by Jackson Lear
I asked: “I don’t suppose you know them?”
“No.”
“Then we have a problem. Two similar assholes were watching your place this morning, staking it out.”
Delen leaned in. “We can have them arrested.”
“See? Delen agrees with me.”
“… By the city watch.”
The bounty hunters slowed, keeping me locked in their sight twenty yards away. Neither made much of a glance towards Alysia, Lucien, or Delen.
“You don’t have to do this,” said Alysia.
“I know these guys better than you. They’re my kind of people. They’ll target all of you just to get to me and they won’t be polite about it. It’s what they do for a living.” I spoke to Delen. “They might be the ones targeting her and the commander. Keep Alysia safe.”
Delen squinted at me, still far from trusting my mercenary intentions. “I did see a couple of people last night as well, while you all were at the governor’s.”
“Go inside,” I said. “Find a way of getting Beriss off this bullshit charge.”
Alysia’s voice cracked once more. “Please don’t do this.”
I left her at the front of the university. Strolled down the steps. Left the plaza to find a quieter area.
The threesome followed.
My clothes weren’t exactly suitable for a full-blown fight. The sandals were pathetic for kicking with unless I used my heel, and the heavy sash across one shoulder was more of a hindrance than anything else. At least I could remove it.
I reached a narrow street. Glanced over one shoulder. The threesome were still following me, closing the distance.
A quick check of my surroundings: a baker’s, the back entry to a tavern, a place that smelled like a brewer’s, and something that had the feel of a window-less storehouse. A couple of one story buildings on both sides of the road. Climbable in an emergency. Few windows. Fewer unlocked doors.
I dug into my long tunic. Rummaged through my pouch. Found a small skin of oil.
I stopped. Turned. Waited for them to approach.
They too stopped. Four yards away. Waited. Sized me up once again.
People passed us in the street. Not closely since we looked like we were about to kill each other. They glanced our way before speeding up, head down, hoping that they weren’t about to be involved in whatever squabble we were engaged in.
I glared at the weathered one. “So. You two assholes have also been staking out the rich quarter, huh?”
He stared back at me, puzzled. It was a look that didn’t fill me with much joy as it seemed like he had no idea what I was talking about. Nor could I elaborate since that would give away where Alysia lived.
The fellas drew their weapons. Two curved blades per man. Brass knuckles on each hand. One hand pointing out, straight at my chest. The other close to their body. A boxer’s stance. Defensive. I couldn’t figure out if either of them was mage. Hopefully it was neither. The kid held a dagger out, confident that he was going to use it.
People stopped in the street. Started to back away. Two lingered from a distance to watch.
I removed the red sash from my shoulder. Dumped it on the ground. Freed my blade and dangled the shredded length of silk towards the ground.
The weathered one called out. “You gonna runaway again, pretty boy?”
“Maybe. How’d you find me?”
“The short guy said you’d be back for the prisoner.”
I blasted the pole into full extention. Darted forward. Swung low. Went for the non-talker’s ankle. He lifted back, afraid that I had a spear in my hand. I swung up, shoving the mangled end into his face. He recoiled, bringing both blades up to block my attack. He fired off a spell, trying to fling me towards him.
The people around us shrieked. Some freezing. Others scrambled for safety.
I swiped at their ankles again. Tossed the skin of oil at the weathered one. It broke upon impact, sliming the guy and drenching his chest and waist with a slick goo.
The mage uttered a single word. “Kesta.”
My skin rippled into flames, my arms screaming in agony as I shrieked and dropped to my knees. I must’ve swung the pole again in a last-ditch effort to save my life but a clunk against one building told me I had missed and was about to die.
I slumped to the side, gasping, my limbs still burning. “Farewell,” I muttered, targeting the mage.
He flung forward like he had been launched from a catapult. Ten yards. Straight onto his face, landing on the scraggly brick road. I swiped up. Nicked him along his leg. I took a wayward foot to the head as I didn’t have time to get out of the way, but at least one of them was pretty fucked.
The weathered one – now a little shaken and slicked – stepped in, defensively aggressive. One hand remained crossed over his chest, ready for a short swipe or a block. His other hand remained stretched out in front.
The kid edged forward, trying to flank me but not knowing all that much about actual hand-to-hand combat. I surprised him with a swipe of the pole to his legs, kept swinging around to buy myself enough time to get back to my feet, then ran. Straight into an open doorway. Misjudged the angle of the pole. Lost my grip.
I had barged into a two-room bakery. A man with a bandage around his hands worked a lump of dough, gasped at the intrusion, froze, gasped again when two more mercenaries burst inside.
I kicked, trying to knock at least one blade from the weathered one’s hand but he was too quick for me. He angled it around, daring me to try it again.
I threw a bowl of flour into his face, the room clouding up in an instant. Grabbed a rolling pin. Cracked his knuckles – forgot that he had protection there but still heard a satisfying clink of a dropped weapon – cracked him in the nose then into the back of his head then his elbow.
He kicked out, turned it into a charge with reckless abandon, barreled into me as I grabbed on and dropped, pulling him down with one arm trapped and only a bladed hand to brace his face. He brought his elbow up to shield himself, stabbed himself through the ear, and was met with a knee to his balls. No padding there. Solid strike. My blade was pinned against his stomach. I squeezed forward, slicing him at a non-ideal angle.
The baker started shouting, screaming for us to leave.
The mage charged.
“Farewell!”
Lost his balance and bounced off the counter, tumbling towards me and his friend.
I managed to roll free. Swiped with my blade. Missed. The weathered one was getting back to his knees, clutching his stomach. Slipped on the oil still dripping from his clothes. I darted forward. His friend intervened. I swiped at the mage. He blasted me back, not completely off my feet, but he certainly dropped me to one knee.
There was a hessian sack under the kitchen top. Flour, maybe. Half full. I grabbed it, swung it around like a club, bashed the weathered one in the side of the face, kept swinging, clobbered him on the top of his head. He collapsed onto his chest, far from knocked out, but definitely out of the fight for the next couple of breaths. The doorway was open. I threw another sack at the mage, forcing him to block it, skewered the weathered one in the throat and threw another sack at the mage. Grabbed one of the weathered’s blades. Threw it at the mage. Hit him handle-side in the gut. It bounced off with a somersault, fell to the ground and sliced the top of his boots.
Confined area. Lots of things now to trip on. Pretty much trapped if either of us stayed for too long.
To my surprise, the mage hauled ass onto the street like the wolves of were after him.
I charged after him.
The kid cried out with terrified fury, ran straight at me with his dagger held out in front of him. I kicked it out of his hand. Slammed my fist into his face. Watched him crumple to the ground with something of a life-lesson to be learned.
It did cause a couple of bystanders to shriek in shock.
I scooped up my pole. Found the mage running for his life. Ran the pole between his knees and knocked it to h
is side, twisting him around and tripping him up. He rolled to his back, kicking his legs into the air to try and keep me away. I sprinted in, jabbed and swung with my blade, connected with his feet, skewering one ankle and slicing clean across the base of his other foot.
He schismed back, the fright of losing now all too real.
Witnesses all around. Me dressed like a lawyer. Them dressed like mercenaries. I bellowed: “By the order of the Magistrate of Syuss, I am arresting you for the murder of Nera of Stonewall. She was ten years old, you sick fuck.”
No idea how I went with convincing anyone who heard, but maybe it would work. The mage had started to roll over, the blood pouring out of his feet. I crept forward. He swung his blades out to try and counter me but it was a half-assed job. I caught him with one hand, dropped beside him, necked him. He swung feebly with his remaining hand. I grabbed onto it, held it steady for a moment, kneed the blade that was still in his throat. He jerked about, the final thrash of life. I reclaimed my blade from his throat. Sliced his fingers free. Liberated a pair of brass knuckles. Left him to die.
Shouts from the city watch indicated they were on their way.
The kid was groaning, trying to wipe the blood from his eyes.
I pulled him by his ear. Screamed into his face. “You know who I am?”
He spluttered, barely able to see me. “Uh-huh.”
“Do you want both of your arms broken and your teeth scattered on the ground?”
He shook his head, tearing up quicker than I expected.
“Do you want to end up like your friend here with your toes separated from your feet?”
“N-no!”
I forced his head around. “Look at him then! This is what will happen to you if I ever seen you again. I’m going to take this blade and I’m going to cut you up like a wild pig, you understand?”
“Yes!”
“Do you understand!?”
“Ye-he-hesss!” he howled.
“Then fuck off back to Erast and tell them I’m dead, your friends are dead, and you’re lucky to be alive.” I pushed him towards the mage, letting him get a decent look at the panic in the guy’s eyes before he turned and ran.
The city watch ran into view. “Stop! Stop this!”
I was about to burn the last spell I had prepared. I scooped up my sash, took a running leap up to one rooftop, and kept on running, climbing, and weaving my way across the protected streets of Torne.
The only thing holding me back now were the two dozen witnesses who could identify me. And the kid still out there, the one who knew what I was really in trouble for. At least when we first met it was dark, he had been asleep, and I had a wrap around half of my face. Now he could pick me out of a crowd in a heart beat. If I was wise I would’ve let him go in public, followed him, and kidnapped him for a little while, but after going through a few awkward months recently I hoped the kid was sufficiently scared out of his mind to never pick up another dagger in his life.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Zara was waiting for me at the top of the steps of Torne University with a scowl across her face and four short swords poking out from under her jacket.
I gave her a quick nod. “Done.”
“For good?”
“At least for another ten years. Your short-ass friend had a few words of encouragement for them and showed them where to find me.”
“He’s not my friend.” She kicked off the wall and proceeded down to the street below. “You’re looking a little rough.”
No kidding. My sash was a tattered disaster, my clothes were a dirty mess, and I was flecked with someone’s blood, flour, and what seemed to be grease. No idea where that came from.
Zara asked: “You’re sure you want to question Martius again? We already have a short list of who would’ve turned him.”
“It’s either that or we pay Kace a visit.”
Zara’s scowl didn’t lift for the rest of our trip back to Lavarta’s home.
Giulia greeted us at the gate. Showed us into the entryway and lingered by the fountain for long enough to become a nuisance.
I headed for the stairs.
“Not so fast,” said Zara. She led me down the long corridor of the house, through a narrow doorway that reeked of lower-classes-only, and showed me to a small open-air square at the back of the property, maybe eight by eight feet. Clothes hung at various heights across a number of lines, trying to take advantage of the daytime heat without being blasted by direct sunlight. Zara rummaged through one line of clothes and threw a red tunic at me. “There.”
I tossed it back. “No way.”
“Stop being a baby and put it on.”
I stared back at Delen’s outfit as my stomach roiled about. “Do you know what they do to people who aren’t in the army who are caught dressed like they’re in the army?”
“Yes. Put it on.”
“They interrogate the shit out of people for being spies. And not the nice kind of interrogating, either.”
“And unfortunately for you I’m supposed to keep you in my sights at all times, but since you’re determined to speak to a steward we need to get you into a military camp with the least amount of fuss. Put it on.”
Two minutes later, Zara stopped in front of me wearing an army issue lieutenant’s outfit herself. Red tunic, leather armor across her chest and torso with a red cloak pinched together at her right shoulder, and sandals with wraps around her calves and shins.
“Wow.”
She stared back at me. “What?”
“I’m not sure. I thought I had you pegged as someone who wouldn’t be caught dead in a tunic.”
“I am military, you know?”
“Cavalry? Mage? Steward?”
I honestly have never seen someone sneer as much as she did. “Delta.”
“Fuck off.”
She stared back at me like I had just exposed myself in what should’ve been a hilarious joke that had somehow gone terribly wrong.
“What?”
“Have you seriously never worn a uniform in your life?”
“No.”
She came over and helped me out. Fixed my belt. Helped get my new short sword into place. Unraveled my sandal straps.
It was a unique situation to have a general’s assassin kneeling in front of me and tying what was effectively my shoe laces while I wore something that felt like a skirt. The worst part was that she wasn’t being quick about it.
We left the city. Headed into the fields where a military camp had been erected in a hurry. The closer we got, the clearer the barking of frantic orders came. Men and women moved in groups of eight to eighty, spinning, turning, crying out in unison as they practiced a whole new set of drills. Spears clunked against the top of shields, were lifted again with impressive speed. A wild display of dust was kicked up in the middle of the make-shift arena.
I had never felt more exposed than I was right then, striding across a field in a red tunic under the watchful eye of hundreds of trained killers and fifty members of the cavalry, all of whom had seen me on the road to Torne and all of whom knew I was pretending to be military. The closer we got, the more uncomfortable I felt. Each century – eighty men and women in all, seemed to be engaged in separate battles, all close to each other yet operating on their own. Half of the centuries were in the middle of drills, barked at by their respective sergeants. The other half were hustling in a chaotic heap, swords swiping, men and women ducking and weaving, blasting spells, shields bashed overhead, bodies thrown, picked up, and forced back in as they dealt with one wound after another.
“Keep walking,” commanded Zara.
“What are they fighting?”
“They cleared out the zoo this morning. Just pretend like you don’t give a shit and keep walking.”
A roar pierced the morning air, then a cry of triumph as a bloodied sword rose into the air. Eighty soldiers cheered in unison.
“It’s the best they can do on short notice,” assured Zara. “They’ll
reduce the number of units fight by fight. Eighty against one beast, then forty against one, then all the way down to eight.”
“Why don’t they just hire gladiators?”
“Gladiators are expensive.”
“Then how about mercenaries?”
“If the governor came to your group, wanting to hire you to fight vampires, what would you all decide to do?”
“Move to Arlo.”
“Even if your captain accepted the job?”
“Then we’d kill the captain and move to Arlo.”
Zara nodded towards the crush of spears and shields. “Which pretty much leaves the army.”
Zara led us into the nearly deserted camp, itself guarded by only eight soldiers grouped in pairs. They noted our uniform, nodded a quick salute, then puzzled it over as they swore they recognized us both … yet they were unsure of exactly how or where from.
We stopped beside one nondescript white canvas tent. Zara peered in through the opening, looked back to me, and gave me a signal: ‘wait here.’ She slipped inside.
“Steward Martius?”
Martius sprung to his feet at the sight of Zara’s uniform. “Yes, ma’am?”
“A word, if I may, and then I’ll let you get back to it. You met a man the day you returned to Torne. Dark clothing. Probably an unpleasant attitude. He asked a lot of questions about Artavian.”
I imagine Martius’ mood soured immediately. “Yes, ma’am. I did.”
“Can you tell me about that meeting?”
“Well, it’s like I told Lieutenant Kace ...”
“I’d like to hear it for myself to get a better reading on what happened.”
“Okay. I was at home when he knocked on my door. He said he was a friend of Artavian’s and that he knew his family. My wife had some bad feelings about him but I guess I was a little too distraught and exhausted to notice. It had been a long journey back home and that day was longer than the rest. Then I found out that he told Lieutenants’ Kace and Orin that he and some of his friends had dined with us in Verseii, which was a blatant lie. I’d never met him until he arrived on my doorstep.”