The first man died with a dagger buried in his throat courtesy of Munroe, but it took him a few steps to realise. Eventu ally he slowed from a run to a walk and fell forward, a look of surprise on his face. It didn’t slow the others or perhaps they didn’t care.
Choss ducked a crude swing and retaliated, jabbing at his opponent’s ribs with his left hand and lashing out with a riposte from his right. The jackal fought with reckless abandon, barely turning aside blows before pressing forward. Twice Choss felt his blades slice into the man’s flesh but the two injuries had no effect. The jackal didn’t slow down or show any signs of feeling his wounds.
All around him Choss could hear the others fighting for their lives as they were pressed by opponents who seemed to have no sense of self-preservation. Their inhibitions had been removed and their stamina appeared to be unlimited. After only a couple of minutes of fighting a series of sharp jabbing pains ran through Choss’s chest from his damaged ribs. His breathing became increasingly loud in his ears and on all sides he could hear the others struggling with their opponents. The sound of steel on steel echoed in the night, broken only by that of shuffling feet on the stones and the occasional hiss of pain.
Although his opponent seemed unstoppable he was ultimately limited by his skill with a blade, which was moderate at best. He took more risks in an attempt to compensate and bully his way through Choss’s defence, but it wasn’t working. Choss was able to match his recklessness with caution while he bided his time and waited for an opening.
It took another minute but eventually he saw it, blocking an overhand hammer blow with his left while grabbing the jackal’s wrist. As the thug moved to wrestle for control of his sword Choss buried his other punching dagger in the jackal’s chest. No matter how frenzied or immune to pain, a man couldn’t fight with six inches of steel through his sternum. The man stared in shock at Choss and then crumpled to the ground.
As Choss turned to look for another opponent it was nearly over.
Munroe danced around her opponent, a tall woman with red hair. Already the woman bore over half a dozen wounds, long red gashes on her chest and arms, but it hadn’t slowed her down. Finally Munroe managed to get the woman to make a sound when she cut the tendons on the back of both legs. With a scream the woman dropped to her knees but even then she reached for a dagger. Before she had a chance to use it Munroe stabbed her in the side of the neck. The woman gagged and tried to say something around the blade, spraying blood across the ground. With feeble hands she reached for the weapon but Munroe pulled her blade free and stepped back, careful to avoid the growing pool of blood.
Several figures lay on the ground already and Fray ran another through before quickly yanking his sword free with a grunt of effort. Gorrax picked his opponent up off the floor, batted away the sword and casually snapped the Morrin’s neck with a sharp twist. As ever the Vorga looked disappointed at the ease with which he’d dispatched his opponent.
Fray had a couple of minor cuts and Munroe a shallow nick on one arm, but generally they were unharmed. Choss took a minute to catch his breath while the others cleaned or retrieved their weapons. The burning pain in his side was only growing worse and each breath still hurt.
“Should we hide the bodies?” asked Munroe.
Choss shook his head. “There’s no time.”
Even if the bodies were discovered by another patrol it wouldn’t matter. The Families were already fighting each other and the Flesh Mage wouldn’t send someone to investigate a few missing bodies. From what Fray had said the number of dead didn’t matter to the Flesh Mage, as long as he had enough time to complete his ritual. Choss was also growing increasingly worried about Fray, who looked pale and sickly, as if he’d been struck down by a sudden illness. Choss knew it wasn’t the fight that was affecting him. Fray had mentioned that something like this might happen because of the foul magic in the air and had told Choss to ignore it. Even so, Choss wasn’t sure how much longer Fray, or he for that matter, would be able to continue fighting. It was better to press on now and give the others a chance at finishing this.
“There’s someone following us,” said Gorrax, pointing back the way they’d come.
“If they catch up we’ll deal with them, otherwise we don’t have time,” said Choss.
After getting his bearings and catching his breath a little, Choss pressed on towards the square where he’d last seen the Flesh Mage. Several times they heard the nearby clash of fighting but they didn’t encounter another patrol. Whether it was his imagination or dark magic Choss thought the air started to smell foul, like bad eggs and rotting fruit. Sweat ran freely down Fray’s face but he gritted his teeth and seemed determined to carry on.
Finally they reached the end of a familiar alley, one of several that led to the square where the Flesh Mage had made his proclamation. At the mouth of the alley stood two jackals but Gorrax crept up behind them and ripped out their throats before they had a chance to turn around.
Wheezing like an old man with the damp lung Choss steadied himself on one wall and followed the Vorga’s broad back down the alley. Behind him Choss could hear Munroe asking if he was all right, but he didn’t have any breath to speak so just nodded and pretended that all was well.
They emerged into the square and quickly spread out into a line. Choss was expecting the most desperate fight of his life, but remarkably the square was abandoned except for a group of five people. Dońa Parvie and her twin sister were giving orders to a couple of runners, who quickly raced off when they saw Choss and the others. Stood beside the sisters was Pietr Daxx as well as two big jackals.
The twins didn’t wait to see what happened. They ran in the opposite direction to Choss, disappearing down an alley, shadowed by their two bodyguards. Daxx didn’t run. He stared at Choss and barely seemed to notice the others were even there.
“The Flesh Mage is that way,” said Fray, gesturing off to the right.
“Then you should go. He won’t stop you,” said Choss, never taking his eyes off Daxx. “Munroe, you should go as well.”
“What?”
“He’ll need your help to stop the Flesh Mage.”
“Choss.”
“We need to go after Dońa Parvie and her sister. Dońa Jarrow is probably with them. I have to try and stop this war. It’s my fault.”
“Choss, look at me,” insisted Munroe.
Even though Choss didn’t want to look away Munroe’s tone of voice was not one that he could ignore. He broke off the staring match and turned to face her.
“I’m not leaving you here,” she said.
“I’m not alone,” said Choss, looking over Munroe’s shoulder at Gorrax. The Vorga offered her what Choss thought was meant to be a reassuring grin.
“I promise no harm will come to him. He will be safe,” swore the Vorga.
“I could kill Daxx in two seconds,” she said.
“I know,” said Choss, “but the Flesh Mage is more important. You need to save your strength for him. Let me and Gorrax take care of Daxx and the others.”
Munroe still hesitated, biting her lip before muttering under her breath. “I fucking hate this.” She pulled his face towards her and kissed him fiercely. “Don’t you dare get yourself killed.”
Choss thought about saying something witty but the look in her eyes made him change his mind.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Please look after him,” she said to Gorrax, who bobbed his head.
Muttering to herself Munroe supported Fray on one side with an arm around his waist and together they shuffled away in pursuit of the Flesh Mage. Choss watched Munroe until she disappeared around a corner, at which point the smile dropped off his face. All good humour drained from his body and he stuffed all thoughts of the future away in a dark corner of his mind. He couldn’t risk the distraction. He needed to be wholly in the moment to have any chance of winning. Daxx was the most hideous person he’d ever met in the Families.
Across the square Daxx ha
dn’t moved a muscle. In fact he barely seemed to breathe and the only indication of life was the slow blinking of his eyes. Choss expected threats, perhaps an insane speech about the inevitability of this moment, but there was nothing, just a tense silence that started to build.
Choss took a deep breath and tried not to groan out loud as his sides burned and his breath caught in his throat. With slow jerky movements he settled his punching daggers and tried to loosen his arms. His whole body ached and his vision was still impaired on one side. Across the square Daxx drew his sword in one fluid motion and in that moment Choss knew with total certainty there was no way he could win this fight.
CHAPTER 39
Lizbeth wasted no time with any attempt to make her flight look casual. She ran for her life and Katja chased after her, barging other guests aside as they raced for the far side of the ballroom. Lizbeth made it first without raising too many eyebrows, but Katja left a trail of angry faces and mutters in her wake. One or two people called out after her but she ignored them and didn’t look back.
As Katja had expected, her shoes made running difficult and Lizbeth already had a decent lead. Just as she’d practised in the carriage ride to the palace, she flicked off her shoes then resumed her sprint. Her bare feet flew over the cold stone tiles and Lizbeth’s eyes widened in alarm as she saw Katja narrowing the gap between them.
The servant let out a squawk of pain as she skidded around a corner and collided with a stone column. Katja gained a little more ground but fear gave Lizbeth a boost of energy and she pulled ahead again. She ducked around a corner and disappeared from view. When Katja reached the spot where Lizbeth had vanished she was at a T-junction. Doors were open on both sides and there was no sign of her prey.
Cocking her head to one side Katja closed her eyes and focused on the sounds of the palace. Behind her she could hear a rising tide of raised voices and the heavy clank of armed guards. Someone was coming after her but they weren’t here yet. There was still time. Lizbeth knew something and Katja was determined to find out her role in Rodann’s plan.
Somewhere to her right Katja heard a faint muffled wheezing. Reaching under her dress she drew out the long blade strapped to her leg and tiptoed down the hallway towards it. The first room on the corridor, a sitting room with couches and a cold fireplace, stood empty and silent and there were no places to hide except behind the luxurious curtains. But there were no suspicious lumps or feet poking out from the bottom so Katja moved on.
The second room held several small writing tables and a chalk board on a wooden stand at the front. The classroom furniture looked old and the wooden seats had been worn smooth from use. At first glance the room also looked empty but the door to a large cupboard was slightly ajar. The servant’s quiet wheezing echoed around the room, which lacked any soft furnishings.
Katja dashed into the classroom, yanked open the cupboard and pulled Lizbeth out by her collar. The woman blanched at the sight of the blade, which Katja pressed against the base of her throat.
“You have one chance. Tell me why you’re here,” said Katja.
Lizbeth looked past Katja’s shoulder, her eyes desperately searching for something that could help. She squealed in pain as Katja pressed the point of her blade hard enough to draw blood.
“Focus on me,” said Katja. Lizbeth’s eyes snapped back to her face. “Why are you here? What is your job?”
Lizbeth looked ready to answer and her mouth even opened when a sound caught her attention. Katja heard it too. The heavy footsteps were getting closer. Lizbeth’s terrified expression drained away and was replaced by one of malicious glee.
“Help!” she screamed until Katja shoved her against the wall, driving the rest of the breath from her lungs.
“Down there,” someone shouted.
Despite being winded Lizbeth grinned at Katja. “You’re out of time.”
Grabbing Lizbeth by her neck Katja pinned her to the wall and pressed the blade against her stomach. “I still have enough time to gut you. Tell me something useful or I’ll cut you open.”
Lizbeth bit her lip and shook her head, deciding to take her chances and test Katja’s resolve. With a casual shrug Katja thrust the blade forward. Lizbeth shrieked and then looked down at the point of the blade, which had sliced through her clothes and nicked the skin across her stomach.
“Talk,” said Katja, pressing the point slightly harder until a trickle of blood began to run down Lizbeth’s stomach. She gasped in pain and pretended to faint until Katja slapped her across the face.
“Last chance,” she warned Lizbeth.
“Rodann is here,” she said in a hurry. “In the palace.”
“Where?” asked Katja. She heard footsteps in the corridor outside the door. “Where?” she screamed.
“Behind you,” whispered Lizbeth as strong hands grabbed Katja, pulling her off the servant. Lizbeth began to wail at her injuries then collapsed to the floor.
“She tried to kill me!” cried Lizbeth as a royal guard checked her wounds, which Katja knew were only minor. Lizbeth had missed her true calling and should have been on the stage. Despite the small patch of blood on the front of her clothes and the shallow cut beneath, she appeared to be dying.
Palace guards wrestled the long blade out of Katja’s hand as she was held face down on the floor. She was roughly searched for other weapons and then dragged back to her feet. They failed to find the small blade Lord Mullbrook had given her in the necklace. Katja berated herself for having chased Lizbeth through the halls of the palace. She could have followed at a more sedate pace. Even though Lizbeth had recognised her Rodann knew Katja was in the palace and had in fact arranged it. That made her wonder why Lizbeth had run in the first place.
As the palace guards pulled Katja to her feet she saw a sneer creep across Lizbeth’s face for a second before she resumed her mask of feigned agony. Katja had been manipulated and done exactly what Lizbeth wanted.
“Have you ever seen this woman before?” asked one of the royal guards, a burly man with a bushy moustache.
“No, never,” said Lizbeth, managing to look the guard in the eye. “She started chasing me for no reason.”
“That’s a lie,” said Katja. The moustached guard pointed a finger at her face. Part of Katja was tempted to snap it but the two armed guards standing behind her would make her pay so she resisted the impulse.
“Not one more word or I’ll have you gagged,” promised the guard.
“She kept asking me questions about the Queen,” said Lizbeth, which made all of the guards come to attention.
“What sort of questions?”
“How to get into her quarters. She asked if I had keys, that sort of thing.”
Katja had to admit the woman’s story was convincing and she had played into Lizbeth’s hands by chasing her through the palace. Rodann must have heard what had happened to his people in the kitchens. He’d probably orchestrated this little charade to stop Katja interrupting other parts of his plan.
One of the guards was sent to fetch a surgeon rather than move the patient, who heroically managed to bear her grave wounds in silence. A few minutes later Lizbeth was attended to by a portly woman with grey hair.
“Is everything all right in here, Captain?” asked a familiar voice from the doorway.
Despite being held by both arms Katja was able to turn slightly so that she could stare at the newcomer. At first she didn’t recognise the smartly dressed man in blue trousers and grey shirt. His bald head gleamed from being recently shaved and part of his scalp still looked pale from lack of sunlight. Even more distracting was the broad jaw that should have been covered with a big red beard. But the eyes didn’t change and, despite his attempt to conceal his identity, she knew it was Rodann.
Rather than looking alarmed at someone creeping up on them the guards relaxed when they saw who it was. Their change in posture indicated familiarity and some sort of deference to Rodann, but she didn’t think he’d served as one of the palace g
uards. He wasn’t the right sort of person and definitely wasn’t a fighter. He liked the sound of his own voice too much.
One of the two men holding Katja smiled warmly at Rodann and even the Captain moved to greet him at the door.
“Everything’s fine here,” said the Captain, blocking Rodann’s view of Katja and the injured servant. Rodann briefly glanced around the room over the Captain’s shoulder then allowed himself to be turned around. The Captain and Rodann talked in hushed voices but Katja could just make out what they were saying.
“How is your youngest doing these days?” Rodann asked the Captain.
“Very well, thank you. She turns twelve next month.”
The rest of their conversation was muffled but the pieces slowly started to slot into place. The look in Rodann’s eyes when he’d peered into the classroom had not just been one of curiosity but also of nostalgia. He’d been a teacher at the palace, tutoring the Queen’s children and those of her guards. That explained his familiarity with the guards and the lack of alarm at his presence in this part of the palace.
“Bring her,” said the Captain, gesturing at the guards holding Katja, who marched her out of the room. Rodann lingered in the corridor a few steps away, feigning concern for Lizbeth, while actually making sure Katja was secure.
She considered rushing Rodann and cutting his throat with her hidden blade but resisted the urge. As she was led away Katja looked over her shoulder and saw him grinning at her back.
With her in custody Rodann believed his plan would be able to continue without further interruption. Even knowing part of his background she still didn’t see how he fitted into the picture, or Teigan for that matter. There’d been no sign of the sour-faced swordswoman, but Katja suspected her role would be critical and not one that required subtlety. Part of her mind suspected the pieces were all there, she just needed to understand how they fitted together. However, as they locked her in a bare room with no windows, she realised any prospect of unravelling the puzzle by herself was looking bleak. Both Queens were almost out of time.
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