“Your father sent me,” he said, as if he could read her mind. “Now sit still while I untie you.”
He walked around her chair, pulling her gag free as he did. She spat several times, wishing she could get rid of the sweaty taste. Behind her, the binds on her feet and hands loosened, and with a soft cry she lurched from the chair and spun about. The Watcher stood there, eyes on her, ropes in hand.
“Take me to my father,” she said.
“I will,” the Watcher said, the shadows returning to his face. “But I still don’t know who hired the Serpent Guild to kidnap you. If I take you to safety, the man or woman responsible may arrive while I’m gone. That means whoever wished you captured could do so again, and next time I may not be fast enough to save you. Do you understand?”
“I think,” she said, though she didn’t really. “What do you want from me?”
He gestured to the chair.
“If you’re brave enough, I can put you back in this chair, and we can wait. When the other party comes, I’ll put an end to it, permanently. I need you to trust me, Julianne. I’ll understand if you want to leave…”
She thought of going through it all over again, of trying to sleep at night knowing whoever wished her kidnapped or dead still lurked in the shadows outside the window to her keep. Though it made her hands shake, she nodded.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep me safe,” she said. “Just tell me what to do.”
He smiled at her.
“A brave girl,” he said. “Your parents should be proud. Sit down in the chair and wait.”
She did, crossing her arms to fend off the cold she felt despite the warmth of the warehouse. The Watcher removed his large, strange-looking cloak, setting it on top of a crate in the corner. After that he removed Stan’s green cloak, checked it for blood, and put it around his neck. Once done, he dragged the bodies one by one to the same far corner where the shadows were at their deepest. Julianne watched with grim fascination. When he was done, the Watcher returned to her chair and stepped around back.
“Put your hands behind you,” he said.
She did as she was told, and then she felt the ropes slide once more around her wrists.
“The knots won’t be real,” he whispered into her ear. “The moment you pull against them they’ll come apart, so don’t panic or do anything rash. I need you to trust me, you understand?”
She nodded, praying that she did.
The Watcher circled her, examining his handiwork. Apparently satisfied, he picked up the gag and moved to put it her mouth. Julianne turned her head to the side, and as much as she didn’t want to, she felt fresh tears roll down her cheeks.
“Please,” she said.
The Watcher paused, then tied the gag loosely around her neck instead, letting it hang down as if she’d forced it free.
“Remember,” he said. “Stay calm, and no matter what happens, keep your faith in me. You won’t die this day, I promise.”
And with that they waited, the Watcher hovering over her as he stared at the warehouse’s lone door. Julianne didn’t know how long they waited, only knew it felt like forever. Her rear hurt from the hard wood, her back ached from staying still so long, but she knew she had to be patient. She was the heir to her family’s numerous plantations, and as her mother often told her, suffering through difficulties was part of the life they must live. At last the door creaked open, and she straightened.
Armed soldiers entered, one after the other, until there were six in the warehouse. Her protector watched them with arms crossed over his chest, as if without a care in the world. Last came a man in a finely fitted vest, black pants, and dark hair pulled into a ponytail. A smile was on his face, a face so familiar Julianne could not contain herself.
“Uncle?” she gasped.
The Watcher glanced at her, mouth turned to a frown, and she shrank in her chair. Meanwhile, Uncle Ross chuckled.
“I must admit,” he said. “Of all the family reunions we’ve had in the past ten years, this is my favorite.”
The soldiers fanned out, two remaining before Ross to protect him, the other four surrounding Julianne and the Watcher from all sides. Julianne’s panic grew, and she struggled to remain seated. The Watcher had just taken on five at once, but that was with surprise against men without armor. Now there were six, and these soldiers carried long blades and wore chainmail beneath their tunics. What hope could he possibly have?
“Good of you to join us,” the Watcher said with that strange whisper of his. “Now hand over the rest of the payment.”
Ross reached into a pocket, withdrawing a small bag of coins tied shut with a string. He tossed it underhanded, the bag landing near Julianne’s feet with a loud, metallic rattle.
“It’s all there,” he said. “Now do the deed, or get out of the way.”
The Watcher’s hands drifted to the handles of his swords.
“Consider it done,” he said. “You can go.”
Ross shook his head.
“Not good enough, rogue. I want my brother’s lands, and I want them without any fear of complications. Julianne dies, and before my own eyes. I’m not risking you squirreling her away to ransom back to my brother after I’m gone.”
Julianne’s eyes widened. Her father’s lands? But what did that have to do with her? How did her dying help her uncle? The Watcher seemed to understand, though, and he slowly shook his head.
“Murdering your niece for a chance at an inheritance? You’d fit in well with the people of Veldaren, foreigner.”
Ross shrugged.
“I’ll consider that flattery. Now if you wish to keep breathing, this is your last chance. Kill the little bitch, or get out of my sight.”
The Watcher drew his swords, and he placed one against the skin of Julianne’s neck. She tensed, body shivering, teeth chattering. Trust him, he’d said, and she tried to do just that. Looking up, peering into the shadow that was his face, she saw him nod ever so slightly.
“Kill the bitch?” he asked. “If you insist.”
The sword vanished from her throat as the Watcher spun into motion. Like a savage beast he flung himself into the soldier at her left, but unlike a beast he made no roar, no sound at all, just the chilling silence and ethereal movements as his body leapt through the air, swords like extended claws. That silence broke the moment he made contact, blood splashing, soldier howling in pain, Julianne screaming at the sudden ferocity as the other guards came rushing toward her with drawn steel. Not him, but her.
Julianne leapt from the chair, and true to his word, the Watcher’s knots slipped open with ease.
“Watcher!” she screamed, running toward him. The man spun, green cloak twirling, and when he saw her he ripped it from his shoulders and flung it over her head.
“Drop!” he screamed, and she instantly obeyed. As the cloak hit the men behind her she fell to her knees, curled into a ball, and put her hands atop her head. Nothing but a blur, the Watcher sailed over her, twirling midair, and then she heard steel clashing against steel, shockingly close. Teeth clenched, she curled tighter, listening to the battle, listening to the pained screams of another soldier. Something hit her back, and she flung forward, rolling to spin around. It was the Watcher who had kicked her, pushing her away as one of the soldier’s swords struck the ground where she’d been. Frozen with fear, she watched as her protector battled two-on-one, swords bouncing back and forth between his foes, and though he was outnumbered, it was clear the Watcher was the one on the offensive. The soldiers looked so sluggish in comparison, so slow and weak and baffled.
The first dropped, blood gushing from his neck. Another took his place, only to quickly find a sword through his eye. Uncle Ross swore, and it seemed he finally realized there would be no victory for him that day. The final soldier leapt back, trying to guard the path to the door as her uncle fled. He shouldn’t have bothered. The Watcher slid about him like water around a stone, smooth and quick, and then the sabers slashed out Ross’s an
kles before he could finish opening the door. As her uncle screamed, the Watcher spun around, anticipating the final guard’s rushing attack. Both blades curled around his chainmail, piercing through his armpits and deep into his body. The man froze for a moment, blood gargling from his mouth, and then he dropped.
Yanking his weapons free, the Watcher stood among the bodies, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed in deep. Drops fell from his blood-soaked sabers, and not a hint of his face was visible through the darkness of his hood. Even knowing his reason for being there, even knowing she was safe, Julianne found herself more frightened of him than ever before. He’d killed eleven men, and not a scratch was on him. The only sound now was that of Uncle Ross groaning in pain as he crawled to the door.
The Watcher knelt over him, and without ceremony or hesitation, he plunged one of his swords deep into Ross’s back.
“Bitch killed, as requested,” he whispered into her dying uncle’s ear as he twisted the blade. “Consider yourself lucky to receive such a quick death. You deserve far worse.”
The Watcher stood, cleaned his weapons on her uncle’s shirt, and then retrieved his original mismatched gray cloak. Sweeping it over his shoulders and clasping it tight, he turned toward her. The shadow around his face receded, and she saw his blue eyes, and in them was a strange sort of sympathy.
“Come, Julianne,” he said, hand outstretched. “You’re safe now.”
It seemed a strange thought, but though his cloak, his shirt, and his arms were all stained, there was no blood on his hands. Rising, she accepted it, and the Watcher smiled.
“Let’s take you home.”
COMEUPPANCE
Linda Robertson
BRON’S SWEATY PALMS itched. His thighs flexed and his knees tingled, wanting to move. But he dare not. All his suffering, all his rage, every moment of his long, long wait faded away.
The gold was approaching.
His body demanded he charge ahead and be close to the treasure. But that was not the plan. He needed to remain hidden. He needed to watch and count. So, he studied the riding party while holding fast to the tree trunk—lest his desire conquer his mind and he find himself wandering into the enemy’s path, drunk from the proximity of the valuable ore.
Accompanying the wagon were six sentinels on horseback, three in front, three behind. Another perched beside the driver, and two more dozed within the carriage. They all looked to be healthy and hearty men.
Ten in all. Ten!
He’d have to get past more men than he’d expected to even breathe on the well-guarded hope. His preparations were already in place.
They would have to do.
TIMOR SHIFTED IN his seat, beginning to understand why the other sentinels had quarreled about who rode horses and who sat the wagon. After a morning rolling along this rough terrain, the wheels made every bump an assault. He’d be sitting here the rest of the day, and all of tomorrow as well.
A saddle and an easy-gaited steed had to better than this wooden seat beside Old Hemly. He and the other riders had drawn twigs to determine who would sit up front. Having recently signed on as a sentinel, he was gullible enough to think he’d notched a little victory when he won.
But he hadn’t met Old Hemly.
The man reeked of pickled beans.
The rising heat worsened the stench.
By midday, Timor was certain of two things: one, he’d never eat pickled beans again. And two, being on a horse was definitely better than being behind a gassy one. Let alone six gassy ones. He used to regard horses as majestic animals, but that view was dissipating much faster than the pong of their farts.
What other beliefs will I lose to this drudgery?
His father had died of a sudden illness, and now he and his mother had to repay his debt to the monarchy. King Callos said he would consider the amount repaid when they had both served him for five years—now four years, eleven months and fifteen days.
Timor hadn’t wanted to be a sentinel. He hadn’t even wanted to be a tailor as his father had been. He’d wanted to be a baker, but most bakers would find him too old to take on as an apprentice when his obligation to the crown ended. This misfortune would ruin his whole life.
He stared into his hands, at the callouses and blisters two weeks of sword-handling had given him. These hands were meant for kneading dough, not bleeding men.
Thinking of his sweet mother toiling in the fields, his eyes threatened to water. Feeling certain that, should this group be confronted, he would be the first to die didn’t allay those tears. Worse, his death would do more than grieve his mother. It would extend her servitude.
He understood his father’s joy in sewing. Taking flat cloth and creating a garment was like magic. Combining ingredients to make breads and cakes seemed a similar kind of alchemy. As a sentinel, though, he created nothing. He was simply a warm body standing in opposition to anyone who might seek to rob King Callos.
But no one had stopped the king from filching clothes from his father’s shop.
Oh, His Highness had asked for the garments and attended fittings, but he claimed that since he had not actually “commissioned” them, he did not have to pay for them. No one forced the king to pay for what he called a “tribute.” Apparently tributes neither offset taxes nor garnered royal pardoning where debts were concerned.
And now he sat guarding the gold of a man who wouldn’t pay his father.
Just a few shavings of this would have kept his mother from toiling. A few more shavings and he’d have been a baker’s apprentice. Instead, at thirteen, he was forced from his home, his dog, and his tutoring, to wear a uniform and carry a sword.
What do I know of weapons? Of stopping experienced thieves?
Nothing.
The two weeks of training he and the dozen others new to the service had been given was comprised of how to draw, hold, and sheathe a sword, and a few drills such as stabbing into peasant clothes stuffed with hay.
The captain had said Timor’s half-heartedness earned him a place in the kitchen peeling potatoes. His heart soared…until the captain added that the kitchen was already full of boys suffering from the affliction of aimlessness. He assigned Timor a position ‘beyond his earning,’ and advised him to be grateful for the opportunity to bring himself ‘up to the loftiness of the assignment of a red uniform.’
Timor was convinced the captain’s speech was as much a ruse as the twig-picking for seats had been.
The only good thing Timor recognized in his new situation was the fact that he would earn the same wage every day whether he sat on a wagon, rode a horse, or stood at attention outside the door of a vault.
Four years. Eleven months. Fifteen days.
He scanned around and sighed as if his spirit could escape on the air.
Old Hemly leaned closer and whispered, “You scared, boy?”
“Of what?”
“This path.”
“Why would a bumpy path scare me?”
“Hmpf. Do you know why it’s bumpy?”
He scanned the path between the horses, expecting to see ruts. Instead he saw an endless series of patches where the soil had been turned. Each dug-up spot was soft and the wheels dipped in, then heaved up onto harder ground.
“It’s bumpy because when they felled the trees to get through they barely paused to chop the roots out, let alone waste time trying to level it.”
“Why not?”
“Has no one told you of the beast of Brock Forest?”
Timor shook his head. He’d heard old men spin yarns before.
“No one mentioned the carnage the beast wrought on the men making this path wide enough for a wagon carrying the king’s gold?”
Timor frowned. “No.”
“Bodies ripped and burned and partially devoured. Each new party of axe men found the remains of the last and sent one man back with the news as the others began work. They started at the onset of summer. We’re the first wagon through. Took them all those weeks to make way f
or a wagon and cost the lives of over sixty men. Near the end, any axe men left refused the King’s call and he put axes into the hands of sentinels like you.”
“Why bother with a new road? The King’s Road is smooth.”
“Ah yes. It runs through six towns where we might find food and lodging, and that sounds smart, but it takes eight days to travel from the mine fort to the King’s castle. In that eight day trip, there are six towns where folks may decide to rob the wagon, and one night on the open road where brigands could lie in wait. A road through Brock Forest, on the other hand, means the trip would take merely two days. Only one night of risk. And in a forest known to be inhabited by a cruel beast, even the bravest thieves count the risk as too high.” He fixed Timor with a squinty-eyed look.
“I’m too old to be scared by stories.” Even so, he checked the position of the sun. There was plenty of light left in the day.
Old Hemly snorted. “I’m not trying to scare you, lad, I’m trying to warn you. Ask the others when we make camp. Ask that man at the lead, the one named Derk. He’s the King’s favorite nephew, don’t you know. A learned man with integrity and character. You have to believe what he says.”
“I’ll ask.” Timor wanted to resituate in his seat, but he wasn’t going to give a hint that the smelly man’s tale might have gotten to him.
“I bet you haven’t been told about the curse of the mine, either, have you?”
“No.”
“They say the gold from the King’s new mine—the gold in the chests within this very wagon—is cursed and that all who come in contact with it will bear the curse.”
“What curse? Boils? Hair loss? That all your livestock will fall ill?”
Looking from the corner of his eye, Old Hemly asked, “Are you so brave, lad, are you so powerful that you can mock a curse?”
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