“You want to question him?”
“Yes, but even more importantly, we need him to report that he was successful. If they think that Zollin survived, they’ll send more assassins.”
They approached the Gateway Inn and laid down their weapons. They tried to look as natural as possible. They went inside and began talking about the restoration work. Quinn pretended to send Mansel for supplies. Then he trudged up the stairs and began to inspect the long hallway. The Gateway was a tall building, with guest rooms on the second story. The fire had been contained on the first floor, causing a lot of damage to the lower level, but not the second. Quinn and Mansel had already replaced all the support beams, and there was very little for them to do on the second floor, but Quinn was guessing the assassin didn’t know that. He made some noise in one of the rooms near the stairs. He needed to give Mansel enough time to get into position to follow the assassin, if the man managed to get past Quinn.
It was a delicate operation. Quinn didn’t want the man to escape, but he did want the man to report back that Zollin was dead. He needed to capture and question the man, then let him escape, but first he needed to find the man and survive the encounter. Assassins, Quinn knew, were trained killers, not necessarily trained fighters. The assassin would have no qualms about killing Quinn, and he certainly wouldn’t fight fair. Quinn needed to take him out quickly, preferably knocking the man unconscious so that he couldn’t use poison like the first assassin had to escape interrogation.
Quinn moved noisily back down the stairs and then retraced his steps as silently as possible. He had his shield held in front of him in case the assassin shot one of the poison darts at him. He also had a short, wooden club. He began to quietly check the rooms. There was no sign of anyone, but Quinn had a feeling the man would be hiding in the last room down the long hallway, which gave the best view of the Valley Inn. When he finally reached the room, he pushed the door open slowly with the club. The attack happened so fast that Quinn had no time to react. The assassin’s dagger should have stabbed through Quinn’s neck, killing him instantly. Instead, the blade struck the chain mail which Quinn had pulled back off of his head and bunched just under the collar. The assassin had been waiting just beside the door, and when Quinn stepped into the room, he struck. The force of the blow staggered Quinn and sent a lancing pain down his back and into his left leg. Without thinking, Quinn swung the club in a backhanded blow that the assassin just managed to duck under. He stabbed out with his dagger again, this time the point broke through one of the metal rings and stabbed into Quinn’s side. The blade didn’t penetrate more than the width of Quinn’s pinky, but the force of the blow cracked his rib and knocked the breath out of him. He staggered back, but he was still in the doorway, blocking the assassin’s escape. The man didn’t wait or try to attack Quinn again. He’d been foiled twice, and he knew his chances of surviving against an armed and armored adversary were slim. He ran across the room, instead, and dove out the window, shattering the glass and the wooden window frame.
Quinn was in agony with each step, but his adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, allowing him to ignore the pain. He hurried over to the window and saw that the assassin had landed in a snow bank which padded his fall. By the time Quinn arrived, the man, now dressed in all white garments, was climbing out of the thick, powdery snow. Quinn turned to head back down the stairs. He was moving much too slowly to keep up with the intruder. He only hoped that Mansel would leave an indication as to which way he had gone after the assassin.
In the far corner of the room was a small pack; Quinn made a mental note to retrieve it as soon as possible. But first, they needed to catch the assassin. Mansel had heard the window shatter, and he saw the assassin flip in midair before landing on his back in the snow. It was an impressive acrobatic feat, but Mansel was more concerned about Quinn. He glanced up at the window and saw Quinn. He immediately focused all his attention on the assassin. He was satisfied that his mentor was still alive.
The assassin moved quickly, ducking out of sight on the back side of the inn. Mansel waited a moment before crossing the street to follow the man. He knew the snow was thick behind the inn; no one had even tried to deal with the thick snow where it wasn’t necessary to. It would be at least waist deep, and Mansel knew he could follow the assassin’s trail easily enough. In fact, he would be able to move much more quickly through the snow than the man fighting to make the trail. Mansel peaked around the edge of the building and saw the man struggling through the snow. He decided to wait on Quinn before going after the man. He wasn’t afraid to face an opponent on open ground, but in the snow, the assassin would have the advantage. Besides, his instructions had been to keep an eye on the man, not confront him.
Mansel heard Quinn grunting with each step as he rounded the corner of the building. Quinn saw Mansel, who was standing with his back to the far corner of the inn. He hurried to where Mansel stood waiting, but each step was like being stabbed all over again. He could only take shallow breaths, and he was wheezing by the time he reached Mansel.
“He’s that way,” Mansel, said pointing around the building.
“You’ll need to go after him, but stay a long bowshot behind him. The bastard broke my rib; I won’t be able to keep up.”
“How am I supposed to capture him?” Mansel asked.
“Don’t, just tail him. See if he has any companions waiting for him. Then come back here.”
“Yes, sir,” Mansel said, nodding. He pulled his bow off his shoulder and nocked an arrow. He wasn’t taking any chances. The man had escaped Zollin and broken Quinn’s rib. He didn’t plan to give the assassin any more opportunities to do them harm.
The trail was easy to follow, but the man making it was so well camouflaged that Mansel had trouble keeping him in sight. He moved slowly, trying not to draw attention to himself. He kept his eyes focused on the trail, expecting to find booby traps along the way, but the assassin obviously thought that his best chance of success lay in outdistancing his pursuers.
The sun was beginning to set, and Mansel had been on the assassin’s trail for almost an hour. He was probably two miles from Brighton’s Gate, but it was hard to tell since cutting through the snow was so difficult. Not far from the village, the assassin’s trail had merged with an earlier trail and, although the snow was easier to traverse, Mansel had trouble keeping up with the other man. In the fading light, Mansel was able to see that the assassin was heading for what looked like two long, narrow sleds. There were dogs sitting in their ganglines. The man reached the first and was busy doing something Mansel could not see. He was sure the assassin knew he was there, but the man seemed to have no interest in stopping Mansel. Then he saw a bird of some kind, flying up and away from the sled. Mansel guessed correctly that the bird was carrying a message, hopefully one that said their mission had been successful. Mansel drew his bow and took aim. He wanted to kill the assassin, but he couldn’t be sure what the message said, or if it was even a message at all. He fired the arrow, but intentionally aimed to the left so that the arrow hit the sled, not the man. The assassin wasted no more time, he shouted a command at the dogs, which leapt ahead, running nimbly over the snow and pulling the sled with the assassin standing at the rear of it. The other dogs, still attached by their gangline to the second sled, barked and shuffled nervously as they watched their companions race away.
Mansel moved quickly to the second sled; it was lightly equipped, but there was still a lot of useful gear packed on it. It looked like a strange chair, with a long, narrow seat mounted on thin rails. The back came straight up, and there were handles that curved back away from the sled. The thin rails that the sled rode on extended back, past the awkward seat, where the equipment was tied down. There was a snowhook anchoring the sled and the team of dogs. Mansel pulled it free and tossed it onto the sled. Then, having seen the assassin standing behind the strange looking seat, he stepped onto the rails and took hold of the handles. There were no reins, and he w
asn’t sure how to steer the sled. He noticed a long, thin whip. He pulled it from the pack and steadied his grip on the sled. It was pointed away from the village, and Mansel wasn’t sure how to steer the animals or even how to get them moving.
He cracked the whip, which made the dogs jump, but they did not pull the sled. He thought for a moment and remembered that he had heard the assassin shout at his dogs.
“Go!” he shouted, but again the dogs didn’t move.
“Haw!” he shouted and suddenly the dogs were moving.
“Turn!” he shouted, but the dogs kept running straight. “Left!” he cried, and the dogs began to turn.
It was a long, looping turn, but it finally got them going in the right direction. The dogs ran hard, and it was only a few minutes before the village was in sight. Mansel could see lights in the small homes, and the dogs seemed to be drawn toward them. They ran straight down the main street, with Mansel hanging on for dear life. They raced past Quinn, who was waving one arm, but Mansel wasn’t sure how to make the dogs stop.
“Stop!” he shouted, but they continued to run. “Whoa!” he cried, which seemed to have an effect. The dogs didn’t stop running, but they slowed down. The sled, moving on its own momentum, slid past the Valley Inn and several surprised townsfolk, before finally coming to a stop.
Quinn was walking slowly toward him, Mansel saw. He was carrying a pack of some sort and limping slightly. Mansel got off the sled just as a young boy came running up to him.
“Where did you get the dog sled?” the boy asked.
Mansel wasn’t sure what to say.
“Xanadan, it isn’t polite to ask questions,” said an older man.
“Sorry,” said the boy.
Mansel recognized the man from the inn, where he’d seen him eating and drinking with some of the other townsfolk. He nodded and smiled at the boy.
“No, that’s okay,” he said. “No offense taken. I found it.”
“It looks like it’s from up the valley,” said the man. “I’m Alphon. Someone’s probably missing it tonight,” he chided gently.
“No, the assassins used them to get here,” Mansel said, trying to keep his anger out of his voice. “I chased the other one away on one just like this.”
“Mansel!” Quinn said loudly from up the street, his face flushed. He was breathing heavily and holding his side.
“I need to get back,” Mansel said to the man.
“Well,” said Alphon, “I can help with the dogs. I’ll see to them and feed them for a small fee. Or I’ll buy them from you.”
“If you take them, Quinn and I will work something out tomorrow,” Mansel said.
“Fair enough,” Alphon said. “Come on, Xanadan, let’s get these dogs settled and fed.”
“Yes, sir!” said the boy excitedly. They began to unhook the gangline as Quinn finally hobbled up.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“The assassins used them,” Mansel explained. “The one I was following escaped on one just like this, but not before he released a bird of some kind.”
“He released a bird? He didn’t just scare it away?”
“I couldn’t see for sure, but it looked like he threw it up into the air,” Mansel said. “There were no other birds around, and I can’t believe they would venture so close to the dogs.”
“Speaking of dogs, where are they taking them?”
“Alphon offered to take care of them for a fee or buy them from us. I told him we would settle up tomorrow.”
“Good idea, let’s get this gear back to the inn. The assassin left it in the room when he jumped out the window. I want to go through it all, tonight. There’s got to be a clue about who sent those assassins after Zollin.”
Chapter 7
When Zollin slowly started to wake up, he felt heavy, as if his arms and legs, and even his eyelids, were weighted down. His head hurt, and his back felt like it was on the verge of cramping. He was thirsty, very thirsty. He started with his lips, even though they felt swollen and stuck together. He moved his jaw a little, and his tongue slowly pulled lose from the roof of his mouth.
He tried to move his arm and realized he was under heavy quilts and blankets. He turned his head to the side and groaned. His throat was so dry the sound came out more like a croak. He tried again to open his eyes and found that they parted slightly.
“He’s waking up,” Brianna said.
She had returned to the little cabin after collecting Zollin’s things. She knew that Zollin wasn’t dead, but it still angered her to see the almost festive atmosphere of the townspeople. Kelvich had been right; they didn’t need proof of Zollin’s death. They were all too happy to be rid of their wizard and his extraordinary powers. The news had spread through the town like a wildfire through a dry forest. No one even seemed sympathetic, despite the fact that it was obvious she was distraught. They were smiling and going about their daily chores as if nothing had happened. In a way it disgusted her, but in some small way she understood. They had their little lives and were content to live in them, hoping that no one came along and shook them up. Zollin had done that, and now they were happy that he was gone.
Brianna knew instinctively that the town would soon turn on Quinn and Mansel, as well. She knew that Zollin secretly hoped his father could make a life for himself in Brighton’s Gate. He had never spoken of it, but she knew it was true. He took so much blame upon himself. She knew better though. Quinn would stay with Zollin, and Mansel, too. She had seen Mansel’s admiration grow for Zollin. He would never admit it, but he was awed by Zollin’s powers and counted himself lucky to be on a great adventure, even though he’d nearly been killed on the journey. Still, he understood her own need to see the Five Kingdoms, to live a life that really mattered, not merely to find a home and husband. She didn’t want to just exist, that wasn’t living to her. Zollin would probably scold her for such thoughts, especially since their adventure had been a harrowing race against death itself, but she had no regrets.
Kelvich walked over and let some water trickle onto Zollin’s lips. Zollin felt the water and licked greedily at it. His tongue was sluggish, but the water worked its way into his mouth, and he felt better immediately. His eyes opened, and he could see Brianna’s beautiful face looking down at him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“More...water...” he said, his voice barely more than a rasp.
“Thought you’d be thirsty,” Kelvich said. “All day and night with no water is serious business.”
He poured a little more water into Zollin’s mouth. It was cold and tasted as sweet as honey to Zollin. He held it in his mouth for a moment, letting it soak into the dry flesh, then he swallowed it down.
“Better see if we can sit him up,” Kelvich said. “He’ll need some more water, then maybe a bit of wine. Let’s see here.”
Kelvich took hold of Zollin’s left arm, Brianna held his right and supported his head, which felt abnormally heavy to Zollin, as if his neck wasn’t working anymore. They situated cushions behind him and then set him back.
“There, that’s better. I’ve got broth boiling,” Kelvich said pleasantly. “Should be ready anytime now. Here, Brianna,” he said, handing her the cup of water. “Give him small sips. He doesn’t need to choke. His muscles will take longer to recover from the Gypsum flower than his senses.”
Brianna took the cup and gave Zollin another sip. He could feel it run all the way down his throat and into his stomach, which growled. He smiled at Brianna, who favored him with a smile of her own.
“Did they buy it?” Zollin asked her.
“Oh yes, they are probably getting drunk in jubilation right now. I don’t know how your father can stand to be there.”
“They’re happy I’m dead?” Zollin asked, more to himself than to Brianna. “I knew they weren’t fond of me, but I didn’t think they’d celebrate my passing.”
“They were very merry, and none more-so than that vile creature, Henrik,” Brianna said
.
“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Kelvich said. “Just old and set in his ways.”
“He’s a coward,” Zollin said.
“Most men are,” Kelvich assured him. “Now, sip on this broth, then we’ll see about that wine.”
Kelvich handed Brianna a bowl and spoon. The broth was made from boiled chicken, but it tasted divine to Zollin. He ate the entire bowlful, and the hot liquid filled him with a contentment that seemed to relax his muscles. They no longer felt heavy, just tired.
“How can I be sleepy after sleeping so long?” he asked.
“Your body is just responding to the drug,” Kelvich reassured him. “It takes a while to work through it. Better say good night to Brianna, she’ll be heading back to the inn in the morning, probably before you’re up and around.”
“Can’t she stay here, with us?” Zollin asked, and he noticed that Brianna was staring into the empty bowl in her hands.
“There’s no need for her to stay here,” Kelvich said. “It’ll only make people suspicious. Besides, she’ll be much more comfortable at the inn. We’ve only the one room and the one bed, remember.”
Five Kingdoms: Books 01, 02 & 03 Page 34
