by Max Irons
“What’s going on?” asked Galeron, his hand dropping to his sword.
“Three people in black cloaks,” Iven whispered. “I don’t think they saw us, but they’re milling around the tombs.”
“Other guards?” asked Lonni.
“Crypt soldiers aren’t relieved that often,” Iven said.
Black cloaks. The same mages who’d attacked him and Arlana at the physician’s place? Why would they be…Wait a minute. The black mages came to exact revenge for an improperly mixed potion. They hadn’t said what, but only a physician would have the knowledge to mix and distill valeros. Since it hadn’t worked properly on Fletcher, they might assume Remus made a mistake.
“But who are they?” Galeron mumbled to himself.
“What’s that?” asked Iven.
“Seen them before,” Galeron said. “Four of them at the physician’s house this past evening. Arlana killed one of them. Mages.”
Iven dropped a few of his more colorful phrases, lapsing into a few different languages in the process.
“I didn’t know you could speak Han or Soterian,” Lonni said.
“I can’t,” he grumbled. “But I curse fluently in almost every language.”
“Those mages blocking our way don’t care,” Galeron said.
“What are we dealing with?” asked Iven.
Galeron closed his eyes and thought back to their brief encounter. “Fire, wind, and probably another ground mage like Tondra.”
“Probably?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t stick around to ask. I couldn’t stab him. That’s all I know.”
Iven grunted and held up his hands. “I’ve got nothing on me.”
“Not even a knife?” asked Galeron.
He shook his head. “Dianna hid everything I changed out of yesterday. Said something about lesser men needing such things, and I didn’t think I’d be shooting arrows in a crypt.”
Galeron looked at Lonni, who scowled at him.
“I haven’t had the time to mix any night dust,” she said. “We’ve been here a little over a day.”
Galeron rubbed his forehead. Wonderful. He’d been the only one alert enough to carry a weapon. The rest of them would be useless in a fight without some sort of armament.
“The crypt guards have weapons,” Iven said.
“And they’re still in the Sabinian vault,” Galeron said. “You two have to sneak by three mages to get them. Nothing could go wrong there.”
“You were the one who insisted we come tonight,” Lonni growled. “You could have waited until all of us had some sleep and could think clearly.”
Galeron ground his teeth. There wasn’t time for that. They had one day left on King Balen’s timeline before he declared war on Broton. They could sleep after that, or when they were dead, whichever came first. Starting to look like the latter now.
“We could sneak past,” Iven said. “We just need a distraction.” He nodded at Galeron. “You’ve met before. Think you could keep them occupied long enough?”
His stomach twisted into a giant, cold knot. There were so many ways for this to end badly. Yet, if Lonni and Iven could hide among the coffins and make their way to the Sabinian crypt, they might stand a small chance of escaping. Prospects remained terrible without a night dust weapon, but they hadn’t fallen to hopelessness just yet.
“Let’s give it a try,” Galeron said. “Wait until I’ve got them talking.”
“What are you going to say?” asked Lonni.
“Something dumb and insulting,” he said.
He squeezed past Iven and up onto the main floor of the mausoleum. Three black-cloaked figures stood among the coffins. Two faced the entrance to the crypt, but one watched the mausoleum itself. This one raised a hand and pointed at Galeron as he walked down the steps.
“He was already here.”
The others turned, and Galeron drew his sword, holding it loosely in his hand. He stopped halfway down the stairs, eyes narrowed and watching the mages.
“A dangerous night to visit the crypts, Galeron Triste,” said one of the figures.
“I’m a dangerous man,” Galeron said.
He started forward again, keeping his pace slow and not letting his gaze drift from the cloaked figures.
“You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” he said. “I like to remember the mages I kill.”
One of the cloaks snorted. “Arrogance.”
“It makes victory all the sweeter, Teuthras,” said one of the other cloaks. To Galeron, he said, “Bolthor Mylonas, I am called. Only fitting, I should think, that you know your destroyer.”
Bolthor lowered his hood, revealing a face lined with scars and missing an eye.
Galeron raised an eyebrow. “Did working for Kolvein cost you half your sight?”
Bolthor shrugged. “A hazard of the profession. If the coin spends, who am I to fuss?” Galeron’s mouth opened slightly, and Bolthor laughed. “Don’t act so surprised, Broton. Man is the same wherever you go. If he can sell his skills, he will.”
Sell-sword mages. Wonderful. “You’re a Rayan,” he said. “Yet you would work for a Delktian.”
“What has Raya done for me? What has Raya done for any of us?” sneered Bolthor. “Aleor dismissed us. We didn’t have the qualities they look for in their citizens, but I’ll not slave away at a trade like some common laborer. We weren’t given power to cast it aside.”
Galeron chuckled. If they only knew. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that important.”
“And you are?” hissed Teuthras.
“I don’t care if I am,” Galeron said. “I’m just me.”
“Such confidence for a man facing his death,” Bolthor said.
Galeron raised his sword parallel with his face, gripping it in both hands. “You’re not the first to say it.”
The third cloaked figure raised a hand, and the air stirred around them, whipping Galeron’s cloak back.
“Put your hand down, Sandor,” growled Bolthor. “You’ll put the lights out if you try that.”
A low growl emerged from Sandor’s hood, but he did as he was told.
“One sell-sword to another, I’ll let you choose your death,” Bolthor said. “Which do you prefer: burning or being crushed?”
Galeron smiled, and he stopped circling. All three watched him, and he’d put their backs to the Sabinian vault. Two shadowy figures slipped inside. He took a deep breath and let it out.
Hope this works.
He tightened his grip on the sword and rushed forward.
#
Galeron slid behind a coffin as Teuthras unleashed a blast of fire that soared over his head. Bolthor vaulted the coffin, landed, and spun to drive a fist at Galeron’s head. He rolled away, and Bolthor’s blow knocked free a chunk of stone. Too close. Galeron got to his feet and hacked at Bolthor’s exposed head, but he raised an arm and caught the blow on his forearm.
His sword rang and vibrated as it bounced off. Galeron’s teeth buzzed angrily with the backlash, and he shuddered. How had Bolthor taken that strike?
“Surprise,” Bolthor said.
A battering ram slammed into Galeron’s side, driving the breath from his lungs and hurling him through the air. He hit the floor and actually skipped twice before he skidded to a stop with an almighty crack against one of the columns. His vision blurred, and the clattering of his blade bouncing away reached his ears like the echo from a distant chasm. Men and women screamed and yelled somewhere. People were in trouble, but surely, they could get along without him.
He was hoisted into the air by his tunic. Hot breath blasted his face. “You took my hand, but now I get your life.”
Galeron squinted. Who…what was going on? He rose into the air, the grip on his tunic gone, and then a hand pinned his throat against the column, pressing hard. Galeron gagged and gasped for air, but it was no use. The hand shoved deeper, and he cried out, but it dribbled out of his mouth as a distended croak.
“Iron paladin,”
the voice snorted. “You feel soft to me.”
Galeron’s limbs jerked, and his face burned as he tried in vain to fill his lungs.
Someone screamed, an oath of rage, and the hand on his throat vanished. He inhaled sharply but hit the ground hard, the impact on his tailbone banishing life-giving air. Coughing and retching, Galeron fell on his side, his chest rising and falling in short, ragged bursts.
“Galeron, get up.”
He didn’t move. Couldn’t quite remember what was happening. Swallowing, he rolled over onto his back, watching the distant ceiling spin in slow, lazy circles. Blackness crept into his vision. Something like a heat haze shimmered, and, perhaps a trick of the light, he thought he saw a wooden table with a simple pewter chalice atop it.
“Up!”
The high-pitched shriek drove some of the darkness from his head. Galeron moaned and sat up, skull pounding and remnants of coffee bubbling in his throat. His vision cleared. Lonni, clutching a spear in both hands, dangled in midair as the mage held her weapon up, his lone hand positioned between her grip. Galeron scrambled to his feet and rushed him.
Sandor dropped Lonni and turned to intercept Galeron. He grabbed him by the tunic, but Lonni drove the head of her spear deep into the back of his thigh. He screamed, and released Galeron, who drove his knee into the mage’s gut. The earth mage hit the ground, and Lonni plunged the spear into his throat. The tip bounced off his skin without making a scratch.
Galeron blinked. How? How had they wounded him but been unable to kill him?
“I could use some help over here.”
Galeron turned. Iven danced away from Bolthor and Teuthras, sheltering behind a coffin as flames licked at the stone around him. Galeron looked around. Where had his sword gotten to? There! Glinting dully in the firelight, the weapon lay close to the steps of the mausoleum. He dashed for the weapon as Lonni ran to Iven’s aide.
Scooping up the sword, Galeron wheeled around and wove through the rows of tombs, ducking off-handed blasts of fire from Teuthras. He rammed a shoulder into Bolthor’s back, sending him sprawling into a coffin. Lonni cracked Teuthras over the head with the butt of her spear, and the flames around Iven’s hiding place died away.
Galeron dove for Bolthor, driving his shoulder into his chest. He stumbled but caught himself and drove a fist at Galeron’s head. The black blade deflected the blow, and he smashed the pommel into Bolthor’s skull. Grunting, the mage swung again. Galeron swerved, and the blow flipped a coffin, stone shattering and dust and bone spilling everywhere.
Galeron’s sword screeched along Bolthor’s outstretched arm, sparks flying on impact. Bolthor grabbed the blade and wrenched back. Galeron released his grip, letting him stagger, and landed a blow to Bolthor’s face. His knuckles collided with steel, and he jerked his swiftly numbing hand back.
Bolthor grinned. “Hurts doesn’t it? He tossed Galeron’s sword back. “See which breaks first, your blade or my skin.”
Galeron caught the hilt in his left hand, right still refusing to move. He glanced from Bolthor, to Teuthras and the other earth mage pursuing Lonni and Iven, to Sandor waiting for his summons by the Sabinian crypt. No firelocks or real armaments, and they couldn’t get past Bolthor’s thick skin. They had what they came for. There was only one other course of action.
“Retreat!” Galeron yelled.
Iven ducked under a blow from the earth mage. “Why?”
“Do it,” Galeron said.
He vaulted a coffin and hurtled toward Teuthras’s exposed back. The mage turned, and Lonni caught him across the temple with the flat of the spearhead. He went down in a crumpled heap. Galeron grabbed Lonni’s arm and pulled her along.
“Sandor, stop them,” said Bolthor.
Galeron didn’t turn to see what Sandor was doing. They ducked into the tunnel to the outside and hurtled through the passageway.
“Sandor will pummel us in here,” said Lonni.
Galeron heaved great gulps of air, but he managed to gasp out, “Not enough room for his power.”
“Flee for your life, iron paladin,” came Bolthor’s echoing mock. “I’m going to catch you.”
Galeron grimaced at the stitch in his side, but he drove his burning legs onward until they spilled out into the open lane of Keenan Caffar’s upper district. He glanced back over his shoulder. Didn’t look like Bolthor was too close behind them. His heart screamed in his chest as they pressed on, though, ignoring his body’s demands for rest and more air. Heaving audibly, they came to a sudden halt outside the Porter house.
He sank to all fours, coughing and spluttering. His sides and back pulsated with a deep pain that increased with every exhale.
“Come on, Galeron, we need to get inside,” Iven said.
Galeron looked up. Iven, hands on his knees, stared up the road. No one had rounded the corner just yet, but surely it wouldn’t take them long. He took Iven’s offered hand, and the three of them staggered across the threshold, Iven collapsing in the atrium with his back against the closed doors.
Galeron hit the floor again, watching blearily as servants bustled forward at the commotion.
“My lord Porter,” one of them gasped. “What happened to you?”
Iven waved them off. “It’s…well…we’re all fine, thank you.” He swallowed and then said, “We were out for a very lively nighttime stroll.”
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“I…no…well…” Iven looked to Galeron and Lonni. “Tea, hot and strong.”
“Of course, my lord,” he said.
The other servants helped them to their feet, and they made their way to the dimly lit parlor. Galeron sank onto one of the thickly padded and bench-like settees, Lonni crashing beside him. Iven sagged into a chair and shuddered. No one spoke for a long while, and the only sounds came from heavy breathing.
“That could have been worse,” Iven said.
Galeron leaned his head against the settee’s arm. “How?” he mumbled.
“Could’ve died down there,” Iven said.
“Pleasant thought.”
“Are we sure they won’t attack us here?” asked Lonni.
Iven took a deep breath. “Pretty sure. That’d be more noise than even Kolvein would like. Besides, we’re too close to the Faulkner mansion. They’d notice.”
“What do we do now?” asked Lonni.
“Galeron?” Iven looked at him, eyebrows raised.
Wish I knew. He needed certain pieces of information confirmed, but now Kolvein knew, or at least had a guess, that Galeron was figuring things out. Why else would he have sent Bolthor and his companions after them? Galeron frowned into the furniture. Better question: how did Kolvein know they’d been intending to visit the royal crypt? They’d only discussed it briefly at the ball, and no one had been within earshot.
“He found out, somehow,” Galeron grumbled.
“Who?” asked Lonni.
“Kolvein,” he said. “He knew where we were.”
“Who could have told him?” asked Iven.
Galeron shrugged one shoulder. “Don’t know. Never discussed it near him. Dancing should have covered the conversation.”
“How do we prove Kolvein killed Princess Carys?” asked Lonni. “That’s the whole point of our journey here, isn’t it?”
Galeron sat up and bit his lip. “I’m not sure we can.”
She shot him a quizzical look. “What?”
“Kolvein doesn’t do anything himself,” Galeron said. “He works through other people. Even if he did slit Carys’s throat, there’s no way to prove it. There were no witnesses to put him close to her quarters, the physician is dead, and the king is mad. I don’t think we can reason with him.”
“We’ve got about as much chance of that as me getting out of my lordship,” said Iven.
“That’s it, then? We’re just giving up?” Lonni glared at Galeron. “I thought you were better than that.”
He snarled at her. “No one’s giving up. We just can’t pr
ove he was involved.”
Iven shifted in his chair. “I’ve got another question. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why kill Carys and blame it on Fletcher?” He spread his hands. “What’s the use?”
Galeron exhaled sharply. “Driving Broton and Raya to war.” His brows knit together, and his voice dropped. “Is that even the right ending?”
“Come again?” asked Iven.
“I don’t know that Kolvein wants Broton and Raya at war,” Galeron said. “It seems a bit…pointless.”
Iven scoffed. “It makes perfect sense. He’s a Delktian. His people lost the war. What better way for him to get revenge than watch two enemy nations destroy each other?”
True, but still. Galeron shook his head slowly. “There’s something else. Delktians are loyal to their country, so much so that it borders on madness.”
Iven stretched out his hands. “Explain.”
“The idea of a personal vendetta. That’s something everyone south of the Njal has.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “We’re missing information. There’s a way it links back to Delktas. Kolvein is the only ambassador in the world between his nation and everyone else. Broton and Soterios wouldn’t accept one. He’s the only Delktian influence on the outside world.”
“Yes, and?” said Iven.
“Would you waste such a valuable resource on petty vengeance?” asked Galeron.
Iven pursed his lips and said nothing.
“That’s a really good thought,” Lonni said, a strange look on her face as she studied Galeron. “Well done.”
Galeron blinked. “Did you just give me a compliment?”
“Don’t get used to it,” Iven said. “She’ll go back to pointing out your flaws soon enough.”
Lonni glared at him. “I won’t even bother with yours.”
He smirked. “You don’t have that kind of time.”
One of the servants returned with cups of tea and handed them out. Galeron accepted his, but then called the servant back.
“Can you get writing supplies?” he asked. “I need to send a message.”
“Of course, sir.”