Ghost of the Wall

by Jeff Mariotte

  Hating him was not enough to want him dead.

  “Kral,” she said, “he needs help.”

  “We call for help and we’ll be calling his Rangers down on us,” Kral reminded her. He still hadn’t released Lupinius’s chin.

  “Perhaps,” she admitted. “Still . . .”

  “The crown,” Kral said again, shaking Lupinius’s head. Her uncle groaned.

  “Gone . . .” Lupinius said weakly. “Stolen . . .”

  “By who?” Kral demanded. “Who took it?”

  “Kral, do not hurt him,” Alanya pleaded.

  “He’s already dead,” Kral answered. “Near enough.”

  Donial had stood to one side, watching the scene with liquid eyes. Now she turned to him. “Donial, call for aid,” she said.

  Kral turned sharply back to her. But as he did, she saw his brutal façade melt. “Yes,” he agreed, with some obvious reluctance. “Call. Your uncle yet lives.”

  Alanya was filled with the desire—not for the first time—to pull Kral into her arms. He had every reason to want Lupinius dead, even more than she did. But he had put those desires aside, for her. She longed for the chance to do something as wonderful for him.

  Donial moved to the door of the anteroom, stepping past Rufio’s still form, and threw the outer door open wide. “Aid!” he shouted into the night. “Lupinius is injured!”

  Kral winced at the sound of her brother’s cry. “We should go,” he said. “Now, before they come. There is nothing more that we can do for him, and staying would be suicide.”

  “But—” Alanya began.

  “Think you for a second that I will not be blamed?” Kral asked. “If so, you delude yourself.”

  Outside, voices cried out in response to Donial’s call. Alanya could hear footsteps rushing across the flagstones. They would have to leave now. Even so they would likely be seen. She clutched the mirror tightly, wishing it held answers for her.

  “But he can tell them that—” she started. She stopped when her uncle’s body shuddered. Blood flowed freely from his mouth and nose. He uttered a ghastly rattle, then was still.

  “He will tell them nothing,” Kral said. “He is dead, Alanya.”

  Her eyes filled with tears for the man she hated. The last member of her family, save Donial. Her father’s father’s last surviving son.

  The tears were bitter, stinging. And yet they ran from her eyes, down cheeks flushed with emotion.

  Kral had been willing to try to save her uncle’s life. But they had come too late. Too late for the crown, too late to save Lupinius.

  “Come,” Kral said. “Quickly, while we can.”

  Now Alanya agreed. “Yes,” she said. “Run. Run from here.”

  Even as she said it, she knew that she would be back.

  Her uncle was dead, but in some way, that was almost a relief. Getting the mirror back was a victory she would savor. And now there was nothing to stand in the way of getting her house back, as well. The city guardsmen would support them, and if necessary they could—with Cheveray’s help—go to the courts. All the way to King Conan, if need be. She and Donial might be alone, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be a family and living in their family home. Here they could rebuild their lives in familiar surroundings.

  Alanya felt as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. All of her thoughts and feelings had been tentative, somehow, as if she had been waiting for something to happen. Now, holding the mirror, standing in her father’s house—her house—she believed that it had.

  The long nightmare was over. Her father was still dead—would always be dead, just as her mother was. But that didn’t mean life came to an end. Clutching the precious mirror, she didn’t even care about its supposed magical properties.

  She had all the magic she needed, right here. Hope. Optimism. A renewed sense that in spite of all that had transpired, the future would be a happy one. That once again, this house would be filled with laughter and joy and the simple, lasting pleasures of family and friends.

  She looked at her little brother, and he was studying her, uncertain. “We’re home, aren’t we?” he asked.

  “Yes, Donial,” Alanya said. “Yes, I believe that we are.”

  EPILOGUE

  IT WASN’T UNTIL they tried to leave the house that they were spotted.

  Men raced about the courtyard. Someone had seen the bodies at the front gate. Moments after they left her father’s office, where Lupinius had finally died, Alanya heard shouts from there as well. Rufio’s corpse, and Lupinius’s, had been discovered.

  They were headed for the back gate, Alanya still gripping the mirror, wishing she could stay in the house. To try to do so tonight would be too complicated, she understood. Kral was right—to be seen here would raise the suspicion that she, Donial, and Kral were involved in their uncle’s murder.

  Before they reached the stable, however, Donial sneezed. It was a quiet sneeze, and uncontrollable, but definitely audible. A shout from around the corner of the house told them that others had heard it, too.

  “Quick!” Kral urged. The three of them broke into sprints, heading for the back gate, and safety. Donial, as usual, was the fastest when it came to running all out. Kral trailed him, and Alanya brought up the rear, though not by much.

  She heard sounds of pursuit: the slap of sandaled feet on the flagstones, the clink of metal, the creak of leather. She kept her strides long and loose, trying to put as much distance between herself and them as she could. Outside the gate, she heard Kral shout a command. “Split up!” he called. “We can meet again later!”

  She didn’t want to do it—he didn’t know the city that well, after all. And she felt responsible for her little brother.

  But she had promised to obey Kral’s orders. And Donial was speedy. He was probably halfway to Cheveray’s by now. She couldn’t even see him anymore in the dark streets.

  So with a last glance toward Kral, she let him go left at the next corner, while she went right. A man sitting inside a doorway alcove called something out to her as she ran past, but she was moving too fast and didn’t hear, or care.

  Cheveray’s house. That’s where she would find shelter. That was where she, Donial, and Kral would meet up again. That’s where they would take the steps that would restore her family’s home to her.

  She would take a roundabout route, in case she was still being pursued. But after a few minutes, she hadn’t heard anyone chasing her, and she began to relax. Even to smile, thinking about tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after, that she would spend in her house.

  All, in some strange way, thanks to a young barbarian named Kral.

  She owed him, she knew. She owed him a lot.

  She would repay him any way she could.

  WITHIN A COUPLE of blocks, Kral was hopelessly lost.

  He could find his way through any forest, up any mountain and back down again. But the city streets followed no natural plan. Sometimes they were laid out in square blocks, but then other streets curved. Some ended abruptly, even though those around them continued on for miles. He had run blindly. At last he found himself at a dead end, looking up at three blank walls. He could climb them, he supposed. But would it make any more sense on the rooftops?

  Then he heard a voice, and even that option was cut off. “There he is!”

  He looked, and saw three of Lupinius’s Rangers—sobered by the night’s events, he guessed—bearing down on him with swords drawn. There were only three, so he might be able to take them. But they were too close. If he tried to climb, they’d have the advantage. They could stab at his legs, cut him, while he had no way to defend. They’d bring him down and finish him.

  Instead, Kral ran straight toward them, his knife in his left hand and the unfamiliar sword in his right. He slashed madly as he neared them, and all three fell into defensive positions, parrying his wild blows. One of them bumped into another with an explosive curse. Kral felt his sword tip scrape armor, and then he was past them, runn
ing again.

  At the corner, his foot hit a wet patch on the road and almost went out from under him. He caught himself against a wall, though it meant losing his knife, and kept his balance.

  But as he rounded the corner, he ran headlong into an armored chest. Barely balanced as he was, he rebounded off it and flew sprawling into the street. Looking up, he saw that he had run smack into the cuirass of an Aquilonian soldier. Behind this soldier were half a dozen others, all in full armor, carrying halberds and swords. Back from patrol, maybe, or guard duty at the city gates.

  He didn’t know, and really, it didn’t matter. He was on the ground, with seven Aquilonian soldiers staring at him in amazement.

  And on the other side, closing in again, the three Rangers.

  “He’s a Pict!” one of the soldiers uttered.

  “He’s our Pict,” one of the Rangers countered. “He’s our prisoner.”

  “Fine with me,” the soldier said. “The city guard may have something to say about that, but we’ll see.”

  “I am no man’s prisoner,” Kral managed to say.

  He hoped it was true. But they had him surrounded and outnumbered.

  The best Kral could do was hope for a miracle. And the Pictish gods didn’t generally provide those.

  At least Alanya had escaped. She was the one who had brought this all about. The beauty in the forest, the golden-haired girl he hadn’t been able to keep away from. She had her mirror and she would have her home, her brother, her friends. She had a life here in the city, even if he didn’t.

  No matter what happened to him, he thought, that was something to celebrate.

  Looking at the soldiers and the Rangers ranked around him, Kral started to laugh.