“Leave it to Thren to give you such a welcome,” said Nigel.
“That’s not our place, is it?” one of the other girls asked, suddenly worried. Madelyn rolled her eyes.
“Wrong part of the city. Your mind moves as slow as tree sap. Did you think you’d be the first to realize our home was ablaze?”
The girl blushed and stepped away from Madelyn, toward the outer ring of servants that surrounded her.
“Sorry, milady,” she murmured.
“Lay off the brat,” Nigel said. “I was thinking the same thing myself. Not everyone has been to the estate. It’s been, what, two years since we’ve returned?”
“Four,” Madelyn said, her voice tired. “At least for me. I let Laurie attend the last Kensgold alone. I tired of cloaks and daggers long ago.”
The twelve mercenaries encircled the women as they marched. When they reached the start of Merchant Way, they drew their weapons.
“What in Karak’s name happened here?” one of them asked.
It seemed the wind had shifted, so the smoke now blew in their faces. Stalls lay smashed, their signs broken and their boards cracked as if by hammers. The windows of every store were shattered. Fires had consumed a block of five stores on the north side, with three more along the south. Castle guards stood around the smoking wreckage, killing the flames while men and women arrived carrying buckets of water pumped from Veldaren’s wells.
“Not good,” Nigel said. “We’re in the middle of Veldaren with no clue what’s going on. We should have waited, damn it! Should have sent someone to make sure things were calm.”
“Too late for second-guessing,” Madelyn said, feeling his nervousness catching. “The estate’s not far, and soldiers are about. But just in case, keep your swords drawn, and take no nonsense from anyone. I don’t mind arriving at home with blood on my clothes, so long as the blood is not mine!”
They continued traveling down Merchant Way, approaching the wealthy eastern district. The closer they came to the center of the city, the more eyes watched their passing. Madelyn wondered how many belonged to spies of the thief guilds. Half? None? All? She thought all the most likely.
“We’re not far now,” she said aloud, trying to calm the girls around her. Most of them were younger than she, and they felt vulnerable despite the soldiers. They were not used to having so many eyes leering angrily at them. Madelyn clutched her hands tightly against her waist. Let the peons seethe with jealousy. She had earned her wealth, on her back as much as her feet. Laurie had fought tooth and nail to keep the wealth he had, as had the entire Keenan family line. She would not feel pity or guilt for the standing that was rightfully hers.
“It’s in the eastern district,” Madelyn continued. “Merchant Way ends in a fork at Iron and Cross. Not far up Cross Street is our estate. We’ll be safe there.”
The girls seemed to calm a little, although Madelyn’s mind raced. She had seen several men following them, all wearing cloaks of gray.
“Gray is the Spider Guild?” she whispered to Nigel.
“Believe so,” Nigel said, his eyes darting about as frantically as Madelyn’s. “Could also be the Ash. Your dress might just get that blood you wanted, milady.”
“Not wanted,” she said. “But I’ll endure if I must. Watch the rooftops as well. Spiders cling to rafters just as well as they hide under rocks.”
A few of the gathered men and women shouted insults.
“Whores!”
“Hoarding bastards!”
“Cowards!”
The mercenaries raised their swords and cursed back. The first few skittered away, but more and more gathered to follow them. Madelyn felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck. There was something deliberate about the way the small crowd seemed to stalk them. More curses were hurled their way, but the mercenaries let them be. Soon they started having to push their way through. Nothing serious, nothing overtly deliberate, just a man standing in the center moving away too slowly, or a woman with her wash who refused to budge.
Two men rolled dice in the center of the street. Each wore a gray cloak. They looked up from their game, pulled their cloaks back to reveal their daggers, and then let them fall.
“Push through ’em?” asked Nigel. Madelyn looked about. She felt as if she walked through a forest of dry tinder, and every person traveling with her carried a blazing torch. A single false move meant fire.
“We’re starving!” shouted a young man in dirty clothes.
“Bread or blood!” was the answer from someone unseen within the crowd.
“Move around them,” Madelyn said, her decision made. “Do it quickly. I can almost see our gate.”
“I see the Reaper’s eyes,” said one of the men as Madelyn’s group passed. She glanced down at the dice. Each showed a one.
They reached the fork at Iron and Cross. The south path on Iron Road seemed bare and quiet, but Cross bustled with a waiting gang of twenty. It seemed a merchant with a load of bread had been assaulted, his cart toppled. He lay unconscious, his face covered with bruises. With shouts of “Food,” more and more came their way, jostling the mercenaries and smothering them with noise.
As the people rushed past, one slid a knife through the side of a mercenary. He crumpled, his pained cry the only alert they had. Two more dropped, blood spurting from cut throats.
“Stay back!” Nigel shouted, cutting down a woman who had dared step too close. Her blood coated his armor. “All of you, stay back!”
The rest of the mercenaries took his cue, swinging wildly at any who came too close. Their progress slowed to a crawl, and with one of their own fallen, the mob turned their attention from the bread to the blood.
“Murderers!” another unseen man cried.
“Butchers!” shouted another, this a woman with raven hair cut short. She wore the gray of the Spider Guild. When she saw Madelyn looking over at her, she shot her a wink and a smile.
None of the mercenaries carried shields, so when rocks pelted them, they could only duck. Susan collapsed, a heavy stone cutting across her temple. Two more servant girls fell screaming, bleeding from their mouths and noses. Once they were outside the protective circle of the mercenaries, the crowd assaulted them. They tore off their clothes, cut their hair, and smeared them with mud.
“Don’t look back,” Madelyn told the others. “Hurry for the gate, and for the love of Ashhur, don’t look back!”
The screams of the other girls spurred them on. They fled north on Cross Street, past the toppled cart, and deep into the wealthy eastern district. Madelyn’s eyes lingered on a dead merchant’s body lying beside what must have once been his wares.
Cross Street appeared empty but for a single man standing in the center. He lowered his hood as he approached, his body wrapped in the thick fabric of his gray cloak.
“Madelyn Keenan,” the man said, a pleased smile on his face. “It is so good to meet you.”
The shouts of the mob seemed to have dimmed behind them. The mercenaries stepped closer together, and their pace slowed once more.
“What business have you with me?” she asked, her glare at Nigel urging him onward.
“I am Thren Felhorn. Everything and everyone inside Veldaren is my business.”
The mercenaries stopped completely.
“What is it you want?” she asked him, struggling to keep her composure. “Ransom? Or perhaps words of truce or surrender?”
Thren laughed.
“I want your husband tearing at his tunic and dusting his head with ashes. I want your family praying desperately for your return. Do you know who they’ll pray to when they do? I’ll be the one who determines your death or release. They’ll be praying to me.”
Men in gray cloaks stepped out from houses and alleys, and even fell from the rooftops.
“Surrounded,” Nigel whispered as he counted. “And at least twenty. Make an offer, milady. We won’t win this fight.”
“I have nothing to offer other than myself,” Madelyn s
aid. “You have armor and a blade. Do your job.”
“Whatever she is paying you cannot be worth your life,” Thren said. A few of his men stepped closer, while others drew loaded crossbows and aimed them at the mercenaries. Their strings were thick and the bolts thicker. Nigel was certain they would pierce right through his chain mail.
“Forget this,” said one of the mercenaries. He threw down his sword. Before he could take a step, Nigel stabbed him in the back and kicked his body to the dirt. He pointed the bloody blade at Thren, then saluted. Thren nodded, and the rest of the Spider Guild took heed of the message: the mercenary captain was for their guildmaster to kill.
At the twang of the first crossbow, Nigel lunged. Thren drew his short swords, swinging them in a dance that was beautiful to behold. Two more mercenaries fell, their vitals punctured by crossbow bolts. The servingwomen screamed. Madelyn drew a dagger from her sash, determined to bloody the first man who touched her. The remaining house guards defended as best they could, their thick armor deflecting the stabs of the daggers, but they were horribly outnumbered and doomed to fall, and both sides knew it.
Nigel wielded his bastard sword with both hands, needing the grip to hang on when Thren smacked it aside with his blades. Madelyn knew the mercenary captain was an experienced fighter of many battles, and had even participated in the winter war between Ker and Mordan. But compared to armored men in thick lines, Thren was like a ghost. Every swing Nigel made seemed to cut air.
Blood splattered across his armor. His wrist had been cut, yet Madelyn had no clue how. Nigel stepped back and thrust. Thren parried with his left hand, then stepped forward and slashed with his right. Desperate, Nigel twisted so the blow would strike the thin pauldron atop his shoulder. It did, and the pain was brutal, but the deep bruise was far better than the gash it would have given his neck.
Behind him a few of the serving girls dashed away. Crossbow bolts tore into their backs. Another fell, a rogue slicing her ankle with his dagger before unbuckling his belt. He was on top of her in moments, not caring that several of the mercenaries remained alive.
No longer caring for her safety, Madelyn leaped from the group. Her dagger stabbed the man’s neck. Blood gushed across his armor, and swearing softly, he rolled over and died.
“Oh gods,” the young girl sobbed. Madelyn took her face in her hands and pressed their foreheads together. Blood covered them both, and its sickly-sweet aroma was all she could smell.
“Hush now,” Madelyn told the girl. “Hush. We’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”
Meanwhile Nigel unleashed a storm of curses at Thren, hoping to distract him. He’d retreated several steps, his shoulder ached, and he’d avoided death twice by the sheer thickness of his chain mail. Breathing was difficult. Thren, however, was still smiling. He had not a drop of blood on him.
“Are you ready?” Thren asked, suddenly hopping backward and letting his cloak fall forward to hide his weapons.
“For what?” Nigel asked.
“On the count of three, I’ll kill you,” Thren said.
“Overconfident ass.”
Madelyn watched, desperately hoping the mercenary would pull off a stunning victory. Thren swayed left to right, as if waiting. Nigel lunged with the greater reach of his sword, hoping to catch him off guard. Instead Thren smoothly parried to the side.
“One,” he said, stepping forward with his left foot.
Nigel looped his sword around above his head and struck for Thren’s neck. The rogue stepped forward again, blocking with his short sword.
“Two.”
His foot curled around Nigel’s. Their weight connected. Thren lunged forward, slamming his elbow into Nigel’s face. The mercenary captain went down. A short sword stabbed through the crease of his chain mail underneath his armpit and into his chest.
“Three.”
“Not dead yet,” Nigel said, his voice sounding wet.
Thren laughed.
“A worthy attitude,” he said as he kicked the blade from Nigel’s hand. “Would you care to work for me, or die like the rest of your men?”
Nigel chuckled even as blood dripped down his lips.
“Cut my damn head off already,” he said. “I ain’t going to eternity as a traitor.”
Thren shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him either way. He pulled his sword out, raised its tip, and prepared to thrust it into Nigel’s throat.
Before she could witness the execution, Madelyn saw a great burst of white, so powerful her eyes ached. She turned away, unable to watch. All around she heard voices shouting, many of them panicked. And then she heard singing. As her vision returned, she saw Thren was gone. Nearby, the rest of the serving girls sobbed, as did the petrified girl still in her arms.
A man stepped over to her and looked into her eyes. His bald head was smooth and rounded, as were his large ears. His mouth was pulled into a tight frown.
“Are you two all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” Madelyn said, her voice quivering. All around she saw men in similar garb, white robes with gold chains. “Yes, we are.”
“Good.”
And then he left her, instead going to Nigel’s side.
“Hold still,” the man said to him. He put his hands through the armor and against the wound on his chest. Nigel coughed.
“Madelyn?”
“The noblewoman?” the stranger asked.
Nigel nodded weakly.
“I’m here,” Madelyn said, still cradling the serving girl. “I’m well.”
“Brave too, considering what she had to do. Be quiet. I must say my prayers without interruption.”
The man closed his eyes and whispered words that Madelyn could not understand. White light glowed, as if his skin were luminescent. The bleeding in Nigel’s chest stopped. When he coughed again, the cough was dry and healthy.
“Who are you?” Madelyn asked as Nigel slumped into a sudden, peaceful sleep.
“Calan, high priest of Ashhur,” he said, turning to offer her a hand. “And as of now, consider yourself and your charges under my protection.”
CHAPTER
25
Ethric had been involved in many riots, but he’d never seen one created so spontaneously out of so little. Someone’s hands were certainly behind it, and the manipulation involved left him impressed. He walked down the middle of the open street, almost euphoric at the chaos. Karak, being a god of order before his banishment by Celestia, should have frowned upon such activities, but Ethric felt them lift his heart. The only thing worse than chaos was false order, the kind established by faithless kings and the worshippers of Ashhur. Let chaos burn down the falsehood like fire upon a crumbling home. From the ashes, he and his kind would build anew.
At the western gate he came across a filthy beggar sitting beside the road. He was blind, and before him was a clay pot. Ethric watched as a chubby merchant wearing red and purple silks atop his tunic tossed in a handful of coins. Before the merchant could escape, the dark paladin was there, grabbing his arm while stabbing his sword into the pot.
“Let go of me,” the merchant shouted as he tried to wrench his arm away. Ethric’s grip did not loosen. When he pulled the sword out of the pot, the sharp tip had pierced through the center of one of the coins.
“What charity is this?” Ethric asked as black fire surrounded the blade.
“Help for those less fortunate,” said the chubby man as he looked around for someone to aid him. There were none. Everyone recognized Ethric’s black armor, the dark flame of his blade, and the white lion skull painted on his breastplate. Just like the priests of Karak, the paladins were forbidden from entering Veldaren, but when inside they were never seen. Better to safely ignore the darkness than call it out and risk death.
“Shall you buy your way into eternity?” asked Ethric. The coin slowly melted, the copper dripping down the length of the blade, bubbling and popping. “If copper to a blind man saves your soul, imagine your rewards if you threw gold to the fee
t of a truly holy man.”
“You’re evil,” the merchant said. Ethric felt impressed by his courage.
“Evil?” he asked. He ripped the silks from the man’s tunic and held them aloft. “You parade before a blind man in wealth that could feed him for years while tossing him a pittance you will never miss. That is not piety. That is disgusting.”
He turned and rammed the silk into the blind man’s pot. The merchant stood with his hands shaking, his eyes torn between the dark paladin and the silk.
“No fighting, have mercy. A kindness is a kindness, no matter the size,” the blind man said, trying to defuse the situation. Ethric only smiled and gestured to the pot. His sword still burned with fire.
“What is more important to you?” he asked the rich man. “Your wealth, or your supposed bribes to the fates?”
When the merchant reached down for the silk, Ethric cut him down. With two vicious hacks he separated the head and dumped it atop the pot. The blood poured freely, ruining the silk and drenching the few coins within.
“Gifts are always repaid in blood,” Ethric said to the blind man. “Altruism is a delusion. Grace is weakness masked in lies.”
By now a crowd had surrounded him, shouting and pointing angrily. The dark paladin smiled, and when he stretched out his sword, the people made him a path. With so many swarming the streets, it took a good while for the city guard to arrive. He heard the distant commotion behind him, but felt no fear that they might come searching. They would hear his description, and know him for what he was. That alone would prevent any real search. No city guard was dumb enough to challenge a paladin of Karak, not without an army at its back.
Despite the delay, Ethric’s mood remained good. He had very little to work with in his search for the faceless women, but Pelarak had given him one tangible lead. On the inside of the wall, about half a mile north of the western gate, Pelarak had told him of a crack. It was wide, running lengthwise along the stones of the wall like a lone bolt of lightning. If Pelarak ever needed to contact the faceless women in urgency, he had an apprentice leave a note in the crack while the stars were bright. By morning it’d be gone.
Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks Page 27
