The Mercenaries of the Stolen Moon

by Megan Derr

  Charlaine looked to the imperial box, which was at the northern point of the stadium, well above everything else and jutting out slightly to give the best possible view of the stadium ring. Sarrica, Lesto, Rene and Shemal occupied seats at the back of the box, conversing quietly and drinking. Allen, Tara, Kamir, and Larren were right up against the edge, watching the fighting below avidly and speaking animatedly with each other. Just behind them stood Jac and Chass, and all around the perimeter and at the entrance were Fathoms Deep and Penance Gate soldiers. Along the edge, and mixed in the crowd, were Fathoms Deep and Three-headed Dragons, and probably imperial soldiers out of uniform.

  Even at a distance, Charlaine could see something sad in Chass's normally closed off face as he watched his brothers, but whatever was upsetting Chass wasn't his problem, even if he was damned curious. The only emotions Chass ever wore openly were anger and dark amusement.

  He turned his attention to the ring itself, where fifty-six people had split into pairs, artfully dueling, equal parts martial skill and theatrical talent, occasionally breaking up into a chaotic mass before arranging into new pairs again and starting anew.

  The back of his neck itched, but Charlaine couldn't say why past the obvious, and that bothered the piss out of him. He'd almost rather be working; at least then he'd have something to do and would be somewhere more effective than on the fringes of the stadium.

  Rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension, he finally pushed onward, threading through the standing-only crowd along the edges of the seating area and climbing the steps to the first set of raised seats. All the while he kept searching the crowd—for someone too tense, too casual, too alert but not really watching the show. There was so much movement, though, that oddities were hard to spot. If he were an assassin trying to climb all the way to the imperial box, how would he go about it? Either be inside to begin with, which was highly unlikely, or scale it from the front or back. But those positions were blocked as well. From the air? Soltorin was known for their strange gliders, a secret they shared with no one. Many had tried to recreate them, but so far no one had succeeded.

  He glanced at Myra, who scowled when he noticed Charlaine. Then he looked back at the performance—and saw something that drained the color from his face. He surged to his feet, eyes snapping to Charlaine. "The duelists!"

  Charlaine whipped around and ran toward the ring, right as people started screaming and panicking. A moment ago the stadium had been filled with joy; now it was filled with screams of terror and pain as people shoved and pushed and trampled each other. He fought his way through the crowds and swung over the low wall that separated the ring from the spectators.

  But he was too late. Many of the performers lay dead, and a few of the remaining were fighting off the guards that had surged forward the moment they'd noticed a problem. Blood soaked the sawdust, the iron tang of it sharp in his nose. Charlaine drew his sword and buckler as two of the assassins came at him, but taking on those two allowed another two to slip past.

  By the time he'd dealt with his attackers and turned, the other two had vanished up the wall and into the imperial box. And it seemed like more than two were already there.

  Given how few of the performers were dead and how many seemed to be missing, Charlaine's blood ran cold at the idea of how many assassins there might be.

  Shouts and curses came from behind him and Charlaine turned just in time to deal with another pair of assassins.

  They all froze at the sound of a gut-wrenching, agonizing scream. That was High Consort Allen.

  Charlaine finished off his assailants and ran for the imperial box—just in time to see Myra throw somebody out of it. The body, broken and bled out, fell at his feet. Charlaine looked up and froze in place at the cold expression on Myra's face. If he saw Charlaine, there was no way to tell before he vanished again.

  Running up the stairs—and over three dead Penance Gate guards who looked like they'd gone down hard—Charlaine barreled up to the imperial box.

  And found a bloodbath. The sight and smell nearly made him gag, despite his years of experience. The space was meant to hold a maximum of thirty people. Sarrica, Allen, their guests and guards had comprised twenty-two. There were at least thirty-five people crammed into the place, not counting the additional guards who had arrived right behind Charlaine. Or all the dead bodies.

  So many dead bodies. All of them highly experienced soldiers. The best of Fathoms Deep and Penance Gate had been assigned, and nearly all of them lay dead. None of them had died easily or pleasantly.

  Allen was bent sobbing over a body, and for a moment Charlaine thought it was Sarrica.

  Not that the reality was better: Larren lay in a pool of blood, and what looked like damage from at least two blades responsible for killing him. One through his gut, the other across his throat. Given the blades lying around them…

  Well, it would probably be for the best if Allen wasn't present when the body was moved because the head might have to be moved separately if it was as severed as Charlaine feared.

  Lesto heaved to his feet then pulled Sarrica up. He yanked a dagger from his shoulder and snarled, "Get them out of here!"

  Jader was already moving. He kicked and shoved away the bodies of the men who'd cornered him, bellowing orders to the few soldiers still standing.

  Chass looked the worst of them, his spiked armor more red than gray, blood pouring down the left side of his head and more where something had thrust between the cuisse and fan-plate in his armor. Despite the injured leg, he mustered to his feet, scooped up a screaming, protesting Allen, and ran from the box—Charlaine barely dodging out of his way in time. He looked over the edge to see as more Penance Gate guards closed in around them, a spiked, blood-red wall with swords, war hammers, and axes ready to spread pain.

  How had a small group of assassins caused so much damage to some of the best soldiers in the empire? Lesto's personal force, for Pantheon's sake, and Penance Gate, who'd fought off armies three times their numbers.

  What was left of Fathoms Deep closed in around Sarrica, and the remaining Penance Gate led away everyone else, leaving only Jader, Charlaine, Myra—

  "Where's Jac?" Myra cracked out, holding one bleeding arm, more blood dripping from his forehead. "She was here. She saved Allen. Then when I turned back she was gone."

  Jader glared thunderously. "I want to know why I was told to expect roughly nine assassins and instead I wound up facing at least thirty. That's not a band of assassins, that's a mercenary force!"

  Charlaine wanted to throw up. Had there really been so many? But he'd killed four himself, seen two more get by him…and he couldn't count the number of dead bodies up here and the still more that had been thrown over the side. That wasn't how assassins operated. No wonder there'd been a bloodbath. They'd been prepared for a completely different kind of fight. Pantheon. If they hadn't known about it…

  "I've never heard of them doing such a thing," Myra said, shaking his head, wiping at the blood and sweat on his face but only smearing it. "I told you everything I know—"

  "And now the Crown Prince of Gaulden, the High Consort's eldest brother, is dead," Jader snapped.

  Anger filled Myra's face. "Arrest me if you want! Execute me! I don't care! I did the best I could! Where is Jac!"

  Jader swore and kicked aside the arm that had flopped across his boot when a body shifted. "I don't know. I thought she was with Allen." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Somebody get me more Fathoms Deep."

  Charlaine turned to do so but caught movement and looked down. "Already on their way, Commander."

  Acknowledging the words with a grunt, Jader knelt beside Larren's body. From the grim set of his mouth, he shared Charlaine's assessment. "Help me." Charlaine moved forward and knelt on Larren's other side, removing his sash and working with Jader to secure his head so moving him wouldn't finish the job the killer had started.

  As the Fathoms Deep soldiers arrived, Jader said, "Half of you are to
escort me to the palace. Nobody comes close. Kill anyone who even remotely seems a threat. I want the rest to gather up these bodies. Take ours to the pavilion, the assassins to the dungeons for further examination."

  They chorused an acknowledgement. Jader glanced at Myra, then snapped to Charlaine, "Get him back to the palace. He's to remain in his rooms until I say otherwise."

  "Yes, Commander."

  "And figure out where in the Realms Jac has gone!" Jader snarled before heading off with Larren cradled in his arms, wrapped in his cloak, several of the Fathoms Deep soldiers closing in around him.

  Charlaine looked out over the empty stadium, the bodies still lying in the ring—most of the performers and nearly all of the soldiers. More bodies were in the stands, guards and would-be heroes who'd tried to stop fleeing assassins or otherwise gotten caught in the chaos. His eyes stung, but he pushed the tears back with years of practice.

  If the goal had been to damage the stability and morale of the Harken Empire, whoever had commissioned the attack had gotten their money's worth.

  Looking away, Charlaine finally approached Myra and gently took his uninjured arm. "Are you all right?"

  Myra let out a bitter, angry laugh that turned into a sob. "I did everything I could. I tried to help. What did I do wrong? Should I have said nothing?"

  "No," Charlaine said, pulling him close and threading one hand through Myra's messy, blood-soaked hair. "Without you, this tragedy would be far greater. Jader's angry, but I promise he's almost entirely angry with himself. Never mind that the first thing people are going to do is declare him an unfit High Commander, and that's one more thing the High Throne doesn't need right now. Nobody could have perfectly braced for an unknown attack involving thirty high-end assassins." He hugged Myra tightly. "I saw you—you did everything you possibly could. Come on, let's get you back to the palace. It's not safe to remain here."

  "We have to find Jac. It's strange she's gone missing. That's not like her."

  "She's probably back at the palace, and you missed her in the chaos. I can't tell you the number of times something similar has happened to me—both the one looking for someone and the one being sought."

  Myra did not look convinced but nodded and finally let Charlaine help him across the bloody, body-strewn space and down the steps. It took some time to make it to the corral where the horses were kept, but once there it was easy enough to fetch his own horse.

  The palace was eerily quiet when they reached it: the pavilion desolate, the halls empty save for nervous servants and tense guards.

  At his side, Myra pressed closer, trembling, tears falling despite obvious efforts to hold them back and wipe them angrily away. "Will you go look for Jac?"

  "Of course," Charlaine said. "Once I know you're settled and well—as well as can be." He shook his head at Myra's attempted protests, and the rest of the journey to Myra's suite was done in silence.

  But as they started down the hallway toward his door, Myra gave a cry and bolted for it. Charlaine saw the reason as he gave chase. They came to an unsteady halt in front of the door.

  A note had been pinned to it with a black-handled dagger, the nasty, curved kind common to the Triumvirate and similar to the knives favored by Islanders, since the original purpose of both was for cutting fish and opening shellfish and similar chores.

  Myra yanked the dagger from the door and broke the seal on the note.

  Charlaine looked over his shoulder, but the note was written in what he vaguely recognized as Soltorish. Like most mercs, he knew a smattering of words in several languages—just enough to ask for food, a bed, where to piss, and where to hire a fuck for the night. Like many officers, he also knew how to ask what the bribe was to get his useless, drunk enlisted out of jail.

  So he knew what Soltorish looked like, but the letter was far beyond knowing how to ask for a beer and a whore. "What does it say?"

  "That if I want Jac to live, I'm to meet them at the Sharktooth by sundown. If I don't come, Jac will die and they'll come for me anyway."

  Charlaine frowned. "Why not simply come for you, then? Why go to all this trouble? This gives us a chance to trap them."

  "I think they'll come for me eventually. Judging from the bodies in the imperial box, most of their forces are dead." Myra's lip curled. "No doubt they expected that. I can't imagine why else they would go with a force that is more than three times larger than normal. We failed to save Prince L-L—" Myra broke off crying, crumbling the note in his hand. "We failed to save Prince Larren. I'm not going to lose Jac too."

  "You can't—"

  "What?" Myra snarled, the words rattling through the empty hallway. "You can't seriously expect me to leave her? Let her die? This is my fault. I can't bring back Prince Larren, but I can save Jac! If they want me, they can have me." He shoved Charlaine away, unlocked his door, and barreled through it.

  Charlaine swore and chased after him, but all he got for his efforts was the bedroom door slammed in his face and locked. He pounded on it. "Myra! Open this fucking door!" He yanked at the handle to test it, but it was unfortunately sturdy enough that breaking it wasn't likely. Not without tools he didn't currently have. "Myra, I will break down this door and then break your fucking—"

  He jumped and turned around at the sound of someone clearing their throat and stared at a haggard, blood-smeared Riker. "What?"

  "Their Majesties demand Myra's presence immediately."

  "Then you fucking get him out of there," Charlaine said.

  Riker hefted the bloody hammer she still held and stepped toward the door—only for it to swing open.

  Charlaine sucked in a sharp breath through his nostrils, eyes locked on the stranger before him.

  Myra's hair was gone, shorn close the way a soldier would wear it. He was dressed entirely in black, the clothes fitted, the jacket short, and he had boots that came to his knees, clearly made to hide slim throwing knives. There were fingerless gloves on his hands, and Charlaine counted at least five daggers, not including the knives in his boots. He held a long, dark coat that probably hid things Charlaine didn't want to know about.

  He swallowed. "Myra…"

  "I'll come see Their Majesties," Myra said to Riker, completely ignoring Charlaine. He shrugged into the coat and buttoned it.

  Riker snorted. "Don't let the High Commander catch you with all those pointy things. He's already spitting mad."

  "I deserve whatever anger I receive. Let's get this over with."

  "Damn it, Myra—"

  They left, still ignoring him, and oh was Charlaine going to have a lot of words, at very high levels, with Myra about that later. For the moment, however, he shunted his anger and worry aside and chased after them, keeping pace all the way to the office.

  Thankfully, they let him in as well, and he slipped in his quiet, easy to miss way to a corner of the room—though that skill did not spare him raised brows from Jader.

  Myra crossed over to where Allen sat on the sofa struggling not to resume crying and dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. "Your Majesty, apologies are insufficient, but I am sorry that my attempts to help were such an abysmal failure. I swear to you I held nothing back and did all that I could. I apologize that it was not enough."

  "It's not—it's not—" Allen stopped, drew a shaky breath, and tried again, covering Sarrica's hand where it rested on his shoulder. Behind him, Sarrica shifted restlessly, but obediently remained silent as Allen finally said, "It's not your fault. You do not owe us apologies. Everyone involved did the best they could. Lesto, Jader and Chass all advised against going to the opening ceremonies, but we elected to go anyway. I elected to go anyway. If I had listened and foregone the festival as I was told, my brother would still be alive. The blame lies with me."

  "With us," Sarrica said gruffly. "I agreed with you that we should attend anyway."

  "Your brother made the decision as well," Lesto said. "We're all culpable. As head of your bodyguards, it was my right to lock you in your rooms. I
didn't. We're all to blame for this tragedy."

  Allen just cried harder.

  "The ones most to blame are those who did the killing," Sarrica said roughly. "We are going to find at least one of the bastards to shake information from before removing their head. Myra, stand up already. What happened to your hair? Why are you dressed that way?"

  Sarrica looked almost as haggard as he had on the day Nyle died, and also in pain, probably because his arm was in a sling but he hadn't taken any medicine. Lesto and Jader looked as though they were ready to execute themselves or help each other do it. Chass looked like a man who had never cried in his life, and never would, but very much wished he knew how. Not something Charlaine had expected to see from him.

  All of them needed to be properly tended by healers, but Charlaine didn't waste time telling them so. Eventually, when they were willing to listen, Lesto or Jader would see it was done.

  In reply, Myra stood and held out the note, and as Allen took it, he explained what it said.

  "Jac!" Allen said, tears renewing. "Sarrica—"

  Sarrica made a rough, pained noise and moved around to sit on the couch, pulling Allen into his lap heedless of his damaged arm, and held him tightly. He stared at Myra, meeting his gaze, looking old and tired and hard-edged. "What do we need to do?"

  "Let me go," Myra said. "All they want is me. If they sense anyone else is involved, they will kill her. They don't give a damn about Jac. But they know she's important to Allen and that I'll come for her. So let me go. I'll take one person with me, provided they stay back and well out of sight, to ensure Jac gets home safely in case she's wounded or otherwise incapacitated. If you try to send in more than that, I promise you she won't survive the night. They've accomplished enough of their mission; the rest of this is personal, so it won't matter to them what kind of blood they shed or chaos they cause, as long as they can get what they want and get out."