by Alex Lang
Everyone was watching and waiting.
He gave the weapons another glance. No, he decided. He was most comfortable with the shortswords. Fumbling with a weapon he hadn’t touched in years wouldn’t inspire confidence in his skills.
“I am good with these.”
The moment the last word was out of his mouth, she attacked. In a flash of motion, one end of her quarterstaff shot towards his head. He blocked out of pure reflex, only to have another thrust follow the first, then another and another. He retreated, parrying some, dodging others. A low jab was narrowly avoided by pulling his leg back. She changed tack, swinging the staff in wide arcs.
He saw his chance to get in close after blocking a powerful swipe, but his opponent simply sent the other end of her staff jabbing at him, driving him back. The constant clacking sound of their wooden weapons meeting reverberated through the underground chamber. His hands ached from the impact of parrying her attacks.
She was incredibly fast, the staff a blur in her hands. She was also stronger than appearance would suggest.
Kyris barked out a laugh at his own foolishness, and a saying of Baaz’s, one concerning arena matches that were to the death, popped in his mind. ‘You only meet your betters once.’ He’d been overconfident. She had him, it was only a matter of time. Thank Shar this is only a sparring match, he thought.
The inevitable moment arrived when a parry put his sword out of position, leaving an opening that the woman seized upon instantly. The blunted tip of the quarterstaff jabbed into his chest. The impact and pain sent him reeling. Had it been the steel tip of a spear, he’d be dead. Kyris tried to recover his balance, to retreat, to regain the flow of motion, but the woman kept the pressure on. He’d lost his rhythm, and now every third or fourth attack landed. Under the onslaught, Kyris had backed himself near the roped boundary of the arena, not far from the weapon racks. He was sorely tempted to go for the real blades.
Another blow hit him in the gut, and a surge of bile made him regret his choice of dinner. His body folded, but he managed to remain standing. Was this woman trying to kill him?
On an instinctual level, a part of him wanted to escape the beating by shifting. It would be so easy. The image of the doorway was so clear in his mind. All he had to do was go through it. It was strange to think of the portal as inviting, but it was all a matter of perspective, he supposed. But Kyris wouldn’t allow himself. The pain didn’t warrant the cost of life such an action would require. He would have to kill them all to keep his secret. He was not prepared to do so.
Unwillingness aside, he wasn’t sure he was even capable of doing it. The woman was a living tempest. Not to mention the four earlier opponents, and Caldir, whom he knew nothing about. Kyris spared the man a glance and saw him watching with an intense expression.
The quarterstaff struck him on the side of the knee. The agony caused him to cry out, and he collapsed forward, where another blow struck him in the head. He felt the sand against his cheek, then all went black.
Caldir rushed over along with the rest of the group. “Is he…”
“Breathing,” Ellse offered, crouched over the prone body.
“Hmmm. You may have overdone it, my dear.”
“So much for the final bout, eh?” Adar said. “Should I tell Sandamar he’s no longer needed?”
“On the contrary. I think his services will be quite necessary,” Caldir said.
Adar looked at Kyris and nodded.
“Adar, please go fetch Sandamar,” Caldir prompted.
“Oh, right.” Adar ran out of the chamber but not before placing the wooden hatchets back on the rack.
Ellse pulled down her cloth mask to reveal a frown.
“What is it?” Caldir asked.
“He took his eyes off me,” Ellse said with anger in her voice. “He looked at you. What kind of addled-brain dung eater would take their eyes off an opponent? An opponent that was thrashing him.”
Caldir studied Ellse, wondering at the source of the anger. Perhaps she felt it a slight, a sign of disrespect, though Kyris would certainly have a revised opinion when he woke. If he woke. “Is he not as I had hoped?”
Ellse didn't respond right away, appearing to think over her answer. Finally, she said, “In the beginning when I attacked, he was surprised, but there was no fear. He actually laughed. I was expecting some kind of counter, but his eyes kept darting around. At you, at the others, at the weapons. At one point I thought he might turn tail and run.”
“What are you saying?”
Ellse took her eyes away from Kyris and looked at Caldir for the first time since the fight ended. She sighed. “He’s a very skilled fighter, that cannot be denied. If he is a scion and held back his gift, then he’s determined to keep his secret. If he is not, well, it’s for you to decide if he’s worth the trouble.”
“Hmmm,” was all Caldir said as he studied the unconscious form on the ground.
Chapter Eight
Jantyre watched as Matron Daratrine of House Curunir descended the stairs, taking each step with deliberate care. She wore a high-necked sheath gown made of a rich green silk, its wide sleeves reaching down to her fingers, clustered on which were several gemstone rings. Layers of black feathers adorned the shoulders and train of the skirt, as befitting the mourning period. Poised and slim of figure, with hair dyed dark as coal, she possessed a cold, severe beauty with taut cheeks and the sharp features favored so much by the highborn. Jantyre knew her age to be eighty-one, but she appeared half that; the result of regular and expensive administrations by her fleshmender. It was a testament to the mender’s skill that she had not changed one bit in the thirteen years he’d known her.
Jantyre waited at the bottom of the stairs standing alongside Corvales, the youngest son of the matron, though still twenty years his senior. Corvales wore a long gray kaftan with a feathered mourning ornament affixed over the left breast. Such a declaration was hardly needed given his serious and strained countenance, as though the scowl that had appeared upon seeing his son Alderin’s body was now etched in permanence.
Jantyre had been less distraught by the sight. Quite the opposite, though he was careful to present a reasonably pensive visage. He, too, wore the mourning trinket, more obligation and appeasement than sentiment.
Alderin was a pompous ass, always eager for a chance to display his strength of blood. He used the wind like a club, swinging it with no finesse or precision. When they were young, it had been excruciating to lose sparring matches to him on purpose, but Jantyre had learned that to best Alderin in anything was to invite his animosity. For a new ward with no allies, trying to navigate the highborn world, it had been a valuable lesson for survival. But that was then, and Jantyre had learned much since.
No, he would not miss Alderin, though now there would be no last match between them, and that did disappoint him. He had looked forward to relishing the shocked realization on Alderin’s face when he revealed his true skill and power to the fool. Nevertheless, this development would have some interesting implications, as much of the House’s future had been laid upon those now cold shoulders.
He wondered if Aolwyn would make an appearance. He hadn’t seen her since receiving Daratrine’s summons, which was… concerning.
The matron stopped shy of the last few steps and examined them. She had experience with losing children. The quick accession of House Curunir within the Sartis merchant league had not been without cost. Still, to lose both a son and grandson in one night. Jantyre wondered, in an academic sense, what that must feel like.
Her eyes were cold, calculating, as though she were planning the retaliation already, just needing to know against whom to strike.
“Mother,” Corvales said, “your guests are awaiting you in the sunroom, but again, I—”
The matron silenced her son with a glare. “I have noted your opinion on the leashers.” She turned to Jantyre. “You made swift time to arrive so soon.”
“Of course, Daratrine. I am, as alw
ays, at your beck and call.” He bowed with a flourish, hiding his smirk.
Corvales tensed, presumably taking offense at Jantyre’s familiar address of his mother, but the matron finished her descent and placed a hand on her son’s arm, interrupting any forthcoming reprimand. Still addressing Jantyre, she said, “Listen well, and when I am done with the leashers, we will discuss why I summoned you.”
Jantyre inclined his head in acknowledgment.
The three strolled through opulent halls—Rhistell was not known for his restraint—to the sunroom, and an usher opened the doors for them. The room was wide with high ceilings. A glass wall looked out upon the southern gardens and the Spire in the distance. Double-backed couches and cushioned benches spanned the space. No proper manor went without a sunroom to appreciate Allithor’s Glory. Jantyre wouldn’t be surprised if Imperium law dictated so.
Two men turned from the view upon their entry, and as they neared, gave half-bows to the matron. She didn’t bother to hide her appraisal, her gaze traveling from their soiled leather jerkins to their patched woodsman trousers, their worn and dirty boots.
“I am Mannahar, head huntsman of this band,” the larger of the two men said in a hoarse voice. “This is Treven, one of my leashers.”
“This is my son, Corvales, and my ward, Jantyre,” the matron offered.
The huntsmen gave their half-bows. “You've our condolences,” Mannahar said. He was a big man, wide of shoulders and a head taller than the leasher. He had wild, coarse, grizzled hair. Thick, roping scars peeked out above his beard on one side of his face. The leasher, Treven, was of average height and appearance with straw-colored hair. Unremarkable except for the mark of the Bound inked on his face, along the right side of the forehead and drawing down near the eye. Both men wore a red band around their right upper arm, embroidered with the head of a snarling black hound.
Matron Daratrine sniffed. “I did not call you here for your sympathy. Given the urgency of the situation, let us dispense with the niceties and get to the matter at hand.”
“We're at your service,” Mannahar replied stiffly.
“Yes, about that,” the matron said. “Your band of hunters came highly recommended by one whose opinion I value. Though, I will admit, I was… and still am skeptical. The assassin is no doubt a scion. Are you prepared for that?”
“You won’t be chasing down an escaped slave,” Corvales chimed in. “A trained killer. Are you and your leashers up to such a task?”
Jantyre thought it humorous that Corvales would question the suitability of a band of huntsmen when the man himself was mundane. The leashers may wield no powers directly, but they had their hounds, which was more than Corvales could say. And Mannahar, though no scion, appeared hardened and no stranger to violence. What did Corvales have other than his standing as highborn?
Jantyre hid his amusement and sank onto a couch, kicking up a half-boot of the finest leather onto the cushion beside him and drawing a disdainful glower from Corvales.
Mannahar’s expression tightened, but it was Treven who replied. “Oh yes, we and our makors are more than capable, I assure you.”
Mannahar shot the leasher a hard glare, and the man shrank back, but as Mannahar turned to Corvales, a look of satisfaction played across Treven’s face. “We have tracked and captured outcasts before,” the big huntsman said.
Matron Daratrine seemed to consider this, then nodded to her son, who proceeded to a cloth-covered side table. All gathered around, and Corvales pulled back the cloth to reveal several objects. A coil of rope tied to a clawed hook, two knives fashioned for throwing, a drill of some sort, and a saber. The matron then related the unfortunate night’s events as best as they could piece together. She detailed where they had found each object.
The leashers looked over the items, Mannahar picking up the Loddsteel saber and inspecting the blade, specifically the edge near the tip, stained with a smear of brown. “This is the assassin’s blood?”
“That is my son’s sword,” Corvales said, voice full of pride. “He was a champion of Kalaa, an expert swordsman, and as evidenced by the weapon you hold, he most-assuredly gave the assassin a grievous wound. Perhaps if your leashers are as good as they say, you will find the villain soon enough and he will be bedridden, in no condition to offer any resistance.”
Mannahar looked at the blood stain on the blade again. Jantyre could see the doubt in his eyes, but the man wisely kept quiet.
Jantyre had noted Alderin’s injuries, the odd locations and the angle, seemingly stabbed from behind. The assassin had surprised him, the wounds suggested, and yet he was still able to score a hit and draw blood. Very peculiar.
“Are these enough for your hounds?” Matron Daratrine asked.
Mannahar returned the weapon to the table and nodded. “More than enough. We’ll be able to locate the assassin no matter where he may hide. We could track him to the ends of the Forlorn Plains, if necessary.”
“The hounds are that effective?” The matron arched an eyebrow. “Earlier, the head of the city watch made similar assertions of success.”
Mannahar managed a twinge of a smile. “I daresay we have some advantages that the watch does not.”
Matron Daratrine sniffed again. “Yes, let us see these hounds of yours.” At a nod to Corvales, he picked up a small bell from the side table and rang it.
A servant arrived, and the matron instructed him to relay the message they were ready. The group waited in awkward silence until a covered wagon came into view in front of the conservatory windows pulled by draft horses.
Jantyre perked up from his feigned disinterest.
A bald huntsman led the horses, while another, a rather rotund fellow, trailed behind the wagon. At a signal from Mannahar, the door at the wagon’s rear was unlatched and lowered by a wench, creating a ramp. The fat huntsman, no, a leasher by his mark, backed away.
Jantyre heard the slightest hint of a low growl through the glass, and the horses stamped nervously.
A black creature emerged followed by another, a twin, to Jantyre’s eyes. He saw that hound was a rather liberal use of the term. Yes, they had all the right parts and general shape, but their size, almost that of a pony or mule, was startling. Jantyre found himself standing, hands against the window, staring at these fascinating creatures. They were hairless, their skin black and wrinkled in certain places, and in others stretched taut over the bones of their frame.
They strolled out and sniffed the air. One turned its head in the direction of those gathered in the conservatory as if hearing a call, though none had made a sound. It fixed malice-filled yellow eyes on them and sneered, revealing a maw of jagged fangs.
Jantyre suppressed a joyous laugh at the display.
House guardsmen lined the garden outskirts, concern and fear plain on their faces.
Both makors approached the windows, and Corvales took a step back.
“Do not worry,” Mannahar said. “The makors are under the full control of the leashers.”
As if to demonstrate, the black hounds sat on their haunches, though they didn’t look docile. They wouldn’t even if they were asleep.
Jantyre glanced at Treven, wondering what kind of effort it took to command such creatures.
“I will stress,” the matron said, “that we need the assassin brought back alive. The assassin is not to be a meal for those things, do you understand?”
“Yes, this is well understood,” Mannahar said.
“Very well.” She turned from the hounds, as though she’d seen enough. She gestured to the objects on the table. “I will have these secured and brought out to you. I want to be kept apprised of all developments. If the assassin has fled abroad, I want to know where. If they hide within the warrens, I want to know which. No matter where your search leads you, I want to know. Is that also understood?”
Mannahar nodded.
“Good. If there is nothing else required, then you best be about your task.”
Jantyre noticed Ma
nnahar’s eye twitch at her haughty tone.
The huntsmen bowed and turned their attention to the hounds. The creatures rose and trotted back into the wagon. Then the men made their exit without another word.
The three of them watched as the wagon was led away.
“Are you sure about involving them, Mother?” Corvales asked. “Leashers.” He shook his head. “Bound by the Accord or not, they are still… tainted. And Mannahar. What disfavored house is he from that he would merit such an ignoble appointment? Perhaps we should let the watch—”
“The guardsmen of the watch are incompetent. Worse, I could buy any one of them for a handful of tals. And since this was likely the work of a rival house, perhaps one with more influence, we cannot trust any effort but our own. And I care not who we utilize or what distasteful methods are employed as long as those responsible are brought on their knees before me. Are we clear on this?” The matron’s voice had risen to a shout by the end, and she glared at them both.
Corvales bowed his head. “Yes, Mother.”
Jantyre felt the treatment unwarranted. He hadn’t said anything, after all. The deaths must be affecting the matron more than she had shown.
Daratrine turned from them and gazed out the windows. “Gather all the household staff, Corvales. We will conduct our own interviews. Oh, fetch the head of the house guardsmen. I have a task for you and the good captain.”
“Of course, Mother.” Corvales gave her a quick bow, then hesitated, glancing at Jantyre as if he loathed leaving him alone with her.
Jantyre tilted his head at the man and made a shooing motion with his hand.
Corvales clenched his jaws and cinched his lips, doubtless readying some impotent reprimand, but glancing at his mother, he reconsidered. Instead, he turned and stormed out.
The matron settled onto a bench across from Jantyre. She swept her train to one side, fanning out the feathers on the bottom. “Why do you insist on antagonizing him so?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?”