by Ben Cassidy
A horse neighed nervously, stamping its feet at the unexpected intrusion.
Think. He had to think.
The herb bag. Joseph’s life was in the balance. He had to get it back to Kendril.
Maklavir looked around desperately.
There. Against the stall next to his. A brown bag. Maklavir recognized it immediately.
He started to get up to grab it.
The door to the stall kicked open, letting in a gust of cold air and stray snowflakes.
Maklavir ducked back behind the stall.
“I know you’re in here,” boomed a voice. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Maklavir felt his heart leap. He recognized the voice.
It was the first guard, the one he had hit with the shield in the hallway back in the house, just minutes before.
Something told Maklavir that the man was not coming back to thank him.
The boards whined under the mercenary’s weight as he stepped into the stable. There was a sharp click as a gun was cocked.
Maklavir glanced over at the bag again.
So close, yet so far. There was no way he could reach it without leaving cover.
Maklavir glanced around the corner of the stall.
The first guard was already in the stable. The second guard was framed in the doorway behind him. Snow drifted in lazily over his shoulders.
The guard turned, and waved back to the second mercenary.
The man nodded, then disappeared from sight.
Maklavir frowned, puzzled.
Why weren’t they both coming in? It was almost as if they were—
Covering a second door.
Maklavir looked back down the row of stalls.
There. How had he missed it before? A back door.
Right now, it was his only way out. And he had just seconds before the second guard blocked off any escape he might have.
“Come on,” the first guard called out. “Make it easy on yourself. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
Maklavir took a look at the bag, then the rear exit.
“Cone to daddy,” the mercenary sang out.
Maklavir leapt for the bag.
“The goddess rises,” Lillette spat. She twisted and turned in Kendril’s firm grip. “She will destroy you and this city.”
Kendril bent the young woman’s arm back even further.
She gave a cry of pain.
All traces of the sweet kitchen maid were gone. The hellcat that Kendril had pinned against the wall seemed like a wholly different creature.
“What goddess?” Kendril snapped. “What cult are you with?”
Lillette smiled despite the pain. She gave a mocking laugh. “You really don't know, do you? Indigoru will feast on your soul. Her light will fill all of Vorten, then all of Zanthora—”
Kendril glanced nervously at the stairs leading up to the kitchen.
Two servants started to come in, saw him, then shrieked and ran off.
“Indigoru. Mystery religion. A pleasure cult,” Kendril snarled. “I should have known. How many of you are there? How many people in this house are with you?” He gave a savage twist of her arm. “Talk.”
The girl looked back at him. Her brown hair fell in ragged curls over her face. “How many in this house? Wrong question.” Her voice lowered. “How many in the city? Closer. How many in the country? Better.” She gave a laugh, strange and almost crazed. “How many on the continent—?”
Kendril felt his insides turn to ice. It couldn’t be. This was beyond one cult, beyond one little cell of Seteru worshippers. Lillette was talking about a conspiracy so grand that it boggled his mind.
She was lying. She had to be. There was no way there could be something that big, that organized, and yet still be secret. It would mean a shadow movement as large and vast as…as…
As a Despair.
“Despair is coming,” Lillette chanted in a sing-song voice. “It is coming for you. You can’t stop it. No one can stop it. The goddess ris—”
Kendril cracked the woman’s head against the heavy wooden door of the cabinet.
Without a sound she crumpled limply to the ground.
Kendril’s mind was in a whirl. Lillette couldn’t be right. It was impossible. She was lying, trying to—
The thought hit him suddenly, dashing all other concerns aside.
Joseph.
The musket banged out like a thunderclap in the stable.
Maklavir grabbed the bag just as the bullet punched into a wooden post next to his head. He turned, the bag in hand, and dashed for the rear door.
The first guard cursed loudly behind him.
Maklavir felt himself smile. He was almost there. His hand was on the door handle.
He was going to make it.
He threw the door open and started out into the snow-filled night.
Face-to-face with the second guard.
For one dreadful moment, Kendril was certain that Joseph was dead.
He certainly looked dead the way he was leaning up against the kitchen cabinets, his head lolled off to one side, his skin an unnatural color.
It would have been a simple enough matter for Lillette to have killed him while Kendril’s back had been turned. A quick thrust of the dagger, a slash across the throat—
Kendril tilted Joseph’s head back. He put one hand on the clammy skin of the scout’s neck.
There was a pulse. Faint, but there.
Kendril breathed a sigh of relief.
Lillette had apparently decided to come after him first. Take out the greatest threat.
Kendril stood. Where in Zanthora was Maklavir? It shouldn’t take—
He stopped short.
There were mercenaries, five of them, standing at the top of the stairs with swords drawn. Their faces were grim and determined.
One of them, a man who looked like he was in charge, lifted the point of his sword. “It’s over,” he said. “Yield and you will not be harmed.”
“Right,” said Kendril.
He went for the kitchen knife.
Maklavir jumped back inside the stable.
With a yell the second guard came running at him. A rapier was in his hand.
Maklavir slammed the door and fumbled wildly for a lock. He found a bolt and slammed it down across the door.
The door banged hard as the guard crashed into it from the outside. He swore, loudly, then pulled fiercely on the handle.
The bolt held.
Maklavir turned.
The first guard stood calmly in the middle of the space between the stalls. He was half-way through reloading his musket. The side of his face was stained black and purple, a massive bruise from where Maklavir had hit him with the shield.
“Nowhere to go, barrister,” the mercenary called out. “And no sword, either, I see. Not very smart.” He cocked back the flintlock on his musket. “I got a score to settle with you.”
Maklavir dove for the cover of a stall.
He rolled through a pile of hay and other things he didn’t want to think about, undoubtedly ruining his red cape in the process. Still, in certain circumstances even fashion had to take a second place to survival.
This certainly seemed like one of those times.
The guard gave a low chuckle. “There ain’t no way out, Mr. Maklavir. Ashes, but I’m going to make you pay for blindsiding me. You’re going to die nice and slow-like.”
Maklavir pushed himself up against the wooden stall.
There were only two ways out of the stables. One was locked, and he had to get through an armed mercenary to get out the other one.
And Joseph was still dying.
There was no doubt about it. This was without a doubt the worst Candle Ice festival he had ever been to.
Captain Mayer raised an incredulous eyebrow, his eyes on the kitchen knife in Kendril’s hand. “You’re going to hold us off with that?”
“Why don’t you come down here and find out?” Kendril snarled.
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Mayer motioned with one gloved hands towards the Ghostwalker below him. “Kill him,” he said to his men.
The guards started down the stairs in unison. The naked blades of their swords gleamed bright in the fires of the kitchen.
Kendril bent back his arm, then hurled the knife.
Maklavir reached in the hay around him for something, anything that he could use as a weapon.
Not that he was much skilled in the use of makeshift weapons. Or any weapons, for that matter. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures.
The first guard stepped forward. His boots crunched on the hay that covered the stable floor.
He would be around the corner of the stall in seconds.
Maklavir’s hand closed on something. A wooden handle.
Eagerly, he brushed away strands of hay to see what it was.
A hammer. Probably for shoeing horses.
“Come on, barrister,” the mercenary taunted. “Come out and face your death like a man.”
Maklavir hefted the hammer. It wasn’t exactly an ideal weapon.
Then again, beggars couldn’t afford to be choosy.
The mercenary stopped by the corner of the stall. His shadow was clearly outlined by the stable’s one lantern.
Maklavir closed his eyes, trying to summon the will to act.
The guard turned the corner.
Maklavir leapt up and swung the hammer.
The first guard ducked to the side.
The blade flew past him and stuck into the wall where it quivered gently.
The guard gave a satisfied grin, then leapt forward at the unarmed Ghostwalker. He thrust his blade forward in a textbook fencing attack.
Kendril snatched both iron pokers out of the fire, one in each hand. The tips glowed orange from the heat.
The guard yelled and thrust his rapier forward.
Kendril parried the thrust neatly, then struck the man across the face with the second fire poker.
The guard crashed back into the cabinets with a scream. His face was burnt and bleeding.
Kendril threw himself forward at the other guards.
The fire pokers lashed out left and right, clanging dully as they hammered off sword blades.
The mercenaries fell back in confusion, yelping and cursing as they struggled to fight in the narrow stairway.
One fell to the ground, an eye gouged out by a poker strike.
Another retreated back up to the stairs, seized by a sudden panic.
Mayer pushed the man back down the stairs. The captain’s face was livid. “Vesuna’s blood, he’s unarmed,” he screamed. “Kill him!”
Kendril slammed a red hot poker into the side of one guard’s head.
The man fell like a rag doll to the floor.
Another guard saw his opening and swiped forward with his sword.
Kendril caught the blow with his second poker and deflected it, then lunged forward with the shimmering end of the first poker.
The guard stumbled back away from the hot iron. He tripped over the guard who was already on the ground with both hands pressed over his blinded eye.
Kendril fell back past the cabinets into the kitchen proper.
One of the guards took the bait. He pressed forward, though a little more cautiously than before.
Kendril swung the poker to the side and deftly caught the handle of a pot of boiling water over the fireplace with the hooked end of the iron rod.
The guard flinched, realizing only too late what the Ghostwalker had in mind.
The next second Kendril launched the cast-iron pot towards the man.
The guard gave a horrifying yell as he was splattered with boiling water. He staggered backwards, steaming erupting from his face and chest.
Kendril took a step forward and bashed the man’s head in with the heavy iron poker.
The mercenary neatly sidestepped Maklavir’s attack.
The diplomat flew past him, off-balance. He crashed into the stall on the other side of the aisle.
The guard snorted in derision, then slammed the stock of the rifle into Maklavir’s face.
Maklavir went down onto the hay-covered floor. Blood gushed from his nose. The shoe hammer flew out of his hands, lost in the shadows of the stable.
“That the best you got?” The guard spat on the ground. “My grandmother can fight better than that.” He heaved the musket up to his shoulder, and lined the barrel up with Maklavir’s head. “I could snuff out right now, fancy pants.”
Maklavir scrambled back. He wiped the blood from his nose with the back of a trembling hand.
It was awful. Simply awful. He was too late.
The blood had already dripped onto his shirt. That would never come out.
The mercenary shook his head at Maklavir’s miserable appearance. He lowered the musket, then set the gun aside. He drew his sword. “A bullet to the head’s too good for you. After what you did to my face, I’m going to make you pay.”
The kitchen had turned into a scene of complete chaos, screams, and confusion.
Another of the guards stepped back and cursed. He reached for the pistol tucked into his belt.
Kendril dropped one of the pokers and grabbed the bottle of spice on the counter beside him.
The guard yanked out his pistol and snapped back the lock.
Kendril hurled the bottle at the man.
There was a puff of red spice around the man’s head. He yelled, grabbing at his eyes. The pistol in his hand fired aimlessly, the bullet pounding into the kitchen floor.
Kendril stepped up and pummeled the mercenary hard on the side of his head with a two-handed blow of the red-hot poker.
The screaming stopped abruptly and the man collapsed into a heap on the floor.
Captain Mayer stood rooted to the spot. In less than thirty seconds an unarmed man had taken out five of his men. It wasn’t possible. No man could fight like that.
This wasn’t a man. It wasn’t even a Ghostwalker. It was some kind of a demon, a creature of the Void…
Kendril grabbed the second poker again. He turned to face Captain Mayer over the carnage of the kitchen. He gave a terrible smile, a maddened grin that was filled with the lust of battle and the joy of sheer savagery. “I’m waiting,” he said.
Mayer hesitated for a moment. He dropped his sword, then yanked out his own pistol. He trained it on the Ghostwalker in front of him.
“To the Void with making noise,” Mayer spat.
“Get on your feet,” the mercenary ordered.
Maklavir climbed painfully up, one hand supporting himself on a stall. Then it hit him.
He was between the mercenary and the stable’s front door.
“Die like a man,” the guard sneered.
Maklavir turned, ready to bolt.
He stopped cold.
In the front entrance of the stables was the second guard. He was grinning like a jackal.
Maklavir was trapped.
The first guard swished his sword in front of him. It sang as if cleaved through the cold air of the stable.
Maklavir backed up. His hands were still shaking.
He had no weapon, no weapon at all—
“Not so fancy now, are you?” The first guard said mockingly.
Maklavir glanced up. The stable’s lantern hung from a nearby stall.
That’s when he remembered.
He had a weapon after all.
The mercenary stepped forward.
Maklavir leapt to the side. He grabbed at the lantern and flipped open its side panel with one hand, while his other hand whipped something out of his pocket.
Both mercenaries froze.
Maklavir held the grenade’s matchcord close to the candle flame. “Don’t move,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “or I’ll blow us all to the Third Fire.”
Chapter 6
Kendril threw himself behind the kitchen counter.
Mayer’s pistol barked out.
A hanging pot explod
ed in a flurry of sparks. It flew across the kitchen, shattering two wine bottles as it skipped across the counter tops.
Kendril covered his head instinctively from the flying glass. He heard Mayer’s strangled curse, then the sound of his sword being picked up off the ground again.
Kendril looked around him. He had the fire pokers, but they were already cooling, not to mention the fact that they were notched and bent from numerous sword blows.
When all was said and done, a poker wasn’t really designed to withstand combat.
A few feet away from him, Joseph moaned.
Kendril glanced over at his friend, still keeping his head below the level of the counter.
The scout looked bad. He was covered in a sheen of sweat. His hands twitched spasmodically.
And where was Maklavir? How hard was it to get to the stables and back again?
There was the quick thud of Mayer’s footsteps. He was coming down the stairs.
Kendril looked over at the sword that lay near Joseph, the one Maklavir had dropped. It was close, within reach. All he would have to do was to reach out and grab it. A steel blade would—
Kendril forced the thought from his mind.
He couldn’t. He had made a vow. No gentleman’s blade, no sword over two feet in length. Regardless of what Kara had said a few days before, Kendril’s vows were important.
They were all he had.
He just hadn’t expected that his vow would cost the life of a friend.
Kendril shut his eyes, then reached out a hand. He jumped to his feet.
Mayer came around the counter. There was no more call to surrender, no witty banter. He just came right at Kendril. The fury showed plainly in his eyes.
Kendril lifted his bent fire poker and met him.
The first guard took another step forward. He gave a crooked grin. “Is that the best you’ve got, barrister? I’ m disappointed.”
Maklavir twisted nervously. The second guard was advancing towards him from the stable’s doorway as well.
They would be on him in seconds.
“I mean it,” Maklavir croaked. “I’ll light it.”
The first guard’s smile disappeared. He lifted the sword. “Go ahead,” he taunted.
Maklavir’s hand trembled as he held the grenade. What could he do? There were no options, no easy escapes, no—