by Robert Evert
Lord Haakon was discussing the Amulet of the Rising Sun and how it disappeared two centuries earlier.
Natalie showed her flowers to a couple standing on a park bench straining to hear. They waved her away, irritated. She continued along the periphery of the crowd, trying desperately to behave normally.
“Flowers, ma’am?” she asked a woman with three young children clinging to her.
Before the woman could answer, somebody knocked into Natalie from behind. Stumbling forward, she nearly jerked her sword out of the basket as four boys shoved past, worming their way to the center of the square. Heart hammering, Natalie hastily covered the sword with flowers again.
Keep calm…You’re a poor girl selling flowers…Nobody is looking at you…
Her whole body shaking, she meandered through the crowd.
For a split second, she thought she saw Brago, standing among a group of wealthy merchants debating some remark Lord Haakon had made. But as she crept closer, the man turned, revealing a profile much older than Brago’s. Natalie took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She stretched her cramping fingers, then gripped the short sword’s hilt again. She continued searching.
“And I must remind all of you good people,” Lord Haakon called above the growing din, “these quests are not for our adventurers. It is the position of our Royal Highness not to get involved in any way, but rather to enjoy the games as they unfold.”
A sarcastic chortling bubbled through the town square. Evidently, few people thought any of the kings would stay out of the quests. The possibility for political intrigue was too enticing.
The crowd was getting impatient. People were talking amongst themselves, no longer caring what the lord was saying. Groups were leaving, heading this way and that. Most were undoubtedly heading to their favorite tavern to discuss the news. Quests to determine a king hadn’t happened in more than a thousand years.
Should Natalie stay? She could stand by one of the main intersections and watch people as they went by. The problem was there were six main streets leading from the town square. Brago could easily take one of the ones she wasn’t watching.
No. She had another idea. Sooner or later, Brago would return to The Prairie Wind. He’d see that Magnus had left his spot on the porch and then he’d—
The crowd parted slightly, and there, hobbling toward her, was Brago.
He was dressed as a rich noble, wearing a cloak trimmed with beaver fur, a satin waistcoat, and a broad-brimmed hat. His eyes were ablaze with plotting and planning as he lurched along, leaning heavily on a polished walking stick. Natalie averted her gaze as he passed inches out of arm’s reach, muttering to himself.
Natalie fell in behind him, following the currents of people now streaming out of the town square. She was twenty feet back with three men between her and the killer of her family and Artis—and Sir Edris.
Breathe…
Breathe and act normal.
With her fingers tightening around her hidden short sword, Natalie quickened her pace, determined not to let Brago get away. She elbowed her way between two men joking about what they’d do if they acquired all the relics.
“Hey!” one of them said to her, annoyed.
Natalie kept walking. Now she was fifteen feet behind the limping Brago, one person in her way.
Breathe…
Keep calm…
You’ll only get one chance…
The tall boy walking between Natalie and Brago turned to his right, leaving Natalie directly behind her prey. Brago’s shuffling stride slowed.
Did he sense her behind him?
Don’t panic. Keep close, but not too close. Follow him to some place more—
Brago wheeled around.
He stared directly at Natalie, his face alight with sudden recognition and fear. He fumbled with a knife on his belt.
In one fluid motion, Natalie tossed aside her basket and drew forth her short sword. Flowers flying everywhere, she lunged at the retreating Brago and, with all of her strength, stabbed forward. Her sword caught him square in the midsection. Natalie watched as Brago clutched his stomach, the air driven from his lungs. He stumbled and fell to the dirt. Natalie dove on top of him.
The blow had ripped open Brago’s waistcoat, revealing a shirt of closely woven steel rings.
Chainmail!
Snatching Brago’s long black hair with her left hand, Natalie brought the short sword back a second time, this time aiming for his exposed throat.
“This is for—!”
Arms flew around her. One grappled with Natalie’s wrist. Another tore the sword out of her hand. A third attempted to wrap around her neck.
She screamed. “No!”
Knocking aside the men grappling her, Natalie drew a knife from her boot. Brago pushed himself along the dirt, trying in vain to get away.
Snarling, Natalie stabbed downward, missing Brago’s neck and hitting him above the heart. The knife blade snapped against the hidden chainmail. Brago shrieked.
One of the surrounding men fell on Natalie. Another did the same. Within seconds, she was being crushed under the combined weight of half a dozen people. She tasted dirt and blood. She couldn’t breathe. Faintly, as though from a great distance, she could hear Brago shouting, “Assassin! Assassin!” as somebody pinned her arms.
• • •
Breathing hard, Natalie landed on a lumpy, moth-eaten mattress as the cell’s iron door swung shut with a life-ending clang. Her clothes were torn. She was covered in dirt. And thick rivers of blood streamed from her nose. But she didn’t care. She had failed. She might’ve broken one of Brago’s ribs, but he’d live. The bastard would live.
Natalie struggled against the coarse ropes binding her arms behind her, though she didn’t know why she bothered. Even if she got her hands free, she couldn’t pick locks with her fingernails, and the guard watching her from the other side of the black bars wasn’t about to let her out. There was no escape.
She’d failed.
The door to the guard’s room creaked opened. Natalie lifted her head to find Brago limping in.
The guard got to his feet. “Lord Fairhill! You should be seeking medical attention.”
“Not to worry,” he said, rubbing his chest. “I am completely fit, I can assure you. This”—he jabbed the tip of his walking stick at Natalie—“devil-woman did no lasting harm.”
“Glad tidings.”
“Yes, indeed.” Brago shuffled to a stool in the corner. He brought it closer to Natalie’s cell. “Now, would you be a good man and allow us some privacy?”
“Sir?”
Brago sat and examined the sizable hole Natalie’s sword had torn in his waistcoat. He tutted. “I wish to determine whether she had any accomplices.”
“But sir, the constable will be here in a few minutes to interrogate her.”
“No need to bother the constable,” Brago said, straightening his clothes. “I am more than capable of asking the poor confused woman a few questions. Not to worry, I will remain safely out of her fiendish reach.”
The guard hesitated, but then Brago handed him a gold coin. “For your troubles.”
“If you insist. I suppose it’ll be okay. Please shout if you need anything.”
“If the situation arises, I shall.”
Examining the gold coin, the guard left the room. When he’d gone, Brago smiled at Natalie.
“So,” he said. “How’s your father? Feeling well, is he?”
Natalie glowered at him.
“Still alive?” Brago pulled Sir Edris’s pouch from a pocket. He examined its contents. “Not much left, it would seem. I’m guessing he’ll be dead soon enough.”
Natalie continued to glare.
“Do you know what they do to peasant girls who try to assassinate nobility?” he asked.
Natalie didn’t answer.
Brago crossed his legs, taking great care not to re-injure the thigh Natalie had wounded in her den. “First,” he said, delighted, “they
’re going to flog you. Fifty lashes at least, I should think.”
He paused to mull this over. “However, I am uncertain if that means they will strike you fifty separate times or whether they count each blow as being ten, given there are ten thongs to the whip—if you follow my confusion.” He tapped his chin contemplatively. “I shall find out for you.”
Natalie subtly twisted her wrists, hoping to find some give in the rope. She had small hands. Perhaps she could somehow slip—
“Following the flogging, they’ll leave you tied outside in the sun for three days without food or water,” Brago continued, out of arm’s reach. “If your father and his hapless squire haven’t told you, going three days without water is a painful—painful—process. Your tongue swells. Your throat closes. Personally, I’d rather die right there.” He pursed his lips. “That won’t happen, I’m afraid.”
At the mention of Reg, Natalie felt the anger rising inside of her. The regret at not being able to marry him burned her heart. But she couldn’t allow herself to show her anguish. She willed herself to stare defiantly at Brago, her face a mask of contempt and hatred.
“And then,” Brago went on, as if describing a party, “they’ll either disembowel or flay you. I haven’t decided which to request.” He mused on this as well. “Do you have a preference?”
She didn’t move.
“If you don’t know,” he said, his tone showing a hint of aggravation, “flaying means they’ll slowly, ever so slowly, cut the flesh from your body, peeling it away from the muscles underneath—while you’re still alive, you understand. It isn’t a pleasant experience, and it could last for hours, if done correctly.”
Still no reaction.
“Being disemboweled,” he said, louder, “is when they cut open your abdomen and allow you to hold everything that falls out. Your stomach. Your intestines. Everything.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Not afraid?” He leaned forward. Had she had her hands free, she could’ve reached through the bars and throttled his thin neck. “Your anger will only carry you so far, Nat. Believe me, when the first lash slices open your skin, you’ll be screaming for mercy. And I’ll be there, enjoying every minute.”
Natalie wondered whether she could commit suicide. The mattress had no sheets, but if she could undo the ropes around her wrists, she might be able to create a makeshift noose.
Brago leaned back, his fingers playing with the drawstring on Sir Edris’s leather pouch.
“You know, after you are dead, I do believe I shall make a trip up to Upper Angle and visit your friends. Not to worry though, I won’t kill them like I killed your family, or boyfriend.” His evil grin returned. “Oh, that’s right. We haven’t spoken about his regrettable end, have we? Pity.”
Brago pretended to snivel and cry.
“Please!” he begged. “Please don’t hurt me! I didn’t do anything! It was that bitch, Natalie! She stole your books. It’s her fault. Leave me alone. Please!”
She knew Art wouldn’t have said those things. It wasn’t his way. Even so, Natalie had to fight to keep her breaths steady.
“No remorse? Don’t care about his last moments? I should’ve guessed, given the way you treated him.” He sighed, delighted. “I rather enjoyed crushing his skull.”
Art was dead. He’d been dead for two years. Her screaming wasn’t going to change that.
Natalie stared at Brago.
Brago returned the scowl.
“Just like your miserable father,” he smirked. “Let me tell you something about the great Sir Edris. He’s a fraud. That’s right. All of that talk about rules and honor and codes of chivalry mean nothing to him. He is an arrogant, cheating, liar.” Brago got to his feet and limped about the room, his wrath growing. “Seven of those quests he won, he won because he stole the items from me. Seven! The Sacred Scarab. The Red Ruby of Rothchild. I found those first! Add everything he stole to my tally, and I’d be the greatest adventurer of them all. Greater than even Drake!”
Brago went on, as though talking to himself.
“Edris would have a vague idea where something was and would wait, wait for me to come along and find our quarry. He’d then take it at sword-point. The giant ass would claim he found it. He’d make up some tall tale about how he single-handedly thwarted peril. Believe me, the only peril that blowhard ever faced was a keg running dry. The egotistical son of a bitch. Never gave any credit where credit was due. Nothing but mocking praise whenever I won.”
Brago regarded her. “Tell me, has he ever mentioned his brother to you? No? Before they end your life, ask the good clerics from the cathedral what happened to him. You won’t believe me, but perhaps you’ll believe them.”
Natalie kept staring.
“And then there was Beatrice.” He bowed his head. “He treated her like all the other women he bedded, the swine. She deserved better than him.”
For a moment, Brago stood there, lost in bitter memories. Then he sneered at Natalie.
“Your father—!”
The guard hurried in.
“What is it?” Brago demanded. “I gave you explicit instructions to leave me alone with the girl.”
The guard whispered something in Brago’s ear.
Brago went rigid.
“Very well,” he said, patting his belt for something that wasn’t there. “If he comes here, please redirect him to The Prairie Wind, if you’d be so kind.” He fumbled with his torn and dirty clothes. “I wish to make myself more presentable, you understand.” He jabbed his walking stick at Natalie. “However, I want the girl dead—now! I don’t want to wait until morning. Do you understand? Do it this instant.”
“Sir?”
“She attempted to assassinate a noble!” Brago bellowed. “I am Lord Fairhill. If Lord Haakon doesn’t believe my life is worth the life of a treasonous peasant girl, then perhaps my king should have a little chat with your king. That’ll hardly go well for you, now will it?”
“No, sir!” the guard said. “I’ll get the hangman straight away.”
“Splendid.”
Brago regained his composure. He bowed to Natalie and tipped his hat. “Please, enjoy your evening.” He winked at her and then hobbled out of the room, whistling.
THE END
About the Author
By day, ROBERT EVERT is an ordinary university professor bent on stamping out ignorance and apathy wherever they may rear their ugly heads. By night, and during various faculty meetings, he is an aspiring fantasy writer. Living in northeast Ohio with his wife, two sons, dog, four cats, and a host of imaginary friends, Robert enjoys teaching, yoga, hiking, and writing.
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