Maybe murdering Escamilla had been the biggest thing she would ever do.
A two-toned, ear-splitting whistle cut through her revelry. That was a signal call from The House!
“It’s the girl!” roared a deep voice from the crowd, somehow audible above the sounds of disarray and panic.
“Aye! Go left!”
Morgyn came instantly on guard, seeing four men battling across the flow of people toward her position. Two, she recognized—Yarem the Head, known for his shiny, perfectly-shaped bald head, and Minks, a tall, wiry Sestrian, said to be a master knife-thrower. The other two were big, meaty protectors, if she were to guess their rank.
Stupid, stupid. She should never have come here, curiosity be damned. Of course, The House would have agents among this gathering. Recherche Oletta likely patrolled the crowd, and maybe there were even some agents from the now-defunct army of the nearly-slain Lady Escamilla. Thousands of people were here, so someone had been bound to recognize her. Living with Escamilla had made her both soft and stupid.
There was no time to hesitate. Morgyn twisted nimbly from her ledge and grappled up the stone facade of the shop as the men approached. The rough-hewn bricks scraped her fingers—she’d lost her callouses—but she ignored it. Just as the men reached the store-front, Morgyn pushed off the wall, leaping the last few inches to the wooden awning. For a terrifying second, she was in open air, but her hands managed to grasp the slightly-damp wood. She’d done this more times than she could count, and it wasn’t difficult.
Except that the wood was rotting, and her fingers tore through the moldy wood as if it were made of cheese. And then she was falling, spinning slightly in the air before her shoulder and then her head connected with the paver stones. Black and red filled her vision, and her skull was bathed in an intense fire. She squinted open her eyes and tried to roll to her side, though it felt as though she were swimming in mud. Dizzily, she slumped back to the ground.
“…Tennyson will be pleased. He’s been looking for this one.”
“Thank Ultner she fell. She’d’ve been off if she got up there.”
“Nah, we’ve got agents on the roofs. They have her description.”
“But now we get the reward.”
Morgyn couldn’t see who was talking, but she felt rough hands wrap around her ankles. She willed her body to fight, but it only struggled weakly. There was a crude laugh.
“Don’t know how this one got Escamilla in the middle of that army. Look at her—she’s skin and bones.” Morgyn felt herself being lift by one leg and shaken, a demonstration of her diminutive stature.
Bastard. He’d die first.
“Stop messing around. Let’s get out of this crowd. Look, more Wolfies are showing up.”
“Aye, we’ll head ba…”
A furious roar came, and Morgyn, head first, was suddenly on the pavement again. She squinted against the brightness just in time to see one of her captors barreled over by a huge blur. Both went flying out of her sight, and her head swam when she attempted to follow the action. The meager contents of her stomach rose into her throat and Morgyn worked to retain that bit of cheese she’d eaten while the world spun around her.
There were more shouts behind her, and the sounds of a battle. As Morgyn made a final attempt to rise, something struck her skull with a glancing blow. Her brain had taken enough knocking around, and she mercifully lost consciousness amidst the scuffle.
Morgyn’s last memory of the scene was of vomiting up the old cheese.
Chapter 29
Fenrir had to look away.
He’d seen gruesome things before. Pandemonium, he’d done gruesome things before. But Tilner’s death was too much—both the circumstance and the manner. It was… a shame… that he’d had to be broken before ending his own life. Fenrir wished he could slap the man’s mustaches straight off for his stupidity.
What could have driven him to do that? He wished he could have heard the words, but Ingla had been too busy barking in his ears for him to catch what Faris had said to Escamilla’s retainer.
Fenrir took a long, subtle pull from a near-empty flask of Sestrian rum that he’d managed to purloin from one of the warehouses. He coughed and sputtered; the shit burned, and it had been a long, long time since he’d had a drink. But by Ultner’s serrated cock, he needed it.
“Trash! Focus on the mission!” Ingla hissed, slapping the flask to the ground and cuffing him. She and the Blue Adder Eanor stood at his shoulders, making hand gestures to the few other Adders who were just out of sight. Fenrir had only spotted two associates of The House so far, none of them rabble raisers or inciters. He pointed out one of them to Ingla—Canor, an asshole from Algania who had once spilled a beer down the back of Fenrir’s shirt. The man was dragged off by a couple Adders a few minutes later.
The mission had been a disaster, as were most that Fenrir became involved in. He hadn’t seen anyone meaningful—and hadn’t expected to, considering the people of note within The House tended to conceal their identities behind masks. And, now that Pick’s body slowly drooped down the Spike, the crowd was in a panic. There’d be no finding any other associates amid this mess.
“Wait… there!” He saw four of them, clustered together. Yarem the Head, the sick bastard who was said to have a penchant for children, and Minks, who made a living by sticking knives in people from a distance. Dern, a hulking bastard who grinned while he broke the fingers of hapless merchants who couldn’t pay their protection charges. And Enen, a man known for just being a bad guy. All scum. Dung beetles. Worthless, sadistic fucks, like most of those attracted to The House.
They were only steps away, and standing over the body of a young girl. A girl that Fenrir recognized, and not necessarily with fondness.
Nonetheless, he found himself shoving through the crowd and slamming his shoulder into Yarem, bearing him to the ground. He slammed the man’s shiny, cracked egg of a head against the cobblestones—not with enough force to kill, but certainly with enough to take him out of this little altercation. He bashed the man’s bald head again, too, just to be sure, before snapping to his feet.
Durn approached him, the hulking giant grinning the grin of a madman, tossing a wicked little dagger from hand to hand in the manner of a wannabe pirate. Fenrir reached for his own sword before remembering that Ingla hadn’t allowed him to be armed, lest he try something funny. Durn’s grin grew wider.
Fenrir started to feel disconnected, his vision wavering and becoming separated from his consciousness. His fucking phantom, finally resurfacing to hover above him as he faced death. He hadn’t felt this way since that day when he’d run through the little duke, and in a detached way, he reflected that it wasn’t a good sign. But, his consciousness didn’t stay separate for more than a moment.
Without any preamble, another huge man—this one even bigger than the protector—slammed into Durn and tumbled over the fallen Yarem, who was very much dead at this point. Maybe the second head-bashing hadn’t been necessary. Fenrir, his consciousness again merged with his body, looked away.
Their little battle seemed to have triggered a riot state nearby, with Rostanians shoving, screaming, and trampling all comers. Eonor, their lone back-up Adder, lay writhing in the street with one of Minks’ knives wedged in his throat. Ingla was fighting off the remaining two members of The House with a fluidity he had never seen before. Then, as he watched, Enen pressed Ingla hard while Minks backed up to throw another deadly blade at her.
Fenrir doubted she would be as pretty with a knife sticking out of her eye.
Without any other weapon, Fenrir used the only thing at his disposal to stop another knife toss—he shoved an angry and bewildered Wasmer at Minks with all of his strength. The merchant went flying, hitting Minks hard just as he threw his weapon. The projectile disappeared into the crowd behind Ingla, its path followed by a hideous shriek. Minks himself disappeared beneath a throng of people who must have seen him with the knife.
With a simple an
d unhurried jab, Ingla finished Enen before turning to Fenrir with a furious look.
“You trash! You were to point them out—not attack them! Not kill them! What good is a dead prisoner?” She gestured at the fallen Yarem. Fenrir just shrugged and walked over to the fallen urchin, the little girl who had once bashed his head in with an iron baton, beginning a desperate escape through the ruins beneath the Plateau.
“I already regret this,” he mumbled as he made to toss her over his shoulder.
“Don’t lay a hand on her, brother,” said a deep, articulate voice. He’d forgotten about whoever had borne Durn to the ground and taken the protector out of the fight. Fenrir turned to assess this new threat. It took a minute to recognize the man, but when he did, Fenrir couldn’t help but grin.
“It is great to see you again, brother. Just curious—fuck any women lately?” Fenrir asked. The big man’s toothy grin was unaffected.
“You will find that I am fully capable of fucking whomever I want, brother.” Toothy, the man who had, along with Morgyn, attacked Fenrir all those months ago, held a knife dripping with blood. “Now, move away from the girl.”
There was no reason not to move away. Fenrir couldn’t think of a single, compelling reason to want to stay anywhere near the treacherous little snake. And yet…
“No, I’m good.” Fenrir bent down to lift her over his shoulder, secure in the fact that Ingla now stood by his side to discourage any attack.
“What are you doing, trash?” she hissed at him through clenched teeth. She was rapidly losing control of the situation, and her stoicism—weak in the most predicable of situations—was slipping. Fenrir studied her face, and then something behind her drew his attention. And not in a good way.
“Um…. You said I should point them out if we come across any other members of The House, right?”
“Yes?”
“Well, there they are.”
“Where? And how many?” She glanced around, and immediately sighted the two dozen men, each wearing a mask of a different animal, insect, or demon, all of them extricating themselves from the crowd.
“Right there. All of them.”
***
Discretion being the only part of valor that really mattered, Fenrir shouldered Morgyn and shoved his way through the crowd. He assumed that Toothy and Ingla were following, but truthfully didn’t care at the moment. When a nightmare gave chase, you kept it to your back regardless of who followed.
The crowd was thankfully thinning in front of him, and Fenrir barreled down a few people as he sought to create distance between himself and The House. There were enough side streets and alleyways that he might be able to lose them, and maybe find his way back to the de Trenton compound. Where in Ultner’s asshole were the rest of those Blue Adders, anyhow? They were quick to jump in and drag trash off the street, but where were they when blood started flowing?
Fenrir found his way to a side street, seeking out a long, unobstructed stretch to create some distance. Morgyn, the little ruffian, bounced on his shoulders, but she barely felt like a weight. He hadn’t spared the girl a thought since his imprisonment; he’d seen her a bit amidst the Army of Brockmore, and she’d usually had some smartass comment, and he’d retorted the best he could. Truthfully, they’d developed a bit of a clever back and forth, but she was really nothing to him. He wondered how she’d become separated from the army. Escamilla had taken a shine to her, so maybe, upon the lady’s death, she’d simply fled. Or, maybe she was still working for that Recherche Oletta—she obviously wasn’t an ally of The House.
Breathing heavily, Fenrir glanced backwards before making a sharp left, knocking over a stack of empty crates in his inattention. He didn’t see any masks just behind him; maybe they’d gotten caught in the rioting crowd. Ingla and Toothy, though, were right on his tail and keeping up fairly well. Ingla passed him with a burst of speed, taking the lead and pushing them to a street on their right and then an alley on their left.
Toothy shot him a dark look around his desperate gasps for breath. Fenrir gave him a smile and a wink before stumbling to a stop, lest he crash into a skidding Ingla. There were a dozen masked faces—grotesque birds, animals, and Pandemonium-knew-whats—lining the far end of the alley.
“Ultner’s rotten testicles…” Fenrir mumbled as he spun around and saw a similar group closing in behind him. Glancing up, he saw the spotters hopping across the rooftops; hence, no close pursuit—they could easily have found where they were fleeing. He should have known that.
Toothy shifted on his feet, adjusting his grip on his knife. He was looking about ready to charge the group behind him. Fenrir placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You’d better not, brother,” he said quietly.
“You’d rather be tortured to death? I’ve seen what they do!” His eyes were wild, his breath coming in gasps. The masked men just stood there, blocking their path.
“You used to have no problems opposing The House, as I recall.”
“Things were different, then. We need to get out of here.” His voice was desperate.
“Agreed,” Ingla said, her voice calm. She showed none of her characteristic anger. Her eyes were clear, her jaw set with the determination of one who expected to die, but not without taking a few enemies with her. And she was fully capable of that much.
“Ingla, look at me.” She turned, and he grabbed her chin and gave her a rough, passionate kiss. She held on for a second before slapping him away, to the discordant laughter of the gathered associates, protectors, enforcers, and eliminators.
“The Bull always knows how to treat a lady!” called one voice. Fenrir had hoped he’d recognize one, and he did. Unfortunately, it was Garrett, a cocky young enforcer who’d been a constant thorn in Fenrir’s side. But, unmasking one was a way to humanize the rest of them and remind them of their once comradery.
“Ask your mother how I treat a lady, Garrett. She would be the one to know,” called Fenrir.
“Ha, well, she is about your age, Old Bull.” The younger man took off his mask; he was practically a baby, barely twenty. And yet, he had collected enough fingers to build a house with.
“I doubt she’s so old.” He made as if to rub his knee. “Garrett, I need to talk to Tennyson.”
The boy laughed a charming, infectious laugh. He might have been a noble instead of the son of a whore. “He’s not much interested in talking with traitors,” he said, pointedly looking at Fenrir and Morgyn, still slung over his shoulder. “Nor members of rival organizations.” Glaring at Toothy. “Though, he might be interested in having a conversation to find out what that one knows.” Ingla effortlessly spun her blade in her hand and stepped toward Garrett. He backed up, despite the assurance of a couple dozen helping hands.
“Nonsense, Garrett.” The crowd parted as Tennyson, the leader of The House, glided into the circle. His own mask—the blistered, silver visage of Ultner—always seemed to grin, but especially now. “Fenrir and I are old friends, and what old friends wouldn’t want to speak?”
Fenrir grinned while repressing a shiver. He spread his hands wide, taking in his little party and all of the surrounding animals, demons, and insects. “Exactly. My friends and I would love to join you for dinner.”
Chapter 30
“We need to hurry. We have no choice. We must do it. We must do it. We must do it,” Yurin mumbled to himself, knowing full well that Hafgan would hear him. That was his nature, avoidantly aggressive. And, as always, a little odd.
“Shut up, Yurin. Why haven’t you learned to shut your mouth?” Hafgan growled, trudging through the snow in utter misery. He had a choice to make, a critical choice. The type of choice that sets the course of a man’s life. The type of choice that sets the course of an entire people’s future. The type of choice that never should be given in a sane society.
The choice of whether to kill his parents or flee his country.
“My brother knows we must do it, though he may lie to himself. Leyr already did it. Rinx
already did it. Prineth could not and his place was forfeit,” Yurin continued to mumble. Hafgan was not sure at what point exactly his older brother had snapped. When he’d been young, Yurin had seemed so strong, practically invincible. And yet, his mind was now unhinged. Everything about him spoke of a dangerous unpredictability. Unlike the rest of the Haearn Doethas recruits, Yurin had not mastered the hedwicchen. He had no need to do so, however; his particular battle style was irregular and random, so much so that, even in his hedwicchen, Hafgan could not read what was coming next. It was a limitation in so many ways, but somehow Yurin persevered. He was third ranked in the class, only behind the rotating spots of Leyr and Hafgan. It was almost as if Yurin, himself, had no idea of his next move.
“I know damned well what Prineth faced.” And that Prineth had freed his veins of blood afterward, caught between this oath of ultimate loyalty to Taern and the lingering love and obligation he felt for his family.
The logging camp was sprawled before them, unchanged from the previous fifteen years. Maybe a little more run-down, a little more dingy. And, to Hafgan, seemingly much, much smaller. How had the entirety of the first few years of his life been spent in this place? A few log cabins tossed across the hill, as if the snow was taken with a pox. A longhouse used for mealtimes, festivals, and gatherings. And a diminishing supply of lumber in every direction. One day, soon, they would be forced to relocate, traveling even further from Hackeneth and relative safety. But they would cling to this gods-forsaken patch of mud until the last possible moment. For, as humble as it was, it was home.
His parents, Lifna and Harran, still lived in the same wooden hut, the garrs gained from selling their children having been traded for food instead of even the basest luxury. Times had been hard fifteen years ago. Times were hard at this moment, too. Times were always hard in the Tulanques, truth be told, and an injection of temporary wealth would do nothing to change that.
Wisdom Lost Page 36