The Mercenaries of the Stolen Moon

by Megan Derr

  "We're not just trading one of you for the other," Sarrica snapped. "That's not a solution."

  "I'm not trading—"

  "Don't insult me," Sarrica said, voice so harsh and cold that even Charlaine froze and stared. "I know the look of a person who has no intention of coming home."

  Myra swallowed at the words and nearly started to cry. "That doesn't mean I don't want to come h-home," he said shakily.

  "Your life isn't any less valuable than Jac's. If you're too intent on your suicide mission to help us form a real plan, then you're dismissed. Sergeant Riker, take him back to his room, and it's your job if he gets out."

  "Yes, Your Majesty." Riker stepped forward, hauled Myra close, and held fast.

  Charlaine peeled out of his corner and went after them.

  "What do you think you're doing, Lieutenant?" Jader demanded.

  Stopping, Charlaine faced him head-on and said, "He's my friend. He's behaving stupidly because he's in pain and feels guilty and afraid and wants to do something, just like everyone else here. Now he's being sent to his room like a child. I'm not going to let him sit there and all the pain fester."

  "Fine. Keep me apprised." Jader jerked his head, and Charlaine gave a hasty salute before all but running out of the room.

  He caught up to Riker and Myra halfway back to Myra's room—and stopped short as he registered they weren't moving but seemed to be waiting for him. Slowing his steps, approaching warily, Charlaine asked, "What's going on?"

  "The end of a promising career, that's what," Riker said, striking the wall with the side of her fist. If she cared about the blood she left behind, she made no show of it. Normally, Charlaine might have teased her about being an uncouth barbarian, but right then the sight of blood smeared across the ornate green and gold wallpaper just made him sick and sad. "Get going, both of you. I'll delay their finding out for as long as I possibly can."

  Charlaine frowned. "Why are you helping us?"

  She sneered. "I don't care about you. I'm helping the Captain."

  "The Captain?" Charlaine blinked slowly. "What does Chass have to do with this?"

  Riker huffed. "Are you that stupid? If you don't go after those men to get Jac back then Chass will—he'll do whatever he has to, no matter the cost, for the High Consort. The last thing any of us needs right now is Chass striking out on his own. Certainly Their Majesties or Penance Gate don't need that." Sorrow overtook her face for a brief, blink-and-you-miss-it moment, and more quietly she added. "Least of all Chass."

  Myra made a derisive noise. "Captain Chass hates Allen. He used to beat—"

  "You know nothing about it," Riker hissed, grabbing him by the throat of his jacket and yanking him in close. "Nothing at all. Captain Chass loves the High Consort and would die to protect him. After everything Chass has done for Aria and the others, I will do whatever it takes to protect him, even if that means throwing away my career and going back to my mother's damned dairy farm. Now go, because they'll probably feel bad in a little while and recall Myra, at which point time's run out."

  Charlaine had at least a hundred questions about that little rant, but he stowed them for later—probably much later.

  "We owe you," Myra said, and Charlaine clapped her arm before they bolted off.

  Though Charlaine would have preferred to go to his room to get better armor and more weapons, it wasn't worth the risk or time. Commandeering horses from the public palace stables, they rode off as fast they could for Harkenesten City.

  "I don't suppose you know where this pub we're supposed to meet at is located?" Myra looked frustrated and miserable that he had to ask, but Charlaine didn't comment. One of the most difficult parts of being the imperial Head Secretary was that it made him a liability. So much like Sarrica and Allen and many others who knew too much, Myra seldom left the palace and when he did, it was with a well-armed escort. So though he'd lived in Harkenesten for twenty years, there were entire parts of it he wasn't familiar with.

  "I do, actually," Charlaine said. "The Sharktooth is one of those dubious holes that are scattered all over the dockyards. One pin will buy you a bowl of soup that tastes like it was made with week-old shit and a cup of beer that's probably just the bartender's piss. We'll have to burn our clothes when we're done." And probably shave everything, but one problem at a time.

  Myra grimaced but said nothing, only signaled for Charlaine to lead the way.

  It took them a good hour to fight through the chaos of the sprawling, overcrowded city, especially since the whole place was frantic over what had happened at the festival. From what snatches he caught, reality had already blown into wild rumors.

  As they reached the street the pub was on, it was almost a relief to shunt all his other thoughts aside. He dismounted and led their horses to an alleyway. Nobody would be stupid enough to steal horses bearing palace brands, but he didn't want to draw more attention than they likely already had. "It's that building there, you see it?"

  "Hard to miss the shark skeleton and the additional head full of teeth over the door," Myra said, sounding amused before he remembered there was nothing funny about the situation.

  Charlaine ached, but words of comfort would just be ignored right then. "Once you're inside, I'll slip around the back."

  "They'll have people watching and—"

  "And I've been doing this longer than you," Charlaine snapped. "You might be a former Soltorin assassin, but you've been a secretary the past twenty years, while I've been a mercenary all this time—one with a specialty for sneaking around. I know you're upset, but would you please remember who it is you're working with?"

  "I'm sorry." Myra closed his eyes, looking for a moment as though he was going to cry again. Before Charlaine could apologize, though, he opened his eyes and said, "How did you know I was…"

  Charlaine huffed. "An assassin? I'm not stupid, Myra. The pieces weren't hard to put together. Did you think I'd be repulsed or something?"

  "I lied. You've no idea how many lies I've told—and lived. The terrible things I did before I ran away. You hate lies."

  Taking a chance, Charlaine reached out and ran a hand over Myra's poor, shorn hair. "I'm a little hurt, maybe, but that's my problem, not yours. I'm sorry you felt you couldn't trust me, but again, that's on me. Of course you hid it. You clearly hate Soltorin and your past. You'd hardly be the first person to come to Harken hoping to start a new life. We'll talk about this more later. Let's go rescue your lady, hmm? If she hasn't taken care of them all herself and is looking for more people to maim and kill."

  Myra's mouth twitched, but he only nodded. "Off I go. Be careful."

  "You be careful, you reckless fool." Charlaine yanked him close, kissed him hard, then shoved him away. "If something goes wrong, get out of there—and don't do anything stupid, I mean it. You promised Jac you'd go for tea, and it's rude to break a promise."

  Myra stared at him a moment, looking sad and haunted for a moment before his face hardened. Then he turned away and headed for the Sharktooth.

  Trying to ignore the bad feeling gnawing at his gut, Charlaine waited until he vanished, counted out two minutes, then slipped down the alley to come around the building from behind, silently sending up a prayer that all three of them would be going home soon.

  Chapter Six

  Jac was going to fucking. Kill. The bastards the very second she managed to get her limbs free. They'd nicked her neck, broken her nose, thrown out her Pantheon-damned spurs—and those things weren't cheap. Worst of all, one of the fish-guts-for-brains bastards had gotten sloppy and sliced her breast and the blood was drying and everything itched and she could do not a single fucking thing about it.

  Somebody was going to die, and they were going to die slowly and painfully.

  And if she kept being pissed off about her bloody boob, she wouldn't drown in anger and remorse over failing Allen so horrifically. She'd meant to get them both out of the way, but the arrow that had narrowly missed her throat had delayed her enough sh
e'd saved Allen but watched helplessly as Larren died.

  Then she'd gotten herself fucking kidnapped, and oh, was somebody going to pay for that humiliation. She was going to remove their nether regions, make them into kebabs, and force the bastards to eat them.

  Why, though, that was what bothered her. She was a bodyguard, for Pantheon's sake. Surely the assassins knew that the general practice was to kill the bodyguard and take the person being protected. Not that she was complaining. She'd rather be kidnapped than dead. Still, it was baffling. What did they hope to accomplish by taking her? Getting to Allen, since they'd failed in their first strike?

  Because Allen would do it—this was the man who'd joined the Dragons on a dangerous mission in a reckless attempt to prove himself, after all—but no way would the others let him.

  Although Sarrica would definitely do something himself, after making sure Allen was locked in a closet that had been nailed shut and had fifty people guarding it.

  She looked up at the sound of the door creaking open—and swore softly, heart dropping into her stomach, as Myra stepped into the lice-ridden dump of a pub she'd been dragged to.

  Then he stepped further into the light, and her heart practically seized. That…that wasn't Myra. Not any Myra she knew. The man before her looked more like somebody who belonged in Frigid Heart or Jagged Edge, not commanding the imperial office.

  One of the men who'd taken her—the long, lanky, almost skeletal one who seemed to be in charge—stepped forward, blocking Jac from view, arms resting far too casually at his sides. She couldn't see his knives, but they were there.

  Infuriatingly, they spoke in Soltorish. Jac focused on Myra's voice, tried to gauge what was happening and was going to happen by his tone, but both he and Skeleton were quiet and level. They may as well have been discussing the fucking weather for all she could discern.

  She gasped as one of them grabbed the back of her tunic, hauled her to her feet and dragged her forward. The woman dumped her on the floor and spat several nasty-sounding words at Myra.

  He ignored her, all his attention on Jac. "Are you all right?"

  "I'll be better when I can kick all their asses," Jac said. "What's going on? Why do you look like that?"

  Myra didn't reply, only turned his attention back to Skeleton and started speaking Soltorish again.

  Skeleton said something rough and sibilant, making Jac shudder. Myra replied sharp and cold. Skeleton laughed, the sound low and mean and smug. He gestured lazily to the woman who'd been hauling Jac around. The woman stepped forward, pulling a knife—and toppled with a wet gasp, a knife sticking out of the back of her throat.

  For a moment, everything went still and silent.

  Then everything exploded into chaos. Myra swept forward, moving in a way that was impressive in its skill but shocking in that he knew how to do that.

  Then her vision was blocked, and Jac jerked back with a snarl—and stopped as she registered Charlaine. "Get me loose, damn it!" The words weren't terribly impressive with a broken nose, but hopefully they were clear enough.

  Charlaine gave her a look and obeyed.

  Jac had just stood, flexing the soreness from her wrists, when Skeleton whistled and more figures poured in from outside.

  "Damn it," Charlaine snarled, and then he was surrounded.

  Jac yanked the knife from the throat of the woman Charlaine had killed, threw it at the man coming straight for her, then took the dead woman's sword and threw herself into the fray.

  But they were simply no match for the sheer numbers. How many fucking Soltorins—but no, she could hear multiple languages. These were just cheap guttersnipes. But that was all it took sometimes. Even the best soldier in the world was no match when severely outnumbered.

  Jac killed four more of them and was nearly to the door when the numbers overcame her. Three large men pinned her to the ground, and on her periphery she could just see five more holding Charlaine down.

  Around Myra was a wreath of bodies, his face almost completely covered with blood, still more on his throat, and his clothes visibly damp in patches. Jac shivered, aching for the anguished stranger who had replaced the sweet man she'd asked to tea. He said something to Skeleton, who strode across the room and slammed him into the wall, one hand wrapped around Myra's throat. Myra dropped his knives but didn't struggle, only glared hatefully. Skeleton said something, and Myra snarled back, but Skeleton's reply made him slump slightly.

  "Don't!" Jac snarled, because that was a demeanor she knew. "We can fight our way out of this, damn it. Don't—"

  "I had twenty years," Myra said, looking at her. "That's more than I ever thought I'd get." He looked at Charlaine a long moment, then back at Jac. "Tell Sarrica and Allen I'm sorry. Take care of them. Take care of each other."

  "Myra!" Charlaine bellowed as Jac cursed with every single filthy word she knew.

  Jac struggled to get free, all the while hurling every nasty word she could come up with. It was pointless, given each of the men holding her down was at least twice her weight, but she tried until she was exhausted.

  Tears slipped free and hit the grimy wooden floor she was pinned against. How much longer until their throats were slit? Damn it, why hadn't Myra been willing to fight?

  A figure appeared in the doorway and snapped out a handful of sharp words in terrible, guttural informal Harken.

  The bastards holding her down laughed in an ugly, ominous way, and hefted her up. One of them cupped a hand over her groin and said something in a language she couldn't place. Jac spat in his face, which caused the others to laugh—and loosen their holds. Jac jerked her legs free, slammed a knee into Asshole's rancid dick, then drove her elbows back enough to further put the others off balance.

  She pulled a sword from one of them and had Grabby Hands dead before he could pull his own sword. She rounded on the other two, parrying a sloppy swing and then sliding in close, driving the pommel of the sword into one's nose, sending him reeling to the floor in pain and blood.

  That left only the third man, who looked as though he was reconsidering his choices. Jac thrust, one hand on the hilt, the other against the pommel, sinking the sword deep into the man's gut in the split between his cheap, plated leather armor.

  Yanking a dagger from the dying man's belt, she threw it at one of Charlaine's captors, who realized too late that she'd come out the winner in one against three.

  Two of them tried to hold onto Charlaine while the other three came to take care of her, but by the time she had one killed, Charlaine was free, and they dispatched the remaining few with ease.

  Jac dropped the sword she'd been holding; it was heavier than a sword should be, too big for her to use easily anyway, and she was already exhausted. If there was another fight in her future…well, it probably didn't matter. She was spent.

  She wiped blood and sweat from her face with one sleeve and looked at Charlaine. "All right there, old man?"

  "Shut up," Charlaine said. "I'm fine. You, little girl?"

  Jac rolled her shoulders and neck. "Be better when I get all this dried blood off my tits."

  Charlaine gave her a look and started to speak, but before he could, the air filled with the sound of the whistle used by the city guards. A moment later they were filling the already overfull pub. "Halt in the name of the High King!"

  Jac rolled her eyes as she lifted her arms in a show of peace.

  "We work for the High King," Charlaine groused even as he dropped his sword. "We're here on official business." He grimaced. "Business that went poorly. Let us show you our medallions." At the nod from the Lieutenant in charge of the brace of guards, Charlaine and Jac reached beneath their tunics and pulled out their medallions.

  The Lieutenant sheathed his sword and approached, studying each one in excruciating, tedious detail before finally relenting. "You want to tell me what in the Realms—"

  "That's no longer your concern," said a deep, rough voice.

  Jac snapped to attention, as did Charlaine
, as Captain Chass removed his spiked helmet and prowled into the room like a wolf that had scented easy prey. The city guards had already backed well away from him and the two who flanked him: Second Lieutenant Riker and First Lieutenant Aria.

  Oh, Pantheon, what else had gone wrong that Sarrica had ordered out Penance Gate. They didn't normally deal with matters like this. They were one of the largest mercenary forces in Harken. They dealt with far bigger and bloodier affairs. This debacle was more likely to be handed off to Fathoms Deep, or one of the other midrange-sized groups that dealt primarily with homeland matters.

  "Get out," Chass said, and Jac had never seen the city guards obey an order so quickly. When they were gone, the door banging shut on its half-rotted hinges behind them, Chass handed his helmet off to Riker and stepped idly over bodies. "So it looks like Myra and Charlaine were successful in retrieving you, Sergeant, but failed miserably at keeping him safe as well. This is what comes of sending you soft types to do hard work."

  "Shut your fucking—" Charlaine snapped his mouth shut as Chass stared at him. "We were ready to go down fighting. Myra gave himself up and refused to fight any further."

  Jac's mouth twisted sourly. "He acted like a prisoner already sentenced to execution."

  Chass laughed, rough-edged and coldly amused. "Of course he did—that's what he is. Do you fools know anything about Soltorin? The Triumvirate?"

  "Not really," Charlaine said. "I've crossed paths with Odon once, when we were forced to take shelter there. Most of the locals were nice enough, and the ones that didn't like us simply chose to avoid us. I know what anyone knows: they used to be three countries, then Benta colonized them and they became one. Technically the united whole is called Soldonir, but everyone just calls them the Triumvirate. They managed to overthrow Benta a few decades ago, but most of the changes Benta installed remain in place. There's a lot of internal strife between those who think the new ways are better and those who want to return to the old ways. They hate us partly because of their ties to Benta, and partly because we deserve it, given the less pleasant parts of Harken's 'the world is ours for the taking' past."