Assassin's Honor (Assassins of Landria Book 1)

by Gail Z. Martin

  The farther into the maze they traveled, the darker it got, despite the full moon overhead. Ridge started to move forward when Rett caught his arm and pulled him back.

  “Look,” Rett warned, and Ridge saw the candlelight glint on a thin line of spun silk that spanned the corridor like a spider web.

  “That’s not—”

  Rett broke off a length of the nearby boxwood and swiped it downward, catching it in the thread and drawing it toward the ground.

  Two blades popped out, one from each side, roughly on level with a man’s head. Ridge’s eyes widened.

  “Shit. All right. Point made.”

  Ridge ripped a piece free from the bush next to him, giving them both something to poke with. Around the next turn, he found another trap, similarly constructed, only at ankle-height with blades that could have easily hamstrung a pursuer.

  “Can you tell where he is?” Ridge asked quietly.

  Rett paused, concentrating. “I don’t think he’s reached the center yet. Maybe he forgot where he put all his traps. I wouldn’t think even he could just clear this at a dead run.”

  Caltrops littered the next stretch, sized to slow down men, not horses. The many-pronged steel stars covered the ground, requiring Ridge and Rett to sweep them away from step to step to avoid having the sharp points rip through the soles of their boots. Some were secured into the dirt, requiring the two assassins to step carefully. The dim light made it difficult, and more than once Ridge and Rett barely avoided a nasty injury that would have left one of them lamed.

  Rett’s Sight could keep them from taking wrong turns and going down blind alleys. He could not, however, anticipate obstacles and traps. So while they did not lose time on dead ends, their progress in the right direction seemed to come painfully slow.

  “I’m going to kill that bastard twice for making us chase him in here,” Ridge muttered as another turn revealed the next gambit. A net of knotted rope had been strung tightly suspended just inches off the ground, too wide to jump, and woven too openly to cross atop. That left them to choose between trying to dislodge the iron spikes that held it in place, sawing through the sturdy rope, or picking their way carefully through and trying not to fall on their faces.

  “How in the name of the gods did he get across here?” Rett grumbled.

  “Slowly, unless he knows a secret entrance,” Ridge replied, opting to tiptoe through the net and hope for the best. “He knows what to expect, and if there’s a trick to beating it, he’s already got it mastered.”

  Rett caught his foot and nearly went sprawling, but he managed to make it across. At the sight of a cheval de frise blocking the entrance to the next turn, he let out a string of profanities.

  Upright crossed boards studded with nails and cobbled together to serve as man-sized caltrops closed off the pathway. Rett frowned, noting where something had been dragged in the dirt.

  “Look,” he said, pointing. Ridge hung back as Rett investigated, realizing that Greorg would have had to move the barrier himself to pass by. Some effort pushed the blockade apart far enough for them to pass, a victory that still cost them time and awarded the advantage to their quarry.

  Rett’s Sight told him Greorg was close, just through the next hedgerow. He eyed the bushes, wondering whether he and Ridge could hack their way through fast enough to catch up to Greorg. The whiz of something flying overhead and the unexpected flicker of flame pulled him out of his thoughts.

  “Drop!” Ridge yelled a second before the bomb hit. The cheval de frise blocked their escape, and the explosion crowded them up against the sharp edges of the barricade, spewing shards of its pottery vessel and splashes of hot oil. Gunpowder’s acrid tang filled the air.

  Just as Rett raised his head, another bomb came sailing over the hedge. He and Ridge curled into tight balls, putting their backs to the explosions. Their cloaks and clothing provided some protection, but Rett winced as pain lanced through him when sharp bits tore through unprotected skin.

  Rett crawled back between the two halves of the barricade, dragging Ridge with him as a third bomb hit closer to where they had just been sheltered. While none of the explosives packed much of a punch from a few feet away, Rett had no desire to find out what a direct hit might do.

  “Now what?” Ridge grated.

  Rett reached out with his Sight, pushing hard to make a connection with Hans. He sent mental images of the attack and the impression of needing help. Ridge shook him by the shoulders, and he came back to himself with a gasp.

  “You all right?”

  Rett managed a wan smile. “Just sending a distress call.”

  Ridge gave him a look. “Hans?”

  “Worth a try.”

  One more bomb lit up the maze; then everything went quiet. Ridge slowly rose. “I’m done with this shit,” he muttered, “let’s change the rules.” He raised his knife and hacked into the dense, woody hedgerow. Rett joined him, and several minutes later, they emerged in the next corridor, bloodied with scratches and covered in bits of boxwood.

  “Why do I stink like cat piss?” Ridge said, sniffing at his clothing.

  “That’s the boxwood. It’s even worse when it rains,” Rett said. To no one’s surprise, Greorg had vanished.

  “Cutting our way through isn’t going to get us anywhere fast,” Ridge admitted, looking ruefully at where they had chopped through the maze. “And we’re easy pickings when we’re stuck in the middle.”

  “It was worth a try.”

  “We’ve got to be close to the center,” Ridge said as they ran through the next two turns unopposed.

  “Might be a hidden way down into the caves there, like where we brought Sandicott out,” Rett mused. “If so, Greorg’s going to want to make sure we don’t follow him down. Easier to fight us here than down in the caves.”

  No sooner had he spoken, than a loud boom sounded close by, and something tore through the hedgerow, barely missing Ridge’s arm.

  “Hand cannon!” Ridge hissed, grabbing Rett and pulling him down and forward. They crawled, keeping to the far side of the corridor, trying to put distance between themselves and where Greorg reckoned them to be.

  Another shot came minutes later, and Rett thanked the stars the unwieldy weapons took time to reload. This time, the lead ball burst through the shrubbery lower, at knee height. It would have crippled a standing man and might have killed one of them had the bullet hit them in the torso as they crawled.

  “He sure didn’t have that hand cannon when he ran from the house,” Ridge muttered.

  “He must have left supplies for himself along the route,” Rett returned.

  They stood and started to run when a third shot fired. This one came at an angle, shooting down the corridor toward where Greorg guessed they might be. Ridge missed it by a couple of strides, but the bullet tore into Rett’s leg, and he went down hard.

  Rett clamped his hands over the wound and felt blood leaking between his fingers. He hissed in pain. Ridge knelt beside him, prying his hands away to see the wound, mouth set in a hard line. “Maybe I’ll kill him three times,” Ridge murmured, ripping away the tattered remains of Rett’s pant leg and tying it as a makeshift bandage.

  “Wait here,” Ridge said, starting to rise.

  Rett grabbed his arm and yanked him back down. “You’re not going without me.” He gritted his teeth and gripped Ridge’s shoulder hard, forcing himself to his feet by sheer willpower. “Come on. I get to kill him at least once.”

  The still air turned suddenly cold enough for Rett to see his breath. The wind picked up, a biting chill out of nowhere. Rett smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Bring him to us. Keep him out of the center.”

  A gust tore past them into the maze, unhampered by the dense boxwood or Greorg’s traps. Ridge got a shoulder under Rett’s arm, and together they made their way forward, keeping their knives in hand, ready to settle the score.

  Down the next corridor, they found the hand cannon, abandoned and out of ammunition. “
Come on,” Ridge urged. “I think he’s running out of tricks.”

  Rett set his jaw and forced himself to keep up. Blood leaked from the bandage on his thigh, and he felt light-headed. Still, he’d been lucky the shot hadn’t hit bone. If it had shattered his knee, he’d have probably lost the leg. As it was, he bet it went all the way through the meat of his thigh, and the pain was intense but far less than facing the surgeon’s saw.

  The wind howled through the maze, kicking up dust and debris, yet the direction of the gusts rushed toward the center, toward Greorg. “Look!” Rett said, pointing. Between the moonlight and the torches that ringed the maze, the sky was not completely dark. A maelstrom twisted up from a spot a few turns of the maze away, and Rett grinned despite his pain.

  “Lorella’s rounded up some ghosts for us,” he murmured. “Let’s go. They’ll herd him to us.” The chance for a win and the opportunity to vindicate themselves gave him the strength to ignore his pain and hobble on.

  A man’s scream sounded from the depths of the maze. The wind’s howl had changed to something far more chilling. Rett heard disembodied voices, calling Sandicott’s name, keening and screeching, and they drove Greorg like the baying of hounds.

  Together, Ridge and Rett prepared to make their stand as the ghosts pursued Greorg, forcing him toward them. They took up positions blocking the corridor, knives ready. Rett’s nose twitched, trying to make out an odd smell. In the other portions of the maze, the scent of boxwood was strong, but now, the new smell overpowered it. Then he looked down at their feet and the stretch of gravel between them and the next corner. The ground looked wet, darker than it should have been, and Rett realized what he smelled, with a sick knot in his stomach.

  “Ridge—”

  “He’s coming!” Ridge cut him off before Rett could sound the warning.

  Running footsteps pounded closer. Somewhere in the maze, Greorg had lit a lantern, and the light swung crazily as he ran. As soon as Greorg cleared the corner, Ridge let two throwing knives fly in quick succession. One pegged Greorg in the left shoulder, while the other struck him in the thigh.

  “Greorg Sandicott—you are charged with high treason against King Kristoph. An open warrant on traitors calls for your immediate execution. Agree to cooperate and tell us all you know about the Witch Lord, and you may receive mercy,” Ridge read out the warrant, a third knife already in hand. If Sandicott refused, the blade would find his heart. At this distance, Ridge wouldn’t miss.

  “Go to the Pit,” Greorg snarled. He raised the lantern over his head and smashed it a few feet ahead of where he stood.

  “Get back!” Rett yelled. “The path is soaked in oil!”

  Even as he spoke, the flames from the broken lantern licked at the oil, turning into a sheet of fire that spread rapidly. “If the bushes burn—” Rett warned.

  “I’ll be back,” Ridge said, and ran forward at full speed, leaping into the air and nearly clearing the flames. He came down on the other side on top of Greorg, and through the smoke and fire, Rett could make out the two men battling.

  Ridge had training, but Greorg’s courage came from desperation. Maybe he feared the executioner, or perhaps he dreaded the Witch Lord more. Greorg tore loose of Ridge’s grip and flung himself into the fire, where the flames roared the highest.

  “Ridge—get out of there!” Rett shouted, watching in horror as Greorg’s clothing caught fire and he spread his arms wide, welcoming the consuming flames. Fire crackled at the base of the hedge, and the woody branches began to smoke. In his current condition, Rett knew he’d never make it through the maze and back to the entrance before the whole thing became a bonfire.

  Ridge hurled himself at the untouched bushes a few feet back from the flames, tearing his way through with his knife and his hands. “I’m coming!”

  The fire licked at the boxwood, catching quickly in the thin, dry shrubs. Rett hobbled away from the flames, and his leg nearly gave out on him. If he didn’t collapse from the injury, the blood loss would get him long before he staggered out of the maze.

  Ridge ripped his way through the thick wall of bushes, worse for the wear. One eye had begun to purple from Greorg’s punch, and his face and hands were bloody with deep scratches from the unforgiving boxwood.

  “Go on,” Rett said, coughing at the rising smoke. “I won’t make it. Get out. Clear our names with the king.”

  “Screw that,” Ridge said, slipping under Rett’s shoulder again and sliding one arm around his waist. “I’m not leaving you behind.”

  “I’m just going to hold you back, and the fire’s spreading fast.”

  “Call your ghost friends,” Ridge ordered. “They helped get us into this mess. They can find a way to get us out of it.”

  Rett closed his eyes once more, calling on his waning power. He knew he was nearly spent, both of energy and magic. If this didn’t work—

  He felt the flutter of spirits and in the distance, the touch of another power, maybe Hans, possibly Lorella. Perhaps even the prisoner, Sunny. He didn’t care, so long as help came.

  Please. Help us. We’ll burn.

  The cold wind struck up once more, rushing past them into the thick, twisting walls of boxwood. The ghosts ripped a wide opening in the next wall of shrubbery, and the noise of breaking wood and roots being pulled from the ground sounded like an earthquake. By the time the ghosts reached the next concentric corridor, they chose a new tactic and flattened a path through one hedgerow and then the next, mowing down the sturdy old bushes as if they were saplings, plowing through until the wide lawn opened up beyond.

  Rett felt the heat of the flames on his back, and he and Ridge wasted no time, moving as fast as they dared over the fallen boxwood, picking through the tangle of branches that pulled at their clothing and snared their feet.

  “Hang on,” Ridge said, and before Rett could protest, he was slung over his partner’s shoulder, hanging head down. “Shut up. It’s this or bake.”

  Ridge managed to increase his pace, even carrying Rett. From where he hung, Rett watched the flames overtaking the rest of the maze as the fire spread quickly through the tall labyrinth walls.

  “Shit! Ridge, he’s still coming after us!” Rett warned, watching in horror as a burning man stumbled after them, shrieking and flailing.

  “Gonna have to catch us first,” Ridge grated, his voice hoarse with smoke.

  Each step jolted Rett’s bleeding leg, and he gritted his teeth, trying not to pass out from the pain. He looked up to see Greorg almost within arm’s length. Ridge stepped wrong and went down on one knee, nearly toppling Rett from his grip.

  Greorg loomed behind them, his hair and clothes aflame, skin charred and beginning to slough from his body. He stretched out an arm, blackened fingers clawing to get a grip on Rett’s jacket and pull them back into the inferno.

  Rett slashed at the burning figure with his knife, feeling the skin blister on his hand and his face redden with the heat. The blade cut through Greorg’s wrist, and with a final cry of pain and fury, Greorg fell back into the maze that had become his pyre.

  Ridge pushed to his feet, staggering forward until at last, they reached the grassy expanse that led up to the back of the manor. With a final grunt, he tipped Rett from his shoulder. Rett’s knees nearly buckled, but he managed to stand. Flames rose from the maze high into the sky, as the outer rings caught fire and the flattened swath sent sparks into the dry lawn.

  “Breckenridge! Kennard!” Four figures clad in black rose from cover, surrounding them. With a weary glance at Rett, Ridge lifted his hands in surrender. Rett did the same, letting his weapon fall.

  “I should beat your asses and leave you for the crows.” Burke stepped up; jaw set, eyes blazing, and arms crossed as if he awaited a confession.

  “Does it count that we saved the king’s life?” Ridge asked, managing a hopeful expression.

  Burke scowled. “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Rett’s breath caught in his throat. “Yes?” he asked, his sm
oke-clogged throat making the word almost a squeak.

  Burke’s eyebrow rose at the sound. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said. “We’re here for a rescue, not an arrest. What in the name of the Dark Ones were you thinking, running off like that?”

  “I was thinking that Greorg would get away,” Ridge replied, his usual confidence returning.

  “What about Sandicott?” Rett gasped, remembering. “Someone shot him—or were they aiming for the king?”

  Burke grinned. “Either way, there’s a cell in the dungeon waiting. Caralin caught the marksman before he got far. Damn, she can run. Don’t imagine he ever saw her coming, either. All the other guests are sequestered in the mansion, so none of them could run off and warn anyone else if they were in on the plot.”

  “Lady Elsibet—” Ridge began, realizing that the noblewoman they had tied up and left on the lawn was nowhere to be seen.

  “She’s inside. Where you need to be. King’s orders.”

  Ridge and Rett exchanged a glance, and Rett felt his stomach tighten. Despite Burke’s assurance that the Shadows had come to protect them, being brought before the king was no small occurrence under the best of circumstances. Bloodied and scorched, reeking of smoke and covered with twigs and leaves, and with Rett barely standing, they could hardly present a worse impression.

  “Well then, by all means, lead the way,” Ridge replied, but Rett could hear the nervousness beneath Ridge’s cocky facade.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ridge had seen King Kristoph at a distance many times. Sometimes that had been when his duty as a Shadow meant protecting the king amidst the crowd at a celebration or royal proclamation. Once or twice, he and Rett had helped keep order in a crowd of hundreds, instead of thousands, at a ball or reception in the palace.

  Facing the king in a parlor and being the focus of his attention was something else entirely.