cannot tell if it’s the blades or me.” He extended the keen edges outward, eyeing them. “I don’t prefer hand guards.” Swish! “But these are so flexible.”
“And how about that… cowl… on your head?” Melegal started.
Creed slipped his blades into their sheaths. He didn’t move. Instead, he stood still, cocking his head back and forth.
“Are you coming?” Melegal said. “Or are you waiting for more underlings to arrive?”
“There are so many,” Creed said. “I can feel them running through the halls. Their hearts beat in my ears.” He cast a dark foreboding glance at Melegal, and his voice changed a little. “I can kill them.” His body tensed. “I can kill them all.”
“No,” Melegal said, “if you could do that, they’d be dead already.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I know. Now…” He tossed Creed the sack. “You’ll need that.” He jammed two fingers down his throat.
“Ew, Detective, what are you doing?” Lorda asked. “Are you ill?”
Melegal spit a metal gob into his palm and rubbed the spit off. He flashed the light of his coin in their eyes and grinned.
“Follow me.”
***
“You’re resourceful, Detective. I’ll give you that,” Creed said. The man was chewing on jerky and flipping his coin of light. “This is the best jerky I’ve ever tasted.”
“You don’t have to call me detective, Creed. Melegal will do.” He was sifting through a trunk in what used to be one of Sefron’s hidden rooms. “Or not.”
If Castle Almen didn’t have so many secrets, we’d be dead already.
Of that much, Melegal was certain. And as for Sefron, his pasty nemesis, the cleric had been storing up for something. This room barely held the three of them, but it was filled with provisions, and it was only one room within a sprawling network. I could spend a year exploring this castle, maybe more. I wonder how many secrets are in this world. He looked at Creed and crunched into some fruit.
The man had finally pulled his cowl down off his head so it rested on his shoulders, and Melegal could make out his face. Good. For the time being, Creed was himself again. An overachieving thug in the ranks of Royals.
At least he doesn’t have his loud and smelly dogs with him.
“Melegal,” Lorda said, chin down, rubbing her arms. “Do you think all my family are dead?” She sobbed. “I saw them gut my niece and butcher one of my uncles before my eyes. They’re monsters, aren’t they?”
Just a little more so than your husband.
“There’s no time to mourn, Lorda. Just escape.”
“But?”
He put one hand on her shoulder, lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Be strong.”
A tear fell down her cheek. Lorda had family, and they meant something. He was certain they were wiped out. Most all of them anyway. If he understood anything about underlings, he knew they didn’t need people for anything, other than amusement. They were like cats that played with mice.
He fondled a small ring he’d found in one of Sefron’s chests earlier. It was a flat metal with odd symbols, dust coated, and set with a variety of smooth gemstones. There were other baubles, but he had no pockets to stick them in.
“You’re gorgeous,” Creed said, staring hard at Lorda.
“What?”
Creed game closer, adjusting the bracers he’d pulled out of the sack and put on his arms earlier.
“You’re more gorgeous,” he repeated, “than the morning light in the gardens. Captivating.”
Lorda pulled tighter around her form a gown Melegal had scrounged up for her.
“Mind yourself, Bloodhound,” she warned. “I’m not some tavern trollop who’ll swoon at your clever phrase of words. The finest troubadours in the land haven’t swayed me, so how could a smelly hound like you?”
“Pa
rdon, Lorda.” He bowed with a grin. “It’s a sincere compliment. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’d cut my own arm off just for a—”
“Don’t you dare, Heathen!”
“Shhhh! The both of you,” Melegal said. “There’s a hundred underlings out there looking for us.”
“A taste of those sweet lips,” Creed said, “was all I was going to say. What did you think I was going to say, anyway? I’m a Royal too, you know.”
Lorda scooted farther away.
The last thing Melegal needed was a conflict with Creed. The man wasn’t a brute, but he was all fighter. They needed him. They might have to carve their way out to escape.
Creed resumed his seat and tore back into his jerky. “What’s the plan, Melegal?”
Melegal envisioned the last thing he’d seen from his spire before he came in here. Underlings were everywhere. The only safe way out was the same way he’d come in. With a Key.
Slat! And to think: I had seven of them, along with my freedom, and I came right back into this infernal Castle. What a vengeful fool I am!
“We need a Key, Creed. I think one Key is all it will take to get us free and clear. It’s either that, or we’re going to have to lay low in here, and it won’t be long before the food runs out or they find us.”
Eyeing Creed, Lorda said, “I’m ready to get out of here. I don’t think this man can be trusted with me in these close quarters.”
Creed perched his eyebrows. “My intentions are nothing but honorable. You’ll need protection, Lorda. You can’t expect me to believe you’d prefer the company of underlings to me?” He shrugged and looked at Melegal. “Then again, maybe you prefer the small gruesome kind. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Creed slipped The Cowl back over his head. “Let’s be about our business.” He held a finger up. “Wait, something comes.”
Melegal stepped in front of Lorda, pushing her behind him. He hadn’t heard a thing when a dark shadow slipped into the room.
Creed drew his sword.
“Wait,” Melegal said.
“What is that?” Lorda said.
“It’s my cat. Octopus.”
Lorda let out a sigh.
Creed flipped him his coin. “That’s the ugliest cat I ever saw. And those eyes. What is it, blind as a bat?”
Chaos At The Castle (Book Six) Page 32
