Vengeance

by Gail Z. Martin

  “It was damn hard,” Trent replied. “But he left a trail. I don’t think he was used to being tracked, or he thought we couldn’t find him. And then when we got there, his ‘customers’ panicked and we had to fight our way in.” He snorted in derision. “Didn’t mind breaking a few bones and smacking some heads together. Those sons of bitches deserved that and more for what they did to those—” He cut off what he was saying abruptly.

  “I know,” Polly replied. “I know… what he did to the ones he took. What he was going to do to me. I’ve seen his kind before. Human or vampire, they’re monsters.”

  “He’s dead. Destroyed. We saved as many as we could. But now it’s time to go home.”

  Polly took a step toward Trent and looked back at the trough. “I didn’t get clean.”

  Trent’s gaze grew worried. “Polly, you scrubbed hard enough to raise blood. I saw you. Come on. You’ve been through a lot today. Aiden can fix—”

  Polly tore away from his outstretched hand. “Nothing can fix this,” she said, her tone filled with anger and sorrow. “I don’t want to forget what I saw, because he’s not the only monster out there. And I have to remember. It dishonors the ones we left behind if we don’t remember.”

  Trent raised both hands, palms out, in surrender and acquiescence. “I’m sorry,” he said carefully. “I didn’t mean anything by it. But Ross is waiting with the horses, and it’s not going to be good for any of us to still be here when someone shakes off the shock and decides to start asking too many questions.” He dropped his voice. “Polly, they could call the guards.”

  Polly sniffed back the last of her tears and nodded. Her throat burned, her eyes felt like they were filled with sand, and her head throbbed. Everything hurt, and she took that as proof that she was still alive.

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  They passed few travelers, but at one point they glimpsed a cluster of Wanderers and their wagons in an empty field and spotted some of the nomadic clan’s sigils marked on stone walls and fence posts. They always seemed to be camped somewhere near where Aiden and Rigan found the ripples of magic, as if perhaps they, too, were drawn to the places where the veil between realms thinned. Polly wondered if any of these Wanderers had been among those driven out of Ravenwood City the night Kell died, or whether they had always made the farmland their home.

  Polly rode in silence between Trent and Ross. The villagers of Eilertown had offered them food and lodging but staying felt too exposed, too dangerous. Their narrow escape from Jorgeson and his guards still loomed large in memories and nightmares, and it did not take much imagination to suspect that their pursuers might still be in the area.

  “Do you think they’ve set a big bounty on us?” Trent asked after they were long gone from Eilertown.

  “Probably,” Ross replied. “I hope it’s big. Wouldn’t want to go through all of this for a cheap reward! We’re worth more than that!”

  Trent gave him a hard glare. “Do you know how much more dangerous this gets if there is a huge bounty on our heads? A big bounty means more bounty hunters, not just Jorgeson and his soldiers. And while townsfolk might not give us up to the Lord Mayor’s guards on account of not much liking the Lord Mayor, it’s hard to argue against a pouch of gold.”

  “You worry too much,” Ross replied. “Don’t forget, we’re also saving those townsfolk’s hides from the monsters that the guards can’t be bothered to fight. That’s got to count for something.”

  “The bounty hunters could take hostages, force the villagers to call for help against a monster that doesn’t exist in order to lure us in,” Trent said, not ready to let the issue drop. Polly said nothing, content to let them argue and provide a distraction.

  “They could. Maybe they will. And we’ll deal with it when it happens—if it does,” Ross said. “Don’t forget, Aiden and the others can sense the way monsters ripple the magic. So if we have a village ask for our help and there’s no ripple, then either it isn’t a monster at all, or we need to be very careful.”

  “We don’t know for sure that all monsters cause ripples,” Trent replied.

  “That’s true,” Ross agreed. “But I’m just saying it’s a way to protect ourselves as much as it is to find new hunts.”

  “And that’s another thing: I don’t like giving people a way to get a message to us,” Trent said. “Sooner or later, the wrong people will catch on and either watch for us or use it against us.”

  Ross shrugged. “It’s not like we’ve given out our address. And we aren’t the ones who started it. People began leaving messages for the ‘monster hunters’ at the inns and taverns on the off chance we might find out. We don’t make regular stops anywhere. We take different routes back to wherever we’re staying, and we switch from place to place every few weeks, but not on a schedule. That’s about as well as you can hide nine people plus horses and a wagon.”

  “We’re tempting fate.”

  Ross snorted. “Of course we are! A bit late to have second thoughts about it. If we settled down tomorrow and went back to our trades, we’d still be wanted men. At least this way, we’re doing some real good. There’s no one else to protect these people, Trent, and you know it. The guards won’t, and too many of their own folks will get hurt or killed trying. If we do this, hunt monsters, it almost makes everything we’ve lost worth it.”

  Polly swallowed a lump in her throat. She looked down, unwilling for either of the men to see tears burn in her eyes. It had only been three months since Kell’s death, and with so much else going on, Polly felt a little guilty to indulge her grief. Especially since Corran and Rigan had lost a brother, and she and Kell had not even had the chance to do more than flirt.

  They had stolen kisses at the kitchen door when Cook’s back was turned. Now and again, Kell brought her flowers, picked from the roadside, or snatched from a garden. And when she needed someone she could trust, when she had done murder and needed to get rid of the body, Kell had come through and assured Polly that her attacker would be buried under a curse.

  And if covering up murder isn’t love, I don’t know what is, Polly thought, and that forced a hiccup of a laugh through her tears.

  She used to daydream what it might be like to marry Kell. Certainly being the wife of a Guild undertaker was far more secure than the life of a runaway working in a tavern. Polly was too matter-of-fact to be bothered by work that required preparing the bodies of the dead. She could be a bit cold-blooded and thought it suited that type of job. Now that she knew Corran and Rigan much better, she wondered how they might have all gotten on together, Rigan with Elinor and Corran with Jora.

  Just never meant to be, I guess. Polly cleared her throat and raised her head, letting the cool breeze dry her tears.

  “Are you up to giving everyone a report on the vampire, since you’re the only one who got a good look?” Ross asked hesitantly as if Polly might shatter, and she hated it.

  “I’ll be fine,” she snapped, and regretted her tone a moment later, knowing his intentions were good. “I mean, it won’t bother me. I’m all right,” she added, with less bite to her voice. “And you’re right—I talked to him, a little before I went after him with the knife. You came in and—whack.”

  Trent chuckled. “It doesn’t sound as good when you put it that way.”

  “That blade of yours nearly took off my eyebrows!” Polly retorted in mock indignation.

  “Better your eyebrows than your throat, which is what the bastard looked like he was aiming for.”

  “I had it under control,” Polly said with the ghost of a smile.

  “Hard to cut through a spine with that little shiv of yours,” Ross teased. “You’d have been there all night.”

  “Huh. I’d have managed.” Retreating into humor, making a joke out of the horror of the situation eased the tension. They were all quite aware of how close a call it had been.

  “I think you two need to learn to run faster,” Polly continued.

  “And here I was
thinking we should put a bell around your neck so we could find you when you go wandering off,” Ross jibed.

  “I was wondering whether Rigan or Aiden could make some sort of tracking amulet,” Trent said, sounding serious. “It could come in handy—and it won’t be the only time one of us has to be the bait. That way, if the… lure… gets snatched, we don’t have to waste time.”

  “That’s better than a bell, at least,” Polly replied.

  They rode in silence for a few minutes as the humor wore off, leaving only the horror behind. “Do you think there’s a reason that out here, some of the monsters seem to be natural, not conjured?” Trent asked.

  “You mean like the vampire tonight, and that water monster the others went up against?” Ross asked.

  Trent nodded. “Yeah. Some of what’s out here, beyond the city walls, seems to either have been here for a while or happened on its own—vengeful ghosts, that sort of thing,” Trent mused. “Not like the monsters we hunted back in the city, the ones the Lord Mayor’s witch called.”

  “Aiden said the lore books told of monsters for as long as there’s been history,” Ross replied. “There were natural monsters too, back in the city. Rigan and Corran used to have to banish dangerous ghosts from time to time. I imagine some of the other creatures occasionally found their way in, over the walls or in the drains.”

  “The non-conjured monsters are smarter,” Polly spoke up. “Garrod, the vampire, he made his own plans. He didn’t need to be sent, or have his prey picked out for him.”

  “Remember when Corran and Rigan fought that strix, back before the battle? She was smart, too,” Trent said.

  “The monsters the blood witch conjured weren’t exactly stupid,” Ross argued. “The ghouls knew how to stalk a victim and surround their prey.”

  “But all those monsters—the ghouls and those big slug-like things—”

  “Lida,” Ross supplied.

  “And the azrikks and those creatures that looked like a cross between a bat, a boar, and a really ugly dog, those monsters were just beasts,” Trent said. “I imagine they’d be easier to conjure up and send where the witch wanted them to go. The things we’re fighting now, they’re smart enough to argue about it, maybe defy orders.”

  “That makes sense,” Polly agreed. “And think about it—with people more spread out here in the countryside, there’s not enough food for big packs of them to go roaming around. They’d die back, like deer in a sparse winter. But in the city, there’s all the food they can eat—until the hunters got to them.”

  “The smarter monsters would have had more trouble in the city,” Ross said, adding his theory. “More of a chance to get caught, harder to fit in. They’d like it out here, and maybe they’ve even worked out territories like wolves do. Less chance that way to overhunt the food supply or push the villagers into going looking for them.”

  “Until we came along,” Polly said.

  “Yeah,” Trent replied. “Sooner or later, they’re going to notice. And when they do, we’ll have more to worry about than guards and bounty hunters.”

  Chapter Five

  “I can give you a chance to be useful,” Aliyev added. “To win your freedom and your life. I will supply the weapons, men, mages, and money you need. You’ll have to leave the city, but if you achieve your goal, I’ll know.”

  Jorgeson bit the inside of his lip, willing himself to stay still, afraid to look too hopeful or too desperate. Prince Aliyev deserved his reputation as a hard son of a bitch, not known for second chances. Whatever might be offered would come because it suited the Crown Prince’s needs, not out of any sort of mercy. And Jorgeson would accept whatever Aliyev gave him, because dead men did not get to be choosy.

  “How may I be of service, m’lord?”

  “I need to know what Itara and Sarolinia are up to,” Aliyev said, and Jorgeson looked up with surprise.

  “M’lord?”

  “Our spies suggest that they’re plotting, planning a move against us, but we don’t know what. Maybe you can learn something they couldn’t.”

  “I will not fail you.”

  Aliyev’s bitter grimace suggested that Jorgeson’s promise was already too little, too late. “Find the hunters who broke into the palace. We know two of them were Valmondes. Shouldn’t be hard to identify the others by who’s gone missing. We need to make an example of the hunters, keep the commoners out in the village from joining up. Hunt them. Punish them. Kill them.”

  “And if I am successful, m’lord? What then?”

  “If you succeed, I will not do the same to you.”

  Hant Jorgeson shook off his memories and finished the whiskey in his glass, tossing it back in one gulp. The memory of his dishonorable discharge from his position at the head of the Lord Mayor’s security still sent a burn of shame through him. He knew it could have been worse, that Crown Prince Aliyev would have been well within his rights to have had him executed on the spot for the consummate debacle that ended in the death of Lord Mayor Machison and his blood witch, Blackholt.

  Killing me would have been kinder. Of course that’s why he let me live.

  Jorgeson passed a hand over the rough stubble of his battle-shorn hair. He doubted anyone would ever see him as anything other than hired muscle. Even the scar that cut down over his left eyebrow and onto his cheek marked him as a soldier, an enforcer, a killer. And he lived up to all of those titles, especially the last.

  Tonight, the meeting place was a stable, out behind the Drunken Shepherd tavern. Easy entrance and exit, and a spot no one would notice or remember a stranger. Jorgeson made sure to reach the stable first. He had checked out the building and the territory around it days ago, assured himself it was suitable, before arranging to meet with his contact.

  Jorgeson positioned himself where he had a clear view of the stable doors but would not be immediately visible himself, and waited with a throwing knife balanced in his hand.

  He did not know his contact by sight, only by reputation, but the hard-bitten man wearing a worn leather cuirass certainly looked like a bounty hunter. Jorgeson observed the man for a moment before he was ready to make himself known. The bounty hunter’s short dark hair had a liberal sprinkling of gray, suggesting he was proficient enough to live past his early thirties. He moved like a predator, with a spare, wiry frame. A long knife hung from a sheath on his belt, and Jorgeson guessed the man had other concealed weapons. Tanned skin and wrinkles at the corners of his eyes suggested a life lived outdoors. He appeared to be exactly what he claimed to be.

  “Tell me what you’ve heard.” Jorgeson stepped out from behind the post, and to his credit, the other man did not startle.

  “Show me your payment, then I give you the information,” the bounty hunter, Shandin, replied in a voice roughened by whiskey and smoke. If he was half as good, half as ruthless, as his reputation, Jorgeson would get his money’s worth.

  Jorgeson withdrew a small purse of coins from beneath his jacket and held it up, jostling it to let the clink of coins carry through the stable. “I’ve brought the coins. Now tell me what you’ve heard.”

  Shandin eyed the coin purse for a moment before he spat to one side and lifted his head, meeting Jorgeson’s gaze, not quite a challenge, but clearly not subservient. “Wherever your fugitives are, they were smart enough to put distance between themselves and the city. I picked up a story from a peddler who said men came to one of the villages off to the West, a couple of days’ ride from here, and said they could get rid of a monster in a lake.”

  “And?”

  Shandin chewed something he popped out of a bulge in his cheek, then turned and spat again. “And they did,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “Then we chased their sorry asses and nearly got them before their hocus called down the spirits of the damned on us.”

  “Always an excuse.”

  Shandin looked daggers at him. “The mayor of the next town was plenty ready to sell them out for the reward, and we almost had them, and their bloody witch d
ropped a tree on us.”

  “Did they say how the men found out about the monster?”

  Shandin shook his head. “I asked. They said the two showed up and started asking questions, wanting to know if anything strange had been going on. Like they knew, somehow, that there was something wrong.”

  Jorgeson let out a curse and fought the urge to punch something. “Dammit! Did you at least get a description of them?”

  “One was taller with blond hair, the other shorter with dark hair. Didn’t look much alike, except for the eyes.”

  “The Valmonde brothers,” Jorgeson muttered. “It’s them, all right.”

  “Except that I heard from other villages that they’ve seen the dark-haired man with another, different light-haired man, and that two other men and a young girl have also been out in the villages.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Killing monsters,” Shandin replied, eyeing him levelly. “Been busy. Vengeful ghosts. A werewolf, and a nest of ghouls, if the stories can be believed. The townsfolk say they’re heroes.”

  “What did the peddler say?”

  Shandin cave a cold laugh. “All he wanted to know was how much I’d pay for the information. He doesn’t live there; no matter to him who dies.”

  “I’m paying for results. Have you found a pattern to their hunts?” Jorgeson pressed. “I want to know where they’ve gone to ground. They’ve got to have made a base somewhere; if they were camping out, my men would have found them by now.” The sting of the last failed assault on a deserted old monastery still felt bitter on his tongue. From the look of the grounds, he had missed his quarry by days, or perhaps mere candlemarks. The failure only deepened his resolve.

  Shandin regarded him for a moment before he spoke. “No offense, but I sleep rough, and none of your men have ever found me.” He raised an eyebrow to make his point. “If they know what they’re doing, they’ve found shelter. And if any of them have magic, or they’re clever, they’ve hidden their tracks.”