Guardian

by P B Hughes

  When he arrived at the shop, a throng of people hummed outside. On the front steps stood the owner, regaling the crowd with the tale of how he had fought off the wicked assassin with his loyal dog. Jude couldn’t help but smirk at the fool. So few men had the opportunity for glory in their lives that many had to invent it, even when they did nothing more than alert the authorities. But Jude was glad for the diversion. He slipped through the crowd and around to the back of the shop.

  The alley was drowned in darkness. He dared a glance over his shoulder; no one was following him. Suddenly, Jude felt a disdain for the townsfolk. They had let him slither through their streets entirely unnoticed, more concerned with the gossip behind the tale than the truth.

  They ought to clear the streets, Jude thought. Not flutter around like a flock of witless cackle-birds. He reached behind the barrel where he’d left his staff.

  It was gone.

  Panic swelled in him. He looked behind another barrel. Nothing. He tossed aside the next, and then the next. It was nowhere to be found. He whirled around and slumped back against the shop’s wall, his stomach twisting into knots.

  “Looking for this?” asked a girl’s voice to his right.

  Jude leapt up, ready to run. The silhouette of a hooded figure lurked in the shadows several feet away. He almost made a break for it when he noticed she held his staff. Though Jude’s heart slammed in his chest with alarm, the sight of his staff brought him a tinge of relief. All he had to do was overpower this…girl, and then he’d be fighting fit.

  “And what were you thinking, leaving your only means of protection behind a barrel?” asked the girl. “That you’d go marching through the city with your fists and feet when every man, woman, and child is on the lookout for you?”

  “Who are you?” asked Jude.

  “Clearly they were wrong to speak so highly of you. I mean, they said you were intelligent.”

  Jude decided to play her game just long enough to retrieve his staff. When he took it, he’d tie her up by her feet from the rooftop and leave her for the patrolmen to find.

  “Even the keenest mind makes a blunder from time to time,” he said, careful to keep his voice low. He gauged the distance between them—two swift strides and his staff would be in reach. Though he had no weapon, all he needed was to touch his staff and she’d be subdued.

  “I suppose book smarts don’t always translate into street smarts,” she replied with a sigh. “Pity.”

  “What do you want?” Jude asked.

  “Oh, that’s a very long list indeed.”

  Jude bit his tongue in frustration. “What do you want with me?”

  “And now the boy’s angry—”

  Jude lunged forward, but before he could take his second step, the girl cart-wheeled backward out of his reach. She landed on her feet and into a moonlit corner of the alley. Her hood fell behind her head, revealing a mane of dark hair. With a flick, her hood was up again.

  “So helpless,” she said. “If only you had—” she pulled her cloak back revealing the pale blade of a rapier “—a weapon.”

  “Why don’t you just call the guards and get it over with,” said Jude.

  “Call the guards?” said the girl. “My dear Jude, you mistake me for one of them.”

  Jude studied her a moment. How did she know his name? Though she had stolen his staff, she had done nothing beyond that to show her allegiance to the Irachnians. Maybe, he thought, she was an ally. An extremely irritating ally.

  “Samara,” whispered a gruff voice from behind her. “Stop toying with the lad. We’re running out of time.”

  “Oh, there you are, Ryker,” the girl said. “I was wondering when you’d come along to throw cold water on my fun.”

  Another hooded figure stepped out into the alleyway. “You’ll have to forgive my partner,” he said. “She values entertainment more highly than doing her job. My name’s Ryker Pendragon. She’s Samara Fernandez. We’re your friends.”

  Suspicion flooded Jude. “I cannot be a friend to someone I’ve never met.” He took a step away from them and readied himself for an assault.

  “Give him his staff, Samara,” said Ryker. “Go on. You can trust us, lad. Bubbs sent us to find you.”

  The girl snorted and held out the butt of the staff. Jude stared at it, apprehensive.

  “Bubbs sent you two to find me?” said Jude. He remembered that Bubbs had told him some of his men would meet him upon his arrival at the city. “I was expecting dignitaries, not a couple of hooligans. How do I know I know you’re not lying?”

  Samara cocked her ear. “Ryker, they’re coming.”

  “Listen, Jude,” said Ryker, “you can either take your chances with us or with the guards. Now what’s it going to be?”

  Jude glanced from Ryker to Samara and back to Ryker. He wished he could see their eyes to check their sincerity. He gulped and stepped forward to take his staff, grabbing it with both hands. Samara released it, and Jude breathed a deep sigh of relief.

  “Good,” said Ryker. “Now, follow us—quickly.”

  Ryker whisked down the alleyway with Samara behind. The two of them ran so silently that Jude could hear nothing of their movements. And though he was loath to put his faith in two strangers, he followed. He unbuckled a pouch on his belt and took hold of a particularly lethal seed—a long-quilled cactus that could pepper his foes with a thousand barbs. If they were leading him into a trap, then he’d make them sorry for it.

  They darted through the maze of passages, Jude struggling to keep up. Left, right, right, left—it seemed to never end until finally, Ryker ducked down a narrow stairwell at the foot of a dilapidated building. Samara slid to a stop and placed her index finger on her lips. Together, she and Jude slipped into the darkness behind Ryker.

  “Stay quiet,” Ryker muttered. “We never know who’s inside.”

  Ryker pushed open a heavy door. Firelight spilled onto the stairwell as they walked into a bustling bar. It was a kitschy little dive. Stained drapes covered filthy windows and brass chandeliers hung from a low, sagging ceiling. Rows of tables were piled with mugs and surrounded by guffawing men—most of them from the slate mine, by the looks of their dusty gray beards and brawny builds. Lusty barmaids in clownish makeup squealed and scolded the men as they doled out frothy beer and snatched up empty mugs. In the back corner of the room, a man lay across a bench with his head on the shoulder of a young maid, strumming a lute, singing:

  “I’ve got no king and I’ve got no wife,

  So I keep my money and I’ve got no strife!”

  The warped floor creaked beneath Jude’s boots; the room was hot and smelled sour. Jude caught the glare of a blonde man dressed in a pea-green tunic. His face was covered with pimples and his skin glistened with sweat.

  “Though tomorrow may come and dead I’ll be,

  I still will sing for tonight I’m free!

  Yes, I still will sing for TONIGHT I’M FREE!”

  Everyone in the bar shouted the last line, whooping and hollering with amusement. Everyone, that is, except the pimply man.

  A shirtless bartender gave them a nod from behind the counter, and then reached into a drawer. He flashed a shiny key at Ryker.

  Jude watched as, with familiar nonchalance, Ryker approached the man and shook his hand. He turned and gave Samara and Jude a nod to a dark hallway at the back of the room.

  Samara led Jude toward the hall, but before they crossed half the room, the pimply man stood and barred their path.

  “What’s this, Sammy?” he sneered. “Another scraggly wretch you pulled off the street? When are you going to ditch the deadbeats and go on a date with a winner like me?”

  “Never, Bart,” said Samara flatly. “Now stand aside.” She looked him up and down. “When you stop dressing like the soup of the day, perhaps I’ll reconsider.”

  Bart stared down at his robes and back up at her, his mouth wilted with a mixture of insult and anger. “You always know how to wound me, Sammy—my
Island Queen. You know, I bought this outfit specifically for you. They told me you like a flashy dresser.”

  “You should return it and slap the man who sold it to you. You look like a stalk of asparagus.”

  Suddenly, the door behind them flew open, sending a blast of chilly air over Jude. The room went silent. A troop of six guards poured inside. They took up position by the door—three on either side. And then, after a long pause, none other than Hector Alvarez ducked through. Immediately, Jude stepped behind Samara and hid his staff behind his back.

  Hector stared around the room with coal-black eyes, looking flustered. He removed his thick fur coat and slung it across his arm. “As many of you already know,” he cried, “we’re after a fugitive—a bloodthirsty assassin bent on destroying our way of life. He already tried and failed to murder King Oldguard, and now he’s on the loose. We’re searching every inch of Saragosa until we find him and put him to justice.”

  “We ain’t seen him,” the musician called out from his bench. “Now go away and quit ruining our fun.”

  Hector gave him a vinegary stare. “He’s a Miraclist—green cloak, black hair, pinched face.”

  “Maybe you should check a mirror!” cried a man from the crowd. Everyone laughed at that.

  Bart stared knowingly at Jude over his shoulder. A wicked grin formed on his puffy lips. “Well, well,” he whispered. “What have we here?”

  Samara seized Bart’s hand. “Please,” she hissed. “Please, Bart.”

  “All right, then!” Hector announced. “If you’re refusing to cooperate…Guards, search the room!”

  “Wait!” cried Bart, stepping forward. “A Miraclist, you say?”

  Hector held up his hand. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Fancy cloak? Ugly, weasely face?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  Jude bit his lip.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen him,” said Bart.

  “Well?” said Hector. “Where did you see him?”

  “Just north of here—over by Medlow’s Market.”

  “Then don’t just stand there,” Hector barked, putting on his coat. “Lead the way!”

  “Right,” said Bart, rushing down the aisle to the door. “We’ll have to hurry before he scurries!” He spun on his toe, gave Samara wink, and darted outside.

  “Come on, men!” Hector said, following behind.

  As soon as the last guard was outside and the door was shut, the musician strummed his instrument and sang, “TONIGHT I’M FREE!”

  The room ignited again with laughter and the drinks began to flow.

  “That Bart,” Samara muttered, pulling Jude toward the hallway. “I could kiss him if he didn’t look so much like a toad.”

  They met Ryker and hurried down the darkened hall. They reached the end, turned right, and climbed a staircase until they arrived at a door with a large iron handle. Ryker slipped the key inside the keyhole and opened it carefully. The room was dark. Inside was a bed, a table, and two chairs.

  “Samara—light,” Ryker ordered.

  Soundlessly, she whisked across the room toward a shuttered window. There was a hiss in the darkness; she struck a match and lit a candle.

  Ryker pulled back his hood, and for the first time, in the wavering glow of candlelight, Jude could see the man’s features. He had a salted beard and hair, and his weathered skin seemed to hang heavy on his bones. But his eyes were young, like two flecks of bright-blue ice. “Have a seat, lad,” he said, pulling a chair up to the table. “Samara, stand guard at the door.”

  Samara set the candle down on the table and draped her cloak over the back of a chair. She had the lovely tanned skin of the Southern Isles, Jude noticed, the same color skin as Hector Alvarez. “You’re the boss, old man,” she said.

  Hesitantly, Jude took a seat. The chair was wobbly and uncomfortable.

  “You’re in a dangerous predicament, Jude Elm,” said Ryker. “Very dangerous indeed. Why did you deviate from the plan?”

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” Jude replied.

  “You were supposed to meet us outside the city. Word is you delivered the message to Oldguard yourself instead of Sweeny. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Jude replied.

  Ryker struck his fist on the table. “Why would you do such an idiotic thing?”

  “You mistake me for one who has been informed,” said Jude, stiffening. “My mission was to get Ambassador Sweeny to Saragosa and deliver the message.”

  “No—your mission was to get Ambassador Sweeny to Saragosa, not play the hero and deliver the letter yourself. Nowhere in the mission brief was it written that you were to deliver the letter. End of story.”

  “Ambassador Sweeny was killed. What was I to do?”

  Ryker’s eyes widened with alarm. “What—killed?”

  “Yes. On the way here we were ambushed by goblins; they killed him and split our party. That’s why Marcus and I delivered the letter ourselves.”

  Ryker cursed and placed a hand upon his brow. “Well, that does change things.”

  “So,” said Samara, “it wasn’t vanity that drove you to deliver the letter. You’re not as big a fool as we thought.”

  “And why should it matter if I delivered the letter?” Jude snapped.

  “Because,” Ryker said, “it was an assassination attempt. Meant to be completed by Sweeny, not you.”

  “Well,” said Jude, crossing his arms, “that is apparent now. But how was I to know?”

  “You mean,” said Ryker, leaning in, “no one told you?”

  “Ryker,” hissed Samara. “Someone’s coming.”

  Ryker bolted up from his chair. “Get against the wall and out of sight,” he commanded Jude.

  Samara pulled out her rapier and placed a hand on the doorknob. The sound of steady thumps was rising up the stairs. With each thump, Jude’s heart began to beat faster.

  “Be ready to run,” Ryker said to Jude. “Out the window, if you must. It’s a long fall, so aim for something soft if you can.”

  There was a knock at the door. Ryker placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. “Who is it?” he asked, gruffly.

  “It’s Woodhall,” replied a muffled voice. “I’ve brought some drinks.”

  Ryker let out a sigh of relief and Samara opened the door, though she still kept her rapier drawn. There, standing in the doorway with a tray of beer, stood the shirtless bartender.

  “Thought you’d like to whet your whistles,” he said stepping in and setting the drinks down on the table. “I’ll let you know if the guards come back—you don’t need to worry. How’s the boy then, eh?” He searched for Jude; when he spotted him, he grinned from ear to ear. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Elm. I watched you in the Arena last spring. Mighty fine job you did there, too.” He turned to Ryker. “Won the whole thing, he did.”

  “We know,” Ryker said.

  “Myself,” Woodhall continued, “I’m for the Empire. Been good to me, mostly—even though I’m Irachnian. So long as I keep that detail to myself, they let me come and go as I please. Besides, I don’t trust this Oldguard fellow. He’s power hungry as anyone, if you ask me.”

  “Woodhall,” clipped Samara. “Did you come in here to deliver drinks or did you come to meet a celebrity?”

  The fellow blushed. “Begging your pardons,” he said, bowing. “But I thought you’d want to know a tidbit that caught my ear. Word is, they’re going to hang Master Elm’s friend day after tomorrow.”

  Jude’s gut wrenched at the news.

  Woodhall headed for the door, but before leaving, he turned and said, “These two—” he gestured to Samara and Ryker “—they’re as good undercover agents as you’ll ever find. So listen to what they say and we’ll get you home.”

  “Goodbye, Woodhall,” said Ryker.

  The bald man gave one last bow, ducked out the door. Samara locked it behind him.

  “You’re not emissaries,” hissed Jude, turning on Ryker. “You’re spies.”


  Ryker scowled. He slumped down into the chair took one of the mugs off the table. He eyed the amber liquid inside, and then drank a long swig.

  “And so what?” Samara inserted. “We’re spies—the best in all of Orsidia, at that. If it wasn’t for us, you’d either be hiding in a barrel or captured by now.”

  Jude sat down. “Yes, but you’re still spies—paid liars.”

  Ryker wiped his mouth with his hand. “Call us what you will. But we’ve been told to get you out of here in one piece.”

  “So,” said Jude, pushing the mug aside, “you knew there would be an attempt on Oldguard’s life?”

  “Of course we knew,” said Ryker. “We assumed you knew as well; which is why we found it so odd that you delivered the letter. That was supposed to fall on Sweeny.”

  “But why him?” Jude asked.

  Ryker shrugged. “We were never told the why; only the how. My guess is they wanted him to take the fall.”

  Jude shook his head, frustrated. He wanted answers, but it appeared he would have to wait. “Foul play,” he said. “Poison is the weapon of cowards.”

  Ryker trilled his scarred fingers on the table. “Knocking Oldguard off would secure this region. Foul or not, the Empire was wise to attempt it.”

  “But why not inform me of the plan, then?” Jude asked.

  “Perhaps whoever was involved in the planning knew you wouldn’t go along with it.”

  “An unwitting accomplice is usually the best means by which to execute a plan,” said Samara. “Think about it: you had no idea there was a puppeteer in the shadows, pulling your strings. Your emotions couldn’t get in the way; you couldn’t say no. And likely Sweeny had no idea, either.”

  Ryker let out a deep breath and shook his head. “She’s a smart one. And she’s also typically right.”

  “I’m always right,” countered Samara.

  “But why send Sweeny, then?” Jude asked. “As horrible as he was, he didn’t seem worth murdering.”

  Samara stared up at the ceiling. “You have to ask yourself…Who would gain the most from his death?”

  “Speculation will get us nowhere,” Ryker said. “There’s only one thing that matters now: getting Jude out of this city. We’ve put together some supplies for our journey. I’ll need to procure some horses, and we’ll be on our way within the hour if all goes according to plan.”