by C. Greenwood
It was a bleak picture I painted but an accurate one.
I expected an angry response from Tarius. He was a proud ruler, especially proud of his Iron Fists and his walled city. And I had just told him his strongest fighters and best defenses were useless.
“This is your estimation then?” he asked, rubbing his temple with one hand, as though it had begun to ache. “You are confident of our destruction?”
“I am.”
His response caught me by surprise. “Then I will grant your request. I will see a representative of these magickers you place so much trust in and discuss what we can do for one another.”
Stunned by his easy agreement, I nonetheless pressed for more. “I can deliver several representatives. But they would bring certain conditions with them. And without definite promise of immunity from the laws relating to magic, I doubt an envoy would set foot in the province.”
“Do you?” At his knowing expression, I was struck with the certain realization he was somehow aware of the group of magickers I had secretly stashed away in the temple. My mind went to the Fist bodyguard who was supposed to stay close to me. The one I hadn’t seen since yesterday. He must have shadowed me to the temple and rushed to report the presence of the magickers to Tarius.
I cursed my carelessness in allowing myself to be followed by so clumsy a spy.
But Praetor Tarius didn’t appear to be in the mood to order any arrests, tortures, or executions today. He merely said, “Tell your contacts they have their immunity. I will consider the rest.”
Before I could respond, there came the sound of a commotion out in the hall. An instant later, the doors of the audience chamber were shoved open. A Fist, bloodstained and drenched in mud and sweat, rushed into the room to fall at the Praetor’s feet.
“My lord,” he announced. “The enemy has attacked.”
____________________
For a frozen moment, I thought the entire city was under attack. Then the Praetor demanded details.
Breathless, as though he had run the whole way here, the Fist gave a hurried account of an ambush on a company of our soldiers.
“Captain Terrac was leading a small patrol near the lake road within sight of the city, when they were set upon by Skeltai,” he concluded. “The enemy was turned back, but few of our men survived the fight.”
At the mention of Terrac, my stomach lurched. “The captain,” I demanded, interrupting the report. “Is he one of the fallen?”
The Fist didn’t know. He could only tell me the survivors had been taken to the healing hall.
I didn’t waste time trying to find out more but dashed straight out of the audience chamber.
Chapter Sixteen
I ran all the way to the healing hall, uncertain if I would find Terrac among the survivors. By the time I arrived, my breath was coming in short, hard gasps and my pulse pounded in my ears.
I burst through the carved doors to find a scene of chaos. Everywhere, there were blood-soaked wounded Fists and healers rushing about tending to them.
Grabbing a passing healer, I asked breathlessly where I could find the captain. She pointed me toward a quieter, curtained-off alcove. Here I discovered more healers working over a still form on a red-stained cot. I caught a glimpse of gaping wounds, bared entrails, and impossible quantities of blood.
I froze where I stood, disbelieving what I saw before me, unable to comprehend that my most desperate fears were coming true. I didn’t need to be told the injuries I saw were mortal. I had seen enough of such wounds to know the case was hopeless.
But then one of the healers blocking my view shifted and I caught sight of the rest of the bloodied body. It wasn’t Terrac. The face of the dying man was unfamiliar to me. Just some nameless young Fist.
My heart leapt with relief, even as I caught sight of someone stirring at the edge of the scene. There was Terrac, hovering in the background with a stricken look on his face, his gaze focused on the dying soldier and the healers trying to save him.
There was an ugly cut along his eye, a wicked slash that ran from temple to cheekbone, leaving a stream of crimson flowing freely down his face. I saw no other injuries but didn’t hang back to look for them.
In a flood of relief, I ran to throw my arms around him. Not until I felt him reassuringly solid against me could I be certain he was really here and safe.
“I thought you were dead.” My voice came out muffled against his shoulder.
Briefly, I felt his comforting hand on my hair. But he was distant. Distracted. I didn’t need my magic to sense his pain.
Pulling back from the embrace, I followed his attention to the soldier lying motionless on the cot as the healers swarmed around him, trying to stem the flow of his blood. I could have told them their efforts would come to nothing. Already the Fist had the pale look of a corpse about him.
Terrac must have seen the same. “It should have been me,” he said hollowly. I thought he was speaking more to himself than to me.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, my tone softer than my words. “It shouldn’t have been anybody. Least of all you.”
I touched the drying blood on his cheek. “You should have stitches. Come away now and let the healers look after you.”
He resisted my gentle tugging at him, his haunted gaze never swerving from the bleeding Fist.
“The healers are needed by others. I can wait.” Like his face, his voice lacked emotion.
“Then at least let me clean you up a bit,” I insisted, snatching a nearby basin and cloth. I pushed him down onto the edge of the next cot, where he sat in stiff silence as I bathed the wound. It was a nasty business, with loose flaps of skin gaping on either side. But he didn’t seem to feel my prodding around it.
“His name was Winoc,” he said abruptly, as if continuing some previous conversation. “He was sixteen and eager to wear the black and crimson.”
I glanced back at the youth, still hovering on the brink between life and death. He was so clearly about to tip over the edge that it seemed natural to speak of him in past tense.
“Was he really your friend?” I asked, puzzled that his fate affected Terrac so sharply. He’d certainly seen soldiers fall in battle before. I had to remind myself he had lived and fought alongside Fists for these past few years. In him, they did not provoke the indifference or even contempt they stirred in me.
“He was new,” Terrac answered. “I didn’t know him well, but I trained him these past few weeks. You must have seen him the other afternoon when you came to me on the training ground.”
My memory flashed back to the youth I had seen Terrac sparring with the previous day. The one who let him win. No wonder I had not recognized the Fist. He looked very different now from the healthy young man he had been yesterday.
“Tell me what happened,” I urged.
Terrac said, “We were on a routine patrol. Nothing unusual, just a regular check of the roads out of Dimmingwood. We weren’t even without sight of the forest. It was broad daylight and there were a dozen of us, well armed and on horseback. There should have been no trouble.”
His face had taken on a faraway look. “But then the screams came from behind. That unearthly howl of the Skeltai. You remember the sound?”
I did. Sometimes the savage battle cries of the beast-like figures in their animal skins still rose up in the night to haunt my dreams.
“I turned the column around,” he continued, his words tumbling out quickly now, as though he couldn’t stop them. “The enemy appeared out of nowhere, like they’d come up through holes in the ground. We’ve known them to portal magically before but never outside the forest or so close to the city. They were on the plain now between us and the lake road. We couldn’t have retreated to the city even if we wanted to. And once we recovered from the ambush, we shouldn’t have needed to. There were twice as many of them as of us but we’ve faced those odds before and prevailed. But this time was different. They overwhelmed us, and before I knew how it happened,
my men were going down. I was unhorsed, and by the time I recovered, there were few of us left in the fight. But we did fight, knowing the tortures Skeltai inflict on surviving prisoners. We were determined not to be taken alive.”
“And how did this happen?” I asked, dabbing the bloody gash beside his eye.
“I was up against a big fellow, a Skeltai warrior with an axe that he used with deadly skill. It was already wet with the blood of fallen Fists. And now it was my turn to lose ground before his long-armed swing. You were right before when you noticed my balance is off. I couldn’t block his blows fast enough. He was toying with me, about to hew me in half, when Winoc came to my aid. He was already matched against a foe of his own, but when he saw I was in trouble, he took on my opponent too. That’s how he received his death wound. Covering for me.”
Terrac fell silent. We watched together as the healers gave up their efforts and stepped back from the prone form of the young Fist. He was dead. Someone covered his face with a black death veil, an ancient custom of healers.
To distract Terrac, I prompted, “How did the rest of you survive?”
“Reinforcements from a second patrol we were to rendezvous with. They happened upon us in time to come to our rescue. We had the numbers after that to obliterate the enemy and collect our dead and wounded. Help came too late for them.”
He looked me in the eye for the first time. “You know what I was thinking during the fighting, when I thought I wouldn’t make it? It’s an unlikely thought for such a time, but I was wishing you had trusted me.”
“Trusted you when?” I asked, confused.
“Always. But especially when I wrote to warn you away from returning to Selbius. I know you think I only wanted to keep you apart from the Praetor to protect my own interests. But my warning was genuine. I didn’t know anything about the assassination attempts, but I foresaw enough of the Skeltai situation to want you out of harm’s way.”
“You should have known I wouldn’t stay away no matter what warning you gave,” I said.
He wouldn’t be distracted. “I’ve been ambitious, Ilan, but not as ruthless as you think. I never told Praetor Tarius about Swiftsfell. I never would have endangered innocent people, or you, to gain my own ends.”
“You say all this as if it’s a matter for the past,” I observed. “Do you fear you’re about to lose your influence with the Praetor?”
He looked away. “My position doesn’t matter anymore. After today, nothing does.”
I was about to ask what he meant by the ominous remark, when a healer came to stitch up Terrac’s injury.
I left them alone. I had much to think about.
____________________
Back in the keep, I found Praetor Tarius was no longer in audience. The castle steward informed me that after news of the attack the Praetor had suddenly taken ill and retired to his private chambers. Given his weak appearance earlier, I was unsurprised.
Deciding this would be a good time to carry out my previous intention of confronting Lady Morwena, I visited her rooms, only to find her out.
As I wandered the dark castle corridors, debating my next move, the murmur of voices fell upon my ear. I rounded a corner to spy two men, counselors Branek and Delecarte, locked in conversation at a secluded end of the hall. My curiosity stirred by their lowered voices and furtive glances, I flattened myself to the wall. Inching closer, I clung to the shadows between the pools of golden light cast by flickering wall torches.
Snatches of their conversation drifted my way. Delecarte was advising Branek that the Skeltai attack on the Fist patrol was a sure sign the enemy was growing bolder. They now felt confident enough to attack in the open and within sight of the city walls.
Delecarte said, “The conclusion we ought to draw is the Skeltai are finally looking beyond Dimmingwood to Selbius. An invasion of the city is likely imminent—a matter of days. Even hours. Praetor Tarius has given instruction for our defenses to be raised and the city guard placed on high alert.”
I didn’t wait to hear more. If what Delecarte said was true, we would soon be needing all the help here we could get. I must take the news to Kiril, so he could appraise Dradac and the rest of the Dimmingwood outlaws.
But as I prepared to leave the keep, I was annoyed to discover my Fist bodyguard had reappeared to trail me. Doubtless resenting my giving him the slip the other night, he was unlikely to be shaken so easily again.
So I sent Jarrod in my stead after describing to him where he would find Kiril and what message he should deliver. Even as I made these hasty arrangements, I was well aware it would take more than a day for the news to reach Dradac. I could only hope we had that much time to spare.
I also instructed Jarrod to update Hadrian and the Swiftsfell group on recent developments. We might be needing our magickers to fight on our side sooner than expected.
As the boy scurried off, I realized he was becoming fairly useful these days. Maybe it was as well I kept him on hand for the time being. With the rapidly evolving Skeltai situation, he could be safer inside the keep than out of it. Particularly now that I believed I may have found out my would-be killer. If it truly was Lady Morwena, she would find it more difficult to do us harm now I was aware of the game she played.
Having accomplished what I could for the present, and with both Praetor Tarius and Lady Morwena unavailable to me, I dined in the great hall and turned in early. I suspected I would need all the rest I could get for whatever was soon to come. Tonight, I would go to bed fully clothed and with my weapons close at hand.
Chapter Seventeen
I was restless that night. Even after spending so many of the past few days in bed recovering from the poisoning, I was still unused to the softness of my mattress. After a lifetime of sleeping rough, it was difficult to adjust. I finally wrapped myself in a blanket and moved to lie on the hard floor before the fireplace.
I was finally asleep when I heard dimly through my dreams a heavy creaking noise like the groaning of hinges. My sleep-clouded mind did not immediately register the sound of my bedchamber door being opened. When it did, I became instantly alert, my thoughts leaping to stealthy assassins and Skeltai attacks on the keep. I remained motionless, feigning sleep but for my hand moving furtively to the knife beneath my pillow. One eye opened in a narrow slit, I peered into the gloom.
The fire at my back had died low, its glowing embers bathing the room in an orangey glow. My bed and other furnishings were indistinct shapes, throwing long ominous shadows against the walls. I could sense my bow propped in a corner of the room but it was cold and slumbering, offering no warning of impending danger. Likewise, the dragon scale augmenter was cool and lifeless against my breast.
I directed a thin trickle of magic through the amulet and let it spread like a net around the room. Through it, I finally sensed the intruder approaching closer, her presence vaguely familiar.
Gripping my knife, I bolted upright to confront her.
I was met with the sight of a frightened-looking Eisa, who started back at my sudden motion.
“Eisa.” Relief flowed through me, and I put away my weapon.
Then I abruptly remembered the girl had recently been involved in my poisoning. “What are you doing creeping about at this hour?” I asked suspiciously. “I might have killed you.”
The mute girl looked at me with round eyes and shook her head in a gesture I couldn’t understand. Her expression was, if possible, even more serious than usual. I knew at once something was wrong.
I made my tone less demanding. “What is it? You can tell me, Eisa.”
I had learned the servant was more inclined to cooperate when approached gently. But she wouldn’t be wheedled into speaking, instead making agitated hand gestures and beckoning me toward the door. Clearly, she wanted me to go somewhere.
Mystified, I nonetheless couldn’t ignore her urgent manner. After unrolling myself from the blankets and hopping around in the semidark, pulling on my boots, I was ready to depart.
Slipping my knife down my boot as an afterthought, I scrambled after Eisa, who was already out the door and hastening down the hall. At the bend in the corridor, she paused and waited impatiently for me to catch up. But her intention was to lead, not to accompany, and as soon as she was satisfied that I saw where she was, she hurried on. My limbs still weak from sleep, I had to quicken my pace in order not to lose her.
At this hour, few torches remained lit, but there were enough occasional islands of light to illumine my way down the drafty corridor. Whatever Eisa’s reason for haste, I saw no sign it had disturbed the household. Everyone was abed, the halls abandoned and eerily silent. After the events of yesterday, my mind was filled with paranoid notions. The long tapestries on the walls felt vaguely threatening, and each suddenly seemed like potential hiding places for stealthy observers. Was it my imagination that they rustled slightly as I passed?
Realizing I had lost Eisa, I sped up. I recognized the part of the keep we were entering. I had come this way before when visiting the Praetor’s study. But it wasn’t to that room I was led this time. Eisa had finally stopped and stood waiting at the entrance to an unfamiliar chamber. The door was slightly ajar, admitting a surprisingly bright glare of dancing light into the corridor. Through the door, I could see a fireplace, much larger than the one in my little room, alight with a crackling blaze. There were lamps lit too and figures moving about the room.