Traitors' Fate

by Andy Peloquin

  No one paid him heed as he exited the mansion—all eyes were riveted on Lord Damuria's mansion. Thick pillars of smoke rose from the building, and more than a few of the watching Heresiarchs, nobles, and passersby had covered their noses against the reek.

  Mercenaries appeared and began shoving people back, just as the heavy steel gates swung open. A troop of mounted, armored men clattered out, followed by Lord Damuria's coach, and ten more mercenaries in the rear. Before the gates pulled closed again, the Hunter caught a glimpse inside the Damuria estate. Servants and guards lay sprawled on the garden or knelt to empty their stomachs on the courtyard. Only the six men at the gate showed no sign of ill-effects.

  I've got to hand it to Graeme, his stink balls may be unpredictable, but they're bloody effective!

  The Hunter turned onto the broad avenue and trotted after Lord Damuria's wagon. He had no fear of being stopped by the Heresiarchs—those few not gathered around the Damuria estate gave him a respectful nod, which he returned. He'd paid a visit to his rooms in The Golden Sunrise, one of Upper Voramis' premier inns. There, he'd applied the disguise of a middle-aged nobleman, with a thin nose, receding hairline, heavy moustache, and a slight sag to his midsection. His clothing was cut in the latest fashion, though of a dark blue instead of the garish yellows, oranges, greens, and purples favored among the wealthy fools of Upper Voramis. No one would question his presence in Upper Voramis.

  The column of armed men made no attempt to hide their passage. The Hunter had only to follow the angry shouts and dark glares of the nobles and commoners pushed aside to make way for Lord Damuria's convoy.

  The Hunter closed the distance, then slowed his horse to match their fast trot. Sunlight glinted off the mercenaries' burnished steel backplates. They wore swords in open defiance of the Heresiarchs' ban, and more than a few carried crossbows slung over their saddles. Visorless helmets protected their heads, faces, and the backs of their necks. Chain mail jingled with the horses' bouncing gait.

  Not a foe to take lightly, the Hunter thought.

  His initial plan was to overtake Lord Damuria's fleeing carriage and put a pair of crossbow bolts into the nobleman. The broad avenues of Upper Voramis would give him plenty of room to maneuver past a few men. But with ten mercenaries riding two abreast between him and the carriage, he had to reconsider.

  If Lord Damuria truly was fleeing Voramis as he hoped, he would have to leave via one of the three gates. North Gate lay beyond the Temple District, through Lower Voramis. Lord Damuria wouldn't be foolish enough to risk the maze-like streets and alleys of the Beggar's Quarter. That left the Eastern Gate and Trader's Gate to the south of the city.

  Eastern Gate made the most sense. It was nearest Upper Voramis, and the way out led through the Bloody Hand-controlled Blackfall District. Yet the fact that it made the most sense also made it the most dangerous. It didn't take a genius to imagine an assassin lying in wait along Reveler's Lane, the busy thoroughfare that led from Upper Voramis to the gate.

  As the Hunter expected, the column of mercenaries turned away from the Blackfall District and onto the broad avenue circumnavigating the Palace of Justice. When they headed south, toward the Merchant's Quarter, his suspicions were confirmed.

  His impatience mounted as they passed the Palace of Justice. Finally, after what seemed an interminable ride, the smaller brick-and-mortar buildings of the Merchant's Quarter came into view. Lord Damuria's column rode onto the wide boulevard that led directly toward Trader's Gate. Rather than following them, the Hunter turned Comus onto a narrower lane. This one ran parallel to the main avenue, but had less traffic.

  Pulling Comus into a side alley, the Hunter dismounted and stripped the fancy clothing of his nobleman disguise. Beneath, he wore a plain tunic, breeches, and his lightweight leather armor. The alchemical mask remained in place. He'd be riding through Voramis in broad daylight.

  From one of the satchels strapped to the saddle, he pulled out his heavy cloak and slung it on. His weapons—swordbreaker, long sword, and handheld crossbows--remained concealed within the bag, easily drawn if needed. Soulhunger, however, never left its place at his side, or in a hidden sheath pressed against his back.

  He dug his heels into Comus' side, and the horse leapt forward. He couldn't gallop through the cobblestone streets, but the Odarian charger's canter ate up the road at a speed far beyond that of Lord Damuria's column. If he could get far enough ahead, he'd have a chance to get onto a rooftop, within easy range of his handheld crossbows. Or, at the very least, in a side alley that would give him a good view of Lord Damuria's carriage as it passed.

  At every intersection, he glanced toward the main avenue, trying to catch a glimpse of the Steel Company column. He had to time it just right if he wanted to be in place.

  Once he had gained sufficient ground on the convoy, he turned Comus down a street that would rejoin the main avenue. He leapt from the saddle before the horse came to a full stop, ripped one of his crossbows from the satchel, and knelt in the shadows of the alley.

  The first of the Steel Company came into view, armor glittering in the sunlight, faces hard. The Hunter drew in a deep breath as the fourth rider passed, then the fifth. He raised the crossbow and prepared to fire. All he needed was one shot through the open window and—

  He never pulled the trigger. Instead of a window, Lord Damuria's carriage had slats of metal-banded wood to cover the opening, like a pair of shutters. From this close range, the bolt had a chance of punching through the protective cover, but without a clear view of his target, it was no use. Shooting would simply bring the Steel Company down on him.

  Damn it!

  He raced toward Comus and, stowing the collapsible crossbow, hauled himself up into the saddle. Instead of heading toward the main avenue, he continued his canter along the side street.

  His mind raced. What now? Only a fool would charge the convoy head on, what with twenty-five heavily-armed men between him and his target. But, if he could get outside the city gates ahead of Lord Damuria, he could ride ahead and lay in wait for the column. With the element of surprise and the right traps, an ambush could seriously reduce their numbers—perhaps enough for him to get a shot at Lord Damuria and Captain Dradel without shedding more blood than strictly necessary.

  As the city wall loomed closer, traffic grew thicker. He was forced to slow Comus to a trot. Wagons laden with barrels, crates, and piles of produce rumbled past, drawn by teams of slow-footed oxen, draft horses, or stubborn mules. Pedestrians milled about— playing children, women carrying baskets filled with purchases, merchants pushing wheeled carts, and vendors hawking their wares at the top of their lungs. The scents of spicy peppers, cloves, garlic, and rotting produce hung heavy in the air, with just a hint of the fishy sea breeze rolling off the Port of Voramis to the west.

  Comus shied away from collisions, but more than a few pedestrians were knocked aside by the big horse. The Hunter ignored the shouted curses directed at his back. He had to reach the city gates first. The Steel Company would suspect anyone following them, but they wouldn't think twice about a lone traveler ahead of them.

  A loud crash echoed ten paces in front of him. A cart, laden too high with casks of ale, had tipped over as it rounded a curve. The wooden staves had split, deluging the cobblestones with beer. A thick, yeasty scent permeated the street.

  With joyous cries, people rushed from the nearby streets, snatching up the fallen casks. A few threw themselves face-down to drink the pooling beer. The wagoneer cried out at his loss and tried to fight off the thieves. His cosh split open one head and cracked the forearm of a thin man making off with a small, leaking cask, but the rush of people overwhelmed him. Someone knocked him back, and he slipped in a puddle of his own beer. He fell hard. The curses he shouted at the thieves went ignored.

  But the accident cost the Hunter precious time. The fallen cart lay across two-thirds of the street ahead of him. When he tried to turn Comus' head, he found a fishmonger's wagon to his left and a ga
ggle of onlookers blocking off the right and the road behind him. The horse shied nervously from the crowds and the noise.

  Growling a curse, the Hunter leapt down from the horse, splashed through the puddle of beer, and seized the seat of the wagon. His lean muscles corded and, with a mighty heave, he shoved the tail end out of the middle of the street—clearing enough passage for the oncoming carts to rumble through. He glared at the slower-moving thieves.

  "Get away!" he roared. The buildings around him seemed to amplify his voice, lend it authority and power that swept away any resistance. The last remaining beer larcenists fled.

  The Hunter turned and strode back to Comus. Silence echoed in the once-busy street. All eyes were fixed on him, more than a few mouths hanging open. Ignoring them, he mounted and kicked Comus into a trot. The horse darted through the opening in the traffic.

  The Hunter shook his head. Damn it! Not only had he attracted attention—everyone who'd seen that would talk about it for days to come—but the detour had cost him valuable time. Frustration mounting, he turned down a side street that connected with the main avenue a short distance from Trader's Gate. He could afford no more delays.

  As Comus merged with the dense pedestrian, animal, and cart traffic on the main avenue, the Hunter scanned the crowd. His heart sank as his eyes caught the glint of steel outside Trader's Gate.

  The thick crowds made the going slow. People gave way for him at a snail's pace, hurling insults and angry glares his way. Passing wagons and carts forced him to the side of the road, where he ran the risk of bumping into people and stalls. He lost valuable seconds trying to get around a pig some idiot had let loose in the street. At the gate itself, traffic had ground to a halt as a merchant carried on an argument at full volume with the Heresiarchs—something about his iron-shod wheels damaging the cobbled stone streets. By the time the Hunter rode through Trader's Gate, Lord Damuria's company had drawn a few hundred paces ahead of him.

  Resisting the urge to race after them, the Hunter kicked Comus to a jog-trot. He couldn't get ahead of the nobleman's column, but perhaps he could follow close enough to sneak up on them after dark. He shot a glance at the sky. The sun hung at its zenith—he faintly remembered hearing the Lady's Bell toll out midday when he was riding through Upper Voramis.

  Just a few more hours until sundown, he told himself. He could bide his time, keep far enough back from Damuria's column that he wouldn't draw attention.

  Comus seemed to have a different idea. After days spent tethered indoors, the horse appeared to want to stretch its legs, work off some of the food it had eaten. He picked up the pace to a canter. Dust rose in a thick cloud behind the Hunter, and the thudding of the horse's hooves on hard-packed earth echoed across the broad, flat plains that stretched out from Voramis.

  The Hunter tugged on the reins, but the spirited Comus refused to heed. He raced on, eating up the distance to Lord Damuria's column with great strides. With his limited riding experience, the Hunter could do little more than cling to the saddle and shout curses.

  "Keeper-accursed fleabag son of a goat!" The insult was lost on the horse.

  The Hunter's heart sank as the rear mercenary's head turned. A moment later, another man glanced over his shoulder. The first man spurred his horse to gallop ahead, parallel with the carriage. When he returned, he shouted something at his comrades. The rearmost ten mercenaries slowed their horses, turned, and dismounted.

  Damn it!

  Tension knotted the Hunter's shoulders. It grew to full-blown concern as the mercenaries unslung their crossbows, knelt, and loaded bolts. Only two men bore no crossbows; they drew swords and took up a protective stance before their comrades.

  The Hunter had a moment to consider his next move. If he tried to ride through them, he had no doubt they'd do their damndest to take him down. He would heal from the injuries—though the bolts would inflict more than their share of pain—but he wouldn't risk the horse getting shot out from beneath him. A leg crushed beneath a collapsing horse would heal much more slowly than puncture wounds.

  With a growl, he tugged on Comus' reins. This—or the sight of the armed men before him—had the desired effect, and the horse slowed to a trot, then a walk. The Hunter pulled the horse to a complete stop thirty paces from the Steel Company.

  "State your business!" one of the two sword-wielders shouted.

  "A traveler," the Hunter shouted back, raising his empty hands. "Heading south."

  "On what business?"

  "My own."

  The Hunter lifted a leg over the horse's back and slid to the ground, landing lightly. He risked a glance at the bundle tied to the saddle—his weapons were just out of reach, hidden within the satchel. Without them, he had just Soulhunger to face the ten steel-clad mercenaries. And their eight crossbows.

  "Why in such a hurry?" the mercenary demanded.

  He shrugged. "You know the saying, 'Time is coin'." He reached for the satchel. "If you'd like, I can show you my—"

  "Hands where I can see 'em!" The mercenary's voice was just a little too loud, with just a hint of quiver.

  The Hunter studied the men. They fixed him with nervous stares, and sweat trickled down more than a few faces. The crossbows, however, didn't waver in the slightest—all eight steel-tipped bolts pointed at his chest.

  "Turn around!" The sword-wielding mercenary actually swallowed, but he had the good sense not to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead. "Head back to Voramis, and we won't put a new set of holes in you."

  The Hunter bared his teeth in a predatory snarl. "I have no quarrel with you."

  "Stop right there!" the mercenary yelled, panic tingeing his voice. "Don’t take another Keeper-damned step, or—"

  "I don't want to kill you," the Hunter growled, "The choice is yours. Walk away and live. Stand and die."

  A tense silence stretched out for what seemed an eternity, broken only by the sound of grass rustling in the breeze. The Hunter met the eyes of each man in turn. Fear filled their expressions, mingled with grim resolve. They knew they stared death in the face, yet they had the determination of professional warriors.

  "We are the Steel Company," one of the mercenaries snarled. "We do not walk away. Death before desertion!"

  The Hunter sighed. "So be it. May the Watcher have mercy on you."

  He thrust his hand into the satchel and seized his sword hilt.

  Eight crossbows twanged in the same heartbeat.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Hunter was moving before the crossbowmen's fingers depressed the triggers. He flared out his cloak to conceal his form and whipped the bundle around in front of him, unsheathing his long sword in a smooth motion. Bolts whistled past his head to skitter across the hard-packed earth behind him. One gouged a furrow into his left leg, just above the thigh. Another thunked into the meat of his right shoulder. The impact spun him around and threw him to the ground.

  Behind him, Comus gave a shrill neigh, rearing up. Blood trickled from his left foreleg, staining his glossy midnight coat with crimson. With a loud scream, he bolted toward the city of Voramis.

  The Hunter leapt to his feet and sprinted toward the mercenaries. He ripped the bolt from his shoulder with his free left hand. A growl of fury and pain tore from his lips, echoing across the plains. His long-legged strides ate up the ground at an impossible speed.

  The mercenaries reacted with the alacrity of trained professionals. Four dropped their crossbows—they'd never have time to reload before he reached them—and drew swords, making six to face him head on with bared steel. The other four crossbowmen stepped behind the line of swordsmen and knelt to reload bolts.

  Instead of throwing himself into the wall of steel, the Hunter drew out a throwing dagger and hurled it left-handed at the mercenaries. The two directly in front of him ducked to avoid the whirling steel. Without shields, they couldn't form a proper defensive line. In the heartbeat before he crashed into them, he veered hard to the left.

  The sudden swerve ca
ught the mercenaries by surprise. The Hunter leapt over an outthrust sword, blocked a side swipe, and drove his left fist into the chain mail gorget of the last man in line. Though the steel links held, the delicate windpipe beneath collapsed with the force of the blow. The man fell, gasping for air.

  The swordsmen swiveled toward him, but the Hunter ignored them. Three quick strides brought him to the first crossbowman. The man looked up at his approach. The Hunter's long sword pierced his wide, fear-filled eye.

  The Hunter dashed toward the next crossbowman. His strike chopped through the mercenary's right arm, the tip biting into his neck. He dropped with a grunt.

  The swordsmen caught on to the Hunter's tactic and interposed themselves. The remaining two crossbowmen abandoned their bows and drew swords.

  "No more of you need die," the Hunter growled. He whipped his sword in front of him, sending drops of blood flying toward the swordsmen. "I'm only here for Lord Damuria." He hid a wince—his shoulder hadn't fully healed from the bolt, but he wouldn't let them see the pain. Better they think he truly was as inhuman as the rumors claimed.

  "We've taken his gold," said the mercenary who had spoken earlier. He'd been calling out orders to the others, no doubt a corporal or squad leader. "We pledged our lives to protect him. You won't be the first threat we've taken down, and you won't be the last."

  The Hunter sighed. "So be it." He saluted with a flourish of his sword.

  The Hunter cast a glance over his shoulder. His handheld crossbows remained in the satchel twenty-five paces behind him, too far out of reach. As long as he kept the Steel Company away from their crossbows, they'd have to face him blade to blade.

  He wished for his swordbreaker—the long, heavy dagger with its notched edge would be the perfect defensive weapon. With a cruel smile, he drew Soulhunger.