by Pemry Janes
“We are not out of the wood yet. Come, we must go,” Silver Fang said.
“It’s woods.” Eurik shook his head; that didn’t matter right now. His head felt light, like it could float right off his heavy body. “But aren’t we safe? They should reach us in time.”
Silver Fang shook her head as they stumbled forward a single step and had to stop again or they both would have surely fallen. “Perhaps. Or we’ll get caught between the armies. In that confusion, either side may kill us by accident.”
Eurik didn’t bother replying and just pushed himself forward. One step. A second step.
One of the armored figures on horseback looked familiar: he was missing his left arm. He gestured in their direction and a couple of riders galloped toward them. Once they got closer, Eurik recognized them. Hanser held out his hand toward them.
“Come, we must get you out of here.” Hanser glanced at where the demon had been; only an impression in the bare soil and the demon hearts marked where it had fallen. “You’ve done enough for one day. By the gods, enough for a year.”
Silver Fang didn’t even look in his direction, but maneuvered him into Hanser’s reach and together they heaved him into the saddle. She had some trouble getting on the other horse, until she gave Misthell away.
Then Eurik almost fell off again when they sped off. He clung to the armored back of the Irelian mercenary, the little plates of his armor scraping against his cheek. Hold on. Just hold on. Hold . . .
***
Leraine looked out the window and down the curved road. She couldn’t quite see the city wall from here, and the sounds of battle had been faint before drifting to nothing. And while she listened to those noises, all she could do was sit here and hope.
They’d been dumped here by their rescuers before they hastened back to the battle. Apparently the house belonged to a relation of Wasser, the Gored Axes’ old mage. He had not been at home, nor had his wife. Their young daughter had received them and put them up in what looked to be her parents’ bedroom. She’d also cleaned Leraine’s wounds and bandaged them.
Every bit of furniture had carvings, from the closets to the small table next to the bed. The bed itself also had four poles that supported a drape of some sort. Leraine wondered what its function was; the roof looked to be sturdy enough.
She glanced at the bed again. Rock was lying on top of the covers, unconscious. Clearly, he had overexerted himself with his unique brand of magic, but how serious was that? She’d heard of magic users who’d done that. In those tales they had burned out, sometimes literally. Rock was alive, but had he damaged himself doing so?
This had not been his fight. He’d had no obligation to these people or to her. He acted like a hero out of the stories and it was going to get him killed. Stubborn, rock-headed man.
A new sound echoed down the street, a better sound that eased the tension in her liver. It was the sound of victory. They staggered down the road, tired and filthy, but they were alive and in good spirits.
A groan came from the other side of the room. “What? Where?”
“We are in Glinfell.” Leraine hissed as her body protested vehemently at her getting up. Her gait was slow and she fell more than sat down on the foot of the bed. “How are you?”
Rock barely lifted his head, one eye cracked open. “Alive. Weak.” He licked his cracked lips. “The demon is dead?”
Leraine caught herself before she could nod. “Yes. We did it. And the battle was won.”
“Good.”
They fell into silence while the noise outside only grew. Bells rang, almost drowning out the singing. Eventually she could hear heavy footsteps coming up the wooden stairs, followed by the click of the door handle as the door opened.
Mayor Rozenbruk entered the room, still clad in his armor though without his helmet. There were dents and nicks in the steel, all very recent. Something had also torn the red gambeson on his left shoulder, but the man looked in high spirits.
“Alive and awake.” He gave Rock a look and switched to accented Linesan. “I wanted to thank you both. If you hadn’t stopped that demon, I fear it would have gutted us.” His lips twisted in disgust. “In truth, even without the demon we were in a sorry state.”
With a weary sigh, Mayor Rozenbruk sat down. “I had to keep it hidden as best I could, but we were in no fit state to weather a siege. Several notables, as it turned out, had stolen from the public purse. The city’s armory had been stripped and our food reserves had been sold. They must have figured Griffenhart would not attack until after the harvest.” The Glinfeller sighed. “I wonder if he knew?”
Leraine inclined her head, fighting not to vomit at the motion. “Is Griffenhart dead?”
The mayor’s bushy eyebrows rose. “No. He didn’t . . . of course, you couldn’t see. Griffenhart,” Rozenbruk said with scorn in his voice, “didn’t participate in the battle. He led his men to the Road the moment he realized the demon was dead. It was just the Deposed who tried to assault the city. It was still a hard-fought battle, but your companion’s work turned the terrain in our favor.”
Rock pushed himself up into a seated position, breathing hard from even that mild exertion. “Is he going to attack again with his entire army?”
Rozenbruk shook his head. “No, it can’t get here before reinforcements from Stohlhavve can reach us. And though it won’t be enough time to repair the wall, it will be enough to throw up some rudimentary defenses.” Another shake. “No, he won’t try. He’ll return home.”
She frowned. “But that is foolish. He must at least secure the demon hearts. They are proof of his crime.”
The mayor shook his head. “You think it is that simple? We took the camp. All the wizards responsible for the summoning are charred husks. So we have those hearts and our word, and of course we would say such about our enemy. All Griffenhart has to do is maintain he hired a dragon and let confusion and suspicion do the work for him.”
“Will the Irelian emperor not take action?” Leraine shared Rock’s disbelief. Even horse people would not countenance one of their own to break that law. Bandar Ebon was a permanent reminder of the price of doing so.
Mayor Rozenbruk leaned back and looked from one to the other. “You mean you hadn’t heard? Griffenhart is the emperor. He got crowned three weeks ago. It’s what made this attack such a surprise. One of the reasons.”
Leraine wanted to be surprised more, but she wasn’t. Even she knew that the title of Emperor of Irelia had become something of a toy, to be traded from one noble to another.
Mayor Rozenbruk exhaled and studied a torn thread on the sleeve of his gambeson. “There will be some who’ll want to cut Griffenhart down to size, another reason for him to preserve his army. And the Oathfellowship won’t let this attack stand either, but we have to be careful. Invading Irelia would give Griffenhart a cause to rally people around, even if we were in any shape to do it.”
He shook himself and gave them a grin. “But enough gloom, that can wait until tomorrow. For now, we celebrate being alive. Ah, I’ll send for my personal healer. It’s the least I could do for what you have done.”
Mayor Rozenbruk rose up with a groan, then he laid a hand on Leraine’s shoulder. “I’ll also send a message to your mother to let her know you fulfilled your people’s oath of alliance and more. Now, rest, and enjoy your stay in Glinfell.”
The door clicked shut behind him and Leraine looked at Rock as he asked, “So what do we do now?”
“Now?” She let out a breath and simply lay down across the bed. “We do as he said. Rest. Heal. Then, once we are ready, we resume our journey.”
“I’m not sure that is wise. Maybe the Immortal was right. Silver Fang, I don’t want to bring a disaster to your home.”
She kept her eyes closed and her body relaxed. “Do not be silly. This was all planned long before we arrived. The only thing you did was prevent the deaths of thousands.”
For a moment, she hesitated. But that, too, was silly. “And E
urik, you can call me Leraine when we are alone.”
***
The man looked over his shoulder as he stole into the kitchen, clutching something wrapped in stained cloth to his chest. The blue and yellow tabard with the dwarven bow on it was torn and had blood streaked over the yellow dwarven bow.
“Only one?”
He jumped at the voice, and his eyes widened when he saw who was waiting for him. It wasn’t the face he’d been expecting, but he knew not to question it when he saw the symbol drawn in spilled flour on the solid table in the middle of the room.
“They put a guard on it before the fighting even stopped. If Nelis hadn’t taken a spear to the arm so I had an excuse to get away, I wouldn’t have even gotten this.” He placed the covered object on the table and stepped away. He caught sight of the pot hanging over the dying fire, its contents bubbling and dark. Someone should have removed it long ago.
Berent Haversen removed the cloth; he did not fear its contents. It was green, about the size of a cabbage though lumpier and with several spikes protruding from it. The object had the smooth shine of pearl, yet it was warm to the touch.
“And the other matter?”
The Skutterij member shook his head and shrank back. “Impossible. Mayor Rozenbruk put some of his own men up to guard the pair. I can’t get to them.”
Berent drew his lips back in a snarl and the man’s eyes widened. Did he truly think he would be killed for that? When he was still useful? Idiot.
“It can’t be helped. Still, twice now they’ve spoiled one of our plans and I don’t believe in coincidences. Not when that sword is involved. Spread the word, I want them under watch wherever they go.”
The man bowed, his arm folding over his stomach while the few bolts still in the quiver hanging on his right hip clattered about. “It will be as you command, my lord.”
“Make sure you are not spotted leaving this place,” Berent said before dismissing the man wholly and picking up the demon heart. The other hand erased the flour mark, then he headed into the house proper, though not before wiping his hand clean. He paid no attention to the rich furnishings, the gilded chandelier, or the blood spatters on the light blue wallpaper traced with lines of silver paint.
That sword: he’d recognize it even if he hadn’t seen it himself. The description was unmistakable, though it hadn’t been awake last time he’d laid eyes upon it. He had thought it gone, lost at sea with its creators, but here it was again. Still, whatever knowledge it had was twenty years out of date by now, so it shouldn’t have been able to do much damage. It shouldn’t have, yet it had.
But no matter, this wasn’t the first time something had gone wrong. Which was why they weren’t relying on a single arrow to hit the target. Not this time. This time things would be different.
Entering the Haversens’ bedroom, he put his prize down and grabbed ink, pen, and paper. His left hand floated over the paper quickly and surely—the note wasn’t too long. In his experience, going for lengthy epistles tended to arouse suspicion. Easier for a mistake to creep in.
Done, he sealed the letter with a bit of dark blue wax and used the signet ring on the desk, rather than the one around his finger, to impress the bolt of cloth and sheaf of grain of the Haversen family into the wax.
Only now did he acknowledge the corpse in the room as he tucked the letter into its coat pocket. Returning the ring, however, proved impossible. The fat finger had grown stiff and bloated. He’d have to break the digit to slip it on, and that could arouse questions. So he placed the ring instead next to the knife. Its pommel was decorated with several sapphires while its blade was coated with dried blood.
Picking up his prize once again, the man who wasn’t a man stepped into a long mirror standing in a corner and walked out of frame, not once sparing another thought or look at Berent Haversen, hanging from the rafters.
THE END
I enjoy connecting with my readers, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. All questions and comments can be sent to [email protected]
If you want to stay informed on new stories, you can go to pemryjanes.com to sign up to my newsletter.