Rion took one last, desperate look at the departing carriages, then retreated into the shadows of the alley. He glanced behind him toward the opposite end of the alley and realized then he’d waited too long. There was no way he would make it to the other end, not before the priest was on him, and once the man saw him he would alert the others. Such men as these wouldn’t want to leave any witnesses and how long could Rion hope to evade so many in a city he didn’t know?
Not long, but it seemed he would find out. In another few seconds, the priest would arrive and sound the alarm. Frantic, Rion dove to one side of the alley, strangling a grunt when he struck the wall. He scrambled at the stone wall desperately and, when then the priest stepped into the alley, Rion was seated with his back pressed against it, his head down, as if he was asleep.
Just another homeless man begging for coin who’d decided to take a nap. Or, at least, that was what he hoped he looked like. He was in fresh clothes without so much as a tin or clay pot to collect any money that might have been tossed his way, and he had to rely on the shadows to help conceal those betraying facts from the priest. In another time, he might have found it funny or at least odd that a warrior for the side of Light might be forced to rely on the darkness to keep him alive, but just then, laughing was about the furthest thing from his mind.
The priest took a step into the alley, then another, and let out a small grunt of surprise when he noted Rion sitting against the wall, his head lolling as if he was asleep. Rion was trying to decide what to do, knowing if he rushed the priest now, there was no way he would make it to the man and cut him down before he managed a shout that would draw more of the robed men down on him, when the priest spoke. “My son? Are you well?”
His heart racing, his hands clammy with cold sweat, Rion didn’t answer, only continued to feign sleep. The priest moved closer until he was standing right over Rion. “My son? Might I help you, somehow?”
Sure, Rion thought, forcing down the shiver of fear creeping up his spine, how about you just, I don’t know, fall over, maybe die? That would help me, Father. That would help me a great deal. But the man wasn’t so accommodating as that. Instead, he knelt directly in front of Rion, studying Rion in the darkness, deciding maybe whether he was truly asleep.
Through his slitted eyes, Rion saw the priest reach in his tunic. He could have been reaching for a coin, or a handkerchief to wipe his brow, but Rion didn’t think so. Men who kidnapped people while they were asleep who—judging by the blood—were more than willing to hurt them, if they deemed it necessary, weren’t the same type of men who gave coins to random beggars. Or, at least, he didn’t think so, and he wasn’t prepared to gamble his life to see if he was wrong.
So, before the man withdrew his hand, Rion reached into his own tunic, grasping one of his hidden blades and removing it with a smooth, fluid motion, something at which he’d had far too much practice of late. The priest grunted at the sudden movement, but it was the only reaction he had time to muster before Rion buried the blade in his windpipe.
The priest hissed out a choked, rattled sound of shock and fell backward. Rion followed him, surprising himself at his anger at seeing Alesh and all the others—even Marta who he’d often considered strangling himself—captured. He sat on the man’s chest, ripped his blade free in a spurt of blood, and dragged it across the priest’s throat, the sharp steel digging viciously through flesh. The man struggled, trying to dislodge Rion from his perch, but in seconds the dramatic loss of blood had its effect, and the priest’s efforts slowed, his hands dropping back down to his side.
“You fucked with the wrong people,” Rion whispered. “You’ve lived in the darkness—so go to it.” Powerful that, he thought, something Alesh might have said. Of course, his hands would have been wreathed in flame as he did, and that would have added a certain something. But, since Rion didn’t have any flame handy, he leaned over so his mouth was inches from the dying man’s ear. “Bastard.”
Not much, maybe, not even all that great, but the priest wouldn’t complain, of that much he was certain, for by the time he rose to his feet, the man was already dead. Rion had been so caught up in the brief scuffle or, well, call it what it was—murder—he realized he hadn’t been paying attention to any of the priest’s companions and they could have all been running at him right now. He shot a frantic look in the direction of the Bard, half-expecting to see an army of priests crowding the alley, probably drawing lots to see who got to kill him, but there was nothing. No one. The priest at his feet, it seemed, would be going to his death alone. But, of course, everyone does.
Rion moved toward the alley mouth again and glanced down the street. He could see the priests still spreading out, moving in different directions, and just managed to catch sight of the back of the carriages before they both disappeared around a corner and were blocked from his vision. He hesitated then, unsure of what to do. He was only one man, after all, and it wasn’t as if he could follow both carriages, to rescue their stolen cargo. The fact was, he thought it was all too likely he couldn’t rescue either, but there was no time to think about that, not now. He needed to make a decision and—
“Hey, you!”
Rion’s breath caught in his throat. He turned back to look at the inn, expecting that some of the priests in the street must have seen him despite the darkness, but none appeared to have. Although, he noted with dismay, that several of the nearest were turning now, alerted by the shout and gazing in his direction.
Rion spun back around and was shocked to see several forms moving toward him from the other end of the alleyway. The one in the front held a lantern, and Rion kept himself from looking directly at it, knowing it would spoil his night vision and, if things kept going as they were, he was going to need every advantage he could get. “Who are you?” he said, not liking the way his voice squeaked.
“Oh, you know damned well who we are,” the man who’d spoken growled, “and if you don’t, by the gods, you’re goin’ to before this night’s done, that much I promise you.”
Something about the voice sounded familiar, niggled at Rion’s thoughts, but he still couldn’t place it. “Look,” he said, risking a glance over his shoulder to see the priests were still moving toward the alley, drawn like flies to a flame by the other man’s voice, “I don’t want any trouble, alright? I just want to—”
“If you didn’t want any trouble, you shouldn’t have run out on us, like you did, takin’ our money with you like some damned thief. You’ll pay for that, just like any fella would, but I’m sorry to say that ain’t the worst of what’s comin’ to you. You had no cause to hit me in my privates. For that, fella, I think we’re goin’ to have to take all our coin back from you and maybe some blood besides.”
And then Rion realized with a shock who this man must be. “Wait a minute, you’re the—the guy from the tavern?”
The man barked what might have been a laugh. “Sure, didn’t expect to see us again, did you? Well, one of the lads here watched you leave, came back quick enough. Now, you walk on over here and get what’s comin’ to you. We got to come collect you ourselves, I promise you, it’s gonna be a whole lot worse.”
Another look behind him. The priests were close now, would be here in a minute, maybe less. Far too close for him to hope for any chance of escape that way, and the other man and his companions had spread out in the alley, negating any chances he might have had of breaking through them. No way back and no way forward. Rion looked around the alley, his eyes searching desperately for something to help him, but there was nothing. Nothing, at least, save the dead priest lying at his feet, and whatever help the man might have offered, he was long past doing so.
Nothing else. Cobbled ground, stone walls and—Rion froze, his eyes catching on something, the vaguest of outlines, about halfway between him and the men crowding the alley. At first, his frantic mind couldn’t seem to decipher what it was, as if it was some great puzzle, the solution of which eluded him. Then, the thought came and w
ith it a heady sense of relief. A door. It’s a door. A back entrance into one of the shops lining the street, no doubt, but what were the chances a door like that wouldn’t be locked? After all, criminals might not have been as common in the nicer parts of the city such as this, but they were still around—a man just had to glance back at The Drunken Bard and the murdering, kidnapping priests moving toward Rion to know that much.
Javen, he thought desperately, look, I’m not much good at praying. But unless you want to go through the trouble of finding yourself another Chosen, you’d better make damned sure that door isn’t locked. Didn’t sound much like a prayer to him, not exactly the divine, wise sounding words he’d heard the priests utter on the few occasions he’d gone to one of Valeria’s churches, but it was the best he was capable of just then. He thought the coin in his pocket—Javen’s token—might have cooled the slightest bit then, but it might just as well have been his imagination. Either way, there was no help for it, so he walked toward the group of men, his hands raised. “Alright, look, I’m coming to you, alright?” Moving closer to the door, refusing to so much as look at it now, for fear the men would see him looking and know his thoughts.
“That’s a good lad,” the big man growled. “Takin’ it like a man, and that’s the only way to do it. After all, you were goin’ to take it either way. You know that, don’t you?”
“Sure,” Rion said, “and look, about the coins, I wasn’t lying before—I really was in a hurry. But here…” he paused, reaching into his pocket and fishing out a handful. “Take them.”
“Oh, we’ll be takin’ the coins alright,” the man agreed, “but as I told you before, that won’t be the end of it. You owe us a debt, see, and no amount of coins is goin’ to cover it, I’m afraid. Still, I promise you we ain’t gonna do nothin’ to you a good long stay in a healer’s won’t cure, alright? Except maybe the teeth, but a man don’t need all of ‘em anyway, that’s just bein’ greedy, you think about it. And you, you ain’t a greedy fella, are you?”
“No,” Rion said. Another step. And another. “Not greedy, not me. Still, there’s just one problem.”
“Oh?” the man asked, and there was a decidedly unpleasant sound to his voice now. “And what’s that?”
“Fuck off, that’s what,” Rion spat. Not poetry, but it had the added weight of his own emotion behind it. He lunged for the door, his sweat-slick hand grasping the handle before slipping off. Biting back a curse, he tried again, his efforts hampered by the way the metal handle seemed to squirm underneath his fingers as if taunting him. Finally, he caught hold of it and gave it a twist before trying the door. Oh gods, it’s locked, Rion thought.
“Hey, what are you doing?” the man shouted. “Get that bastard!” Rion had his back turned, but he didn’t need to see the men to hear the sound of their heavy footfalls on the cobbles as they rushed toward him.
Shit, shit, shit. He tried the handle again, hoping against hope somehow it would magically open, and was so shocked when it actually did, when he actually heard the latch give way, that he only stood, dumbfounded, for several seconds. Then, he realized that in his haste, he hadn’t turned the handle enough to disengage the latch. The door hadn’t been locked, after all. With a sound somewhere between a pant and a laugh, Rion pushed the door open and stepped inside, slamming it shut behind him.
It was completely dark within the building, but Rion wasn’t worried about that, not just then. Instead, he was searching for the door’s lock. After all, he doubted getting beaten to death in some anonymous shop would be any better than dying in an alleyway, so he fumbled, finally finding the latch and throwing it. A second later, there was a thud on the door as one of the men tried to force his way in. Someone shouted a string of curses in the alley, but the sound was muffled by the walls and the door. Still, the door was built of what had felt like solid oak, and he didn’t think it was likely to give way no matter how much the men beat on it, at least not too quickly.
He turned and quested around him with outstretched hands, unable to see anything in the perfect darkness. He touched something that felt like someone’s shirt and hissed in surprise, his other hand going for one of his knives before his blind investigations revealed it was some fabric stacked on a shelf, raw materials for a tailor’s shop, perhaps. Of course, it could have just as soon been strips of fabric in a healers’ shop, ones used for bandages. Without being able to see, there was no way to know, and it didn’t matter in any case.
What did matter was getting out of wherever he was and away before the men broke their way through the door. They were still hitting it from the other side, but as Rion had hoped, the door appeared to be holding firm, at least for the moment. He continued forward, his arms outstretched, feeling along the shelves until they ended, and another step took him to a stone wall.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
Rion paused at the sound of the big man’s voice, from outside in the alley. He didn’t seem to be addressing him, and his voice, while still angry, also seemed possessed of a wariness that made it clear something was troubling him. If the priests answered—for surely they must have arrived by now, and it could be only to them the man spoke—Rion could not hear it, and as he began feeling his way along the wall in search of the door, he heard the big man speak again.
“Look, you’d all best go back to whatever church you come from. Those robes ain’t gonna protect you, you go messin’ about in things ain’t none of your concern.”
Still no answer from the priests, but Rion wasn’t paying much attention, too focused on finding a door and getting away from here. He wasn’t sure whether the priests had seen him or not, but it was too much to hope they had showed up in the alley moments after he’d closed the door and, even if they had, they’d have to be somewhat curious as to why those men were gathered around it trying to force their way in. Which meant, more likely than not, whoever ended up coming out on top of what seemed to be the approaching, inevitable violence, they’d be coming after Rion next, and that door wouldn’t hold them forever.
So he ran his hands along the stone wall, his heart hammering in his chest, the sweat beading on his forehead not only—or even mostly—due to the surprising heat in the small storage room. Finally, the stone beneath his fingers changed to wood, and he grinned in the darkness as he felt around for the door handle. He was already planning what he would do next when he tried the latch and found it locked.
He ran his fingers along the space where the door met the frame, hoping to find some space he might take advantage of to pry it open. But whoever had built the shop had done as fine work on this door as he had the last, and there was no separating groove which Rion might make use of to force the door. Whatever craftsman had built the shop had clearly prided himself on his work, a man who refused to take shortcuts or leave a job half-done. The bastard.
The door, too, seemed as thick as the first one, and Rion thought he had a better chance of waking up to find out this was all a miserable dream than to break his way through before the men made it to him. Trapped. The thought sent a thrill of fear through him, and he took a slow, deep breath, struggling to rein in his terror. He’d just about got it under control when he heard the big man’s voice again, this time sounding as if it came from right outside the door, so close that Rion spun, half-expecting the man to be standing right beside him.
“Hey, damnit, answer me. What are you—” He never finished what he’d been about to say, for suddenly someone screamed, a loud, terrible wail of agony and fear.
“They’re behind us too, Clive.”
“What the fu—” someone else began, and his words turned into a growl. There were shouts then from outside, and the sounds of fighting. Desperate now, Rion gripped the door handle and struck it with his shoulder, hoping he was wrong about the door’s quality. He was rewarded by a thump that made his shoulder go numb, and the door didn’t so much as budge an inch in its frame.
His breath rasping in his throat as the sounds of fight
ing continued from outside in the alleyway, he felt his way along the other wall, holding on to some sliver of hope the shop owner might have had another door installed, though what purpose such a second door might serve, he couldn’t imagine. Less than a minute later, his hope died a quick, brutal death, similar, if the sounds coming from outside were any indication, to what the men in the alley were experiencing, as he stood once more at the door leading to the alleyway.
He wracked his brain for some idea of how to escape. He was still thinking when the sounds of fighting from outside faded to the single, desperate moan of someone in pain.
“Please,” a voice rasped from outside in the alley, “don’t…” Rion heard footsteps, slow, unhurried, and the voice spoke on. “Don’t, gods, look, I—” There was the unmistakable sound of a blade striking flesh and then only silence. A silence so deep, so profound, that Rion waited, unmoving, not daring to so much as breathe lest those outside hear him.
A moment later, he heard more footsteps, and though the door muffled the sounds, they seemed to be coming directly toward him. Still slow, unhurried, as if whoever made them was unconcerned by the blood bath that had just occurred. They stopped just outside the door, and Rion thought he could feel them there, listening, considering. He schooled himself to silence, scared to move a single muscle for fear of reminding them he was there. His nerves were so taut with anticipation and fear he nearly screamed when the door handle began to rattle back and forth.
It seemed to go on forever, Rion barely able to contain the shout of panic he’d strangled in his throat. Then, as abruptly as it had begun, it stopped, and there was only silence once again. A moment later, he could hear breathing, slow and calm, from whoever stood on the other side of the door. A second passed, then another, and he became convinced that whoever was standing outside knew he was there. That they were perhaps, even now, waiting, blocking his escape, while others of their number worked their way around through the front of the shop to where he hid.
The Warriors of the Gods Page 14
