Traitor to the Blood

by J. C.

  "Emêl!" She cried out.

  She fled down the alley beyond Chane's opponent before she stopped to look back.

  Chane jerked the stiletto from his chest and rushed forward. His opponent whipped something chin and glinting out of the lashed-down cloak and charged to meet him. Chane swung, twisting his blade's path into a thrust. He connected with nothing but night air. The gray-clad man had already leaped sideways to the alley wall at full speed.

  Narrow feet stepped once, twice, three times sideways along the building across from the inn. His hands passed on both sides of Chane's head as he dropped to the alley floor again.

  Welstiel saw the garrote wire as the man pivoted behind Chane and pulled it tight.

  Instead of gasping, Chane pushed off with both legs and threw himself backward. The gray-clad man tucked up his knees against Chane's back.

  The assailants shoulders hit the alley floor, and he flipped Chane over himself, following on the momentum. Chane's sword clattered from his grip as he landed facedown on the packed dirt. The assailant ground his knees into Chane's back as he pulled the wire tight.

  Chane pushed up on all fours. His opponent pulled harder on the wire. Black fluid seeped around it down Chane's throat as he reached back to grab for the fingers holding one of the garrote handles.

  Welstiel pulled his own sword, for things had gone too far.

  The inn's rear door swung inward and two men in yellow felt tabards over chain vests rushed out, wide-bladed sabers in hand. Welstiel pulled back again.

  "You, there!" one guard shouted at Chane. "Stop!"

  Two more men appeared at the alley's far end, coming up next to the noblewoman.

  Chane's opponent released one garrote handle and jerked the other as he thrust with his knees. The wire lashed Chane's throat as he was propelled forward, skidding facedown in the alley. The gray-clad man turned and fled the opposite way.

  One guard closed in, trying to pin Chane down with his boot. Chane rolled away against the alley's far wall and kicked out into the man's stomach. The guard's feet left the ground as he slammed back into his companion. Both men hit the inn's half-open door, and it tore from its hinges as they toppled into the rear hallway.

  Chane snarled at them. When he saw the other two near the woman, he fled down the alley in the wake of his opponent. One guard with the noblewoman began to follow.

  "No!" she ordered, and he immediately halted. "Get me inside and wake the baron."

  Welstiel waited as the woman was escorted into the Bronze Bell. Soon the alley was empty. An unknown guardian had been watching over this woman. Welstiel wanted no part of this. All he wanted was to keep Magiere under his control. Chane's erratic behavior had created unwanted attention. He slipped down the alley to track down his lunatic companion.

  * * * *

  Leesil sat at a table in the common room of Byrd's inn, where he could face the front door.

  Anmaglâhk had come to Venjetz, the home of his youth, just as he himself had come looking for his past. Of all places and people, they'd come here to Byrd the very night Leesil had arrived.

  One too many coincidences, in a land where happenstance made the wise wary.

  Few of the cats were still about. Night was the time for such creatures— and others—to prowl about their business. Leesil stared at the drawings, trying to speculate upon their many missing details, and the front door's latch creaked.

  Byrd stepped inside. He froze at the sight of Leesil, then quickly closed the door.

  "Couldn't sleep either, eh?" he said, and casually tossed his cloak atop the bar.

  Leesil shoved the drawings to the table's center. "What are these for?"

  Byrd remained relaxed, perhaps contemplating a response. Leesil watched the man's hands as much as his eyes. His cuffs were rolled up twice, exposing thick wrists bare of anything up his sleeves.

  "Been nosing about in my things," Byrd observed without answering. "Not many could've found those."

  There were no signs of Leesil's own training in Byrd, though there was something in the way the man planted himself before the table. The last eight years since Leesil's escape felt as if they'd never happened.

  He'd never left this land any more than Byrd had. They were both part of the world Darmouth and his father had made. Across the table from Leesil stood a cunning friend, a deceitful enemy, or most likely both. Few but the two of them understood that it wouldn't matter either way. Not when the moment came to kill Byrd.

  "Why were you talking to an anmaglâhk? Leesil continued. "Have they been watching for me… reporting to you?"

  Byrd paused too long. Long enough for Leesil to see he understood what the question said as clearly as what it asked. Byrd knew more than he shared, perhaps playing Leesil to some end from the moment he'd arrived.

  "You've a high opinion of yourself," Byrd answered. "Do you think you're the only one of interest to them?"

  Leesil realized his error. His second question revealed he had a history at odds with these particular elves. In turn, Byrd's answer said much as well.

  Byrd hadn't questioned the strange Elvish term Leesil used, so the man was well aware of what these elves were. This begged another question. How had Byrd made their acquaintance and gained their assistance for… whatever… when they detested humans?

  Tension held fast beneath the pretense of polite conversation.

  "What should I think?" Leesil asked. "Why else would they be here?"

  Byrd cocked his head ever so slightly. He slipped his right hand behind his back slowly enough that the movement would be clearly seen. When he withdrew it, a wide blade protruded like a squat spade from across the knuckles of his fist.

  Leesil relaxed all tension in his body.

  Most people tensed when threatened, but tight muscle didn't react quickly enough in the final moment. Leesil had spent his entire youth altering his instincts, shaping them. He lazily shifted one forearm beneath the table, tilting it between his thighs, until a stiletto hilt slid into his hand.

  Byrd stepped to the table, remaining noticeably out of arm's reach. He pressed the blade's tip slowly into the table's surface. When he released his grip, it remained poised there, tilted toward him as he pulled out a chair and sat down across from Leesil.

  "So what's your gripe, lad?" he asked like a concerned father giving all his attention to an angry son.

  Still relaxed, Leesil glanced at the blade.

  Wide and long as a hand's palm, it resembled a skinner's blade for working hide. No guard, with a short "hilt" ending in a crossbar, it was gripped in one's fist to cut, stab, or gouge a target. The naive would see its open display like raising empty hands or releasing one's weapon in good faith.

  Leesil knew better what it meant. Byrd was an infighter.

  Not like Leesil, with thin stilettos used for surprise or lethal subtlety or the weaponless ways taught by his mother. Byrd would come straight in with speed, weight, and muscle for a close encounter. He wouldn't care what it cost him so long as he finished his opponent first. Brutal efficiency in place of cunning precision.

  Whatever Byrd chose to do, it would be backed by determination few possessed and most wouldn't care to face. He did not attack; instead, he sighed.

  "I didn't know you were coming," he said, "and these drawings have nothing to do with you. None of this has to do with you, lad."

  "Back in Bela, I met one of these elves," Leesil said. "His name was Sgaile, and he hinted that my mother was alive, imprisoned by her people. Did your friends tell you—"

  "Nein'a alive?" Byrd asked quickly, and his surprise appeared genuine. "You heard this from one of them?"

  "Not exactly." Leesil wondered if this might work in his favor, if Byrd began questioning his associates, but it seemed just one more risk of betrayal. "There was enough implication in Sgaile's words, and, if true, I needed to know if Gavril survived as well. So I came here. Did you know she might still be alive?"

  Byrd shook his head as he growled back. "
I didn't know! If I had, I would've—"

  'Perhaps you were preoccupied," Leesil countered with a quick glance at the drawings, hoping to keep Byrd off balance. "With too many missing pieces."

  Byrd's voice took on an open, hard edge. "Did you even look at the state of these lands—of the people—on the way here?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you help them, if you could?"

  "That's a pointless question."

  "Would you?"

  Leesil suddenly felt like a fool. A second-rate one, at that, as pieces of Byrd's scheme started to become clear.

  Whoever was getting the details for Byrd's drawings did so piece by erratic piece. As if there was no telling when, how, or where the next scrap might be acquired. Byrd's informant wasn't a regular or confidant of Darmouth's close company, but someone who gained rare and limited access within the keep. Such an undependable source meant all other avenues were closed to Byrd, or Darmouth had grown so paranoid that no one close to him could be enticed. It also meant the informant was someone desperate, perhaps fanatical, who had succumbed to the delusion of revolution—Byrd's delusion.

  Leesil knew of such. He had betrayed many in his youth. And though it was mostly guesswork, there was the other hint they'd already discussed—the Anmaglâhk.

  "How much longer will it be," Leesil asked, "before you're ready to kill Darmouth?"

  Not that he cared, since it would be no help to him. Every question Byrd ignored strengthened this new realization as well as Leesil's first suspicion. Byrd might play any side to get what he wanted, even the son of an old friend.

  "I know nothing more of your parents," Byrd said flatly, as if Leesil had never asked about Darmouth. "Nothing more than what I've told you."

  "Do you think removing Darmouth will change anything?" Leesil continued, offering his father's old friend one more chance to talk. "How many officers and so-called nobles wait eagerly to take his place? It's how Darmouth's own grandfather came to power."

  Byrd continued in his own conversation, still ignoring Leesil's questions. "But don't stop looking for your parents on my say-so. I've not much but guesses and scant facts concerning Nein'a and Gavril, but perhaps those drawings might give you some leads."

  He stood up.

  Leesil sat upright, feet flat on the floor, and spun the stiletto in his palm. He lifted the blade until the point was just below the table's edge.

  One slap of his free hand would flatten and pin Byrd's blade to the table as the man reached for it. And that movement would provide a clear opening to pierce Byrd below the jaw… slide the stiletto tip up along the spine into the base of the skull.

  Byrd turned away, lifted his cloak carefully from the bar, and trudged toward the stairs.

  "I'm going to bed. You should do the same. I'll let you know if I need the drawings, but best you don't leave them lying about."

  Leesil stared after the man he'd been waiting to kill. The little he'd uncovered hadn't settled his suspicions, and still he'd hesitated when the moment came.

  Perhaps he should take Magiere, Wynn, and Chap and head straight into the mountains to find a way to the elves' homeland. But what if Sgaile had lied? He'd be leading his companions into an unknown territory, where humans would be unwelcome, and all for no reason. What if his father was alive, somehow, locked away beneath the keep?

  Byrd disappeared at the top of the stairs.

  The moment had passed, and Leesil looked down at the squat blade in the tabletop and the unfinished drawings of Darmouth's keep. Indecision began to build to despair as the front door's latch creaked once again.

  Leesil reversed the stiletto, grasping the blade as he swung his hand wide, ready to throw. The door opened, and the common room's low light spilled outward to reveal a pale face in the dark.

  "Put that away," Magiere said.

  She stepped in, closing the door. Her black hair hung loose across the shoulders of her hauberk, which was buckled down and fitted for combat. Her falchion was unsheathed in her grip.

  Leesil felt an unexplained chill at the sight of her. "What were you doing out there?"

  "I don't trust that man," she said. Her irises turned dark at the sight of the blade stuck in the tabletop. "What happened here that I didn't see?"

  "You were listening?" Leesil replied. "I told you to stay away. I'll handle Byrd my—"

  "Your judgment has been…" Magiere snapped, but never finished. "I told you, you're not leaving my side. And don't fight me about it again."

  Leesil looked away. Magiere tried to play bodyguard, yet couldn't see that she was the one who needed protecting. She didn't understand this world. Leesil's hand shook as he slid the stiletto back into its sheath.

  "Go to bed," he told her, trying to sound calm. When she was about to argue, he added, "I'll be along once I've gathered the drawings and put out the lanterns."

  Her gaze shifted sharply to the wrist where he'd just sheathed his blade. She sheathed her own sword and headed up the stairs.

  Leesil sat back, and his hands trembled.

  Magiere had been outside the whole time.

  He'd come here prepared to kill an old acquaintance. That was just the way of things, and there was nothing to feel about it. When it happened… if it had happened… at any sound of struggle, Magiere would've rushed in to protect him.

  Only to see him murder a man in front of her.

  * * * *

  "You fool!"

  Welstiel had no trouble following Chane, and waited until he was certain that Chane was alone in an alley before closing on him. As Chane spun about, Welstiel grabbed him and slammed him against a stone wall to the alley's side.

  Chane did not resist. His neck still oozed black fluid from the garrote line just above the scar of his beheading. His eyes were vacant and desolate, as if he did not know where he was or did not care.

  Welstiel released his grip and stepped back. Common sense told him it was time to get rid of Chane one way or another, but he did not wish to. Not yet.

  "Now you do need to feed," he said. "We will go to the east side, far from the main gates and our inn. Some market area where refugee peasants try to hide."

  Chane looked down at the black stains on his shirt where the stiletto had struck. "They plan to assassinate Darmouth. That was an elf that attacked me."

  Welstiel stepped in close. "What? Who is planning this?"

  With halting words and rasping voice, Chane recounted what he had seen and heard between the noblewoman and a man called "Byrd." Particularly that a homecoming half-breed stayed at the man's inn, which meant Magiere was there as well.

  Welstiel listened carefully, anger fading. "It's not safe for you at the Bronze Bell. Those guards or the woman might recognize you. But I need to go back quickly, before the panic subsides. We passed an inn nearer the gate, the Ivy Vine. Do you remember it?"

  Chane's composure returned, and he pulled his cloak over his wounded chest. "Yes, I saw it."

  ''Go and feed, but be cautious. Then get to the Ivy Vine and stay out of sight."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Go! I will gather our things and join you in a while."

  Welstiel trotted down the alleyway, not bothering to watch which direction Chane took. He hurried back through the winding alleys, but stepped out to the main streets before approaching the Bronze Bell. He smoothed his hair, brushed at his cloak, and pulled on his black leather gloves before entering the front doors, like any wealthy patron with a purpose.

  He was relieved at the sight of the yellow-surcoated guards still in a commotion. In the back foyer, the noblewoman sat upon the edge of a hardwood bench with red cushions a bit too worn. She held a white handkerchief to her neck. A slender man with reddish hair, perhaps ten or fifteen years her senior, sat protectively at her side, barking angry questions at the guards around them.

  "What do you mean, 'he just ran away'? Why didn't you run him down?"

  Welstiel pushed between two guards and stepped directly before the no
ble couple.

  "Forgive me. Is the lady all right? I tried pursuing the villain myself but lost him in the alleys."

  The woman and her protector displayed mild surprise at his sudden intrusion. One guard even stepped in to push him back. Welstiel held up his open hands and proffered a curt but respectful bow of his head to the couple.

  "Pardon me. I am Viscount Andraso. I was returning to my room when I heard the lady cry out. When I entered the alley, your men were already at her side, and I saw the creature flee."

  "Creature?" The red-haired nobleman blinked and stood up, offering the short nod of a superior to a lesser or unknown noble. "I am Baron Emêl Milea. This is the Lady Hedí Progae. You said a 'creature' attacked her?"

  "It was a man," Lady Progae said calmly, shifting the cloth at her throat. "Some madman."

  Lady Progae's shoulder-length hair curled like black silk around her pale face. Her nose was so small and narrow that Welstiel wondered how she could breathe through it. She grew lost in thought, and the longer she lingered there, the more doubt filled her refined features.

  "He… his teeth were…" she began. "He was so strong."

  Another guard, too young and obviously unsettled, nodded to the baron. "It's true. I saw him just before he kicked Tolka into me. He wasn't right, with teeth like an animal, not a man."

  A stocky and scruffy guard snorted and pushed the young one back.

  "Don't start again, Alexi, or you'll frighten Lady Progae," he warned, then carefully appraised Welstiel. "Your attempt at help is appreciated, sir, but we'll handle this."

  "I do not think so," Welstiel replied, noting that Lady Progae hardly seemed frightened. "And I pity any of your men who catch up with this thing. Have you ever hunted an undead… a vampire?"

  "What… ?" the stocky guard sputtered angrily.

  "What nonsense are you suggesting?" Baron Milea interrupted. He looked down at his lady, but her eyes were fixed on Welstiel.

  "You know I am correct," Welstiel said. "They saw its face. They can attest to its strength, as well as the lady. And how else would you explain her throat? Tell me, Lady Progae, how did his touch feel? Cold, perhaps?"