The Death of Dulgath

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Nysa dropped the quarrel. It hit the stage with a hollow clunk. Blood soaked the front of her once beautiful gown, turning the blue to black. She coughed, and blood bubbled out of her mouth, spilling in a gruesome display down her chin and neck. Her eyes looked up, looked across the length of the courtyard, looked directly at Royce. Help me, she mouthed.

  They were separated by almost three hundred feet but she knew he was up there, once more hiding, once more watching. She always knew when he was near, and that he could see her lips because he was elven.

  The sound of someone climbing the ladder caught Royce’s attention, and he let go of the canvas, blocking his view of the lady and her pleading eyes.

  Knox’s voice arrived before he did. “Shervin! Damn you. Load another bolt or I’ll have to smother the bitch in the infirmary!” When his head cleared the parapet he froze. “Melborn! Blackwater?”

  Hadrian drew his swords and charged toward Knox, but the sheriff wasn’t a fool. Grabbing an end of the banner, he leapt; his weight did the rest. Sheriff Knox fell to the courtyard, bringing the blue-and-white standard of Dulgath with him. He pointed at Royce and the arbalest shouting, “Assassin! Assassin!” His men headed his way, pushing through the crowd.

  Hadrian dragged the ladder up. He jerked his head toward the rope. “I can buy you some time, but make it fast. Get moving.”

  The knights, along with other guards, continued their way toward the wall, hampered by the crowd. People were crying, as they backed away from the stage. King Vincent stood beside Nysa, shocked. Lady Dulgath continued looking at Royce with desperate eyes.

  Help me.

  I’ll have to smother the bitch in the infirmary!

  “I’m not leaving,” Royce said.

  “What?” Hadrian shot back.

  “We need to get her out. Here, help me load another quarrel.” Royce fumbled, trying to work the arbalest.

  “Get her out? Royce, there’s a thousand people between us and her. Maybe two thousand. How do you expect—” He shook his head. “Royce, get on the rope!”

  “We can’t leave her here. You heard what Knox said.”

  “Royce, you’re being stupid! Get down the rope. It’s not going to take them long to get another ladder.”

  “No.”

  “Since when are you a hero? Look, I’m all for saving people, but there is no way to get her out!”

  “Yeah, there is. But I need your help.” Royce said, continuing to work the weapon with his mangled hands. “Get over here.”

  Hadrian looked skeptical but joined Royce at the arbalest. He rotated the crank, spinning it as quickly as he could, pulling back the wire. “Okay, so what’s the plan?”

  “You’re going down to the courtyard and carry Nysa Dulgath out the gate. Then, put her in the wagon and I’ll use the rope to meet you outside the wall.”

  “If I go down there, they’ll kill me,” Hadrian said as the wire reached its firing position.

  “I won’t let them.”

  “You won’t let them. How you going to—?”

  “Just trust me!”

  Hadrian stared at Royce for a moment, only a second, then nodded. Seeing him do it, seeing Hadrian accept trust me as an argument worth risking his life for, disgusted Royce. Had the situation been reversed, he never would’ve agreed. Royce would’ve already left.

  Would I? Would I leave him behind to die?

  He wanted to believe he would, but…

  “What are you going to do?” Hadrian asked as he placed the bolt.

  “Play chess.”

  The bell rang.

  Payne had been tasked with pulling the rope. The idea being that the noise would cover the sound of the shot. Christopher was preparing to look surprised, but he needn’t have bothered—it came as a genuine shock when the quarrel struck Nysa.

  He’d heard the crack, as if someone had split wood. In point of fact, Gerami had done exactly that. The quarrel had punched through Lady Dulgath’s chest and shattered the wooden back of her seat. Christopher had to fight off a smile now that the deed was done.

  It’s over! I’m going to be earl!

  The next shock came when Knox called out the thieves’ names and pulled down the banner.

  Why aren’t they in Manzant? The thought fought with the sight before his eyes.

  Then the third shock hit.

  Nysa Dulgath sat up, and opened her eyes. The delicate woman reached up and with both hands pulled the quarrel from her body. The bolt was dark with blood. She pressed her left hand to the wound and dropped the quarrel with her right. Then, both hands pressed, blood leaked through her fingers.

  How is she still alive?

  He couldn’t have been the only one thinking this. The knights jumped out of their chairs, and the king’s men retreated, but no one moved to help Nysa. Not even the king, who stood an arm’s length away.

  She’s going to die. No one can take a hit like that and live. This is just some freakish thing. She’s going to collapse at any minute.

  But she didn’t. Nysa continued to hold her palms to the wound and stare at the distant parapet, where the knights had directed guards. While they were searching for a way to assail the wall, a voice rose above the murmuring of the crowd.

  “No one move—or the king dies!”

  Everything stopped.

  Royce shouted his command again to make certain everyone heard. Vincent started to retreat. “That especially includes you, Your Majesty!” he added.

  Vincent froze.

  Royce continued, “I won’t hesitate to punch a hole in the king, so don’t test me. Everyone is going to do exactly what I say. If you don’t, the king will die. Even if I’m killed afterward, imagine the treatment you’ll receive for acting so rashly.”

  “What do you want?” Vincent shouted back.

  “First, tell everyone to do as I say.”

  The king hesitated.

  “Do as he says, Vinny,” Bessie pleaded while sobbing. She had rushed from her bunting-covered chair to be at the king’s side when Lady Dulgath was hit.

  “Quiet, woman!”

  “Look at Lady Dulgath. Look at that quarrel. I’ve got another aimed at your chest,” Royce said.

  “Do what he says!” the king shouted.

  “Wise man. Second, I want you, and everyone else, to be silent. I’m the only one allowed to talk. Wouldn’t want the king to die because someone couldn’t hear me. Third, I want Your Majesty to sit back down. You’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  The king didn’t hesitate this time. He took his seat, putting both hands on the arms of the chair. He looked decidedly terrified.

  “Now my friend is going to lower a ladder. Those of you at the bottom will want to move away. If anyone gets anywhere close to him, if anyone so much as gives him a dirty look…well, by now you ought to know what will happen. So for the sake of your king—and the wrath that’ll rain down on you and yours if you do anything to cause his death—give my friend a wide berth.”

  The silence in the courtyard was so complete that Christopher heard the creak of the ladder as Hadrian Blackwater climbed down.

  What are they doing?

  Watching the crowd part, seeing Hadrian move toward him, Christopher felt his grand scheme collapsing.

  What if they tell what they know? Will the king believe them? No. He won’t, not now. They’re threatening his life. This might work out after all.

  Hadrian walked straight up to the center of the stage and was the only one to touch Lady Dulgath. As he stooped down to lift Nysa, Vincent whisper to Blackwater, “You’ll hang for this.”

  “No, we won’t,” Royce shouted, making the king start. “And I said no talking.”

  With a pained grunt, Hadrian lifted Nysa in his arms. Her head wobbled; her eyes wandered blindly. One arm fell limp. Blackwater carried the countess off the stage and headed toward the front gate beneath the stare of thousands of eyes.

  As Hadrian passed Christopher, he heard Nysa whisper, �
��Going to pass out. Get—get me to the monastery. Tell Royce…have to get me to the Abbey of Brecken Moor. You have to tell…you have to…”

  “I heard. Calm down,” Hadrian replied. “Save your strength.”

  “My strength is gone.”

  The whole of the courtyard watched as he carried their lady out the gate, leaving a trail of blood that dripped from the end of that long blue gown.

  “What did you do?” Scarlett gasped, her eyes threatening to fall out of her head as Hadrian laid Nysa Dulgath in the bed of the wagon.

  He did it as gently and carefully as he could, but the woman was a wilted rag covered in blood. Her dress was a sponge from which dripped a thick drizzle. Her skin felt slick and slippery.

  While Nysa Dulgath couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds, his ribs told him that carrying her had been too much. The stress had sent jolts not only to his side, but up to his shoulder and down his back. Taking deep breaths didn’t help, but he needed one—more than one. Hadrian’s arms were shaking with pain by the time he set her on the buckboard.

  Scarlett had leapt up and scrambled to make a bed from the blankets they’d left in the wagon. She helped ease Nysa down and rolled up another blanket for a pillow, plucking blades of grass off it, as if Lady Dulgath would care.

  “Drive the wagon to the wall over there.” Hadrian pointed. “Around the back you’ll see a rope dangling from the parapet. Royce will be down in a minute. I hope.”

  “What did you do?” Scarlett repeated in an accusatory tone, continuing to fuss over Lady Dulgath.

  Does she think I did this? Fine, I’ll drive.

  Hadrian stepped on the spoke of a wheel and pulled himself up to the driver’s seat. More pains, sharp as needles—very long needles—stabbed him in the side, stealing what little breath he had, and making him clench his teeth.

  Hurt myself carrying her.

  Hadrian took the reins off the stock, disengaged the wheel’s brake, and urged the team forward with a kissing sound he’d heard Scarlett make, along with a jiggle and slap of the long leather straps.

  Feeling the wagon move, Scarlett looked up at him. “What’s going on? What did you do?”

  Hadrian wheeled them toward the wall. The bounce and rattle of the wagon that made him twist in his seat did nothing to comfort him as he sucked in two more careful breaths.

  “When Royce gets here, we’re going to go really fast,” Hadrian said, realizing how poor the suspension was on the wagon and how much the trip would hurt. He glanced back at Nysa, her pale face rocking from side to side with the motion of the wagon. She was either dead or unconscious; either way, she wasn’t going to suffer.

  “Where are we going?”

  Hadrian looked down at Nysa. “The Abbey of Brecken Moor.”

  “The abbey? But—” They both looked up to see a dark figure slip over the wall.

  Legs wrapped around the rope, Royce slid down like a raindrop on a string. Then he sprinted toward the wagon, shouting, “Go! Go!”

  Hadrian slapped the reins, sending the wagon forward in a lurch as Royce jumped up. He caught the arm of the front seat with his three good fingers and plopped down beside Hadrian. The wagon bucked and banged over ruts, throwing Hadrian into the air and slamming him down again so hard he squeezed his eyes shut and saw little dancing lights.

  When he reached the road, the earthquake stopped. There was plenty of shaking and still a little rocking, but they were no longer being tossed in the air like children on a tarp at a spring fair.

  Royce climbed into the back.

  “What did you do?” Scarlett asked him, shouting over the rumble of the wagon and the hiss of the wind.

  “How is she?” Royce replied.

  “She’s drooling blood! That’s how she is!”

  “What’s that mean? Hadrian, you’re sort of a doctor, can you—”

  “I’m not a doctor—but even I know she should have died five minutes ago. Should have checked out the moment she was hit.” Hadrian braced himself as they rolled through a dip that turned out not to be as bad as he thought. “That bow was an arbalest. In the army, we used them to pierce armor, kill horses, and shatter the wheels of assault towers. A single quarrel will stop a charging water buffalo. Royce, there’s no way she’s going to live. She’s spitting red because at least one lung is punctured, or more likely shredded. She’s drowning in her own blood—what little she has left.”

  Royce looked at Scarlett. “You know anyone who can help her?”

  “Hadrian said we’re taking her to the abbey. I think that is the best place.”

  “The abbey? Why there?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Scarlett said.

  “It’s where she asked to be taken,” Hadrian supplied.

  “Then that settles it,” Royce declared.

  Scarlett shook her head. “Wagon won’t go up that trail.”

  Hadrian’s attention was on the road, but the few glances he gave back to the three passengers revealed a sorry scene. Not trusting the makeshift pillow, Scarlett was cradling Nysa’s head in her lap, her legs to either side of the lady. She looked close to tears as the wind whipped her fiery hair. Royce held on to the wagon’s rail with his relatively good hand, rocking side to side and frowning at Nysa.

  “She’s right,” Hadrian said. “We’ll get partway maybe, but it narrows, gets too steep and rocky.”

  “We can switch horses in Brecken Dale,” Scarlett shouted. “Get fresh mounts, saddle them, and leave the wagon, but someone will need to carry her on horseback—ride tandem.”

  “I’ll take her,” Royce said.

  They hit another bump, and Hadrian grunted. If it weren’t for Scarlett, Lady Dulgath’s head would’ve been clapping on the wood. She wouldn’t feel it. The lady couldn’t feel anything, and he was certain she never would again.

  “Is anyone going to tell me what happened in there?” Scarlett shouted. She was angry, frustrated, scared, and still holding Lady Dulgath’s head, brushing the woman’s hair away from her face.

  “Got there too late,” Hadrian said. “Then Royce threatened to kill the King of Maranon.”

  “You’re not serious?” Scarlett looked at Royce. “That’s got to be a step up, even for you.”

  “You want to tell me why we’re doing this, Royce?” Hadrian asked. “Normally this is the sort of thing you’d be yelling at me for.”

  Royce didn’t answer. He had his head cocked back, looking up at the sky. “Anyone else notice that it’s starting to rain?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Storm

  Clouds.

  As a daydreaming boy, Hadrian had done his fair share of lying in fields and imagining some as dragons or trolls to slay. He’d seen castles in the sky and towers where damsels waited to be rescued. In their puffy white and billowing grays, Hadrian had peered into the glories of his future and witnessed wonders—wonders that never came to pass. To Hadrian, the man, clouds only meant rain.

  These clouds were different. Not that they appeared unusual, and they did mean rain—plenty was falling by the time they reached Brecken Dale—but they also meant something else. Only no one knew what.

  It never rains during the day. Scarlett must have said it at least a dozen times before they finally reached Caldwell House. From the moment Royce drew their attention to the rain, she’d had her head craned back with a look of surprise and fear.

  What does it mean? Hadrian had also asked more times than he could remember.

  Scarlett never answered him.

  They made enough racket racing through the dale that those who hadn’t gone to witness the homage came out to see them rattle by. Or maybe they were already out, standing on their porches and stoops looking up at the sky and, like Scarlett, wondering what was happening.

  Wagner, Gill, Asher, and Clem were certainly out. Tasha was there, too, standing behind Asher and peering over the doctor’s shoulder.

  “Lady Dulgath is hurt!” Scarlett shouted as Hadrian bro
ught the wagon to a stop.

  Asher climbed up as Royce and Hadrian got off. Royce hesitated a moment, looking back at the wagon and the motionless woman. Then he and Hadrian ran to the stables.

  Caldwell House’s stables lacked the luxury of the castle’s, but they were still grander than any stable in Medford. The long single corridor with stalls to either side was clean and just as livable as any of the homes along the street. With the double doors open wide, gusting storm winds and the sound of distant thunder agitated the horses and threw bits of straw dust into the air.

  “How long we got?” Hadrian asked, searching the stalls for Dancer.

  “They have to get out of that courtyard,” Royce replied, searching for his own animal. “Get down to their stables, saddle their horses—and wait for others to do the same. The more coming after us, the longer it will take. Fifteen or twenty minutes? Maybe more. But that wagon was pretty slow.”

  Hadrian spotted the white diamond and two rear socks of Dancer. He grabbed the bit and bridle hanging on a peg just outside the stall and flung the gate open. “Did you kill him?”

  “The king? No, that would’ve only made matters worse. Someone used our real names, remember?”

  Hadrian was having trouble seeing how things could’ve been worse, but he felt a sense of relief at the news. When faced with the question of whether to kill or not, Royce had a nasty habit of choosing the former. For him, doing so was the same as checking the grass before squatting in a forest or looking in a boot before pulling it on in the morning. Common sense, he called it—dead people didn’t seek revenge.

  “Well, that’s one point in our favor.” Hadrian finished Dancer’s bit, then dashed over to help Royce, who was having trouble with his own mount because of his injured hands. “Would you have killed him? If he’d refused—if they had grabbed me?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “Not sure if I should feel touched or terrified.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “But what did you mean about playing chess?”

  Royce appeared puzzled for a moment then smirked. “Oh, that—I literally put the king in check.”