Crown (The Manhunters Book 3)

by Jesse Teller

  Dissonance slid her spear out to the left and it lengthened. She closed her eyes in prayer and brought the blade before her with grace and poise. Smear said nothing. He didn’t move. He stared at Artan with a face of stone unreadable. Be it fear or hate, none looking upon the spy had any way of telling.

  Blade stomped toward Rayph, and Fanhon stepped into the way with a bow drawn and four arrows riding the same line. He lowered the deadly shot at Blade and grimaced. “Gonna hurt,” Fanhon said. “Can’t dodge them all.”

  Rayph looked back at Brody Bedlam and the beauty who stood behind him. She had a body honed for sex, with thick cords of hair that dripped from a ponytail on the top of her head. Her dress covered almost nothing of her, and she wore a veil over her face. Rayph’s eyes went to that face, and he froze in terror before quickly averting them. He lowered his gaze to Brody and scowled.

  Blade Silvertooth growled at Fanhon and Brody tsked.

  “Blade, the time to devour and rend is not yet upon us,” Brody said. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Why don’t we kill them outright?” Artan said. “Here. Now.”

  “Such a thing would never do, my pet,” Brody said. “We must play with our food if we are to enjoy it.”

  As the words lifted into the air and met Rayph’s ears, his blood went cold and he suddenly needed to run, to flee and make his way back to his home. Let Lorinth worry about itself. Let the nation itself deal with this darkness. The thought was such a fleeting one that Rayph almost missed it, but he realized just how out of his control this meeting was.

  “I’m ready to rip this one apart,” Shiv said. His massive body could not have been human. His face was a blunt instrument, his nose thick and flattened. He looked as if useful for one purpose and one alone, good only for pain and crushing. “She looked me in the eye.”

  Dissonance said nothing. It was as if the man had never even spoken.

  “Your tree never showed up,” Brody said. “Nor did your lunatic.”

  Fear leapt up on Rayph. He growled as his desire to reach out through the fetish for Sisalyyon and Cosmo gripped him mercilessly.

  “I guess I’ll have to meet up with him another time,” Brody said. “Perhaps we will discuss old times. Perhaps I will whisper a few more of my secrets to him.”

  Rayph wanted to threaten Brody to stay away from Cosmo, but the words would come out weak. He grinned instead.

  “You and your band of freaks do not scare me,” Rayph said. He stepped forward and the woman behind Brody touched her veil. “We are evenly matched, you and I. You have your monsters. I, my heroes. We have a powerful and dark stage set for us, and I mean to make use of it.

  “You are dug in. That is obvious,” Rayph said, waving his hand around the room. “You have infiltrated this city well. You have control over most of it, I would assume. But there are always avenues rising against you. There has been no true master of this city since the first dragon came here. This city seethes when under the thumb of one man or woman. You cannot hold on for long.”

  Rayph walked forward and the Chaos Syndicate watched as he stepped to the edge of the table and pulled out a chair. He sat, looking at Brody and smiling. “The Manhunters are here,” Rayph said. “We have come to crush your rule of this city and bring you to justice. We have come to save this city and this nation of your influence. We have come to take it all back.” Rayph grabbed a plate and served himself a side of bloody beef. He took Fannalis from his pocket and the thorns dug into his palm. He let Brody stare at the dagger as he cut himself a bite of the meat and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “I have seen worse than you. I have killed worse than you. I will not quail at your obvious might. I took you once. I will take you again.”

  Brody looked at his men, then smiled and nodded. He filled his plate and tucked a napkin into his collar. “Fine then, Rayph. We will see who holds sway over the Cursed City by the end of our dance. Until then,” Brody lifted a glass into the air. Rayph picked up his and filled it with wine. “To the streets of Dragonsbane. May they soak up the blood we shall spill, and may the citizens trod the bones to dust.”

  Rayph’s gut twisted and he grinned. “Well said.”

  Sob’s Sons

  Every home held by a member of the Collective had a room for every other member. Roth opened a portal to his room in the Scribe’s Tower in the corpse of Sorrow Watch and he touched his circlet once. His pulse went out, but not far. If Tate was in the tower, he knew he had company.

  Roth walked the tower, climbing the stairs until he reached a section of the wall that glowed with a magical light. This section of the wall was nondescript, unremarkable in every way but still the light glowed.

  Roth leaned in close. He stared at the symbol before shaking his head, puzzled. It appeared to be a rough sketch of a diamond done crudely with the fingers. It almost looked as if it was a traced rendering of a picture painted with two fingers. Roth looked at it confused before dismissing it and climbing the rest of the tower. He found the two double doors that had once led to a library, and as he reached for the handle, the door swung open and Tate emerged.

  Behind him, the room was black as night and the door closed very quickly. Tate hugged his brother, wrapped an arm around him, and led him away.

  “Are you busy?” Roth asked.

  “Not really. Just in planning stages, nothing final.”

  “Planning what?”

  “The restoration,” Tate said. “I am rebuilding Sorrow Watch.”

  Roth felt a kick of jealousy and brushed it off. “Rebuilding how?”

  “I have talked to the king about the need for a castle for the Lord of Mestlven and he has agreed. We have worked out a deal where I will pay for half the building costs and he the other. I am going to talk to Quill and see if she can go to the Glistening Table and summon up the old plans.”

  “The castle was very old. You will make updates for sure,” Roth said.

  “Not at all. I do not wish to change a stone. I will rebuild exactly as it was with no deviation.” Tate smiled and winked at Roth. “That is how mother would have wanted it.”

  Roth did not know how Tate could possibly have known that, but he did not question it.

  “I want to show you something,” Tate said. He looked as excited as Roth had ever seen him, and he followed when Tate turned and walked away quickly. They walked down some stairs and entered a small room. When Roth had first seen this place, it had been stuffed with old scribe’s desks and other storage. Now it had been cleaned and cleared. The room had been set with a desk and chair, a couch and overstuffed chair. As they walked in, the fireplace erupted with gentle fire. Tate stepped before Roth and grinned.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Roth obeyed instantly. Tate grabbed him carefully by the shoulders and turned him to face the other side of the room. “I want you to feast your eyes on the most beautiful woman you will ever see.” Tate stepped back and Roth opened his eyes.

  Before him hung a great portrait. It depicted a young woman. She sat on a plush cushion, her hands folded in her lap, her shoulders held back, her smile beguiling. Her perfect black hair folded over her shoulder, trailing to her lap. She wore a magnificent pink dress and behind her, a great balcony door stood open. The night air was visible beyond, and the curtains kicked frantic from the breeze. The young girl seemed almost ready to turn and jump out the window, and the smile on her face said she just might do it.

  All this Roth noticed instantly, but the thing that drew him forward was her eyes, blue as a sapphire and deep. They were innocent and pure. They seemed scared and sad. Those eyes harbored such sadness as to be crippling. Roth knew this face the moment he saw it, and he let the tears come.

  He closed his eyes and he could smell her. He did not know how that was possible, but he could. There was a deep musk of sweat, but beneath that a hint of some exotic flower. His mother had been wearing perfume when she birthed him. Roth and Tate had spoken of it many times. If they cou
ld ever identify the flower, they would wear it always.

  “Where did you find this?” Roth whispered.

  “It was in a warehouse in Madneen. When Drine stole the wealth of the nation during the Madness Wars, they took this painting. It decorated the office of a warlord named Grind.” Tate stepped up beside Roth and they instinctively clasped hands. “She was waiting for me.”

  “Meredith Mestlven,” Roth said.

  “Sob,” Tate corrected.

  Roth did not like when Tate called their mother Sob. That had been the name of the assassin she had turned into. Meredith was the woman before that transformation.

  “What has brought you to me, brother?” Tate asked.

  “I have a dilemma and I need your advice,” Roth said. “There is a sensitive situation brewing and I will need your support when I take it to the Collective.”

  Tate motioned for Roth to continue.

  “I have cast the spell that can locate Harloc the Longsword.”

  “The youngest of the Thorn Brothers,” Tate said.

  “Yes, the very man. The problem is that this sword is not in any of the five worlds we protect,” Roth said. “It lays outside that land. Outside of my detection.”

  “Destroyed?”

  “Thought of that,” Roth said, leaning forward. “There would be a signature if it had been destroyed anywhere in any of these worlds. I could find a stain. Harloc is the most powerful longsword that has been crafted since the god wars. If it had been destroyed, it would have left a casing.”

  “A casing?”

  “A kind of shell, a magical aura, very faint but detectable. The aura of a weapon of this power is indestructible. If the sword itself had been destroyed, its aura would be found by this spell.”

  “That spell is a masterpiece, brother.”

  Roth made a show of shaking the comment off, but praise from Tate meant more to him than anyone else. “I don’t think it is in our worlds.”

  Roth let the statement hang for a minute. Tate leaned back and opened his hand. He stared at his palm. It was a trick Thrak had taught them. Pretend you are staring at a book with your answers in it. Concentrate and your mind will work the same as if you are staring at the answer. It was a form of meditation they had been doing all their lives.

  Tate closed his hand and looked up at Roth with wide eyes. He knew it, too.

  “Have you talked to anyone about this?” Tate asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Good, because they will explode if they even think you are considering this.”

  “What do I do?” Roth said. He took to his feet and closed his hands behind his back, pacing. “If I tell them what we suspect, they will make me abandon the project. No way they would ever agree to let me go there.”

  “We are noble lords of Tienne. We decide the law in our fiefdoms. If you want to go, you go. They cannot stop you. March into that college and tell them we are going. And they can either come with us or leave us to do it alone, but they cannot stop us.”

  “You’re coming, then?” Roth asked.

  “Well, you know I am. No way I would ever let you go alone.” Tate looked insulted the words had even been spoken, and Roth was so relieved he almost cried.

  “What do we do?”

  “We need a portal,” Tate said. “We need to modify the rings.”

  “Out of the question. We do it wrong and we could destroy them.” Roth looked at the red crystal ring that wrapped his hand as one solid piece. It was multi-faceted and glimmered in the firelight. “What happens if we cut the crystal wrong and destroy the ring? There is no replacing them. The Sizen Dere are already infuriated that we have them in the first place. If we go looking for more, it will mean war.

  “Thrak is the only cutter adept enough to cut a new portal into the rings. He would never agree to do it, no matter what we told him. If we try to alter one of our rings, we might shatter it, and then we would have to walk away from the college. There would be no more Callden Collective for us. We would be unable to create our portals, and without them, we would have to leave.”

  “We have no other choice,” Tate said. “If you want to find Harloc, then this is our path. We could go about more sinister means of travel, but it would hinder our coming home. We need to be able to form a portal there and form one back at our choosing. Anything else would be too dangerous,” Tate said. “I will attempt it with my ring.”

  “No, it is my project. I will chance my ring to it. No way I would want you to lose your rights to the Collective for my desire.”

  “Without your membership, I would not want to be in this coven at all,” Tate said.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Gale kidnapped us from our mother, Roth. We were stolen from her. It is his fault that we never knew her.”

  “She died shortly after we were born.”

  Tate leapt to his feet and curled his hands into fists and screamed. “Because she lost her mind! If she had had her boys, she would not have. We would have grown up with a mother who loved us.”

  “Gale and the others love us. And father did not kidnap us.”

  Tate’s hand was suddenly sheathed in flame. Roth flipped from the chair and stood, his hands lifting carefully.

  “Do not ever call him father in my presence again,” Tate snapped.

  “I will not let you burn me,” Roth said. “Not again, not ever.”

  “I will cut my ring, because I don’t care if I lose my place in the Collective and you do. If you ever call Gale father again in front of me, you are unwelcome in mother’s home,” Tate said. “Period. No more discussion on that matter.”

  “Fine,” Roth said. “But if you are cutting your ring for this world, then you are cutting mine as well.”

  “Done. Leave your ring with me. I will find the books on gem cutting and the proper tools. I will need the tome of the Sizen Dere. Can you get it?” Tate asked.

  “I think I can. They never watch what I take out of the library,” Roth said.

  “Then I will get started as soon as possible,” Tate said. “If you are sure the sword is in that world. If you are even a little doubtful, then let me know now and I will not create a portal there.”

  “No, it is plain to me. Harloc the Longsword was carried to Hell. We need to go there to find him.”

  The Tyed Knot

  The building sagged to the left, the structure beside it struggling to hold it up. The sign dangling above the door depicted a knot, red and bloody, thick in the middle, tapered on the sides. To Rayph it looked like muscle ripped from a body and bound in a horrible knot. He knew that’s what it was supposed to look like. Beneath the symbol, in the cracked and splintering board, read the words The Tyed Knot. The door to the bar hung crooked on the frame, and as Rayph grabbed the knob, he knew it would not close properly. The porch sagging under him creaked and groaned, and he wondered why nothing had ever been put into the upkeep of this place.

  The cold wind followed him in. There was a fireplace spitting little light and no heat. A few sputtering torches and a magnificent chandelier that could hold more than forty candles but at present held about twelve stubby ones. The entire place looked defeated and desolate, and Rayph grimaced at the clientele.

  A lot of sots. Most of the men and women here were defeated and brooding over some life loss. They were here for the cheap ale and watered wine. They were here for the dingy atmosphere and the terrible company. Most of these people would be dead by the end of the winter. Some would take their own lives.

  But there were a few. A person peppered here and there who did not belong to the downtrodden and dying. These were on guard duty, and their eyes drew intense when Rayph walked in. In the corner of the room sat a woman Rayph recognized and he decided not to look at her. He walked to the bar and dropped a copper coin on its filthy surface.

  “Clean cup. Wine, no water.”

  The bartender was talking but Rayph knew it was a distraction. When men like him walked in, the bartender
was supposed to get them talking so they could be assessed. Rayph did not bite. He turned to the crowd and his eye landed on the most dangerous man in the room.

  Rayph didn’t know his name, but the swords hung well on the man’s back and the eyes were a giveaway. They were dead to caution or care, dead to love or remorse. These were the eyes of a killer and they were never idle. They roved Rayph’s body, settling in the cracks and crevasses where weapons hid and the strength could be sapped from Rayph with the thrust of a single blade. This man did not miss a mark, did not get caught up on flash and decor. His eyes stayed on the fetish, as if trying to puzzle out its purpose, before he rose and crossed the room. He stopped at Rayph’s side and ordered a drink Rayph had never heard of. The man turned to him and grunted.

  “He’s not here.” The eyes looked again at Rayph, and he decided it was most likely a whip that had scarred the man’s face. The plain steel armor was stained with blood in its cracks and creases. The man stunk of sweat and dried blood.

  “Who is not here, stranger?” Rayph asked.

  “We gonna do this? We gonna smack around it instead of getting right to it? I’m not good at the verbal sparring. Not good at the game. I get frustrated. I get antsy when I have to talk around a thing. When I get antsy, I get violent. We can do that dance if you would rather. I do not fear the Hope of the Nation.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Knew you before you walked into this place. You wasted your time. He’s not here.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “He’ll find you,” the man said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Why do I tell you?”

  “Because if you don’t, I will find out anyway. And when I do, I will have to decide what I’m going to do about you. This way, the waiting is over and I can make that decision now. You don’t like the messing around part. Let’s cut through it and get to the fight. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Lyceanias. I’m the wall.”