If those lucky few he saved appreciated his intervention, they gave no sign, continuing to shout for his death and his blood, cheering Celd on like some demon chorus bent on destruction. The swordmaster made a desperate lunge, knocking aside yet another strike that would have split a pig-faced merchant’s head in two, but before he could retreat, the big soldier caught him in the jaw with a fist that felt like it was made of stone.
The blow only clipped him, but it carried such power behind it that Darrell’s vision blurred, and he stumbled back, his mouth filling with the coppery taste of blood. The big man’s untrained but undeniably effective attack left him open, and in his bewildered state the swordmaster very nearly took advantage of it, stopping his own blade only at the last moment before it pierced the man’s chest and drove through to his heart.
Instead, he left the blade there, panting, blood seeping down his chin, and met the big man’s eyes. Celd stared down at the steel inches from his chest as if it was no more than some offending branch on a walk through the woods. Darrell hoped that would be the end of it, but the soldier was in the full grip of what he thought was his righteous anger, intent only on his opponent, and he swatted the blade aside with the flat of his hand.
Before Darrell could react, the big man tossed his own sword aside and charged, tackling him and driving him into another of the tavern’s supports with bone-rattling force. Darrell wasn’t sure if the room did in fact shake from the force of the impact, or if it was only his vision, and it didn’t matter much in any case as the big man followed up the tackle with a fist to his ribs.
Darrell grunted and an immediate, sharp pain let him know that if one of his ribs wasn’t broken, it was at least cracked. He tried to push the soldier off with his free hand, but the man was far too strong, and he took another fist in the shoulder that made his arm go numb. In a normal fight, under different circumstances, Darrell would have brought down his sword—the one he still held—and ended things fast enough. This time, though, killing the big man would only make matters worse, so he weathered blow after blow as he tried desperately to bring order to his dazed, confused thoughts.
Finally, it came to him, and he slammed his head forward into the other man’s nose. Celd brayed in agony, his grip loosening enough for Darrell to free his sword arm from where it had been trapped by the big man’s body. Then, before the soldier fully recovered, Darrell brought the handle of his sword crashing down on the back of the man’s head one, two, three times. The first blow elicited a grunt from the big man, the second sent him stumbling, and on the third he collapsed to the wooden floor in an unconscious heap.
Darrell stared at him, his chest heaving, aches and pains riddling his body that told him in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t enjoy moving around for the next few days. When the big man made no move to rise, the swordmaster glanced around him and was greeted with dozens of hostile stares. For the moment, none of those in the crowd had worked up the courage to attack him, but he knew it was only a matter of time. What was he, after all, but a clearly wounded old man with a sword? It was one of the very few times in his life where Darrell wished he looked like more of a threat than he was instead of less.
Still, there was no time to worry about that just now, and he turned to where the soldier, Lemm, was beginning to work his way to his feet. The swordmaster shuffled toward him, his blade held at the ready in an effort to discourage any in the crowd from attacking. The soldier was standing by the time Darrell made it to him, though he was wavering drunkenly, and his gaze was unfocused. His back was also curved as if in pain, no surprise after the kicks he’d taken while he was unconscious, and Darrell’s own ribs ached sympathetically. “Lemm.”
The soldier didn’t seem to hear him, running an arm across his bloody face, his head swiveling from side to side with a confused expression like a man waking with no idea of where he was or how he’d come to be there. “Lemm,” Darrell said again, louder this time. “Look at me.”
Darrell had seen men take such head wounds and never regain their senses, so it was with some relief that he watched the soldier sway around until his gaze, more or less, met his own. “W-who are you?”
“Not important,” Darrell said, glancing around at the angry crowd. Mob might be a better word, he thought. Or, at least, it soon would be. “What is important, Lemm,” he continued in a voice little more than a whisper, “is that in a few seconds, these people here are going to decide that twenty on two is pretty good odds, and your bad day is going to get much worse.” Not that he’d had a particularly fine one himself, but it was best to keep things simple to someone who’d suffered a head wound.
Lemm slowly nodded. “I don’t…what should I do?”
“Walk to the door,” Darrell said, still eyeing the crowd. “Walk, don’t run, you understand?”
“I…yes. I think so.”
“Good, and Lemm?” Darrell grabbed the man’s shoulder with his free arm and winced at the ache in his shoulder.
“Y-yeah?”
“Don’t return to the barracks—don’t report to any of your officers unless it’s Captain Brandon Gant himself, do you understand?”
Lemm frowned. “But…why?”
“Why?” Darrell asked, keeping hold of the man’s shoulder and gently pushing him forward. “Because they’ve decided you’re a traitor, Lemm, and—”
“I’m no traitor,” the soldier said, and Darrell was glad to hear the strength in his voice, if not particularly happy with the anger coloring his words.
“I know that and you know that,” he said, leaning over and speaking directly into the man’s ear. “And, maybe, deep down they know that, but right now they feel that you are. Maybe they’ll regret it later, after our corpses have cooled, but that won’t bring us back from the dead.”
“You want me to hide,” the soldier said in a half-accusing tone, but thankfully he allowed himself to be guided toward the door.
“Yes,” the swordmaster agreed. “I want you to hide, and I want you to live.”
The crowd followed silently in their footsteps, an army of demons ready to drag them down into the depths. A man started forward, his face twisted with anger, and Darrell brought his sword up. The man sneered, but he stopped advancing, so there was that at least.
“How long?” Lemm asked, apparently still not realizing the danger they were in. “How long am I supposed to hide like a coward?”
“Not long, Lemm,” Darrell said, reminding himself to be patient. “Whatever is going wrong with the city, it will be fixed before too long—you have my word.” It was the first lie he’d told in a very long time, but it got the man out the door of the tavern and into the street.
“What now?” the soldier asked, standing outside the door and looking to the swordmaster who still stood in the doorway.
“The first to follow us dies,” Darrell said into the tavern. Then he slammed the door closed, turning back to the soldier. “Now you run, Lemm.” The soldier still hesitated, as if unsure. “Now, Lemm!” Darrell said. “Run as fast as you can!”
He started at Darrell’s shout and the swordmaster let out a sigh of relief when the man turned and began running down the street. His relief was short-lived, however, as someone tried to throw the tavern’s door open. It hit him hard, nearly knocking him from his feet, but he managed to force it closed again.
“Hey, you!” His shoulder pressed against the door, grunting with the effort of holding it closed, Darrell looked up the street in the opposite direction from where Lemm had gone and saw four city guardsmen running toward him.
He bit back a curse. If he let go of the door, those inside would be on him in a moment, and in his weakened state he didn’t think he’d be able to make it away in time. On the other hand, if he only stood at the door, the guards would reach him and, if he were lucky, he would be thrown in the dungeon with May and Hale. No choices but bad ones then. He glanced at the sword still in his hand and a thought occurred to him. He could use the forged steel to jam
the door closed, buying himself a precious few moments, but then he would be weaponless, defenseless in a city that wanted him dead.
He hesitated, but not for long. After all, he could get another sword—he only had the one neck. So with a grunt of effort, he rammed the blade down and at an angle through the slit at the bottom of the door as hard as he could, piercing the wood. He gave it a testing pull, but it was stuck fast.
Then, with one more glance at the approaching guards, Darrell turned and ran, venturing out into a city that held nothing but hate for him, alone and defenseless.
CHAPTER TEN
“Gods curse it, man, let me through!” Brandon Gant bellowed. He stood at the stairs leading to the queen’s quarters. He’d come nearly a dozen times in the last two days, seeking audience with the queen, yet he’d been turned away each time, always given the same answer.
In normal times, the castle guards would have jumped to obey their captain’s commands. Now they only stared at him with expressionless faces. “Forgive me, Captain,” one said, “but you know we can’t do that. Queen Isabelle has said she needs rest after these last trying days, and that she is not to be disturbed.”
“Queen Isabelle,” Brandon repeated, a sneer on his face. “Councilman Grinner, you mean. Now, let me through, or I’ll force my way in.”
“Sir,” one of the guards said, alarmed, “please, don’t do that. We would have no choice but to take such an action as a threat to Her Majesty.”
“Threat?” Brandon asked, so stunned he could barely speak. “Threat? Gods man the threat is already here! Can’t you see that? I’m trying to protect the queen.”
“Nevertheless, sir,” the other guard said, “we cannot allow you to pass. Her Majesty herself explained to us in no uncertain terms that she was to be left alone and without visitors.”
Brandon Gant bared his teeth, and despite his better judgment was about to try to force his way past them anyway when suddenly the door opened, and he looked up to see Councilman Grinner standing there. The mask he wore hid his expression, but the captain didn’t miss the unmistakable amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Oh, Captain Gant,” he said in a merry, almost welcoming tone that seemed strange and out of place coming from behind that silver mask. “I had not expected to see you today. How are you?”
“How am I?” Brandon demanded. “I think you know well enough, you snake. What have you done with the queen?”
“What have I done?” the crime boss asked, his tone one of genuine curiosity. “Why, I have done nothing but look after Her Majesty’s welfare, of course, Captain. I would think that you of all people would appreciate that.”
“The only person’s welfare you’ve ever looked after is your own,” Brandon said, his voice full of venom. “Now, will you let me see the queen or not?”
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Captain,” Grinner said, his voice full of regret, “but I cannot. You see, Her Majesty is resting now. I’m afraid the last few days have been very trying, even for one of her royal stature. I have only just come from her presence, in fact.”
“Is that so?” Brandon said. “And if she’s resting then why does she need you there, I wonder?”
The councilman shrugged. “I do not think to question my queen’s wishes, of course, but only to serve her as best I may. Still, if you have some message you would like me to bring her, I would be more than happy to deliver it once she wakes.”
“Why you smug son of a bitch,” Brandon growled, starting forward but halting as the two guards—men he’d known for years—reached for the handles of their swords.
“Now, now, Captain,” the Councilman said, and though his voice held only concern, Brandon noted the laughter dancing in his eyes behind the silver mask. “That is really no way for one loyal man to talk to another. After all, we are both servants of Her Royal Majesty, are we not? There is no reason why we should not be on the same side. Come,” he said, stepping out of the door and closing it behind him. “Walk with me.” He put a hand on the captain’s shoulder and started to guide him down the hallway.
“Sir?” one of the guards asked, and Brandon felt a fresh bloom of anger rise in him as he noted that the man had addressed the question to Grinner.
“Oh, there is nothing to worry about,” the crime boss said, waving a hand dismissively, “I am sure I’m quite safe in the captain’s company. Isn’t that right, Captain?”
Brandon frowned. “You’d best not walk us by any high windows.”
The crime boss chuckled as if Brandon had just shared some jest, then began leading him down the hall once more. “I understand you are upset with me, Captain,” Grinner said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the guards, “though for what reason I cannot imagine.”
Brandon gritted his teeth. “Can you not?” he said. “You have wormed your way into the queen’s graces for now, Grinner, but I know what you are up to and it will be my distinct pleasure to attend your execution when the truth comes out.”
Grinner waited several minutes before he spoke and when he did they were far outside the hearing of the castle guards. “Truth, Captain?” he asked, with that same amused tone in his voice that made Brandon want to strangle him. “You sound like a priest now. So caught up in the truth, looking at the world in black and white. But the world is not black and white, Captain, but full of grays, and the truth is as malleable as clay to those who know how to work it.”
“No, Grinner,” Brandon said. “That’s where you’re wrong. The truth is not water to be contaminated with a drop of poison, it’s not clay to be shaped in your hands. It’s steel that will not bend, that keeps its form no matter what else may occur. It is strong and sharp, and sooner or later, it will cut those who think to toy with it.”
The crime boss chuckled. “Ominous words, Captain, but only words for all that. Words that hold no power and therefore, are ultimately meaningless.”
Brandon gave the man a vicious smile. “It may be the executioner’s axe that takes a man’s life, Councilman, but it is words that put his neck on the block in the first place. I would remember that, were I you.”
“Quite,” Grinner said, his tone bored. “Speaking of the headsman’s block, I regret to inform you that my questioning—though not quite finished—has begun to reveal some disturbing revelations. It seems that, indeed, Councilman Hale and May Tanarest conspired against Queen Isabelle in an effort not only to assassinate her but to hand Perennia over to the mage, Kevlane.”
“Lies,” Brandon spat, grabbing two fistfuls of the front of the man’s tunic and jerking him close. “You conniving bastard, if you’ve hurt May—”
“She is quite well, I assure you,” Grinner said, holding up a hand to forestall the guards at the end of the hallway who had started forward. “I have, thankfully, not been forced to resort to physical pain in order to get the truth from her. Well…” he continued, his voice amused. “Not much, anyway. Still, I would be careful, Captain.” He paused to stare meaningfully down at where Brandon’s hands still clasped his shirt. “An attack on the queen’s personal advisor is paramount to an attack on the queen herself, and when the headsman’s axe begins to fall, there is no telling who might find themselves in its path.”
“Is that a threat, Councilman?”
Grinner shrugged. “Call it a bit of friendly advice.” He glanced down the hallway and then leaned close, speaking into Brandon’s ear, his voice full of venom and anger. “Know this, Captain. May and Hale are doomed, both of them. Their fate is sealed, and no word you might speak or action you might take will save them. And should Envelar and the others return or be found alive—something I very much doubt—they will share the same fate. It would be wise of you to start looking after your own interests and stop meddling in others’ affairs.”
Brandon’s lip curled into a snarl, and he shoved the crime boss away. “If you so much as think about hurting Princess Adina or any of the others, I will cut you down, and damn the consequences. You might believe you are in control
now, Grinner, but so might a man breaking a wild horse. What he feels—what you feel—isn’t control at all, only the illusion of it, one that will be shattered easily enough when the beast begins to kick. Whatever else happens, you will regret adding me to your list of enemies.”
“Enemies, Captain?” the counselor said, tilting his head to the side. “I have no enemies.” He turned and started back toward the stairs leading to the queen’s quarters but paused, looking over his shoulder. “None living, anyway.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The man sat alone in the poorly lit corner of the brothel’s main room. He did not speak, and unlike most of the other men in the room, he was not accompanied by a lady of the night. In truth, he had not even been propositioned as most men would, upon entering the place, for the women who worked within the brothel’s walls were better judges of mens’ characters than many would believe. By necessity, they had learned, over months and years spent in their profession, to tell by looking whether a man was kind or not, whether he was the type of man who liked pain with his pleasure, the kind who hit.
They knew such men on sight just as they knew those who would try to weasel their way into more than they had paid for, or those who were simply lonely and would spend good coin for nothing more than the opportunity to talk and have someone there to listen, to show them the respect they did not receive in their own lives. It had taken such women, well-versed in reading people, little time to realize they wanted nothing to do with the cloaked stranger. He did not seem like a man who was quick to anger and prone to use his fists to solve his problems, yet there was an aura of menace, of danger, about him that was more unsettling by far. This man was no bear but a serpent, gliding through life’s shadows until such a time when he decided to sink his fangs into something—or someone.
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