by Ben Cassidy
Something passed in a blur of motion, a long thin object that whistled through the air.
Marley flew back. He slammed against the wall by the fireplace.
Kendril only had a moment to register the scene.
Marley was gasping and scrabbling, pulling at a long spear that was protruding from his chest. It had gone all the way through him and was pinning the poor man to the wall.
Kendril spun around.
He was just in time to see a dark man in red vanish through the blanket of smoke, disappearing like a shadow into the hallway.
Kendril glanced back at Marley. “Hold on,” he said, trying not to look at the thin puddle of blood that was already forming on the floor under the sailor’s feet. “Hold on, Marls.”
Marley choked. Blood dribbled from his mouth.
Kendril dashed for the other doorway, intending to cut the third mercenary off. He holstered his pistol, and drew a sword.
The hallway was dark and silent.
Confused, Kendril turned, glancing down the corridor towards the central staircase and main hall.
The library? The dining room? Upstairs? Where had the last man gone?
Kendril drew his second sword. He made his way into the main hall, glancing carefully up the stairs. The rope he had swung down on still swayed gently. The first mercenary lay, either unconscious or dead, against the wall where he had fallen.
Behind him Kendril could hear the sounds of Marley dying. He tried to block it out. There was nothing he could do for the man. Not while the third mercenary was unaccounted for.
He turned abruptly, looking down the corridor toward the library. Nothing.
Kendril whirled on his heel again, feeling the sudden sense that there was someone behind him. Through the pall of smoke he couldn’t see anything.
It was like hunting a ghost. Even the smokescreen that Kendril had created was now working against him.
The softest creak of wood squeaked somewhere nearby.
Kendril turned again, both swords at the ready. Beneath his handkerchief he could feel sweat on his neck and face. He cleared his throat as quietly as he could, trying with all his might not to cough.
There was another quiet creak. Above him? From the dining room?
Kendril spun, sending a swirl of smoke dancing through the air. He looked up quickly, but saw nothing past the railing.
He didn’t have time for this. Marley was bleeding out in the next room.
A rustle of cloth. Soft, like the flittering of a bird’s wings.
Kendril moved towards the dining room, glancing down the corridor towards the back door as he went.
A hard thump sounded on the floor directly behind Kendril. He turned.
Too late.
Mkante was there, legs bent slightly after falling from the landing above. A sword with a forward-bent blade was in his hand. He swung it viciously at Kendril.
Kendril tried to bring up his own sword to block the blow. It was a sloppy move, hurried and unskillful. And slow.
Mkante's sword raked across Kendril’s arm, tearing over his shoulder and slicing down onto his upper chest.
Kendril staggered back. Pain flamed across his shoulder. A warm patch of blood began spreading down his arm. More blood began to pepper through his shirt were the blade had cut into his chest.
Mkante danced out of the way, weaving a path through the hanging smoke like a poisonous snake entrancing its prey.
Kendril bit back a grunt from the pain. He tried to steady his leg behind him so that he could spring forward in an attack. Instead, he turned his leg the wrong direction, accidentally putting all his weight on his bad knee. At the worst possible angle.
The pain was too much, too blinding.
Kendril’s leg gave out from underneath him.
He crashed awkwardly to the floor, dropping one of his swords and grabbing his twisted knee. Blood gushed faster from his shoulder, dripping off his hand down onto the floor. Half-choking in the smoke, Kendril scanned the room with watering eyes.
The dark-skinned mercenary had disappeared again.
Kendril tried to stand. His knee wouldn’t cooperate. He reached for his fallen sword. There was blood already on his wrist from his shoulder wound.
Mkante re-materialized out of the smoke. Somehow, impossibly, he had gotten behind Kendril, between him and the drawing room.
Kendril slapped the smoke-covered floor for the lost sword.
Mkante fixed Kendril with a steady gaze. Then he bent back his arm and hurled his sword.
Chapter 20
Kendril raised his sword to block the incoming, spinning blade. It was a feeble attempt, and he had only half a grip on his weapon as he did it.
A clang of metal against metal filled the room as the spinning blade plowed into Kendril’s raised short sword.
Both weapons went spinning off across the floor. They skittered off into the darkness.
“This is how a warrior fights,” Mkante said. His voice was thick with the accent of the far south. “Not with weapons of smoke and fire, but face to face. With honor.”
Kendril reached for his belt, but realized in a sickening flash that his second pistol was still unloaded.
Mkante reached down and lifted Kendril’s own short sword, the weapon he had dropped when he had fallen. The southlander weighed it appreciatively in his hand. “A good blade,” he said. “It has served you well, no doubt.”
There were no more sounds coming from Marley in the drawing room.
Kendril pushed himself backwards with his hands. His knee still pulsed with pain. His left hand left a smear of blood on the floor as he moved. He reached backwards on the floor desperately with one hand, trying to find the handle of one of the other swords.
He already knew that they were too far away.
Mkante stepped forward. His face looked almost sad. “I give you an honorable death.” He raised Kendril’s short sword. “Make peace with your god, warrior.”
Kendril’s hand closed on something on the floor behind him. Despite the sharp pains that stabbed through his body, he managed a grim smile. “You first,” he said.
Mkante cocked his head. The sword in his hand hesitated for a split second.
Kendril raised Janis’ wheelock pistol off the floor and fired.
“Send me after them.” The Baderan knight hefted his long blade. “They may need help.”
Colonel Belvedere shook his head. “No, Duval. I need you here.” He moved to the window facing the covered bridge outside, and peered out. “Those boys know what they’re doing.”
Bronwyn suddenly leapt to her feet and grabbed at Belvedere from behind. “Protect me! Great Eru please protect me, he’ll kill us all—”
Startled, Belvedere whirled and slapped Bronwyn hard across the face. “Get off me, woman!”
Bronwyn collapsed back to the floor in a weeping mess, one hand pressed to her face. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
Tomas stared over at the woman, his face dark with confusion.
Belvedere turned back to the window. “Your man’s already dead,” he said with a little too much confidence. “And even if by some miracle he’s not, he’d be a fool to come at us in here.”
“I know,” said Bronwyn. Her tears were suddenly gone. A sly smile spread across her face. “Isn’t he just absolutely marvelous?”
Marley’s face was as white as sheet paper, drained of almost all blood.
Kendril came up to him, a sick feeling in his stomach. He reached to touch the spear that was sticking out of Marley’s chest, then pulled his hand back.
It was already too late.
“Mr. Kendril….?” Marley gasped. His words choked out of his mouth.
Kendril looked down at the pool of blood that was spreading slowly across the floor. Another stain for this old manor. “Marley, I—” He stopped. What should he say? What could he say?
Marley tried to breathe. His breath was tattered, as if his lungs could barely hold air.
Kend
ril looked up at him. Then he saw her.
She was standing there, silently in the doorway of the drawing room. Waiting, watching. Her eyes were fixed on Kendril. Not in blame, but filled with sadness. And pity.
Kendril looked at Marley, trying to ignore the apparition in the room. “I’m…sorry,” he managed at last. “It’s my fault, Marley. I should never have brought you here from New Marlin. I—” His words stopped cold.
Marley lifted a trembling hand. He put it on Kendril’s arm.
Kendril glanced at the doorway. He saw both Marley and the ghostly shape of Celeste. “Please…forgive me,” he said to both of them.
Marley managed to smile. He squeezed Kendril’s arm once.
Then his hand fell down.
“Marley?” Kendril glanced at the sailor’s sightless eyes, and knew he didn’t have to ask again. He turned towards the doorway.
Celeste was there, smiling at him. “I forgive you, Kendril,” she said. “I always have.”
And then, as suddenly as if a candle had been snuffed out, Kendril was alone.
He leaned on his good leg, wiping an arm across his wet face.
Two stains on the floor. Two deaths on his conscience.
He was cursed.
He looked up at Marley’s face.
The sailor looked almost peaceful in death.
“Goodbye, Marls,” Kendril said.
He turned and limped towards the door.
“Shooting’s stopped.” Thorn lifted his crossbow and scanned the dark hill that led up to the manor. He glanced down to where Warwick was standing at the other end of the covered bridge. “Sounds like they got the blighter.”
“You think it was really him? This Kendril bloke we’re after?” Warwick kept his own crossbow at the ready, peering around the side of the bridge down towards the tumbling stream.
“Don’t know.” Thorn spat on the ground. “How many of these Ghostwalkers could there be, anyways?”
“We just better get out fair turn with the woman,” Warwick grumbled. “The Colonel might be trying to shut us out in the cold.”
“Shut your trap,” Thorn shot back. “He hears you talking like that, and we’re both going to regret it.”
Warwick didn’t answer. He glanced back up towards the dark shape of the Ravenbrook manor. “Thorn?”
“Yeah?”
“Shouldn’t the other guys have come back by now?”
Thorn turned his own eyes towards the hillside, straining to see in the darkness. He chewed his lip thoughtfully, cradling his crossbow in the crook of his arm.
“Well, shouldn’t they?”
“Just keep your eyes peeled,” Thorn replied. He tightened his hand on the crossbow. “They’ll be coming back any second now.”
“Didn’t you hear the shooting?” Kendril staggered out from behind the tree, his leg dragging a little behind him as he walked. “I could have been killed in there.”
Simon lifted his head and whined. He flattened his ears back.
“Don’t give me that,” Kendril said. “You’re a coward, plain and simple. Where were you five minutes ago?”
The mule gave a soft bray of protest.
Kendril shook his head in disgust. “Never mind. Now hold still.” He came up next to the animal, and reached for the packs on his back.
Simon’s nostrils flared. He sniffed loudly and pulled his head back with a snort.
“It’s just blood.” Kendril touched the handkerchief that he had tied tightly around his upper arm. “And I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
The mule whined plaintively.
Kendril paused, his hand on the stock of his flintlock rifle. “He’s…not coming,” he said finally.
Simon lowered his head.
“Well, you can grieve later,” Kendril said as he pulled out the rifle. He glanced at the black barrel of the whale gun that poked out from under a blanket. “I thought you didn’t like him, anyways.”
Simon looked up at Kendril. He snorted again.
Kendril checked the lock on the rifle, then slung it over his shoulder. He turned to face the mule, then took a big breath. “Simon….”
The mule raised his head slightly.
Kendril patted the animal on the side of his neck. “Look, buddy, I need your help. I’ve got at least three mercenaries holed up in that mill, probably more.”
Simon gave his head a shake.
“Don’t be silly,” Kendril said sharply. “They’ve got Tomas and Bronwyn. Of course I’m going after them.”
The mule stared straight at the Ghostwalker.
“Don’t give me that,” Kendril said with a raised finger. “If I want your opinion on a tactical situation, I’ll ask you for it.”
Simon whined softly.
“That’s not fair. That coach robbery in Shawnor was a long time ago,” Kendril said. He pulled out the whale gun and fished around in the pack for one of the iron darts. “So quit bringing it up.” He swung his head towards the mule. “Now are you going to help me or not?”
Simon pawed the ground with a hoof. He pushed his nose into Kendril’s chest.
“You can’t be serious.” Kendril checked the lock on the whale gun. “You want me to pay you? Are you turning mercenary too?”
Simon showed his teeth and tossed his head from side to side.
“Fine.” Kendril shouldered the whale gun. “But if you get sick after drinking that much beer, you’d better not blame me.”
The beast lowered his head.
Kendril moved around the tree, and looked down at the half-obscured shape of the mill. “All right,” he said softly, “let’s do this, boy.”
“Something’s wrong.” Thorn held the crossbow in a position to fire. He was fully alert now, standing half in the shadow of the covered bridge’s entrance. What little moonlight there was glowed off the fog that wove in and out of the nearby trees.
“The Ghostwalker couldn’t have gotten all of them.” Warwick kept his voice in strained whisper. He looked nervously back down the stream. “Not Mkante.”
Thorn frowned. It was too hard to see in the dark. Not enough moonlight. “Maybe we should—”
A loud crashing came from the undergrowth to the right.
Thorn turned instantly, bringing his crossbow up to his shoulder.
Warwick ducked behind the bridge’s side, aiming his own crossbow out of one of the wide openings.
Another series of blistering crashes came from the bushes. Branches snapped and broke. Something big was moving through the undergrowth. And fast.
“Move,” Thorn ordered. He waved Warwick off to the side. “He’ll come out over there.” He stepped out into the path, tracking the sounds with his crossbow.
“Is it the Ghostwalker?” Warwick tracked his own crossbow. “Is it him?”
“Shut up,” Thorn snarled. He sighted along his weapon.
A mule, laden with heavy packs on his back, came crashing out into the open by the stream. He turned his head and brayed loudly at the two mercenaries.
Thorn lowered his crossbow with an angry grunt. “Talin’s ashes, it’s just a stupid—”
His head vanished in an explosion of red matter. The same instant a rifle shot sounded clear and hard over the sound of the roaring stream.
Colonel Belvedere looked up at the sound of the gunshot. He frowned. “What was that? It wasn’t Gregor.”
Bronwyn cowered in the corner next to Tomas. She kept one hand pressed to her red cheek, the other one tucked behind her. “Silly man.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s him.”
Belvedere’s face blanched. He turned and motioned to Duval.
The Baderan knight knelt and extinguished the lamp in the room. Everything plunged into a murky darkness.
Belvedere moved back to the window. “Keep your eyes open,” he hissed to Duval. “And watch the door.”
“He’s coming,” came Bronwyn’s sing-song voice in the darkness of the rom.
Gregor shifted his position, moving hi
s rifle barrel along the edge of the window sill. He had seen a brief flash somewhere up the hill to the right, but it had just been for a moment.
One of the mercenaries was down, his head blown clean off. From here Gregor couldn’t tell if it was Thorn or Warwick. Not that it really mattered much to him.
This Ghostwalker, though. He was a sharpshooter, using a well-made hunting rifle. No smoothbore musket could make a shot like that, in the dark and at that kind of distance.
Gregor breathed evenly, keeping the barrel of his long rifle well inside the window. He had the advantage, now. He just needed to keep out of sight and wait for this Ghostwalker to show himself.
All Gregor needed was one clean view. Just one good shot.
The mule brayed again, then began to trot away down the bank of the stream.
Warwick ignored the animal. He ducked down low against the side of the bridge, looking around frantically for the source of the shot that had killed Thorn.
Whoever this man was, he was as good a shot as Gregor. Maybe better.
Warwick began edging back towards edge of the bridge. He did his best to keep his eyes off the remains of Thorn’s body. He took a breath, and readied his crossbow. All he needed was a target. Any target at all.
His hands were trembling. Warwick forced them to stop. He had seen battle before, had fought in wars since he was a youth. Death was nothing new to him. That man out in the dark was just a man. He could bleed just like any other man.
Warwick moved to the edge of the bridge. He sighted along the crossbow, covering the path that ran away from the bridge and up the hill. Sooner or later, this Ghostwalker or whoever it was would have to show himself.
Warwick kept the crossbow ready to fire. He took a step forward.
A click sounded to his left.
“Hi there,” a voice whispered.
Carefully, Warwick turned his head to one side.
Pressed against the outer side of the covered bridge, and standing half in the freezing cold water of the stream, was the Ghostwalker. His face was covered with a black hood, and a black cloak was draped over his almost invisible form. He held a pistol that was aimed directly at Warwick’s head.
