by Max Irons
He stepped forward, looming over her. “Do not make your position worse.”
Galeron slid behind the last cloaked figure, blade at the ready. Arlana caught his eye and gave a lightning wink.
“I think, master cloak, that you ought to be sure of yours,” she purred.
Galeron rammed the point of his sword through the back of the last figure, only to have the blade rebound as if it struck stone. A ripple of cold swarmed through his guts as the figure turned around. Blast it! He’s a mage.
The mage grabbed him by the brigandine straps and hurled him across the room. Galeron crashed into the shelving behind the surgery table, jars shattering against his back. Air rushed from his lungs, and he hit the ground hard, blade clattering away. He groaned and pushed away the shrieks of his bones. Where had his sword gone?
Galeron crawled across the floor, reaching for the nearby hilt. Typical luck. This group had a mage connected to the earth. He struggled to his feet, hoisting the blade and vaulting the table. He’d beaten one before, but there were no helpful pillars to shatter. One of the cloaked figures was already down, two knives in his back. Arlana rushed past with Remus in tow, and Galeron stepped between them and the other cloaked men.
“Step aside, sell-sword,” rasped the lead man. “This isn’t your fight.”
One of the other cloaks elbowed him. “Don’t you know who that is?” He pointed at Galeron’s upraised weapon. “Black sword. He’s the Deathstalker.”
“There is no Deathstalker,” snarled the lead. “That’s Broton folklore. Any coinless warrior can scorch his blade black.”
“Then why isn’t he running?”
The lead raised a hand. “Because Brotons are duller than a child’s ball.”
Wind roared in the building and blasted Galeron back once again. He slammed into Arlana and Remus as the swirling whirlwind extinguished the candles and submerged them all in darkness.
“You fool,” screamed the third cloak.
“Quiet,” rasped the lead.
Remus moaned as Galeron got to his feet. He closed his eyes, more on reflex than anything else, and tried to remember the room’s layout. Blade parallel with his face, Galeron saw in his mind’s eye the surgery table to his right. Store room curtain to his left. Cloaks right in front of him. How fast would they move? His heart raced in his chest. Likely slow. They’d not been expecting the darkness. The lead cloak had been, what, five paces away? If so, he’d be coming into range right…about…
Now!
Galeron’s sword buzzed through the darkness, and someone screamed as the blade bit into flesh and bone. Whatever he hit suddenly wasn’t there anymore, and a stream of curses raged to his left. An orb of light sizzled into being, white hot and blinding. Galeron shielded his eyes, though he sensed movement off to his right. Arlana’s screech of fury echoed through the stone room. The white orb blazed past Galeron’s left ear, and sudden shrieking joined Arlana’s battle cry.
The sphere suddenly took a tall and fat form, and the sickly-sweet smell of burning flesh penetrated the air. Remus, his entire body alight with white-hot flames, stumbled into the curtain and dove into the supply room, as if trying to outrun the fire.
The same storeroom filled with nitrate of potash.
Galeron rushed for Arlana, ramming his shoulder into her back and hurling her towards the open door. They burst out of the physician’s shop and bolted down the street. Garish orange and yellow light blazed, followed by a roar like a thousand thunderclaps. A sudden rush of heat, a hammer blow to the back of his skull, and then all faded to black.
#
Pain passed over him in dull pulses. Every inch of his body ached in time his hiccupping heartbeat. Galeron cracked his eyes open, and sunlight assaulted him with white-hot spikes in his skull. His chest seized, and he coughed out a spray of saliva and stone dust. He watched a few clouds drift aimlessly across the sky. What was he doing out here? He blinked. Where was here?
Galeron lay in a patch of dirt. He sat up, ignoring the waves of nausea, and looked around. It was someone’s front garden, but how had he gotten here? He stood shakily, hands dropping limply by his sides. More lead weights than limbs. His left hand brushed the mouth of an empty sheath. Right. Of course. He’d been with Arlana…mages were involved, and…
He jerked, a bolt of cold lightning crackling through his mind. The physician’s house had blown up. The fool and his nitrate storage. Galeron brushed dirt from his face. The still smoldering ruins of Remus’s place of business lay across the street, a deep and blackened crater where his storerooms had been.
What did you need with all that nitrate? A more pressing question: where had Arlana gone?
Galeron scanned his surroundings. No one walked up and down the street, nor were there any city watch or other officials here to investigate. Perhaps it had all been done early last night after the incident. Bracing himself against the wall, he inched his way upward and wobbled unsteadily.
No charred corpses lay among the shattered stone as he perused the wreckage. In Remus’s case, there wouldn’t have been enough left of him to fill a teacup, but he had hoped the blast caught another cloak. It did not seem so. Even the lone man Arlana killed had been removed from the site. Galeron spotted his sword sticking out of a pile of rubble and dug it out, sliding the worn blade into his sheath. He’d have to grind out some of the larger nicks later. There was something he’d been expected to do this morning, wasn’t there? Some demand or requirement…
Iven’s oaths.
He was supposed to be somewhere when Iven took his oaths. Galeron glanced at the sun. Close to early morning, not even three hours into daylight. He staggered off down the road, his chest catching as he heaved ragged breaths. Surely, they hadn’t left the mansion yet. Iven wouldn’t leave without him, would he?
If I left him with no other choice, he would. He never told Iven about the after-dinner escapade, and Arlana would as soon tell Iven of his predicament as she would hire Lonni to play informer.
Galeron rounded the curve in the street, angling back down the mountainside and nearly plowed straight into a team of horses trundling up in front of him. He dove to one side, driving his shoulder into the street and rolling to a stop at someone’s storefront. The carriage’s driver swore at him.
“Wait!”
The carriage door flew open, and Iven, dressed in an overly-pompous green doublet and very poufy hat, stared at him. “Where have you been?” he asked.
Galeron grunted. He couldn’t seem to find his voice.
Dianna’s head poked around Iven’s shoulder. “Why did we stop?”
“Out drinking?” Galeron said.
Iven snorted. “A likely story. Get in here. Fabron delivered your armor this morning.”
Right. He couldn’t turn up before the king looking as if he’d been sleeping on the streets. Galeron got up and trudged into the carriage. The door shut behind him, and he slid into the seat next to Iven. Lonni glared across from him.
“You might have mentioned you were going out,” she hissed.
He glanced at Dianna and shook his head. Now wasn’t the time to discuss this. Lonni’s stare deepened, and he ignored her as the carriage rattled forward.
Iven passed Galeron a bundle of clothes and metal armor. “Better change quick. It isn’t that long to King Balen’s hall.”
Galeron sorted through the pile. The overtunic, trousers, and cloak were all as black as midnight, with only the stenciled outline of a green boar on the front of the overtunic. Even his metal vambraces and chain mail shirt were the same shade of deep black.
Galeron pulled off his boots, unlatched his sword belt, and looked to Lonni and Dianna. “Cover your eyes.”
Dianna demurely lowered her head and shielded her eyes with one hand. Lonni, however, simply stared at him and crossed her arms.
“You’re wearing drawers, aren’t you?” she asked.
Galeron scowled at her, but his face burned. “Of course I’m wearing drawers. Cover your eyes.”
One of her brows arched. “You’re rather picky about this.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
Iven sighed. “Lonni, just do it. We don’t have a lot of time left.”
She gave a great huff and shut her eyes. Galeron switched out his trousers for the new pair. She hadn’t had to make that much of a fuss about it. What was wrong with affording him a bit of privacy? Had he not extended her the same courtesy on multiple occasions? He pulled his boots back on and tightened his sword belt.
“I’m done,” Galeron said.
Lonni and Dianna looked back up. Dianna shot a reproachful glance at Galeron’s armor and shook her head. “Why are you dressing him like the black paladins?”
“What?” asked Iven.
Galeron slipped out of his brigandine and pulled the mail shirt over his head.
“Look at him,” Dianna said. “All black, including the cloak, and you’re walking in to court with him at your side.”
Iven examined Galeron’s garb. “I hadn’t really noticed.” He scratched at the gray hose on his leg. “I just knew I would be stuck in green, and, well, that’s just not his color.”
“Iven, now is not the time for flippancy,” said Dianna. “It sends a bad message.”
“What’s a black paladin?” asked Lonni.
Dianna sighed. “In Rayan folktales, black paladins owe allegiance to no house. They are forces unto themselves and can never be counted on to fulfill strictures of duty and honor.”
“Sounds like I missed out,” Iven mumbled.
Galeron fastened the black cloak around his neck and sat down next to Iven, but the carriage stopped moving. It was time to meet the nobles.
And find a killer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Perhaps it was the sight of the looming throne hall above them, or maybe it came from the mass of soldiers standing at attention around its perimeter, but an overwhelming sense of smallness washed over Galeron as he and the others climbed out of the carriage. The king’s rectangular hall stood so high that he had to crane his neck to see the roof’s pinnacle. The same feather-thin support columns in the inner city wrapped around the outside of the building, giving it the look of an over-sized red caterpillar.
Soldiers marched toward them, morning sunlight flashing in painful bursts off their silver-blue plate armor and ceremonial short swords. Their footsteps moved in time, giving the impression of a giant clapping his hands in rhythm. Faces hidden behind enclosed helmets, each man looked exactly like his comrade. Galeron raised his eyebrows. This was a contingent of the famed Rayan legions, notorious for their discipline. Keith would have been proud.
Galeron winced as the name came to mind. He’d not thought about him for a while. Should have expected it. Being in Raya, was he really surprised?
Iven strode between the corridor the soldiers formed to the hall’s entrance.
“Stay behind me,” he said. “No use giving the nobles a chance to stab me in the back so soon.”
Galeron fell into place and followed him, Lonni and Dianna close behind them both.
“What am I supposed to do?” asked Galeron.
“Try not to offend anyone, and save me when I do,” Iven said.
Galeron shook his head. It couldn’t be all that bad, could it?
“Maybe he does have some sense,” Lonni whispered.
“It won’t last,” Dianna said.
They ascended the steps to the hall, but a wall of legionaries with blue capes thrown over one shoulder blocked their path.
“Your weapons,” said one of the legionaries. “Give them up. None may attend King Balen’s court armed.”
Galeron didn’t move, but Iven jabbed an elbow into his stomach. “Won’t be for long.”
Scowling, he unlaced the sword and sheath from his belt and handed it to one of the soldiers. Galeron looked at Lonni, expecting her to pull out the pistolettes, but she didn’t move. Neither holster nor belt hung about her waist.
“If you had been ready in time,” sniffed Dianna. “You would have known to leave your blade at home, sir knight.”
Galeron bit down on a retort and fell into place behind Iven again. The legionaries parted, and they walked up the steps.
Entering the hall through the large cedar doors, Galeron tried not to gape at the sheer scope of the interior. Two mighty rows of columns ran halfway up the vertical length, framing the long path to an empty throne. The floor itself was a work of art. The seven house crests, made of colored tile, stretched out before them. The huge kingdom sigil, a roaring red lion set against two lightning bolts, sprawled on full display before the throne’s dais.
Courtiers and pageboys bustled about amid a throng of people gathered at the upper end of the hall. As they drew closer, Galeron noticed several of them toted trays of goblets and mead bottles. A bit early in the morning for heavy drinking. His legs ached with every step, and suddenly, early morning drinking didn’t sound so bad.
The crowd of people around the throne split apart as they approached. Lords and ladies, dressed in a menagerie of finely colored linens, lace, and cabbage-shaped head wear, shifted to face Iven. Their gazes lingered for a while, and then turned to Galeron. A few eyebrows disappeared into caps, and a low muttering buzzed from them as they whispered.
One of the men strode forward, outfitted similarly to Iven, but in colors of red and gray with a deep red cloak about his throat.
“Lord Porter,” he said in a nasal voice. “We were wondering when you might show.”
Iven stopped, and Galeron halted behind him. “Lord Pendegrast, I see you haven’t lost your sense of courtesy.”
His stomach lurched. So here was the infamous Pendegrast. Didn’t look like much, with wisps of thinning hair protruding from under his cap and the semblance of a paunch stretching his doublet. Perhaps he just hid it well. A good skill to have if the houses constantly jostled for power.
Lord Pendegrast cast a long look at Galeron. “Is it such a courtesy to bring a Broton before the king? Surely you know of the tragic events but a few weeks past.”
“I’m well aware of them,” Iven said. “Who I make paladin is my own business, but I always appreciate someone sticking an overlarge nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Dianna stepped up and gave Lord Pendegrast a curtsy. “My lord, thank you for gracing us with your presence.”
Lord Pendegrast inclined his head. “Dianna, it is always good to see you. Where is my son this day?”
“Falco is attending to the latest shipments of wheat while Iven takes his oaths,” said Dianna.
“It is good that the young Lord Porter had a change of heart about taking his rightful place,” Pendegrast said, his voice oozing with sarcasm. “After all, it would be a shame to let the most noble and worthy house of Porter descend into chaos.”
“Yes, yes, we’re all concerned over appearances,” said Iven. “You could at least act like you weren’t disappointed I’m here.”
“Iven…” Dianna’s voice trailed away.
Galeron stood with his arms behind his back. She was in a difficult position. Iven’s mouth could be a danger if he wasn’t careful, but she couldn’t correct him in public either.
Lord Pendegrast’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful who you speak to in such tones, Lord Porter. You may be new, but that will not matter to those who are less…forgiving than I am.”
Iven shrugged. “So you don’t like me. I’m shocked. Who could resist my stunning personality?”
“At least the Porter wit didn’t die with Anchises.”
Galeron and Iven turned toward the new speaker. A tall, thin man with a slender and stringy beard walked to Iven and offered his hand. They traded grips, and the man nodded.
“Iven Porter, it’s been a very long time,” he said. “You have your father’s tongue, and that is a compliment.”
Iven frowned. “Do I know you?”
“That’s Lord Atalan,” hissed Dianna.
Lord Atalan smiled. “Quite right, La
dy Dianna. He’ll learn names and faces in due course.”
“It’s good to meet you,” Iven said.
Lord Pendegrast snorted. “At least he knows where his coin comes from.”
“The Atalan mines don’t determine how I act,” Iven said. “I don’t respond well to arrogance, though.”
Lord Atalan gave a brief glance around the throne hall. “You’ve found the largest gathering of self-important men in the kingdom. The secret to successful work in these circles, Lord Porter, is good acting.”
Moaning rams’ horns reverberated through the hall, and soldiers standing at the base of the throne came to rigid attention. Lord Pendegrast and Lord Atalan moved back to the collection of nobles off to the right, and a door further up the hall creaked open.
“Make way for his majesty, King Balen Valerian,” called one of the courtiers.
Three figures strode from the side door behind the throne. Balen Valerian was the easiest to identify, clad in robes of royal scarlet and gray, with the gold circlet of kingship on his brow. Balen and some of the bears Galeron encountered in the far north could have been cousins. His brown hair hung long, and a large bushy beard covered his face. At one point, he’d probably been heavily muscled, but fat now sheathed all that brawn, and the buttons on his doublet threatened to burst if he moved wrong.
A woman walked next to him, tall, buxom and blond, and clad in a similar garb to the king, though her dress was high-backed and trimmed with lace. The third figure, however, turned Galeron’s hands cold.
An angular man, a bit shorter than King Balen, prowled behind the king and the woman. His eyes, so dark they were almost solid black, darted this way and that. He wore a gray linen shirt with ribbon embroidered about the collar and chest, slightly baggy trousers, and a rounded cap that was little more than fabric with a brim.
Delktian wear.
Galeron’s jaw tightened, and his teeth grated. What was a Delktian doing in Raya, in Keenan Caffar no less? He inhaled sharply through his nose, and Iven turned to give him a puzzled look.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
Did he not see? “There’s a Delktian walking with your king.”