by M. H. Bonham
Allarun frowned. “It has not, Lila, though I sometime wish it were so.” He stared back out at the moon.
“What did you dream?” she asked.
“How did you get past the guards?”
Lila laughed. “You ask a sorceress?”
Allarun's gaze narrowed. “I have grown too complacent,” he grumbled. “A few hundred years ago you wouldn't have made it to the Keep.”
“Perhaps,” she smiled. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I may have an answer for you.”
“And in return?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Allarun frowned. He knew Lila too well. She would bargain when she had the advantage – that was her kind's treachery. The link between him and Areyn Sehduk had grown dim over the centuries. Perhaps she might be able to resolve that which he had lost. Still, the sorceress's help did not come without a price.
“Very well,” he said. “I dreamt of the Darkling Plain and of Lachlan again.”
“Did he die?” she asked, as her hands traced the reddened wood on the table.
“Yes, yes!” he snapped.
“Then what causes your concern?”
“The curse – it becomes stronger each time in my dreams.”
She ran her hands lightly along the crystal ball. “My Lord, you know the death curse is the most powerful of magic. As the son of Rhyn'athel, his powers were not weak…”
“I know! I know!” he said. “But why now? Why after all these centuries?”
“Perhaps because the line of Elsonre still runs true.”
Silence engulfed them both. Allarun stared at the moon as it emerged from the dark clouds. “Romarin of the Silver Hand…”
“The Red Wolf.”
“He is at Citadel Heights.”
“Find him and you find Lachlan. Destroy the Lachlan’s incarnation before he awakens, and the curse is no more.”
Allarun nodded.
~ * ~
Shadowhelm stared at the gallows as it swung before him in the wind. The wind was strong that day, blowing the cold air from the alpine tundra miles above the city of Citadel Heights. But even the alpine air could not clean the stench of death and decay that filled his nostrils. The gallows had been used many times before – even if Shadowhelm hadn't seen it, he would have known by the feel. He could feel the gasps as the rope dropped, hundreds, maybe thousands of times before.
Although mid-morning, the cold sun had not crested the cliffs on the east. He would die in a foreign city, far from his homeland even before the sun rose. Shadowhelm stared dismally ahead. The gallows towered on a platform twenty feet on the North end of Merchant's Quarter. Below him, the shopkeepers were busy displaying their wares and people were going about their business, either buying or selling. Not far from the gallows was a bakery; the aroma of fresh baked bread was incongruous with the morbid scene. There was always a crowd in the Merchant's Quarter – many were wandering idly around, waiting for the day's executions.
A sharp prod propelled him forward, followed by a harsh laugh. “Can't worm yourself out of this one this time, thief?” the guard said.
Shadowhelm wheeled around, deftly averting the poll-axe as it swung towards him. Although ropes bound his wrists tightly behind his back, he still had use of his feet. “I stole nothing!” he hissed. He was shorter than an Eleion and dressed in rags, but he held his head high. Beneath the dirt and bruises was a mixture of Ansgar and Eleion features and a gaze that commanded power. The guard stepped back for a moment, forgetting the man's wrists were bound.
The guard laughed and spat. “Shara'kai.” Half-blood.
Shadowhelm did not flinch. Under the grime and the rags, he still bore the mark of kings – half-blood or not. The red-gold mane marked him from the Royal House of Lochvaur. “Filth!” Shadowhelm snarled. “I stole nothing.”
“Then may Areyn judge your soul,” the executioner snapped. The big man grasped Shadowhelm's shoulders and spun him around towards the gallows.
Hanged like a common thief, Shadowhelm thought.
He stared at the noose and redoubled his efforts to slide his hands from the ropes. His wrists were slick with sweat and blood, but the ropes were tight. If he could somehow move his fingers to untie the knots…
The pole-arm prodded him forward. He took two steps and the executioner shoved him into place. Shadowhelm almost recoiled as the man fit the noose on his neck.
All at once, the memories of dying men flooded Shadowhelm’s mind. Their last thoughts, hopes, and feelings echoed within his thoughts as though this was some ghoulish final torture. His gaze fell on the trap door. At least it'll be quick and he wouldn't have to hear the dying men's final thoughts.
“Halt!” a female voice rang from somewhere beyond the crowd.
The crowd parted and Shadowhelm watched as a soldier astride a dapple gray rode forward. The stallion's hooves chattered on the cobblestones as the warrior reined the steed.
She was a tall woman wearing chainmail and an open-faced helm with a noseguard. The surcoat she wore over the armor was red and gold with a dragon emblazoned across her chest and back. Shadowhelm recognized the colors and armor immediately. A Chi'lan warrior.
“What are you doing?”
Shadowhelm's gaze met hers. She's Eleion, he thought as he recognized the icy steel color of her eyes. He wondered if perhaps she might be from the Royal House of Lochvaur, herself. He couldn't tell, because her hair had been cut warrior-style and was concealed by her helmet. His wrists, drenched with sweat, had become slippery and he found that he could wriggle his hands enough to work the bonds. He slipped his fingers around the knot, praying for more time.
The executioner squinted. “Just hanging a thief, Commander.”
“We're at war, Executioner. Or haven't you heard?”
“Ma'am, I…”
“Didn’t you receive the King's orders? There will be no executions until further orders.”
A murmur ran through the crowd. She stared into the Executioner's eyes. He flinched. “Allarun is on the move. We need anyone who can wield a sword. We need shock troops for Citadel Heights.”
The executioner grinned at Shadowhelm. “Eltar fodder. I hear they are soul-eaters.”
“How would you know? You haven't one,” Shadowhelm shot back. At that moment, the knot slipped and his hands pulled free.
The executioner snarled, seeing his charge freed. He tripped the trap door.
“No!” shouted the commander.
But, Shadowhelm had leapt up and grasped the rope before he could fall and snap his neck. He pulled himself upward, clinging to the rope, knowing well that one slip would kill him. All around, the crowd began cheering and yelling. The commander rode forward, trying to reach the platform. “Stand back, all of you!” she warned. The guards held back, not daring to disobey a Chi'lan’s orders.
The executioner was not deterred. He bellowed, drew his sword, and charged at the Shara’kai. Shadowhelm swung and kicked, knocking the executioner in the chest. The man reeled backwards and fell through the trap door. Shadowhelm's hands began slipping. He looked up, trying to gain more purchase on the rope when he saw a flash of a silver si'lar dagger. The throwing weapon sliced through the rope cleanly and he plunged downward.
Shadowhelm caught the edge of the trap door, dropped, and then caught a scaffold. He dropped again and grasped another, before dropping to the ground. The crowd backed away as the executioner rushed forward, swinging his sword. Shadowhelm stepped aside as the heavy hand-and-a-half slid past him and used the big man's momentum to fling him to the ground.
Shadowhelm turned and halted. The Chi'lan warrior’s sword was pointed at his throat. “You don't fight like a common thief,” she remarked, eyeing him appraisingly. “Come with me, Shara'kai, we can use fighters such as you.”
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Other Books by MH BONHAM
The Ironspell Chronicles Series
That Dragon was in No Way my Fault
A Date with a Werewolf
Alchemist Rules (Book One)
Elfshot (Book Two)
The Trouble with Bats
Wolfsbane (Book Three)
Oathbreaker (Book Four)
The Swords of Destiny Series
Prophecy of Swords
Runestone of Teiwas
Lachlei
Daemons and Shadows
Serpent Singer and Other Stories
The King’s Champion
Other Books
Howling Dead
Samurai Son
