Dragon Venom (Obsidian Chronicles Book 3)

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He ran inside, calling, "Wolt! Venlin! Brook!"

  No one answered, but he heard voices and a great clatter ahead. He followed the sound across the great hall, under the balcony, and down the passageway toward the kitchens.

  There were men in the Duke's white-and-blue uniforms there, men with drawn swords, and lying motionless on the floor by the wall was a figure in Arlian's own household livery, one of his footmen. He could not see the fallen man's face; the intruders' boots blocked his view.

  There was no sign anywhere of his caravan guards, no sign that anyone but the footman had opposed this invasion.

  Arlian saw now a flaw in his own defenses—without their employer or his steward to rally them, his hirelings had not dared to defy the Duke's own men. They might have fought well enough against ordinary assassins, but when confronted by the Duke of Manfort's own soldiers, they had apparently fled. No one had told them they might face Manfort's own defenders; the possibility had not occurred to Arlian.

  These soldiers had no legitimate business here, though, regardless of their uniforms.

  Arlian did not bother to give a warning or challenge; there was no need for questions. These men had invaded his property and struck down a member of his staff, and no matter what livery they wore he had the right to defend what was his. Instead of speaking, Arlian simply ran the nearest through as the guardsman turned to face the new arrival. His sword slid easily into the man's side, behind the breastplate, but as the man twisted and crumpled the armor tugged at the blade, and pulling it free took a few precious heartbeats. By the time Arlian had extracted his weapon and recovered his balance the entire party had had time to realize he was there.

  So much, he thought, for the element of surprise. It had removed one foe, but he counted five still standing.

  He was not motionless while counting, though; even as he pulled his sword free he was slashing with his swordbreaker, keeping the nearest un-wounded invader off-balance. The man was still just beginning to bring his own blade around, fending off the swordbreaker, when Arlian's sword cut his throat. The intruder fell back, sword flailing, as his other hand clutched at his severed jugular. His slow collapse, combined with the motionless soldier on the floor, served to force the two sides apart momentarily.

  The sword breaker had been an effective distraction. Guardsmen were not ordinarily trained in two-bladed dueling tactics; their duties did not generally include fighting noblemen. Arlian knew that, and hoped to exploit it further.

  All the same, right now he was standing in a corridor perhaps eight feet wide, facing four angry guardsmen alone, and there was definitely room for two of them to attack at once—perhaps three, if they coordi-nated their assault. The two he had taken down were not actually dead yet, and if the second could stanch the bleeding he might well be able to rejoin the fight. And all six wore breastplates.

  Arlian had thought he would be facing assassins in the street, so he was not totally unprepared; he wore a mail shirt beneath his blouse, and his hat was lined with a steel cap. Still, his foes were better armored.

  He wondered whether they were bright enough to keep him busy

  while one or two went down the corridor, up the back stairs, out to the balcony, and then down again, to surround him. So far they showed no sign of doing so.

  "We've got him," one man said, as he faced Arlian. "You get on with it"

  And that was the even worse possibility—that two of them would keep him busy while the others finished their assignment. It was possible that they were merely looking for the bottle of venom that stood on the kitchen shelf, but far more likely they were here to kill Brook and her unborn child.

  But then why were they all bunched in the passageway? Arlian tried to peer past them, to see if Brook was there, perhaps caught between the soldiers and the kitchen door, but he could see no sign of her.

  Then he realized where they were. The soldiers were standing in front of the lift that carried Brook and her wheeled chair from one floor to the other.

  Then he had no time to worry about Brook as the two men nearest him attacked, almost simultaneously.

  They weren't very good at it, fortunately; he was able to parry one sword with his own, the other with his swordbreaker, as he fell back a step. As they lunged again, not quite in unison, he turned sideways, letting one go past while catching the other's blade on his swordbreaker again. He had no good opening at side or head, and the breastplate protected the chest, but his own counterattack plunged his sword into the meaty part of the soldier's thigh.

  "Damn you!" the man grunted, swinging wildly. Arlian, with one blade in the man's leg and the other fending off the other attacker, was unable to completely avoid the strike; the sword's tip slashed at his right arm just above the elbow, shredding the linen sleeve and scraping across the mail beneath. He was forced back a step, his back to the corridor wall.

  Then the wounded man went down, his leg no longer able to support his weight. Under other circumstances Arlian would have given him a chance to surrender, or waited to see what happened, but with three more attackers he could not afford mercy. He thrust the point of his sword through the fallen man's eye.

  Then he turned to face the other*.

  Two of them were coming after him, while the third was doing

  something at the door of the lift. He was reaching upward, jabbing his sword through the opening, and Arlian realized that the lift was between levels, its floor perhaps six feet up.

  That had been clever of Brook, he thought, taking refuge there—

  but then he was too busy defending himself to think about anything but staying alive.

  One of his opponents, the one who had been facing him all along, was no great threat, but the other proved to be the best swordsman of the lot. Only Arlian's mail saved him from one particularly smooth lunge at his heart; he was able to turn so that the strike glanced across the rings instead of penetrating, but had the metal not been there the blade would have pierced his left lung.

  The presence of the stone wall behind him was both good and bad; it meant he did not need to worry about an enemy behind him, but it limited his own movement, as well. He could only retreat in one direction, toward the great hall. That did give him an escape route if he needed one, though.

  He heard movement from that direction, and wondered whether it was some member of his staff coming to help. None of them were trained swordsmen, but perhaps one could go for help.

  But who would they go to? These intruders were ostensibly the Duke's men, and Arlian's relationship with His Grace had been sufficiently uneven that the staff could scarcely be sure that the Duke had not sent them.

  Arlian was quite sure that the Duke hadn't sent them; no, if they were indeed the Duke's men, they had been bribed by the Dragon Society. The Duke would have no reason to want Brook dead; neither would any of his present advisors. When last Arlian had spoken to the Duke they had parted on good terms, with the Duke hopeful about Arlian's mysterious experiments, and Arlian had heard not the slightest hint that the Duke's attitude had changed.

  But Wolt and Stammer and the others wouldn't know that.

  Someone might fetch Black, though. That would be just one more trained fighter, but Arlian had already cut the initial six-to-one odds in half, and one more might well be enough to take them all. Black would certainty fight as fiercely for his wife's life as anyone would ever fight for anything.

  If the servants were there this might be a good point to break off the fight temporarily, retreat to the great hall and regroup, perhaps hear whether Black was on the way—if Brook was still alive in the lift, as he fervently hoped, she could surely hold out another few seconds. His muscles tensed. He retreated a step, and risked a glance toward the great hall, hoping to see a familiar face there.

  His heart sank.

  There were three more of the Duke's guards, approaching with

  swords drawn.

  He was surrounded.

  A State of Siege

>   42

  A State of Siege

  To one side were three live foes, two facing him and the third busily thrusting a sword into the lift; four men lay on the floor in that direction, either dead, dying, or dazed. To the other side three more enemies were drawing near. No help was in sight.

  He had taken out three of them, but that was not a great comfort under the circumstances; there were still more than enough to kill both him and Brook. It seemed very likely that he was about to die.

  The one comfort he did see in the situation was that this would clearly demonstrate to anyone who cared to investigate that someone—

  and that someone could only be the dragons or their servants—emphatically did not want Brook's child to be born. Somehow, the baby was a serious threat to them.

  Black would know what had been done, and he could speak to Lord Zaner, to Lady Rime, to the Duke of Manfort; the scheme might still succeed even if Brook and Arlian died. Black would be devastated by the loss of his wife, but he would also want revenge. He had sometimes mocked Arlian's vengefulness, but losing Brook would surely be enough to ensure a ferocious desire to retaliate, even if it did not reach the level of Arlian's own obsession. He had said as much when they fought, just two days before.

  But that assumed Black would survive, and Stammer or one of the others had almost certainly slipped out to fetch him. He might well walk directly into a trap. The Dragon Society would not have sent nine men just to intimidate a few servants and kill an unguarded pregnant cripple...

  The Dragon Society would not have sent nine men at all; the Duke's guards worked in pairs. And where had these other three been when he first arrived?

  All this had passed through Arlian's mind in a fraction of a second, and his instincts and training had simultaneously been preparing his next move—he turned and charged the new arrivals, shouting "Now!"

  as if he were leading a dozen men.

  The three hesitated, as he had hoped—they presumably had no

  clear grasp of the situation, did not know what had happened or how many foes they might be facing, only that they had heard fighting and come to investigate. He was able to slice one man's neck, almost decap-itating him, and then he was past them and out in the great hall.

  He did not wait for them to react; instead he headed directly for the stairs.

  That had to be where the three newcomers had been, and where a tenth man was, or perhaps several more men—upstairs, trying to get in the upper part of the lift as the half-dozen downstairs were trying to get in the lower. Arlian went bounding up the steps and into the corridor.

  Sure enough, a soldier knelt at the lift door, thrusting a sword into the opening. Arlian did not hesitate, but charged forward and cut yet another throat. Blood sprayed across the floor and into the lift, and the man gave a ghastly croak as he crumpled.

  "Damned breastplates," Arlian muttered, as he kicked the sword from the dying man's hand. Then he ducked down and peered into the lift.

  It was dark, but as he had expected Brook's chair was wedged into a back corner, and Brook was crouched awkwardly upon it. She was on her knees on the seat, rather than in her usual sitting position, to keep her legs away from the sword thrusting at her from below; her swollen belly was clearly affecting her balance, and she had one hand on the wall, steadying her.

  Arlian dropped his swordbreaker for a moment and grabbed up the sword he had just kicked away. He turned it, and shoved it hilt-first through the opening. "Brook, here!" he called. "Quickly!"

  She looked up, startled. "Triv?" Then she saw the hilt and grabbed for it, reaching as far as she could without toppling over. Her fingers had barely closed on it when Arlian released it and withdrew again.

  He would have liked to say something more to Brook, offer her encouragement, perhaps ask a question or two, but he did not have time; three soldiers had pursued him up the stairs. He snatched up his swordbreaker and rose to meet them.

  They did not charge recklessly in, though; at the sight of him and their dying comrade they stopped, swords ready.

  "He killed Sham," one of them said.

  "He killed half the fellows downstairs, too," another agreed.

  "Who is . . . Is he Lord Obsidian?"

  "Of course he is, you fool!" the man in front said. "Who did you think}"

  "Maybe that steward of his, the one who always wears black leather.

  We were warned about him."

  "That's not leather, is it?"

  "So he's Lord Obsidian," the leading soldier said. "He's still just one man, and there are three of us."

  "There were ten of us a minute ago."

  "And half of the others are still downstairs! Yes, he's dangerous, but we have him trapped."

  "Trapped? Where does this corridor go?"

  "He's the warlord. He's a dragonheart and a dragonslayer." T h e soldier lowered his sword and stepped back. "I may want to live a thousand years, but I'm not going to if I get myself killed here. I'm out of this." He turned and walked away.

  "Come back here!" the leader shouted.

  "Rot with the dead gods," the other replied, as he started down the stairs at a trot.

  "He's right," the next man said to the leader. "He can retreat down the back stairs and go to the Citadel. If we stay here we're dead."

  "Filth is coming up the back stairs!" the leader shouted. "Just wait, and we'll have him . . . "

  He didn't finish the sentence; Arlian knew an opportunity when he saw one, and attacked.

  As he had hoped, the other soldier broke and ran, leaving his superior on his own.

  The leader was a surprisingly good swordsman, though; he parried Arlian's thrusts easily, and even managed a riposte that sheared through a few links of mail before being deflected.

  He had only the single blade, though; Arlian locked swords and closed, then stabbed his swordbreaker into the man's side, behind the breastplate.

  The soldier's eyes went wide.

  "Oh," he said. "But..."

  Then he collapsed, and Arlian pulled his blade free, looking up and down the corridor.

  Six dead, two fled, two still unaccounted for, he thought.

  "Bitch," he heard someone say. He smiled. He headed for the back stairs.

  When he opened the door and stepped into the passageway he saw the two soldiers there; one was clutching his arm, trying to stop the flow of blood from a deep cut, while the other had a comforting arm around his shoulders. The wounded man was unarmed; the other still held his sword.

  They looked up at the sound of the door, and saw Arlian standing there, both his two blades covered in blood. Then they looked at each other.

  Then they broke and ran.

  Arlian watched them go, then stepped up to the lift. "Brook?" he called. "Are you all right?"

  "I think so," she said. "Are they all gone?"

  "All the ones who can still walk," Arlian replied. He looked down at die bodies on the floor. None of them were moving; he did not see anyone breathing. Here was the one he had taken down with his first attack, stabbed in the side; his eyes were closed, so he had probably not died instantly, but he appeared to be dead. There was the first one with a cut throat, who seemed to have bled to death quickly; his blood-soaked hand was still pressed uselessly to the wound, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

  And there was Wolt, lying dead with stab wounds in his chest and gut, and a surprised expression on his face. He still held a kitchen knife in one hand.

  "Damn," Arlian said. Then he looked at the lift. "They killed Wolt."

  "I know," Brook said. "After your guards ran and the soldiers broke in, he defended me, giving me time to get the lift moving."

  "Oh." Arlian looked down at Wolt. The man had been a competent servant and a pleasant fellow, but Arlian had never suspected he had the courage to do such a thing.

  "I'm sorry," he said. He looked up and down the passage, trying to decide what to do next.

  This assault had failed, but it was by no
means certain that there would be no more. The four surviving soldiers might regroup, or there might be a second enemy out there. Arlian had survived dozens of assassination attempts, but Brook could not walk, could not fight—at eight months pregnant it sometimes seemed as if she could hardly move. If there were assassins, or more soldiers . . .

  "We need to get you out of here," he said.

  "Arlian," Brook said, "where are my children?"

  Arlian turned, horrified. He had forgotten the children. "I don't know," he said. "Where were they?"

  "I sent them to their rooms when the soldiers broke in," she said.

  "Then that's almost certainly where they are. The soldiers didn't threaten them?"

  "No. They probably just hadn't thought of it yet."

  "Well, go on upstairs, then, and we'll check. I'll take the stairs and meet y o u . . . "

  "I can't."

  Arlian stopped and peered into the dim interior of the lift. "Why not?"

  "Because I got out of my chair to use that sword you gave me, and I cut that man's arm with it, but now I can't get back up, and I can't reach the controls from down here."

  "Oh." Arlian looked about helplessly.

  The lift was a sort of open-sided box six feet on a side, and right now it was stopped about six feet up, its base four feet below the corridor's ten-foot ceiling, its roof a foot above the floor upstairs. The opening to the passage had a stone arch closing off the top portion, but that left a fair-sized gap where the soldiers had been jabbing at Brook.

  "Can you fit through?" Arlian asked. "I can catch you and lift you down."

  "What about my chair?"

  "I don't..."

  Just then he heard footsteps, and then Black's voice called, "Brook?"

  Arlian could hear a note of desperation.

  "Here!" Arlian answered. "She's safe!"

  Black appeared in the passage, not even glancing at the bodies on the floor; Stammer was close behind him.