by Gregory Ashe
Chapter Two
Dag watched the manor. What is the fool doing, Ishahb burn him? The carriage, still dusty from its recent trip, stood ready at the doors again, the four horses stomping and whinnying. The smell of roses surrounded Dag as he crouched behind the row of bushes. The blossoms had opened fully, the wide petals wilted and crinkled at the edges, but still smooth at the center. He reached out to cup one of the flowers, hesitated, and drew back. They reminded him of Rida; she always planted white roses. The contrast of the luminous petals against her dark skin made his blood pound.
Movement at the door drew him back to the present. Guards, wearing leather tunics studded with metal and armbands—black with a small, stylized white bird in flight—emerged from the house and stood at attention around the carriage. Dag counted fifteen of them. A few minutes passed as an older soldier wearing a full surcoat, the same symbol stitched over his heart, inspected the guards. Dag watched the man. Quick, certain movements, in spite of his age. No unnecessary berating. From what Dag could see, the soldiers looked well disciplined, although the moonlight could have hidden important details. Dag was impressed. Most of these Apsians would rather eat and drink, he thought. The Kestrel keeps his men on a tighter leash. Dag would not have expected less from the great general, even if the Kestrel was more butcher than man.
As though on cue, the baron stepped out of the manor, wrapped in a heavy cloak although the night was not cold. At his side walked another old man, this one wearing a black houppelande—the only one, Dag thought, not wearing trousers like a commoner. He knew something about Apsian customs, but it was strange to see nobles in shirt and trousers instead of the traditional Jaecan robe. The two were in heated discussion, and their voices carried through the still night air.
“Your presence is needed here, my lord,” the one in the robe said firmly. “You haven’t attended to the matters that accrued during your previous absence.”
“The Jaecan will not wait for me to fill out paperwork and inspect vineyards,” the baron said. “Gane will handle what needs to be handled. Everyone is supposed to think he’s in charge around here; let him act like it, for the time being.”
“Please reconsider, Baron,” the other man responded. “This is unnecessary; send one man, or a dozen, to carry a message. Send Lord Sidal, if you must—”
“Enough,” the baron snapped. “Do your duty, Saniele.”
The robed man straightened, his wispy hair waving in the evening air, and did not respond. The baron entered the carriage with a nod at the guards, and a footman closed the door. The guards mounted their horses, and in a moment the carriage was rolling forward, turning, and then coming down the lane toward the massive gate—and toward Dag.
He let his hand rest on the hilt of one of his knives and drew slow, even breaths. Twenty years ago he would have considered attacking right now. Two throwing knives, a quick sprint to the carriage, and then a dagger through the old man’s heart. Fighting his way out would have been more difficult, but that was what made it so fun.
Twenty years ago, he would have attacked and most likely survived. Now, though, he was older, slower, and had more to lose. Dag drew another deep breath and tried to relax. Patience, he thought. Dead is dead. He needed the perfect opportunity. Losing two men was enough to make anyone cautious, old age or no.
When the carriage had passed, the old man—Saniele, Dag had heard him called—reentered the manor. The remaining guards returned to their posts. Slowly, with an eye on the men near the gate, Dag climbed the pillar of the peristyle behind him. The ridges on the column offered little grip; they were shallow, worn smooth by time, and Dag’s hands searched for purchase. When he pulled himself onto the clay tiles above, Dag’s breath came in a short, painful gasps. He rose to his feet without pausing and, in a crouch, moved toward the gate with careful steps.
Candlelight shone from the windows of the manor, less than an arm’s length away. Servants and guards passed along the upstairs hallway, and Dag pressed himself against the cooling plaster wall between the windows, timing his movements carefully to pass the windows unseen. When he reached the gate, his clothes were damp with sweat, and the carriage was long gone from sight.
Placing his hands carefully to avoid the razor-sharp spikes on the gate, Dag vaulted himself over and down, planting his boots against the plaster wall to control his descent. Then, with a thud that jarred him all the way to his teeth, his boots hit the ground. Dag sprinted off, not waiting to hear if anyone was following. He ran down the grassy slope toward the village below.
When he was safely among the brick-and-timber houses, Dag slowed his pace, ignoring the curious look of an old woman, wrapped in a shawl, who had watched him running down the street from her doorway. He turned down the next road, where another woman, this one carrying a basket of badly-wilted vegetables, almost ran into him. A moment later, he was past her and part of the dwindling crowd that filled the street.
Dag retrieved his horse from the broken-down stable and tossed the stableman a copper pul. The man’s expression didn’t change as he pocketed the Jaecan coin; this close to the border, there were too many different currencies floating around for a single copper coin to make a difference. If he saw the golden deng that Dag had hidden in a purse around his neck, though, there would be a lot more questions.
A handful of loose coppers, some Jaecan puls, others Apsian quints and trins, bought him information. “Nope,” the stableman answered his question about the carriage. “Best bet is the south highway.”
Dag mounted his horse and circled the village, keeping to the shadows beyond the last houses rather than riding through the streets. An owl hooted, somewhere off to his left, but otherwise only the clatter of his horse’s hooves broke the quiet. People still traveled the south highway—a few farmers heading home with leftover goods, or with empty wagons, if they had been lucky; the occasional merchant, bringing olives and oil from the groves near Apsia; and even more rarely, travelers heading to Jaegal. Countless wagon wheels had smoothed the dirt road. Dag searched the road for any sign of the carriage, but the dry, hard-packed earth bore no trace.
“Lost something?” a voice asked. A farmer, pulling a handcart that still held several baskets of wilted greens, had come up next to Dag and stopped. The middle-aged man leaned against the crossbar, the sweat on his forehead the only sign of his fatigue, and eyed Dag with curiosity.
“Don’t suppose you know if the baron’s carriage came through here, do you?” Dag asked.
The man nodded and said, “Maybe half an hour ago, as though the Sister of Night were chasing it. You might not want to race after them, though, at least not at night. The baron hasn’t kept up the highway very well. Your horse could break a leg.”
Dag pulled another handful of coppers loose and reached down to hand them to the man. “Thanks,” he said.
The farmer eyed him, but made no move to take the coins. “Can’t say I’ve seen you around here before, and I know most of the people in the area. This close to the border, plenty of people have Jaecan on their tongue, but you’ve got it thicker than most.”
Dag cursed inwardly, flipped a coin in the air, and said, “I’m a bleeding messenger. Take the coin or leave it.” Without waiting, to see the farmer’s reaction, Dag brought his reins down smartly and rode south.
Over the next few hours, Dag made agonizingly slow progress. The farmer had been right, of course. The highway was awful—in the empire, it wouldn’t have been more than a country lane. The road ran fairly straight, across plains of knee-high grass that rippled very slowly in the light breeze. Farms, with rows of orderly crops and groves of fruit trees, and, occasionally, the remaining stretches of old forests broke up the plains. Uneven and buried by the high grass, the plains offered even less of a chance for quick travel. Dag finally had to settle for a trot, praying to Ishahb, or whoever might be listening, that he would see any holes before his horse broke a leg in one.
The moon had crossed half the sky before Dag caught the scent
of wood smoke. He dismounted, drove a stake into the ground, and tethered his horse; the plains offered nowhere to hitch the animal. Sniffing the air, Dag moved forward. After a dozen feet he froze. A man stood a few paces away, visible only where his silhouette blocked out the stars of the night sky. Long moments passed. The man shifted slightly, and the outline of a sword hilt became visible.
Dag loosened a narrow-bladed knife from his boot. His pulse slowed. The hilt was cool against his palm, something hard and real in the darkness. Dag leaped forward, the only noise from his soft-soled boots the skittle of a loose stone. He drove the knife into the man’s throat.
The guard turned at the noise. The blade entered the soft flesh of his throat easily. He let out a wheeze and fell. Dag caught the body to keep it from making a noise. The guard gurgled and kicked once, his boot skidding across the dirt road. He was still.
Dag pulled the blade free, wiped it on the man’s leather jerkin as best he could, and moved forward. A few paces further Dag saw another guard facing out toward the plains. The man shifted his weight and bounced on his toes, and scuffed the toe of his boot in the dirt. Dag held his breath as he skirted behind the man, and drew a deep breath when he was past. Ishahb bless these fools, he thought. Penetrating the camp had been easy.
Too easy. Dag shifted, glancing over his shoulder. Something was wrong. The guards were spaced apart too far. The fire wasn’t banked at all. It blazed against the darkness, as though intended to be seen.
Dag saw the carriage. The horses had been unharnessed and were staked just a few feet from Dag, asleep. The fire revealed eight men sleeping on the ground, leather jerkins and weapons piled neatly at their sides. Which means five more guards, somewhere, Dag thought, and the baron in the carriage.
Dag crept forward, knife in hand, and moved around the carriage to keep it between him and the sleeping guards. No one stood watch on this side. Ishahb burn me for a bloody fool if this isn’t a trap, Dag thought. It was too perfect an opportunity to resist, though; if the Apsians truly were fools, Dag could be home and have Brech, and his pet monster, out of his life for good.
He listened for a moment outside the carriage for any noise to betray an ambush. Dag heard a slow, rattling breath from inside the carriage. Nothing out of the normal. He reached up and tested the handle.
It turned easily. Dag pulled the door open. Even in the moonlight, Dag could tell that the carriage was empty. The sound of soft breathing continued.
Before thought could register, something crashed into him from the side. Dag fell to the ground, rolling as his assailant clawed at him. The man on top of him slashed at Dag with bare hands, his nails ripping through the cotton shirt and tearing open Dag’s side.
The two men came to stop on the ground. Around him, Dag could hear shouts of alarm. He knocked aside the clawing hands and reversed his grip on the dagger. He stabbed up with the blade. It slid into the man’s stomach easily. Too easily, like cutting an old wineskin. A whiff of something rotten washed over Dag and he gagged.
The man on top of Dag grabbed his wrist. Dag grunted and twisted, but his assailant—even gravely wounded, was impossibly strong. His attacker forced Dag’s arm back, until Dag thought his wrist would break. Dag tried to reach his other knife, but it was trapped beneath his attacker’s leg. With an oath, Dag worked his legs under the man. The attacker continued to slash at Dag with one hand, and Dag fended him off with his forearm, trying to keep the long, untrimmed nails from taking one of his eyes.
He felt something tear in his arm. Dag let out a howl of pain. He bucked with his hips and kicked. His boots caught the man in the chest. There was no gasp for breath, no grunt of pain. The other man flew back, wrenching Dag’s arm to one side, but letting go. The knife flew from Dag’s hand. Dag rolled to his feet and ran. The men who had been sleeping were awake now, and torches lit the night. A guard let out a shout. Dag glanced over his injured shoulder. Men raced toward him, swords in hand. A few yards away a dark shape—Dag’s attacker—regained his feet and lurched after him. Ishahb take me, what is that thing? I burning stabbed it in the gut.
Dag crashed into the tall grass. Ishahb burn me for a bloody, overconfident fool. It’s the burning black flame for me tonight. A line of trees broke the twilight horizon off to the southwest, and he sprinted toward them. His arm and shoulder throbbed so badly he wanted to fall to the ground and weep, but he gritted his teeth and kept running. With a last burst of energy Dag ran between the trees, praying for somewhere to hide.
Absolute darkness met him. He squinted, trying to make out a game trail, anything he could use. Voices and the boots sounded close behind him. Low branches made a wall in front of him. With a grimace, Dag grabbed a branch and pulled himself up the broad trunk of a tree. His boots scrapped the bark. He climbed. Suddenly the branch supporting Dag gave out with a crack. He reached out with both hands and grabbed another limb to keep from falling. The pain that ripped through his injured arm made him whimper, and hot tears filled his eyes. He pulled himself up, though, and up again, until the dense leaves hid him from the ground.
Dag leaned against the trunk and drew in a single deep, ragged breath, before forcing himself to be quiet. His head spun, both from pain and fatigue, and he fought to keep from vomiting. The voices he had heard only a few moments before were silent now. Why aren’t they hunting me? he wondered. The trap was perfect; why do they leave off now? The crack of twigs sounded below him. Dag froze. He sat and listened, heart pounding so loudly that he thought it would burst.
He heard nothing for a hundred heartbeats. Slowly, keeping a grip on the branch with his good arm, Dag leaned over and parted the leaves. He could make out a small patch of ground below him. Nothing moved. Patience, Dag told himself, good arm starting to tremble with fatigue. Bloody patience will get you through half your scrapes.
Someone moved to stand at the base of the tree, examining the broken branches. Keep walking, Dag thought, keep walking. Come on, he broke them while he was running through there, just keep moving forward. The man stepped out of sight, and Dag breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned back against the trunk and took a deep breath.
The tree shook. Again. Someone was climbing. Dag leaned over and saw the branches below swaying. He drew another knife from his belt, this one with a blade almost as long as his forearm, and stood on the branch. No point in keeping still now, he thought.
A moment later, the man pulled himself up through the branches. Dag brought the dagger down at an angle, hard. It slid through the man’s throat and caught for a moment on his spine before Dag pulled the blade free. The body went limp and slid back down between the branches. Dag took a deep breath and looked down.
The man’s body hung in the crook of a branch, staring up at Dag. Dag slid down to the next branch, keeping his distance from the corpse. As he lowered himself down again, though, he caught a glance of the man’s face.
“Grunge?” he said, so surprised that he spoke out loud.
The almost-severed head that stared back at him, upside down, belonged to his former assassin, dead at Trenius Evus’s hands less than a week ago. Dead, and not dead. Ishahb take me, Evus has a burning practitioner. No wonder I lost two men.
Dag dropped to the ground and ran. A practitioner. It explained why the guards had not followed; why risk live men when a corpse can do things more efficiently? That had been a mistake, though. I’m alive, Trenius Evus, Dag thought, gritting his teeth against a moan of pain. I’m alive, and I’m coming for you. First I’m going to take care of your pet practitioner, though.
Brech had offered names as payment for this job. Dag was starting to think that revenge might not be worth all this trouble.