The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2)

by Victor Gischler

  Prinn froze, didn’t lower the sword, her mind racing for ideas. Waiting favored Garth. The more Prinn bled, the more she wanted to simply fall down and close her eyes. Her mouth felt dry, heart thumping in her ears.

  “Now why don’t you just back on out of here?” Garth suggested. “Let’s all just take it easy and—”

  Garth screamed.

  Prinn’s eyes shifted to his feet.

  Alem had unfolded a short gentleman’s blade and had stabbed it straight down into the top of Garth’s foot, straight down through boot and bone. Garth kept screaming, trying to balance on one foot, his dagger hand coming away from Alem’s throat.

  Prinn rushed forward, slicing down with her sword. Garth’s hand came off at the wrist and flew away still clutching the dagger. Blood spurted from the stump.

  She lifted the sword high again to bring it down on Garth’s head.

  Garth threw himself on her, and they both went down, Prinn’s sword flying back behind.

  Garth ended up on top, jamming a handless forearm against her throat. “Fucking bitch. Kill you for that.”

  She raked her fingernails across her face, drawing four red lines, but Garth didn’t let up. All his weight was against her throat, his forearm pressing down, his leering face inches from hers. Spots in front of her eyes. Her mouth worked for breath that wouldn’t come.

  And in the next second he was off of her.

  She drew in breath, throat raw, coughed and gagged. She blinked away the spots, saw Garth and Alem wrestling and rolling across the stable floor.

  Prinn drew a dagger from her belt, tried to stand but couldn’t, the room spinning, face hot, stomach queasy. She crawled toward them on her belly, smearing the floor with blood. She suddenly could no longer move one leg, as if it were caught on something. She tried to yank it free without success. She looked back.

  The fat Burnard had an iron grip on her ankle. With his other hand, he was clutching his sliced belly. His fingers were completely red, his tunic soaked with blood. He lay on his side trying to wriggle along after her. His face was ashen, hair matted with sweat, but his expression was fierce with hatred.

  “You get back here, whore.” Burnard’s voice was hoarse, strained with the pain in his belly. “Think you can slice me and not pay for it, do you?”

  “Go fuck yourself.” She tried to kick him away, but he wouldn’t let go.

  But he couldn’t crawl after her either, not awkwardly lying on his side, one hand still clutching his gut. Burnard finally figured out he was a strong man, and she was a relatively small woman. He began pulling her toward him.

  Prinn tried to find purchase somewhere on the floor with her fingertips, anything to grab on to, but she felt herself being dragged backward. From five feet away she heard the grunts and struggles of Alem and Garth still locked in their own struggle.

  Burnard released his own belly to pull her toward him with both hands. When he’d finally dragged her close enough, he slammed a fist into the side of Prinn’s head. Bells went off and the world began to tilt and spin. She fumbled at her belt for the other dagger, and the big man’s fist slammed her again, this time across the mouth. She felt her teeth crack and she spat blood. Her vision blurred but she drew on every bit of strength she had left to keep from passing out.

  She drew the dagger and rolled toward him, stabbing blindly. It sank deep into his belly and he screamed. She pulled it out and stabbed a second time. She yanked it out again and blood sprayed. She stabbed a third time and couldn’t pull the blade out—stuck between two ribs, she suspected, and she didn’t have the strength to pry it free.

  Burnard lay still.

  Prinn pulled herself along, stomach dragging and bloody. Her senses reeled, eyes a dark blur, head pounding, bells loud in her ears. Blood and snot and sweat streamed down her face.

  Burnard twitched, pawed at the dagger in his chest.

  Just keep . . . going. Don’t . . . stop.

  Crawl away. Don’t . . . look back.

  Burnard pulled the dagger free, rose up, and lurched at Prinn, falling on her hard, bringing the dagger down between her shoulder blades. Fire exploded along her spine, and she went rigid.

  Oh no.

  Oh . . . no.

  ***

  Alem found himself on top of the leader. He’d heard the others call him Garth. He punched down hard and connected high on the man’s cheek, but Garth bucked him off and soon they were rolling around and grappling again.

  Garth had just lost a hand, but he was a veteran of countless back-alley brawls. No rules. Just life and death. He smashed a knee into Alem’s groin. Hard.

  The breath left Alem all at once. His face went red as he toppled over, groaning and clutching himself.

  Garth laughed as he crawled away. “Sorry about your stones, lad. I was going to make it quick, but things got complicated.”

  Alem tried to say something but was able to squeeze out only an urgent croak.

  Garth retrieved his dagger, staggered to his feet. “The boss said either grab you for a hostage or, if that didn’t work out, kill you and send a message to her grace. And I really hate to say it, lad, but this isn’t your night.”

  Alem rolled over, willed himself to get up, but his world had been reduced to a bright ball of pain radiating from his groin throughout his whole body. He felt he might vomit any second.

  Garth stood over him. He cradled his stump against his chest, held the dagger awkwardly in his other hand. “I’d like to take you back alive, but I can’t chance it now that I’m . . . shorthanded.” He waved the stump and chuckled.

  Alem couldn’t bring himself to see the humor.

  Garth lifted the dagger. “Again, nothing personal.”

  A crossbow bolt sprouted from the center of Garth’s forehead. His eyes crossed as he looked up at it. A moment of silence stretched before Garth twitched once and fell over backward, scattering a stack of watering buckets.

  Thank Dumo, Alem thought and passed out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It only seemed like a second later that Alem’s eyes flickered open. He was flat on his back. Tosh stood over him with a crossbow in his hand. Next to him stood one of the women turned sword maidens from the Wounded Bird. Alem couldn’t remember her name.

  His balls were still on fire, but not quite so bad now.

  “Are you okay?” Tosh asked. “Where are you hurt?”

  Alem’s eyes shifted briefly to the woman standing next to Tosh, then back. “Just . . . shaken up. I’ll be fine.”

  Alem sat up quickly, remembering. “Prinn.”

  “They’re looking at her now,” Tosh said.

  Alem staggered to his feet, the ache flaring in his groin, and went to a group of people a few feet away. Stasha Benadicta sat on the stable floor, Prinn’s head in her lap. Three other women knelt in a circle around them. There were bloody rags all over. The women pressed more rags against Prinn’s wounds, the blood seeping through so fast. A pool of blood spread slowly out from her. The women trying to help her were kneeling in it. It seemed impossible one girl could hold so much blood.

  Prinn’s face was ghost white. She twitched, eyes blinking, mouth working, trying to speak.

  “Don’t talk,” Stasha said. “Stay still. Let us help you.”

  Prinn shook her head. She must have known she was almost gone. She lifted a hand, bright and slick with blood, and weakly gestured to Stasha. The chamberlain bent her head, and Prinn whispered in her ear.

  From a few feet away, Alem couldn’t quite make out Prinn’s whisper, but the chamberlain’s eyes grew larger at the dying woman’s words.

  Prinn suddenly went rigid. A long sigh leaked out of her as she deflated slowly and went limp in Stasha’s arms.

  Alem heard a sniff behind him, turned to see Tosh wiping his eyes.

  Tosh saw him looking and said, “She was one of the first after Tenni. That I trained, I mean. They all wanted to learn how to fight. I wish I’d never shown them. I wish—” He turned
away, rubbing his eyes with his palms.

  Alem looked back at Prinn. She saved me. It cost her everything. How had she known? Or was it a coincidence? Maybe she’d come down to the stables on other business.

  Alem might never know.

  Stasha stood. Her eyes were red and glistening. She clasped her bloodstained hands in front of her, back straight, chin up. All eyes went to her immediately.

  “Listen to me,” she said calmly. “There’s been a terrible tragedy, but we must set our grief aside for the moment. Duchess Veraiin wanted Tosh’s expedition away at dawn before too many prying eyes were awake. We’re late, but still, the sooner they’re off the better.”

  Alem glanced at the stable’s doorway, where a small group of people hovered, looking inside. He hadn’t noticed them before, but obviously this was the team setting out with Tosh. He looked up, saw the stable boys watching the scene wide-eyed from the hayloft. They were supposed to be saddling horses.

  Guess I can’t blame them for gawking.

  Tosh shouldered past Alem. “Mother, under the circumstances, perhaps we’d better—”

  Stasha shot him a fierce look.

  “Your pardon,” Tosh said. “Lady Chamberlain.”

  Stasha’s expression softened, but only slightly. “No more delays. We have our duty to do, and we’ll all carry on as best we can.” She pointed at one of the women still kneeling in Prinn’s blood. “You, go and fetch a blanket and two men to carry Prinn to the lower crypts. We’ll bury her honorably after our work here is done.” She pointed at one of the other women. “You, round up men to build a fire. I want the bodies of these street toughs burned, but make sure they’re searched first. Listen, all of you. No one says a thing. Do you understand? The events that have transpired in this stable this morning are to be treated as an official state secret. Even a hint of a whisper gets out and Dumo help you.”

  They all stared at her dumbly.

  “Get to it,” she shouted.

  The stable erupted with activity. The two women Stasha had appointed bolted from the stable, running into those who entered with baggage.

  Stasha looked pointedly at Alem. “Horses.”

  Alem gulped.

  “Get down here now,” Alem shouted at the stable boys. “I want these horses saddled and ready to go in three minutes.”

  The stables boys nearly fell down the ladder as they scurried to obey, some leading horses from stalls, others fetching saddles and gear.

  Stasha approached Alem, stopped when she stood next to him, pitched her voice low. “Are you okay?”

  Alem nodded. “I will be. Just a few bumps and bruises. Thank you, Lady Chamberlain.” His eyes drifted to Prinn. “I just wish . . . I wish I could thank her.”

  She patted him briefly on the shoulder, then turned to supervise the two men who’d arrived for Prinn’s body.

  Alem found Tosh. He wished he could leave the man alone with his grief, but this couldn’t wait. “I want to come with you.”

  Tosh looked confused. “Rina’s orders?”

  Alem hesitated then shook his head.

  Tosh frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “You don’t have to take me on your mission,” Alem said. “I don’t want to get in the way. As far as Kern will do. I just want to ride along. I’m leaving either way, but I’d prefer not to be out on the road alone.”

  “But why?”

  “I just need to leave. There’s nothing in Klaar for me.”

  An expression crossed Tosh’s face like he understood, or could at least guess. “Okay, why not? Sure. Happy to have you ride along.”

  “Absolutely not!”

  Both men turned their heads, startled.

  A slight figure, short, concealed in a travel cloak. She threw back her hood, scowling, eyes blazing. “He is not coming with us,” Maurizan said.

  Alem flinched as if he’d been struck, partly because of the surprise, and partly because of the naked hostility radiating off her. And her red hair had always been so striking, and those eyes, and the glowing skin and the freckles—

  What, am I crazy? She looks like she wants to murder me.

  “His coming along isn’t part of the arrangement,” Maurizan said sharply. “We don’t need him.”

  “The arrangement is that I bring you,” Tosh said. “Other than that, I pick my own team. You don’t have anything to say about it.”

  The gypsy girl opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut again. If evil looks could kill, Alem would have fallen dead on the spot. She turned on a heel and went to her horse.

  Tosh rolled his eyes. “This is going to be just one long, fun trip, isn’t it?”

  “Sorry,” Alem said. “I wasn’t looking to cause trouble.”

  “Forget it,” Tosh said. “But I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  A shape came for her in the darkness.

  Rina ran.

  From shadow to fog.

  The shape pursued her.

  She tried to tap into the spirit and failed. Panic seized her. She was lost in the fog, barefoot, the ground wet and cold. Where was she? A forest, it seemed, but she couldn’t be sure. The fog swirled around her, thicker, cold, clinging to her hair and thin nightgown. She felt the shape at her back, an icy sensation of dread.

  She ran faster.

  The forest opened into a clearing.

  A temple. A high wall with the gate smashed open.

  Wait. I recognize this place.

  It was the Temple of Mordis. There had been a terrible battle here. She’d slaughtered nearly a hundred Perranese warriors who were attempting to storm the temple. She blinked, looked again. The slain Perranese littered the ground all around her as if summoned by the memory. Somehow they seemed older, skeletons, as if the corpses had been here for centuries. The battle had been the first time she’d used the skeletal tattoo on her palm. She looked down at her hand and gasped.

  The tattoo was gone.

  She looked at her ankles. The lightning-bolt tattoos were gone too. They were all gone.

  She turned abruptly and looked back at the tree line at the edge of the clearing. The dark shape still loomed there in the fog, only its vague bulk discernible and two eyes like glowing red coals. She sensed it no longer pursued her, but it loomed in the darkness, ready. If she turned back, it would be waiting.

  When she faced the temple again, someone was there.

  A shriveled, emaciated figure in a black robe stood between the temple’s shattered gates, his hood pulled forward to obscure the face. He stood barefoot.

  But Rina knew who he was. She went to him. “High Priest Krell.”

  He pulled back his hood. His skin stretched too thin over his skull, complexion chalky, grin an obscene collection of yellowing teeth. Frail as a bundle of dry sticks, but his eyes were bright and knowing.

  “How nice we should meet again, Duchess Veraiin.”

  She’d forgotten how unpleasant his voice sounded, like rough stones scraping across rusty metal.

  Rina showed her blank palm to the priest. “The tattoo is gone.”

  “Don’t worry,” Krell told her. “The Hand of Death will be waiting for you when you awake.”

  “I’m dreaming.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then this isn’t real?”

  Krell’s laugh was halfway between a wheeze and a hiss. “It most assuredly is real, Duchess. I’m here as a reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “You owe the Cult of Mordis,” the priest reminded her. “We have a bargain.”

  “What if I don’t honor it?”

  A mild shrug. “Break the bargain if you dare.” He gestured behind her. “The consequences await.”

  She looked back. The figure in the darkness was still there, eyes glowing. “What is it?”

  Another shrug, even vaguer and more noncommittal this time. “Your conscience, perhaps?”

  “Don’t toy with me,” Rina said sh
arply.

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” Krell said. “But while my message to you is real enough, this conversation is transpiring in your dream, your own mind, filled with all the pitfalls that entails. We are adrift in the sea of your own misgivings, fears, hopes, worries, and anxieties. For those I am not responsible. Again, I am here only to remind you of your obligation.”

  Rina took one more look at the sinister, glowing eyes. “You know what it is and you won’t tell me.”

  “There is also that possibility, yes,” Krell admitted. “But the more likely answer is that while I have suspicions, I know very little with an absolute certainty.”

  “But you have the sight.” When she’d first met Krell, Rina had been informed the priest was a seer.

  “I see what the gods allow,” Krell said. “They show me only what furthers their purposes.”

  “You sound more like a puppet than a seer,” Rina said.

  The priest smiled thinly. “I serve as I can. It isn’t for me to decide how. I am simply an instrument. But I do know one thing, and I think you do too. Things are changing. This epoch is fading into history. We find ourselves amid the birthing pains of a new one. The gods battle, maneuver, entice, and attempt to outwit one another. Which will be dominant is yet to be determined. The game plays out even now, here, with the two of us, two pawns who play our small parts.”

  “I’m not a pawn,” Rina said. “And I don’t want any part of this game.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Krell said. “None of us does. If a pawn chooses not to move, then another piece will. The game goes on.” He shook his head, sighed. “But this sort of talk is academic. Pawns don’t get to see the end game of the gods. I did my part and made sure you received the Hand of Death. Now you must do your part. Fulfill your obligation, Rina Veraiin. Are you not a person of honor?”

  “Honor is a word men use to justify duels and wars,” Rina said. “My only concern is doing the right thing.”

  “History will decide what is right,” Krell said. “Return to this temple. Come back, and I will give you what you need to fulfill your destiny.”