by Aaron Bunce
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sacrifice For All
Brother Dalman waited in the shadows, watching the Blue Star Carriage office, Aida hovering behind him, the windows having darkened a while back. They waited until the portly owner shuffled outside, locking the door behind him, and then watched.
Aida pulled at his robes, but he silenced her with a click of the tongue. She didn’t understand how these things worked. They needed to wait until the shop closed, and then continue to wait. Someone always lingered behind – a worker, a maid – always someone.
A short while later a young man appeared from behind the building, a lantern clutched tightly in hand. He made a meandering circuit around the building, before unlocking the door and disappearing inside.
“Stable hand,” he whispered, “probably checks on the horses once or twice a night.”
The monk pulled the young woman from the cover of the bushes and made quickly across the lane. They skated around the building, dodging the swinging lanterns and revealing pools of moonlight. He edged around a wall and over a broken section of fence, stepping onto a cobblestone roundabout. Beyond sat the stables, across from a massive, newly constructed carriage house.
Brother Dalman pulled Aida quickly across the span of open ground, his eyes sweeping from left to right. The carriage masters paid city guard well to mind their businesses after dark. It would do them no good to be caught out in the open, so he knew time was of the essence. A crude pin lock hung on the carriage house. Even with cold hands it barely slowed him down.
“Why don’t we just take horses? It will be so much faster,” Aida whispered as soon as he closed the door behind her.
Brother Dalman held a finger to his lips and listened for a long moment, but the carriage house sounded empty. He took the oil lantern from the hook by the door and set off across the straw-covered floor.
“The wind twists off the lakes this time of year, cutting north and making the passage south very uncomfortable. The damp in the air turns to ice, making the snow like daggers and the wind howl like an incessant beast. Do you want to sit exposed on horseback in that cold and wind, for the entire journey to Silma?” he asked. Aida followed, her feet crunching loudly in the straw, but didn’t respond.
The lantern light revealed two carriages, the first up on blocks, two of its wheels removed. The second, an old and wind-beaten relic, at least looked intact. Brother Dalman kicked the closest wheel, then made his way around, testing and pulling. The carriage looked old and rickety, but felt solid enough.
“Goddess be praised. It doesn’t need to be pretty, just intact,” he breathed, making his way around to the front. The poles, eveners, straps, and traces were already assembled and laid out in place, ready to hook to a team.
“Gather anything you can find…food, furs, blankets…to keep warm. Prepare the carriage. I will fetch a team, then we can be away,” he said. Aida nodded and took the lantern, promptly turning and moving off.
Brother Dalman moved his way through the resulting gloom, until he found the locking bar on the large doors. He lifted it free and set it out of the way, before easing the door open and listening. After a pregnant moment, the monk slipped outside and made his way quickly across the courtyard to the stables.
The stable door opened with a gentle creak, the smell of hay and horse instantly washing over him. A chair sat just inside the door, an empty tankard on the floor, amidst a scattering of wood shavings. The stable hand appeared to be a whittler. He knew from experience that such men were often restless. He had to be quick.
Making his way down the row of stalls, Brother Dalman stopped and lifted a bearing strap and harness off a hook. A large, brown mare greeted him curiously at the next stall. He released the latch on the door and let it swing open. The horse nickered appreciatively and strode forward, lowering her head automatically.
Brother Dalman stroked the fine hairs on her face, quietly thanking the horse for her good behavior, and then lifted the harness into place. Working quickly and quietly, the monk fastened the straps, and then repeated the process with the horse in the next stall, a smaller, black stallion.
He led the horses towards the door, stopping to lift a bucket of oats off a hook, and on second thought, grabbed the bag of apples next to it. The bag pulled free just as something crunched in the snow outside.
The mare nickered softly, and then nuzzled him, eager to prize away the treats in his hand. Brother Dalman held his breath and turned back towards the door. If it was the stable hand, he was too far away from the stalls to hide. They would see him right away, and run for help. Horse thieves were lashed. Repeat offenders were hung. But worse than that, Djaron’s minion Balin would find him. He didn’t delude himself. There would be no surviving that encounter.
After a weighted moment, Brother Dalman let out his breath. The wind buffeted against the stables, a loose plank groaning slightly. Was there someone outside, perhaps standing and waiting in the snow? Or was he hearing things?
Slowly, methodically, the monk pushed the large stable door open. Cold air and drifting snow blew in, whistling a somber tune – other than that, no noise. The horses clomped along behind him, needing almost no guidance.
The door swung a little further and he dared to poke his head out. The courtyard was still empty. Brother Dalman pulled the horses out into the snow, moving as quickly as the two animals would allow. Once inside the carriage house, the monk led the horses over to the old carriage and started fastening the straps and poles into place.
“Brother…Hobart,” Aida said, nearby.
“I am almost finished, get in the carriage, Aida,” he hissed in response, snugging down a strap before moving over to work on the second horse.
“Scribe,” a man said, this time, from the other side of the carriage.
Brother Dalman snapped up, the new voice sending a cold jolt into his heart. The horse nickered and danced as a man moved forward out of the shadows, his long, dark cloak like a melted shadow. The monk subtly pulled the last strap into the harness, looped it, and pulled it tight.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Brother Dalman said, holding his hands up defensively and moving clear of the poles and straps.
“Sometimes, trouble finds you. Or, in your case, you walk right into the middle of it. Is that not right?” Balin said, stepping fully into the lantern’s limited pool of light.
The rogue ran a finger over the ratty carriage and pulled it away, to inspect it in the glow. Brother Dalman moved away, his gaze dropping down to the reins, locking their location into memory.
“One should not travel in such a dilapidated mess – even the bastard son of well-connected nobility, and the chosen understudy of our former king’s master of whispers. Surely, Broderick Vane would roll over in his grave,” Balin said, stepping up next to the black stallion, running a hand over its back. The horse chattered nervously, dancing from hoof to hoof.
“Broderick was a simple man, despite his status and wealth. He was less concerned with means than you think. And I never wanted anything to do with my father – not his name, or his attention. He was a butcher, and false in thought and word. I would sooner be a pauper than beholden to him or his blood,” Brother Dalman replied, looking to his right as he cleared the horses. Aida stood next to the carriage, her eyes wide and locked on the cloaked figure.
“Only a fool would throw away such a connection. Poof, just like that, wealth, status, and influence could be yours. Or, are they already? Wealthy merchants that travel between the capitol and trade ports keep mistresses. Others ravage servant girls or boys. Bastards are born, some are killed, while others are legitimized when rightful wives can provide no male heirs,” Balin hissed.
“I think you value blood more than my family, especially when it comes to illegitimate sons. They are not my family. I ran away and never looked back.”
“You disappoint me, scribe. I paid good gold to learn your secrets, and when I discovered your father was Reginald Jar–“<
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“That man is not my father!” Brother Dalman snapped, cutting the short man off.
“Perhaps…but family can come in so many forms. Don’t they?” Balin said, tugging on a strap. “Broderick took you in like a son. Became like a father figure to you, from what I’ve been told. You just traded one powerful father for another.”
“He showed me kindness during a moment of stupidity and desperation. That is all,” Brother Dalman said.
“…he was a man of many faces. I don’t think my former master ever really understood his importance. But you…Gladeus remembered you, if only because I made him – a stubborn monk with a quick mind, asking far too many questions. It took me a while, but I put the pieces together. I knew you. Well, of you, at least. Your story is like legend on the streets. It was a long time ago, wasn’t it? When they locked you in the stocks and let children flog and pelt you with rotten food as a child. Fenoris talked about it – the child thief Broderick Vane let free,” Balin said with a chuckle.
“I was no one, a fool who paid for his mistake. Now I am a simple monk serving the Denil order,” Brother Dalman said, testing the ground behind him as he moved.
“A ‘no one’? A lurker, spryer, a watcher in the shadows, maybe. But not a no one. I saw you, and you me, by the river in Ban Turin. One shadow recognizes the other, sir. I paid well for that information, from men who know better than to lie to me,” the cloaked man said, his voice hoarse and muffled, the dagger pulling free of his cloak.
“Does your master know?” Brother Dalman asked.
“Know? Who you are, or what you are? Djaron only knows that you are a witness to his revenge on the council, a thorn in his side, and one who might spoil his retribution. I think he will be quite pleased to know of your connection to Broderick. Knowing that, he might not kill you right away.”
“A comforting thought,” Brother Dalman replied, sarcastically. He tried to keep his face passive and calm, to not let on that the rogue was closer to the truth than he probably realized.
“Djaron seeks a man like you – a master of whispers. One to listen to the wind and read the shadows…to warn him of trouble. If you serve him, it will likely save your life…for a time. And if I deliver you to him…what he needs, then I will be rewarded,” Balin said, sliding towards Aida.
“I have no value to someone like him. He isn’t interested in truth, only his version of truth,” Brother Dalman said, his insides clenching up, his normally iron constitution failing him.
“Value is in the eye of the beholder,” Balin said, reaching up and pulling his hood down.
Brother Dalman cringed as the subtle light struck the man’s horrific metal face.
“I hate to see you returned to Djaron. I would genuinely enjoy our conversations, to hear your life story, as I believe you and I are more alike than you realize. But alas, I am no longer a man blessed of choice. Now, into the carriage with the young woman, I wouldn’t want you to catch cold on our journey north.”
Brother Dalman considered the cloaked man and worked quickly to identify all of his angles. He was armed, and held the advantage of age and position. Not to mention his strange ability to hide in the shadows. Aida was no fighter, and would be the first to die if they tried to overpower him. Brother Dalman might make it out of the carriage house, but Balin would run him down in the snow. He suffered no delusions about that. If he agreed to go peacefully, there were no guarantees that a chance to escape would present itself on the road.
“I will come along willingly, if you let the girl go,” he said, slowly stepping clear of the horses.
Balin laughed, moving forward in a quick and unexpected step. Before he could move back, Brother Dalman found himself face to face with the masked rogue.
“You can get in the carriage and live, or stay and die. She can get in the carriage and live, or die…or you can both die right now. Everyone dies, but few can control how. You can choose whether you meet Djaron Algast standing, or lying down,” Balin responded, reaching forward and grasping Brother Dalman’s arm.
“None will be dying tonight. Throw down your weapon and step away,” a man said, as a group appeared from the shadows of the carriage house. Brother Dalman recognized the two guardsmen, their armor adorned with the King’s Fall crest, a tree set before a rising sun.
“You! In the name of the regional magistrate, drop your knife!” one of the guards yelled, pointing his sword at Balin. An older man with white hair appeared behind the two guards, a young man feeling his way along blindly next to him.
“Aida?” the young man yelled.
“Dylan!” Aida gasped in response.
“You! I said drop your blade and release the old man!” the guards challenged and stomped forward.
Brother Dalman cringed and moved back, Balin spinning to meet the threat. This would end in blood, just as it had in Ban Turin. If knights of the silver couldn’t stop him, why would he think that town guards could fare any better?
“I would never hurt anyone,” Balin said, his voice thick with mock sincerity. But then he muttered something and dashed to the side, the shadows greeting him like a waiting lover.
Aida ran straight into the blind young man, her weight almost knocking him over. Brother Dalman spun on the spot, his eyes failing to penetrate the building’s murky shadows.
“What?” the first guard cried in alarm, and lurched forward, his hand searching the shadows where Balin just stood.
Brother Dalman watched it all happen, every movement impossibly slow, and yet he was still powerless to stop it. He lurched to the side as something moved in the darkness, the glint of a blade his only warning. Cold hands wrapped around the pitchfork handle, the monk’s feet sliding on the slick, straw-covered ground.
The second guard’s back was still turned. Why did he turn his back? He wheeled around, lunged, and stabbed straight ahead. The strike lacked power, but the handle was just long enough, and the tines bit into the rogue’s thick cloak as he appeared.
“Gahhh!” Balin snarled, twirling away, the cloak tearing free from the pitchfork’s tines.
“I take that personally,” Balin said, reeling and cutting hard with the dagger, the short weapon hitting the pitchfork and knocking it aside.
Brother Dalman pulled the pitchfork back around and pointed the tines at the rogue, but the weapon felt paltry in his hands. The guard cut in before Balin could strike again, however, the man’s practiced movements more effective than anything the monk could have managed with the rusty tool.
“Watch the shadows! Keep him in the open, keep him in the light!” Brother Dalman cried out, trying to get both guards’ attention, but the carriage house had fallen to chaos. He watched in horror as Balin cut and weaved around the guard’s attacks and dove bodily into the shadows once again.
“NO!” he screamed, spinning on the spot, the shadows mocking him.
The second guard barely had time to cry out in alarm as Balin appeared in a flourish next to him, doubling with the vicious, shiny dagger. The guard parried the blows, falling back a step, just as Balin sidestepped to avoid the second guard’s counter. Brother Dalman reacted as fast as he could, lurching forward and driving the pitchfork towards the rogue. The tines pierced the darkness, jabbing hard into…air. He didn’t just miss. The man wasn’t there anymore.
The guards fumbled over each other as Balin appeared from thin air, now behind them. Blades crashed and one of the men cried out, stumbling into Brother Dalman and toppling them both to the ground. He fought free and rolled, blood slippery and wet on his hands. The second guard moved in, squaring the rogue up before he could dive aside, and drove him back.
“…get him into the carriage,” Brother Dalman said, catching Aida’s eye as he fought his way off the ground. The girl’s eyes snapped up to his, and a moment later, she acknowledged him. She pulled her blind counterpart forward and wrenched the carriage door open, the old man fumbling with a bag behind them.
“Look out, old man,” the wounded guard sp
at, shoving him aside as he tried to help him off the ground.
The wounded guard ran to his counterpart’s side, his left arm hanging limp. The two men worked in concert, driving Balin back towards the open door, using their much longer blades to keep the rogue from dodging to either side. Their blades worked in, over, and down, forcing the rogue into a purely defensive posture.
Brother Dalman made for the horses, ducking under the agitated animals and scooping the reins off the ground. He untangled them, pulled them free of the stabilizer pole, and snagged them on the bench hook.
The carriage rocked from side to side as Aida pushed the blind young man inside, and fought, trying to pull the older man in, too. He turned back as the darkness moved.
“No one leaves, scribe, except with me,” Balin spat, lurching from the shadows. His voice was subtle and raspy, barely audible above the noise. Brother Dalman could hear the confused guards outside, arguing over where the man went.
“All can leave. There is a way out of this for you, too,” Brother Dalman said, the words surprising even him. He ducked between the horses, keeping the animal’s bulk between him and the man’s sharp dagger.
“What makes you say that? What makes you think that I need out of anything?” the rogue responded, moving sideways, tracking him.
“A man of the shadows is either a prisoner to them, or hiding from something. Which are you?”
The monk crouched low and stabbed the pitchfork hard under the horse, but the rogue was gone. He turned, scanning the darkness, the rough handle shaking slightly in hand, the tines ready to skewer. One of the guards charged in, almost slipping on the hay.
“He isn’t gone,” Brother Dalman said, ducking under the pole and straps, his eyes scanning the gloom for the rogue.