by Aldrea Alien
She could grab it now and face him here, but she’d be isolated with only Tommy for backup and a gaggle of innocent children that the guard could use to his advantage. Playing the man’s game seemed the best way to put him in a place where armed assistance could arrive in a short enough time.
Tightening the sash of her dressing gown, she grabbed her cloak and threw it across her shoulders before opening the door wider. “Where did you say he was?”
“The gardens, my lady.” He waved for her to take the lead, frowning when she didn’t move.
“Oh!” she exclaimed loudly. She pressed a hand to her lips, trying her best to look unthreatening and entirely clueless. “Could you perhaps lead the way? I get so lost walking around here.” Clara fluttered her lashes at him.
Smiling in that same skin-crawling manner, the guard bowed and took up the lead. She padded wordlessly behind him, her bare feet making little sound over the clink and tramp of his boots.
Whilst they travelled at a brisk pace, they wound through corridors and side passages she hadn’t been escorted down before. Each place was lit with dim lanterns and Clara expected to find someone waiting behind each corner. But everywhere they went, it was just them. No guards patrolling the inner halls, no servants tending to the running of the castle that few higher up gave a thought to.
She stared at the back of the man’s head. He continued to look straight ahead, confident of his path. How many times had he walked these passages at this time to be certain of their emptiness? The green and gold livery he wore looked worn—mended tears that spoke of being used in a fair bit of fighting rather than age—but the garb fit him as if tailored.
A blast of cool air greeted them as they strode down the open corridor that led to the gardens. Unlike inside the castle, only watery moonlight lit their path. The breeze continued to ruffle her dressing gown and shook her thoughts free.
There would be time later for introspection of how the man was able to integrate himself into the castle guard, but only if she survived the now.
Slipping her hand into her dressing gown under the guise of seeking warmth, she wrapped her fingers around the dagger’s crosspiece and drew the blade to the beat of his footsteps. Dare she make the first blow? The guard wasn’t the tallest man. A few inches higher than herself, perhaps. Whilst her dagger wouldn’t penetrate the chain mail, the man’s neck lay dreadfully exposed. A stab to the spine would see him fail whatever task drove him. Likewise would a slash across the throat.
Both options were rather final, though. What if there was truth behind the man’s words? He’d made no gesture to her that could be determined as an absolute threat. And whilst she could be certain of a distinct lack of punishment should she react on her feelings and be proven wrong, the idea of killing because of a perceived threat didn’t sit well with her.
Her gaze slid to the mostly-naked bushes and sleeping trees that lined one side of the corridor. If Lucias was really here, then surely there’d be illumination of some sort. Nothing moved out there. No hints of men skulking through the shadows, no guards beyond those atop the wall.
The softest of changes in her escort’s gait had her returning her attention to him. The guard’s casual interest in keeping a hold on his sword hilt had shifted into an outright grasp. Her ears picked up little beyond their footsteps and the occasional muffled clink from the guards on the ramparts.
With her heart hammering—surely, loud enough for him to hear—she skittered closer to the guard. The path grew rougher as they marched, with gravel and specks of dirt littering the stone slabs. Clara bit her lip, desperate to maintain his pace without giving away her closeness. There was a risk in remaining within arm’s reach, but closing would hopefully limit his ability to use the sword’s full length.
The faint crunch of a boot grinding into gravel narrowed her focus.
The guard’s torso twisted, his elbow lifting in the act of unsheathing his sword. The blade gleamed dully in the moonlight.
Clara rushed him, shoving her shoulder into the middle of his back to throw him off balance.
Sure enough, the guard pitched forward, clearly not expecting her to be directly behind him. First mistake. With one hand, she jabbed her dagger into the pit of his sword arm. The blade met resistance in the chain mail, but it was enough of a distraction for her to purloin the man’s own dagger. Sadly, the attempt didn’t have him dropping his weapon.
Armed with a longer blade, Clara swung the man’s curved dagger up to his neck as he turned. The act had him freezing instantly. She wrapped her free arm around his to keep his sword in check. Hopefully, she was strong enough to maintain the grip should he struggle. “Don’t move,” she snarled. “Or I’ll slit your throat.”
She dared to glance at the wall looming before her. Guards marched across the ramparts and carried crossbows, but the dark of the garden shielded Clara and her attacker from their sights. “Help!” she screamed. The men on the wall could do nothing in the moment, but there would be messengers waiting to send news to relevant folk.
“You down there!” a voice ordered in the dark, coming from somewhere above. “What is going on?”
“Betrayal!” she replied. “Send guards at—”
Her previously subdued attacker suddenly arched back, tipping his head away from the dagger at his throat, and threw her to one side with a push of his elbow in the same smooth motion.
Clara stumbled, the soles of her feet barking on the path’s rough surface. Only the presence of a wall at her shoulder kept her from pitching right onto the ground.
He regained his balance far faster than she. Grasping the hilt of his sword in both hands, he swung.
She slammed the daggers together, locking their crosspieces, and jabbed towards the oncoming blade. The sword struck. Her arms shuddered under the strength of the blow, but she pushed further until the unsharpened length below the cross guard slid into the V-formation of her dagger blades.
She glared at the man over their locked weapons. If she’d worn any sort of footwear, she would’ve attempted a kick to his groin—although the skirt of her nightgown did much to limit outward movement there. Chain mail above. And solid leather boots protecting his feet. What of between? Did the thick linen of his trousers contain more armour?
Clara aimed a swift kick to his leg, her heel slamming into the inside of the man’s knee.
The guard pulled back, hobbling and swearing.
She followed, swiping in the direction of his throat, his arms, anything that dared to put itself within reach. Lucias’ training rang in her ears. Keep them on the defensive. This wasn’t like her duels with the Great Lord or his men, both of whom would fail to use their full strength even within the confines of the Citadel training grounds.
Her pilfered dagger struck the man’s forearm, eliciting a hiss from him.
Instantly, the man’s demeanour changed. He dropped his sword and kicked it into the bushes before throwing up his hands in surrender.
Before Clara could fully ponder the sudden transformation—she didn’t believe him wounded enough to warrant a sudden shift into defeat—the pounding of booted feet down the corridor at her back reached her ears. Reinforcements. She peered at the guard before her. For who?
The thunder of feet stopped. Light danced at her back, throwing shadows over the man.
Clara swung, keeping the wall behind her and a dagger still trained on her attacker. Several men filled the corridor’s width, one at the fore bearing a lantern and the rest with their swords drawn. Each one wore similar attire to the other guard, although it was harder to determine the livery colours in such a light, she assumed them to also be the same.
“What in the world?” one man blurted.
“Grab them!” another demanded.
The men surged forward, closing around her. Rough hands latched onto Clara’s arms, tearing her away from the guard and disarming her. Despite the order, none made a move to restrain her attacker who suddenly seemed a lot surer of himself.
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“What in the Goddess’ dear name is going on here?” the second guard said. He turned to her attacker. “Lieutenant Dean?”
“She’s as mad as the Great Lord,” the man muttered, straightening his attire. “A harlot, too. Just look at how she’s dressed. Lured me down here garbed like that, then tried to have her way with me.”
“I did no such thing,” Clara snarled. She strained against the men holding her. Where had she heard that name? It was elusive to her, just as trying to grasp where she’d seen the lieutenant’s face before.
“I told her I wasn’t about to disrespect the Great Lord like that, then she attacked me with my own dagger. Look!” He displayed the cut on his sword arm as if it were a mighty gash. The wound still bled, although not as profusely as she would’ve liked. A few stitches and a bit of bandaging would see him back to swinging his sword freely in a week.
“Lucias!” she growled. “Get him. He’ll be able to determine the truth.” She wasn’t certain how many outside a close few knew of the ability he’d inherited from his mother’s family, but it was about to be a lot more.
The other guards glanced from Lieutenant Dean to her and back.
“Don’t just stand there, fetch him!” Clara snapped at the men, all of whom continued to disregard her orders. She squirmed on the spot, seeking a way to free her arms. In that respect, the guards holding her remained firm. “Do you want it to be your heads he seeks when word of this gets out?”
“I don’t think it’s my head you should be worried about,” the leader replied, leaning close enough for her to smell his heavily-meaty breath. “Considering the situation you’ve been discovered in and all.”
Barely-contained rage seethed in her veins. Somehow, Clara managed to hold her tongue. Lucias would believe her, even without his magic telling him she spoke the truth. He would believe her word over theirs in a heartbeat.
The steady tramp of people on the move caught her ear as she considered her next move. Judging by how a few of the guards shuffled their feet and glanced about uncertainly, she wasn’t imagining the sound and nor were they expecting it.
Lieutenant Dean swung to address the leader of the Endlight guards. “Did you send for reinforcements?”
The other man shook his head. “The other two ground units are on the far side of the castle as per orders.” A slight frown tweaked his brow as he spoke. “There’s no chance they could’ve gotten here that fast even if I had.”
A group of unidentifiable men rounded the corner. They marched in formation and there was little doubt of them being armed. Even with them still in the shadows, the dark livery of the Great Lord was evident.
Relief weakened Clara’s legs. It was a whole unit of soulless guards.
“What are you lot doing here?” the leader of the Endlight unit demanded.
The other group entered the range of the lantern’s light. Her gaze alighted on the man leading the rest of the soulless unit. Henry. He’d travelled with her from the Citadel and, although he’d had his soul taken by Lucias only a few months ago, was quite reasonable in dealing with most situations bloodlessly. If anyone could see that bringing Lucias here was the best course of action, it’d be him.
“All of the Great Lord’s men have been ordered to respond to any announced threat within the castle grounds,” Henry replied. “We were merely the closest unit.” He bowed his head at Clara. “What’s all this, my lady?”
“They—”
“That’s what we’re attempting to determine,” the Endlight guard said right over the top of her.
Clara glared at the man. How was she going to set this straight if he didn’t let her talk?
Henry frowned. No doubt if any emotion had been able to shift the dead flatness from his eyes, it would’ve been annoyance. “That question was directed her ladyship,” he murmured. “It would be wise of you to hold your tongue unless directly addressed.” Like a bird, his head twitched in her direction. “Has the Great Lord been informed, my lady?” A sliver of ice slipped free on his tongue at the address. By the way his gaze remained trained on the other man, the caustic tone hadn’t been for her.
“No,” she replied. Unable to move her hands, thanks to the vice-like grip the Endlight guards maintained on her arms, Clara jerked her head towards the man who’d interrupted her. “He—”
The Endlight guard shuffled from one foot to the other, doing his best not to meet the soulless man’s gaze. “We don’t need to wake him for what seems to be a simple case of a liaison gone awry.”
“You dare accuse me of such without a chance to prove my innocence?” Clara snarled at the man before directing her attention to Henry. “Send for him. One of their own attacked me.”
Henry nodded to one of the guards in his soulless unit. “You know where the Great Lord currently sleeps, fetch him.” Before the ordered guard could vanish from sight in his quest to rouse Lucias from his slumber, Henry’s flat-eyed gaze swept to another pair in his command. “Hold him.”
“Is this really necessary?” the Endlight guard persisted even as his unit reformed to stand between the Great Lord’s men and Clara’s attacker. “Look at him.” He waved his hand at Lieutenant Dean in emphasis. “He was unarmed when we found him, whereas she’d a pair of daggers trained on him. Clearly, he’s not the one at fault here.”
“He doesn’t have a weapon because he tossed it into the bushes. That way.” Glaring at the guard accusing her of infidelity, she twitched her head again to single out the most likely place for them to search. “Surely you heard it hit the path.”
The Endlight guard frowned, uncertainty tightening the lines around his eyes.
Henry barely hesitated in having his unit search the surrounding garden and his men swiftly unearthed the sword in the direction she’d indicated. “Seize him,” he snapped.
The Endlight guards tightened their formation before Lieutenant Dean, stalwartly denying any access to the man. The two holding Clara dragged her behind them.
Surprise stole her voice. Were these men truly so far under the thrall of their lieutenant’s lies that they’d defy the word of a Great Lord’s man? They can’t be serious. No one back in Everdark would’ve dared to stand in the way of a single man wearing the black and red of the Great Lord, never mind challenge a direct order.
Henry frowned. “I would suggest stepping aside.” His fingers twitched. Not towards his sword, but in a little curling movement.
Most people forgot—or didn’t even know to begin with—that the Great Lord’s men had been criminals before meeting this end. Whilst the men could no longer act on their own desires, heeding only the Great Lord’s wishes and orders, they still remembered their lives before having their souls stripped from their bodies.
In the case of this unit, most had been part of Henry’s little gang of highway robbers. Lucias preferred keeping the men together, for their leader had specialised gestures that, on the surface, seemed innocuous. But Henry had taught her a few during their travels. He had sent a few men to circle the group and come up from behind.
“An innocent man has nothing to fear from the Great Lord,” Henry continued. Those who’d brought the man and his troop to Lucias for their final punishment had claimed Henry to be a smooth talker, often stealing valuables from travellers without a drop of bloodshed. He’d lost the nuances along with his soul, but a ghost of that man remained. “If your lieutenant is indeed guilty of the accused crime, then the Great Lord may consider your acts as treasonous. I need not remind you gentlemen the punishment for that.”
The men standing before her shuffled on the spot. A couple of them gripped their swords.
One by one, the guards parted like sheep before a herder, exposing Lieutenant Dean. The man was swiftly snaffled by the two guards that had been sneaking up on the Endlight troop’s back.
“You chose wisely,” Henry said, clasping his hands before him as if the spectre of a brawl hadn’t been in the air only moments ago. “Now we all wait for the Great Lord.�
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Chapter Seventeen
By the time Lucias arrived, the sky had gone from the dark shade of eternity to a velveteen indigo colour. The sickly light creeping over the castle walls gave the world an unflattering grey tone. Through it all, Lucias shone like a beacon as he marched down the path. His dark gaze ran over her, his lips twisting as the concern dulling his eyes flared into smouldering anger.
Farris and Thad walked at their lord’s back. The pair shot each other worried glances, but seemed content to silently tail Lucias. Had they also been roused from their respective slumbers or had they been awake and merely caught up?
The guards standing on either side of Clara stiffened and saluted as Lucias halted before her. All the while, the men maintained their gentle but firm hold on her personage. It did little to soothe the ire burning in Lucias’ eyes.
“My lord,” one of them said before Lucias could open his mouth. “Your mistress says that—” The man’s words dropped into silence as Lucias lifted his hand, donning the aloof manner of his title.
For one brief moment, pity for her restrainers rose within her. The men were only doing as ordered. No weaknesses. They’d be punished, not perhaps as severely as their commander, but the Great Lord couldn’t afford to appear inept.
“My mistress can speak for herself.” Lucias settled a pointed glare at the guards’ hands. Specks of light fluttered across his eyes like deadly butterflies. “I don’t recall asking you to restrain her, nor do I deem it necessary for you to have your hands on my betrothed.”
The guards released her as though they’d been holding a red-hot branding iron.
Clara put further distance between herself and the guards, tugging her dressing gown back into a respectable position. They’d not even afforded her that dignity during their time waiting for Lucias’ presence.
“Now, what happened, my dear?”
