by Darian Smith
“Yes sir.”
The door shut behind the physician and Darnec stood up. He moved his arm gingerly, testing the bandage and the stitches. It stung, but not too bad. Perhaps the old man knew what he was about, after all. He carefully pulled the coat of the King's Guard around his shoulders. He wore it even when he wasn't on duty these days. It was nice to have a symbol of honor after so long without any. Brannon might not have come to give him a mentor's pat on the back after today's combat, but Darnec knew he was much better off now than when he'd last been in the arena and he had the Bloodhawk to thank for that.
He gathered up his weapons and headed home, passing through the arena. It had a deserted feel about it now; the audience had left once the spectacle was over and the magistrates returned to their courtrooms. The shouting, clanging, blood-pumping, sweat-dripping heat of it all was over. A single guard waited until arrangements were made for collection of the traitor's body and that was all.
Almost all.
A boy sat in a corner next to the entrance.
“Tommy?” Darnec straightened up. “Prince Tomidan,” he corrected himself. “What are you doing here?”
The boy's eyes were red beneath his carefully groomed golden hair but he showed no sign of tears beyond that. His face was very grave for a child of barely seven years. “I'm not supposed to go anywhere alone,” he said. “Someone is supposed to take me back home.”
“So who did you come here with?” Darnec looked around as if the mysterious escort would somehow materialize.
“Magus Draeson.”
Darnec frowned. “The mage? He's gone. He left ages ago. Was there no one else with you? He didn't leave you a guard?”
The young prince shook his head solemnly.
“Of course not,” Darnec muttered. “Why would you need a guard when the great and powerful Draeson is your protector?”
“I don't think he's my protector anymore,” Tommy said, his voice soft. “Mother said he would protect us when we were in Sandilar, but he didn't.”
Darnec snorted. “That doesn't surprise me. He's a Hooded piece of . . .” He let his voice trail off. The child's eyes were wide and his lip trembled. “Blood and Tears. You mean the night your mother died?”
Tomidan stared at the ground, his nod barely perceptible.
“By the Wolf,” Darnec swore again. The boy had lost his father, his mother, and now his grandfather all in the space of a few months. What had Draeson been thinking leaving him here alone? Or bringing him at all, for that matter. What child needed to be this close to an execution? “I can take you home if you like, Prince Tomidan. I'm one of the King's Guard. You know that, right?” He fingered the sigil on his coat.
The boy's gaze flickered over the familiar mark. He sniffed. “Could we go to the monastery first? I want to see Brother Taran.”
“Sure.” Darnec had heard the stories. Brannon and his team had been there when Lady Latricia was killed and the young prince seemed to have adopted Brother Taran as his personal priest—an awkward pairing as far as Darnec could tell, but who could deny the orphaned boy whatever comfort he could find? “Let's go find Brother Taran.”
The cobbled streets of Alapra were busy this time of day but not so busy that travel by foot was difficult. Darnec hadn't brought a horse and whatever mode of transport had brought Tommy and the mage to the arena had long since departed, so they walked through the city. The boy's smaller legs slowed their travel to a stroll but Darnec appreciated the easy pace after his earlier fight. His muscles ached but the gentle walk was a good way to ease them after their exertions.
The Third Alapran Monastery was through one of the poorer parts of town, giving the monks the opportunity to tend to citizens in need when not engaged in ceremonial duties. The goddess Ahpra was known to weep for those in need as well as for her brother and husband. Comforting them was a way for priests to please the gods.
Darnec hadn't been to this part of the city for weeks. Old stone buildings blended with newer wooden ones that had sprung up during the war, when Alapra became Kalanon's capital city because the leading edge of Nilarian forces had come too close for Valda to be safe. Years later, Kalans hadn't forgotten. It still felt safer to have their king and his government as far away from the border as possible, no matter how well the mountain passes were guarded now.
Almost without thinking, Darnec turned down a familiar street. It wasn't until he felt the heat from the burning brazier on his face that he realized where he was. An old stone building with wide steps leading down into the basement; the fire in braziers on either side burning high and the sign above the steps with red and orange lettering to match: Den of Flame.
Darnec reached down to take the young prince's hand and quickened his steps. The boy trotted to keep up.
“Raldene! Hey, Raldene!” A deep voice boomed out from behind fire. “Darnec, where are you running off to so fast? Come and play a hand. You got a fancy paying guard job now. Daddy won't mind if it's your own money.”
Darnec kept walking. His hand clenched tighter and the prince yelped and pulled away. “Ow!”
“Sorry, Your Highness. Just keep moving.” Darnec moved his hand to Tommy's shoulder, propelling him forward to maintain the brisk pace. He risked a glance behind. Gandry had already turned away, his body shaking in chuckles. Good. Darnec let himself breathe as they rounded the corner and the Den moved out of sight. Out of sight and out of mind. That was the key. No temptation meant no need to resist. “Don't ever try gambling, Your Highness,” he muttered. “It always costs too much.”
Tomidan shrugged as they continued walking. “Grandpa says gambling is for poor people and business is for educated people.” He turned to look away and wiped his face with his sleeve. “He used to say that, I mean.”
An old man walked past them, a small child holding his hand. Tommy and Darnec both turned to watch them go. As they crossed the street, the man picked the child up and the child threw her arms around the old man's neck.
Darnec cleared his throat. “I'm sorry about your grandfather, Tomidan. About what happened to him . . . what I did . . . about today.”
The young prince's lip trembled. “The king said grandfather was a traitor,” he whispered. “And traitors have to die.”
Darnec swallowed. “Yes, that's true. But I'm still sorry you had to lose him.”
“Everyone has to die,” the boy said. “Daddy and Mommy died. Do you think they were traitors too?”
“No.” Darnec stopped walking and pulled the boy to face him, his hands on both his shoulders. “No, your parents were good people, Your Highness. Sometimes bad things just happen. But we do our best with what we have.” He glanced back toward the gambling den. “No matter what has happened before, all we can do is our best right now. Wherever we are. Whatever our best is. Can you do that?”
“Okay.” Tommy nodded and sniffed. “I can do that.”
Darnec released one of the boy's shoulders and used the other hand to guide him forward again. “Good boy. Your parents would be very proud of you, I'm sure.” He only hoped his own father might feel the same way about him. “Come on. It's not far to where Brother Taran lives.”
The Third Alapran Monastery was based in a large, old stone cathedral, with cloistered grounds and a substantial warren of basement levels. Worshipers enjoyed the comfort the solid structure gave this part of the city—an unchanging edifice that had stood against time and war and emerged from both. The spires could be seen rising over the surrounding wooden buildings from a few streets away, a guiding beacon for those seeking solace.
The main road wound around a block of shops and eateries appealing to those headed to services but a network of back alleys allowed those with better knowledge of the city to take a shorter route. Darnec rubbed at the dressing on his arm, feeling the sting of the cut and the ache in his muscles. “Let's go this way,” he said, pointing out the shortcut.
In the half hour or so leading up to a service, the narrow side streets were busy w
ith churchgoers in a rush, but at this time of day they were abandoned. Blank walls were punctuated by tradesman's entrances, coal cellar doors, and garbage chutes. Darnec and Tommy rounded a corner in time to see a rat scamper out of their path.
“Woah.” The young prince's eyes were wide and he scurried forward to see where the creature had gone. His exclamation sounded loud in the suddenly quiet alley.
Darnec let his footsteps slow. He felt a sudden prickling sensation in his gullet. This wasn't the sort of place he should be taking the possible next heir to the throne of Kalanon. What had he been thinking? They should have stuck to the main streets.
“Tommy, leave that,” he called. “Let's hurry.”
Up ahead, a large man rounded the corner, moving towards them. He wore a brown, worn coat and his long, dark hair was tied back. He smiled when he saw them, a crack in his round face, and he stopped still, feet planted shoulder-width apart. He simply stood with his hands on his hips, pushing the coat aside to show hilts on both sides—a sword and a dagger.
Darnec swallowed. “Back the way we came, Tommy.” He grabbed the boy and turned to leave.
Two more men stepped into their path. They moved with a practiced swagger. One of them held a length of wood in his hand and swung it back and forth as a club. Darnec recognized the look. He'd faced enforcers before and these had the same organized violence in their movements, the coiled spring in their muscles, ready to release and enjoy the damage they inflicted. Times had changed since then, though. He didn't owe anyone money now. And he'd been training with the Bloodhawk. He was ready.
Guiding Tommy toward the side of the alley, Darnec moved until his back was to the wall and he could see the thugs in both directions. He kept his hands loose and spread at his sides, non-threatening, but close to his sword. “We have no business with you,” he called to the men. “And you can have none with us. Let's all just move along.”
All three thugs advanced toward him, synchronized movements like a hunting pack of wolves. Darnec pulled his sword free. “Get ready to run, Tommy,” he said quietly.
The young prince pressed himself against the wall of the alley, his eyes wide and his body trembling.
“Tommy, get ready to run,” Darnec repeated.
The boy crouched down, covered his ears with his hands, and closed his eyes as if to block out what was to come.
The first of the thugs chuckled as he drew his own sword. “Yes, by all means run. It makes this so much more fun.”
Darnec swore. Three against one was never good odds; even less so when the one was already exhausted from a previous fight and a long walk. The weight of his sword pulled at the muscles in his arm, reminding him of the stitches beneath the bandage. This was not going to be easy. “Who do you work for?” he asked. “We don't have any money, so this is pointless.”
The thugs glanced at each other and smiled. One of them gave a mocking little bow. “If it's all the same to you,” he said, “we'll decide our own points.” He gave a little flourish with his blade.
Darnec took advantage of the movement to lunge forward with his own sword. He caught the tip of the flourisher's weapon with the midpoint of his own and used the leverage this gave him to push it aside. Turning, he brought up his elbow and aimed it at the man's nose.
It was a move that should have crushed the cartilage and dazed his attacker, possibly even rendering him unconscious. Instead, the thug moved back, faster than any man his size should, and dodged the blow.
Darnec stumbled, overbalanced by his own momentum. The second thug swung at his neck and he dropped to avoid the blow, hitting the ground with a thud and rolling back to his feet with one fluid motion, sword up.
The second and third thugs were circling him but it was the flourisher to whom Darnec's eyes flicked. His roll had taken him too far from the wall and now the man was between him and the young prince.
The flourisher smiled. “You can tell people you fought hard,” he said. “And you were injured.”
Darnec glanced at the bandage on his arm. It was soaked with blood. His wound had reopened. He raised his chin and put as much conviction as he could into his voice. “You should leave now. I'm a member of the King's Guard.”
They laughed, a three-part mirthless chorus.
Darnec took a step toward the flourisher, trying to engage him to move away from Tomidan. He almost didn't see the movement to the right as the thug with the club swung it at his head. He jerked back just in time, but the movement brought him too close to the second attacker. The man's foot connected with the back of Darnec's left knee and his leg buckled beneath him. For the second time in the fight, Darnec hit the ground. This time he was unprepared. Pain ripped through his arm as the full weight of his body pressed the flesh of his wound into the rough stones. He gave an involuntary yelp.
“By the Wolf, lad, stay down,” the thug behind him said. “It'll be easier on you that way.”
Darnec turned to watch the man from the corner of his eye. A terrible realization settled in his stomach: he was trained to fight one on one, not against groups. He was out of his element. These men were better trained than him, more rested than him, and they outnumbered him. Worse, they were toying with him.
But how long until they tired of the game?
Tomidan was curled into a ball, crying. The sound cut into Darnec as deeply as the gash in his arm. The child was terrified. He had to do something!
He pushed himself to his feet again, ignoring the pain in his arm and the twinge in his knee when he put weight on his left leg.
The flourisher sighed. He grabbed Tomidan by the arm and pulled the boy to his feet, the sword held as if to pierce the child's chest. “Fine. Let's finish it—” He broke off with a guttural growl and his sword tumbled from his fingers to clatter on the cobblestones. The hilt of a dagger was protruding from his shoulder. He let go of Tommy and pulled the dagger free. Blood poured down his sleeve.
“Um, I would prefer you don't pick on children,” a quiet voice said from the corner of the alley.
Darnec turned to see who had thrown the dagger.
Brother Taran stood in the alley, his usually mild face dark with anger. He wore the practical, shortened version of the priest's robes as a tunic over dark trousers, the hood was pushed back and his light brown hair was ruffled. He held another dagger in his left hand. He transferred it to his right and dropped into a half-crouch. He raised his left arm into a defensive position and the wide sleeve of his robe fell back to reveal a sheath strapped to his forearm like a bracer.
The thug nearest to Taran swung his club. Taran dodged, dropped to a full crouch, and swept the man's legs from under him. The dagger scored a long slice up the thug's side as he fell. The man screamed.
Darnec stared, his eyes wide. When the second thug rushed to take the place of his comrade, sword raised, Darnec yelled, hoping to distract him long enough for Taran to get past the sword's longer reach or run away. He needn't have worried.
The priest parried the sword with the sheath on his forearm, and danced in close to slide his dagger into the man's gut. He tugged it sideways as he pulled it out and slipped back out of reach. The thug dropped his weapon and clutched his hands to the wound. Blood and innards spilled between his fingers.
“Retreat!” The flourisher's voice boomed like a battle-horn. All three thugs scattered. Like roaches in the glare of a lantern, they ran for the alleyway exits and were gone.
“Tommy!” Darnec stumbled over to where Prince Tomidan was huddled. He braced himself against the wall as he looked the boy over. “Are you hurt?”
The young prince ignored him. “Taran!” He ran across the blood splashed cobblestones and flung himself onto the priest, hugging him tight.
Taran sheathed his dagger and patted him awkwardly on the back. “Um, hello Tommy. You're all right now. They're gone. Everything's all right.”
The boy buried his face in the fabric of Taran's tunic and shook his head. “No, it isn't,” he said, voice muffled
.
Understanding showed on Taran's face. “Oh,” he said. “Your grandfather.”
Tommy nodded and pointed back at Darnec. “He killed him.”
Darnec swallowed. Suddenly there was an ache in his chest that rivaled the pain of his reopened cut and kicked knee. No matter how he had tried to connect with Tomidan, he was still the man who had killed his grandfather. He met Taran's eyes and shrugged. Duty was duty. What else was there to do?
Taran's eyes narrowed. “Were you there when it happened, Tommy?”
“Not my idea,” Darnec said quickly. “The mage took him.”
Taran's scowl deepened. “Because he hasn't already traumatized the boy enough.”
Darnec levered himself from the wall, gingerly testing his knee as he did so. “We should get Tommy to safety and send word to the King's Guard.”
Taran nodded. “The monastery isn't far. We'll be safe there. Can you walk?”
“Yeah.” He had a slight limp but he'd walk it off. He glanced down at the sword that had been dropped by the thug who'd grabbed Tommy. Red stained the cobblestones around it. He looked back up at Brother Taran. “You don't fight like a priest,” he said.
Taran blinked. “What does a priest fight like?”
“Seriously, how does a monastery rat learn to fight like that?”
“I . . . had a difficult childhood.”
Darnec gave up. “Well, I'm glad you came along when you did. I don't think this was a random attack.”
Taran nodded. “It wasn't,” he said. “This is the second adult-and-child pair to be attacked in the last few days. This attack was part of a pattern.”
CHAPTER SIX
Brannon pulled back the sheet to reveal the face of the corpse. The man's skin was gray and lifeless. He was as cold as the stone walls of the physician college basement morgue. The dead eyes had been closed, as had the incisions from the autopsy. Brannon kept the sheet covering the chest to hide the dark thread holding the flesh together. The stitches were rough—there was no need to be precise when there would be no healing and no scar—and he didn't want to make the identification more distressing than it already would be. His own nightmares still sometimes showed him wounds from the battlefield. There was no need to inflict a similar experience on the orphanage mistress.
