by CS Sealey
“They were right about you,” she said, staggering to her feet, gasping for breath. “Varren especially. He knew you were nothing but an animal, an uncivilized beast!”
“Angora, please!” Markus grasped her shoulder and led her to the table. “We can argue later. Whatever you may think of us, whatever you may think of Tiderius, what of Rasmus? How could you face him knowing you had let his brother die? Please, help him. You were always the best herbalist we could find. Please.”
She surveyed Tiderius and tightened her jaw. “Fine, but you must release my hands and leave, shaman.”
Emil’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he nodded and the rope disappeared. The two stared defiantly at each other before Emil grunted and left the room. Angora rubbed her bruised wrists and approached the table where the healers were already wiping Tiderius’s chest clean of the blood from his arm. She surveyed the room while she rolled up her intricately decorated sleeves.
“Hold still,” Angora advised Tiderius, who had begun to shake with shock. She caught the attention of one of the healers and pointed to a bottle on one of the shelves lining the walls. “Give me the ferrin.”
The young woman hurried to fetch it and thrust it into Angora’s hands. She flicked the stopper off the bottle and sniffed, wrinkling her nose. In the three years that she had been in Te’Roek, she had taught the castle healers a great deal of islander healing methods and they did not question her skills. Angora snatched up a small cloth and wiped away the fresh blood seeping from the wound on Tiderius’s arm.
“This is going to hurt a little.”
She lowered the bottle and poured some of the clear liquid directly onto the laceration. Tiderius roared in pain and kicked out viciously with both his legs, now fully conscious.
“A little?” he yelled, his eyes wide. “This hurts more than the blow, you – ”
“Heal yourself, then!” Angora screamed back at him. “If you are going to cry about this, then think twice about hurtling into another fight you cannot win!”
She picked up a fresh cloth and pressed it to the wound to stem the flow of blood, then she handed the bottle to one of the healers and motioned for the other to hold the cloth in place. She did not even look at Markus, who stood safely out of her way, watching. She moved over to a set of shelves in the corner of the room and took down a small box. She opened the lid and brought out a needle and thread and returned to the operating table. She motioned to Markus Taal with a jerk of her head. “Hold him still.”
Markus came forward immediately and put his hands on Tiderius’s thighs. A male healer moved around the table and pressed his hands firmly on the swordsman’s shoulders.
Tiderius looked from Markus to Angora. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.
“Shut up.”
She lifted the cloth from Tiderius’s arm and inspected the wound. It was jagged but not too deep. Angora raised Tiderius’s arm and placed it across his stomach as she threaded her needle.
“I need a bowl of hot water,” she said to the idle healer, “and fresh cloths. And if there is any firewater, I could do with that as well.”
“You drink now?” Tiderius asked.
“For you, idiot. You will need it.”
It took a little over an hour to stitch Tiderius up and bandage his wounds. After knotting the last thread, Angora straightened up, wiped the back of her bloody hand across her forehead and stood back. Tiderius had long since fallen into an unconscious state from the pain and a great deal of firewater but he now looked restful. Markus Taal was very weary from holding Tiderius’s thrashing legs and collapsed into a chair by the door.
“I hope you are happy,” Angora said bitterly. “Now, if you will permit me, I will attend to my husband. I assume he is being held in some rat-infested cell where his wounds may surely fester?”
“I cannot say,” Markus admitted.
Angora picked up her box of needles and thread. As she strode to the door, she picked up a few bottles and flung a towel over her shoulder. Then, without even a backward glance at Tiderius, she went to the nearest staircase that would take her to the dungeons.
CHAPTER 45
Zoran Sable withdrew the knife slowly from the man’s jugular and took his time wiping it clean on the apron hanging over the nearby bench top. The gurgling of air and spurting blood from the man’s wound had long since stopped but Zoran was in no real hurry to leave the butcher’s workshop, though it reeked of old meat and rotting entrails.
He rose, throwing the stained apron unceremoniously over the corpse, and rummaged through the boxes and pewter jars on the shelves lining the walls. Most contained records of purchases from and to country farmers, some noted losses of stock due to damage or age but Zoran knew that none of the figures were correct. He scanned his eyes over the numbers, and though they added up to the recorded totals, it was impossible for his victim to have ever lived off such a meager income.
So as well as selling meat past the legal date, Zoran thought bitterly, you were paying less tax. Swindling the poor and the rich at the same time.
He studied a few more recent documents in detail and, nodding to himself, rolled them up. Replacing the others, he slid the selected papers securely into the leather-bound tube he had strung over his shoulder. He also emptied two jars of silver and bronze coins into this tube, pfenns as well as the southern tellam currency still used by the men of Esgarth, Gorran and Zennor. There was a considerable amount of coin by the end of his hunt through his victim’s belongings and he might have continued his search had the first rays of sunlight not appeared on the horizon and the first of the butcher’s customers knocked at the door.
Zoran cursed under his breath and headed for the stairs leading to the dead man’s private apartment above the workshop. He had entered the building by the front door, masquerading as a potential buyer, and stayed for hours, encouraging the butcher to drink the cheap wine Zoran had brought with him. Mug after mug, the man had begun to spill the secrets of his work and the assassin had listened intently.
“How many people were you catering for again? I’ll have to get started with the preparation soon if you want them done for supper,” the butcher had said, swaying a little on his feet as he had risen from the bench.
“A dozen.”
“Beef?” he asked, draining his mug for the tenth time.
“Oh, whatever you’ve got that isn’t infested with maggots.”
This comment had not gone down well with the inebriated butcher, but Zoran had stilled his vicious tongue and fists with a quick jab of his knee to the man’s groin and then a heavy whack with both fists to the back of his head. Sprawled unconscious on the floor, he had been easy to dispatch.
The customer knocked on the door again just as Zoran reached the second floor. He headed down the corridor, past the dead butcher’s rooms, and threw open the shutters of the window at the end. He swung his legs over the sill and looked down. The drop was little more than seven or eight feet but the customer was directly beneath him. He looked skyward, glancing at the wall above and beside him for any foothold that might give him easy passage to the roof. Taking to the streets now would draw too much attention to himself, sprayed with blood as he was.
Spotting a wooden support jutting out from the wall, he quickly positioned himself on the sill, one hand grasping the window frame and the other outstretched to grab his quarry. He waited, his heart beating fiercely in his ears, waiting for the unexpected visitor to knock once more. It seemed an impossibly long time.
“Hey, Terner, get up!” the customer shouted, pounding on the door. “You promised me an order this morning!”
Zoran leaped, his fingers catching the exposed beam. He hauled himself up. Turning to view the visitor, he overbalanced and slipped. But his was an iron grip and he did not let go, even when he felt his wrist begin to burn as he twisted in the air. He bit back the pain from his straining muscles and used the grip of his soft leather boots on the crumbling plaster wall to h
eave himself up once more.
He found the roof on his second attempt and brushed himself down. Zoran paused for a moment, checking that his tube was still firmly closed and secure. The man below continued to pound on the door and, using the ruckus to muffle his footsteps, Zoran skimmed across the cracked tiles and began his rooftop dash to the warehouse where the band of mercenary blades, thieves and ruffians lived with their master, and Zoran’s friend, Hjorta. Though there was a ground floor entrance to Hjorta’s hideout, Zoran always preferred to enter from above, testing himself over and over again across the rooftops.
The town hall bell in the high tower rang out six times to signal the sun’s arrival. Gradually, sounds of life began to rise from the city below him as he ran and leaped to clear the distances over streets and alleyways. Some early risers were caught off-guard as he flew over their heads and he laughed at their cries of surprise.
When he reached the warehouse, his boots gripped tightly to the slanted wooden roof and his fingers found the edges of the trap door.
“Ah, back at last,” Hjorta said, rising from his table when Zoran sauntered into his office. “I expected you back hours ago. I hope nothing went wrong.”
“Worried for me, were you?” Zoran asked and chuckled. “Afraid the bastard got me with his cleaver?”
“Well, it’d be better meat than his usual stock. I don’t suppose I have to ask you how it went, then?”
Zoran handed over the heavy tube, hearing the pleasant tinkle of coins as Hjorta clasped it in his bony hands. The old man’s eyes lit up.
“Sounds like quite a hoard.”
“But not nearly enough to compensate those he’s wronged. Two dozen children and a handful of grown men dead. Well, he won’t be doing any more harm. Your watchman will be happy with the documents I found.” He sat on a bench against the wall and stretched out his long legs. “He’ll rest easier tonight, knowing the butcher won’t be able to bribe any more judges.”
“You’re in a good mood, Zoran.”
“And why not? It was a good night for a kill.”
“There’s grave news from up north.”
“There’s always grave news from up north,” Zoran said dismissively.
“Aye, but I hear the Ayons are on the verge of marching south.”
“Well, they’ve been saying that in the taverns around here for months. Not heard any real news to back it, so it’s none of our concern.”
“But this information came from a messenger.”
“And messengers don’t like to talk? Hjorta, they’re as good as court jesters and bards for making up stories.”
“Normally I’d dismiss something like this but one of my boys said he saw Ronnesians marching north when he went to visit his ma.”
“The Ronnesians are recruiting, so what?”
“So that gives credit to the possibility that the Ayons are, in fact, readying for an invasion, and you know as well as I how weak the Ronnesian forces are at the moment.”
“We’re not supposed to know,” Zoran said, folding his arms and sitting up. “No official comment has been made. Besides, the Ayons will never get as far south as this. They just want the Ronnesian Empire under their control. They couldn’t care less about the elven lands. I’d put money on the Ronnesians wanting to expand this far south before the Ayons do.”
Hjorta grumbled to himself and began to examine the documents from the tube. Next, he counted the money, separating the silver from the bronze and the pfenns from the tellams. It totaled two hundred and three pfenns and three hundred and forty-five tellams. Hjorta counted off a portion and slid it across the table.
“You are nervous about this news, aren’t you, friend?” Zoran said, sliding the coins into his purse.
Hjorta sighed and began to divide the remaining coins into small pouches. When the man did not reply for a long while, Zoran stood up and moved around the table, slipping his purse into the hidden pocket at his thigh.
“Hey,” he said, clicking his fingers in front of Hjorta’s face. “What’s on your mind, old man?”
Hjorta raised his eyes and chuckled. “Don’t rub it in, Zoran.”
“But you are troubled by something. What is it?”
Hjorta sighed again, wearily. Or was it sadly?
“The last time you left us was just over forty years ago – the last time the two empires were involved in a major clash. I can’t help but wonder whether it’ll be the same again.”
“That was a coincidence,” Zoran said dismissively. “Galawyn and his lackeys jumped me in the street and left me for dead. That’s why I left.”
“Aye, I’ll never forget the state we found you in.”
“Neither will I.” He clenched his fists, which still bore the scars, as did the rest of his body, of that and many other confrontations. Even after so many years, he could still feel the echoes of the pain those men had inflicted upon him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said resolutely. “I’m not going to leave this city for anyone. It’s – it’s the only place I’ve been able to call home since my people ostracized me.”
Hjorta looked a little happier and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “You are like a son to me,” he said, rising from his chair. “I hope you know that.”
“I remember when we were like brothers.”
“These eyes were much younger then.”
Zoran smiled and drew his friend into a strong embrace. In the many years he had been in exile, he had known no man dearer to him than Hjorta and no city friendlier than Caervyn.
“I don’t want to lose another son, Zoran…”
“You won’t,” the assassin said, shaking his head. “This battle between the northern empires has nothing to do with us. I won’t be going anywhere.”
CHAPTER 46
“So where do we stand?” Queen Sorcha asked the four members of the Circle gathered before her.
“Angora has returned,” Emil reported, “though not of her own accord. Tiderius found her attempting to escape with King Samian and a fight broke out. Finally, Tiderius’s double is revealed to us. The king himself is a swordsman and has done Tiderius considerable damage.”
“Of course!” Aiyla exclaimed. “That makes sense. There were always six of them but I never even imagined that the king himself – Is Tiderius all right?”
“I’m assured he’s healing well. Unfortunately, Angora brought Samian here, grabbing him at the last moment. He has also been tended to and now resides in the dungeons.”
“What? King Samian in one of my cells?” Sorcha exclaimed. “How could you let that happen, Emil? First the wedding and now this? If the Ayons needed yet another motive to launch their invasion, you have provided it!”
“They wouldn’t dare attack us recklessly, not when we have their king.”
“But you must send him back immediately!” the queen cried, standing. “This was a bad move, a very bad move.”
“At least let us question him,” Markus said.
Sorcha turned to him, her eyes wide and disbelieving. “You as well? What is wrong with all of you?” she cried. “Every moment that passes brings the war closer and we haven’t the strength to fight them!”
“Then we should name terms,” Kayte said. “Send a message to Delseroy with a decree that Samian won’t be harmed if they remain on their side of the border.”
“After the abduction of their king and queen, they would never agree to any such thing,” Sorcha said. “No, you will return him immediately! Gods, what was Angora’s motive in bringing him here?”
“I’m not convinced she meant to,” Kayte said, “but I believe there is more between them than was immediately obvious to us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We initially thought,” Emil said, glancing at Kayte, “that they had come to some agreement involving Angora’s allegiance and the protection of the neutral islands, especially Teronia, but now I assume she has genuine affection for King Samian.”
Sorcha put her head in her hands.
“This complicates things,” she said, “and our reinforcements from the south are taking too long!”
“They are on their way,” Aiyla assured her. “Prince Korrosus must have written a very persuasive letter to his father, for at least a dozen ships are preparing to make sail from Milena. That must be thousands of men.”
“But will it be enough?” Sorcha asked. “What of our southern allies?”
“Unfortunately, it will still be some time before the southern regiments will be able to send us aid, for the wild Highlanders have flared again and Commander Mainar is struggling to keep them at bay. However, they have promised us a significant number of men, should their conflict in the Argyl Ranges be quick and successful.”
“That is some comfort at least,” the queen said, sighing with relief. “But this situation with King Samian is a troubling one. We have dug ourselves into a hole, a very deep one. I agree that sending him back will do very little, but I don’t like having him here, not one bit. This will not go unpunished and we must be ready for the retaliation.”
*
Angora sat alone under a great oak in the courtyard. The thought occurred to her that she was no longer a girl, but a young woman. Her life had sadly come full circle. After escaping so dramatically, she had been returned to Te’Roek. It dawned on her that she had known only a few moments of true happiness since setting foot on the mainland: the first day she had met Rasmus; the brief weeks leading up to her wedding; and the time she had spent with the king as his wife and queen before Emil, Tiderius, Kayte and Markus had dragged her back to Te’Roek. She found it sad that she could count these rare moments on one hand and wondered whether there would be any chance for her future to brighten.
What was Sorcha thinking? Did she really think she could use King Samian as leverage? It had been days now. Surely Galenros would have seen their situation and related every detail to Varren, and the sorcerer would now be hatching a plan to retrieve the king. When Varren attacked, would Sorcha threaten to kill Samian? Angora could not think of anything worse. Trying to blackmail Varren was like fanning flames.
