Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1)

by LeClerc, Patrick

  * * *

  Soon they made their way to the door to the cellar. It was locked, but that proved no real challenge. As he followed the thief down the stairs, Conn began to wonder if he were necessary at all. He was happy just not to have tripped over anything and brought the whole household down on them.

  When they reached the bottom, Trilisean walked purposefully through the wine cellar to a shelf, then motioned Conn to her. “Help me slide this section over.”

  He grasped the stout shelf and leaned into it. The section moved aside fairly easily, revealing a stone door cut into the wall.

  * * *

  “And you need me…why?” he asked.

  “It's a two person job. I need a good man in a fight for this part right here.” She pulled a scroll and unrolled it. It was a careful floor plan of the house, with copious notes inked in various colors indicating guard routes, locks, alarms, hours of use of various rooms. Conn had to admit it was quite impressive. He followed her gesture to a central room.

  “I can beat this lock,” she said, “but when I do, alarms will go off and bring the garrison down. I need you to hold them off and buy us the time to get through.”

  “How long do you need?” he asked, sipping at his tea.

  She smiled her most innocent smile.

  “Not a clue.”

  * * *

  Conn shoved some shelves aside to make a crude defense. He set them to make a triangle, with the wall and door at his back and an opening at the point to channel their assault. The guards would only be able to come at him from one direction. Better to leave a path open and decide the enemy's approach for him than to block the whole area and let them devise a plan. The guards would rush at the opening.

  He strapped his small, round leather shield to his left arm, then took his dirk in his left hand, holding it so the point jutted some inches beyond the bottom edge of the shield. He drew his sword with his right, flexed his wrists, stretched his legs and took up position just inside the makeshift fort. He turned to her and nodded.

  Trilisean took out her picks and set her attention to the lock.

  * * *

  “I made my way as a thief. I worked small at first. My needs were modest,” she smiled with the phrase. “I got to know a fence. He would filter gossip to me. Things clients wanted. When I would produce them, he cut me in for a better share than usual. That's how I found out about this job. It's not really a contract, just a statement that so and so would pay a lot of money for such and such. I took the jobs I wanted.”

  * * *

  All hell broke loose. Bells rang in the house above as the thief worked at the lock. Conn waited patiently, the tightness in his throat and the racing of his pulse fading as he directed the rush of energy into a disciplined defense. He had learned early that a warrior must master his emotions, not serve them.

  Within moments, the door at the head of the stairs was thrown open and guards boiled down the steps.

  Conn saw about a half dozen in the dimly lit cellar. Most wore some armor over their heads and torsos and carried long, slashing swords and small shields. They held up for a moment, seeing the defenses the Aeransman had arranged.

  One of the guards carried a short-handled axe. He studied the scenario carefully.

  Conn didn't want to give him time to come up with a good plan, but each moment gave Trilisean more time with the lock. The man gave directions to the others to fan out. “Take the girl alive. Kill the man if you have to.”

  The man hurled his axe and shouted “Now!” whipping out his sword. The guards surged forward.

  Conn batted the axe aside with his shield. He didn't catch it on the face of the buckler. If it stuck, it would unbalance his left arm, and the handle would provide a grip for someone to pull his shield aside. He squared himself to face the onslaught.

  The first guard cut at the Aeransman's head. Conn deflected the cut and slashed at the man's sword arm. His heavy blade cut to the bone. The man screamed and dropped his sword, clutching the bleeding gash. Conn didn't strike again, as the wounded soldier was in the way of his comrades.

  As the wounded guard staggered aside, another tried to forced his way in. Conn blocked a cut on his shield. The guardsman blocked Conn's counterattack on his own buckler and stepped in close, trying to shove him back away from the entrance so that more guards could push through and overwhelm this invader.

  Conn ducked, bringing his shield down quickly at the man's leg and slicing across his foe's thigh with the point of his dirk. As the soldier's leg buckled, the former mercenary punched with his shield, shoved the man off balance and jammed the point of his sword into the guard's ribs. His enemy crumpled and fell to the floor, coughing and choking.

  A comrade seized the wounded man's arm and dragged him out of the way. The remaining guards stood back, warily considering their next move. Hurry up with the damn lock, Conn thought.

  The next man aimed a cut at Conn’s head then switched to a low slash at his shin. Conn just managed to snap his leg up over the blade. The enemy were using the greater reach of their long swords to try to wound him, cut away at him and then overwhelm him when he weakened. Conn was trained and armed for close quarters fighting, excellent in a tight infantry formation or in the narrow confines he had created, but his reach was less than his enemies'. His thoughts came in a desperate rush. If he fell back, they'd drive through the opening in the shelves and he'd have to fight two or three. If he pushed forward to bring his own weapon into reach, he'd have to face their numbers. If he stayed and fought a defensive fight, sooner or later, one cut would land, then another until he weakened and died beneath their rush.

  He decided on a risky tactic. When his foe slashed at him, he turned sideways as he parried with his shield and lunged forward on his right foot, driving his sword into the man's chest, just below his throat. The guard staggered back, coughing blood, but his sword glanced off the edge of Conn's shield and drew a shallow cut along his left shoulder.

  The Aeransman cursed. The cut was minor. He was used to fighting in armor, and even a leather jerkin would have turned that blow. His earlier feeling of vulnerability came back with a vengeance.

  Although his lunge took his foes by surprise, one of them managed a thrust at his exposed right side. Conn wrenched his point free of the struggling guardsman and swept it down in a parry as he twisted away from his enemy's blade. He leapt back into his former defensive position.

  Conn panted with exertion. Sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His shoulder burned with pain and bled freely every time he moved his left arm. Three of his foes were down, but another entered from the stairs to join the remaining warriors.

  Now, a pair of them stood out of his reach, held their shields before them and slashed and thrust with the tips of their blades, using their reach to advantage. Another lunge would be suicide. Whichever man he attacked, the other would get him.

  He cursed again. The bastards were learning. As each man fell, the next changed tactics. Sooner or later, he would die unless Trilisean got that damn door open. Even then, how was he supposed to retreat through? The four men facing him would chase him and cut him down before he could cross the distance. Even a fighting retreat would allow two or three to face him in the wider area in front of the door.

  He kept his guard tight, deflecting the probing points of his enemies. He had to make a counter, though. No defense is perfect, and the enemy must fear to press or they'd get him. He studied the two enemies facing him. A thought dawned.

  As they jabbed at him, Conn slapped aside the blade of the man to his left with his shield, and stabbed into the attack of the man on the right — not at the body but at the approaching wrist. His sword point slid into the man's forearm and ripped its way towards the elbow, grating on bone. The man dropped his blade as its point scraped across the guard of Conn's sword. He stumbled back, cursing. His companion hacked at the mercenary's leg, but Conn retreated a step. The single guard paused before following a skilled swordsm
an into close quarters.

  Conn grinned through a mask of perspiration. Four down. It was a long time since he'd fought so well, since he'd seen such worried expressions on the faces of an enemy. That was the highest tribute a warrior could receive. He expected to be cut down any second, but now he was fighting in a state of near perfection, sensing attacks and deflecting them before he consciously saw them.

  “I'm in.” He heard from behind him. “Get ready.”

  Suddenly, the hall was lit by a bright flash behind him. His foes were dazzled.

  * * *

  She looked Conn straight in the eye. “So, do you say? Ready to be rich? Just a slight chance at a horrible death.”

  “Won’t be the first time I risked a horrible death. But it will be my first shot at being rich.” He shrugged. “I think I can give it a try. Partner.”

  * * *

  “Now! Move!”

  He paused to crack the nearest guard on the head with his sword. The man dropped. The helm probably saved his life, Conn reflected, but he wouldn't follow for a while and his body would be an obstacle for his near blinded friends. He turned and sprang through the door.

  The instant he was through, Trilisean slammed the door and slid the bolt home. Conn leaned on the wall, his chest heaving.

  “How much of that blood is yours?” she asked, her expression serious.

  “Just a scratch on the shoulder,” he panted. “I’m fine.”

  She tore the gash in his shirt open wider and placed a padded cloth on the wound. It stung.

  “It's treated with a powder,” she explained. “It will fight any fever in the wound and help the blood clot. Another useful item from my friend the apothecary. Press on it for a moment.”

  “My thanks,” he gasped. “And the flash of light? From the same friend?”

  “Yes, but that's an easy one.”

  Conn set down his sword and held the dressing. She tore a strip from the ruined left sleeve of his tunic and bound the cloth in place.

  “Now, do you know what you're here after?”

  “I do. And where it is,” she smiled.

  Conn studied the room as she stooped down in front of a small chest. The chamber was small, perhaps five feet on a side, and nearly empty. There were a few wooden boxes stacked in a corner, and one small locked box which his companion was examining. Besides the door they had entered, there was only a wooden trap door in the floor, with an iron ring for a handle.

  They heard pounding on the door behind them. Conn looked at it. It was thick, obviously strong, and the bolt was holding. He was glad she hadn't damaged the lock when she opened it. He kept an eye on it in case the guards had a key.

  “I assume we leave by the floor.”

  “Exactly,” she said somewhat distantly, turning the small chest in her hands.

  “Why not come in that way?”

  “It leads out to one of the caves by the harbor. Paisleigh is a smuggler as well as a slaver. I don't know which cave. When we follow it out, it won't be hard to find our way back to the city, but I wouldn't know where to start from on that end. Aha!” She turned to him, pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth. “Cover your face.”

  She fiddled with the box, then slid her pick into the keyhole, turned the chest at an angle and twisted the pick.

  Conn heard a faint click. A puff of dust spurted from a carving on the box's corner, toward the wall.

  “Nice try,” she said. He could see the smile in her eyes, even though the rest of her face was hidden. “But not good enough.” She opened the lid and took out a large blue stone.

  He whistled. “Must be worth quite a bit.”

  “More than you'd think,” she replied, dropping it into her pouch. “If my client can be believed, there are memories sealed in this jewel. A skilled seer can read them. Or maybe not. They believe the story enough to pay more than market value. By the way, the dust should settle soon, but keep your face covered until we get out, just in case.”

  Conn grasped the iron ring and raised his eyebrows. She nodded.

  The trapdoor lifted smoothly and they descended a ladder to a rough stone passage. Surf sounded from the far end. Trilisean lowered her scarf and smiled. “Care for a walk along the beach?”

  “Delighted,” he replied.

  They hurried along the passage. It was fairly wide and mostly natural, although it appeared that it had been smoothed or widened in places. It descended gently. Light trickled from the far end.

  After a short while, they saw the bright light of the moon reflected off the stone ahead. The entrance must be around this final turn, Conn thought gratefully.

  They rounded the corner and saw the waves gently lapping the narrow strip of sand below the cliffs.

  Stark against this backdrop were four men. One was tying off a boat, and three strode toward them with heavy bundles.

  Both parties stopped in shock for a moment.

  “Get them!” bellowed the man near the boat. He was dressed in the finery of a well-to-do merchant. The others dropped their burdens and reached for the weapons at their belts.

  Just as there is a time for defense, thought Conn, there is a time for offense. He rushed the three, tearing his sword and dirk from their sheaths as he did so, shouting a battle cry.

  He drove his left shoulder into the first man before the fellow could clear steel, then ripped his dirk across the man's body. With his sword he knocked aside the hatchet the second man held and hacked him across the skull. The third sailor had a club and a long knife ready. Conn rushed him, feigned a cut at his head, then whipped his blade around with a twist of the wrist and slashed the man's side open as he raised his club to guard his head.

  Conn took three steps toward the last man, who raised an empty hand and shouted something.

  Conn felt his muscles turn to water. His body ceased to obey him. He fell in mid stride, rolling down the passage. He felt the wound in his shoulder open on the rough stones as he slid to a halt just beyond the last man. He landed on his side, looking back up the passage. He could see the merchant's boots just a few feet away and Trilisean in the distance, her face white. Her hands were raised in plain view above her head.

  “Now, then,” said a voice from above him. “You keep those hands where I can see them. Your friend here cut three of my men pretty bad just now. I may have to hire new guards. And you probably weren't doing any good back the way you came. He may make a decent slave, and I'll recoup some of my cost. I'll probably need to cut his tongue out to keep this night a secret, but that's no problem.”

  Conn tried to move, but his body would not respond. His dirk lay just beyond his reach. It may as well have been on the moon. He couldn't even turn his head. He dreaded that this man would use his magic on Trilisean and he would have to watch, powerless to help.

  “You, my dear,” the man continued, “would fetch a pretty penny. If you don't want to suffer, you'll cooperate. If not, we have ways of breaking the rebellious.”

  Conn struggled, but could not even blink. He felt as if he would burst a blood vessel in frustration.

  “What do you say, lassie? The easy way, or the hard one?”

  “You leave me no choice.” She seemed to droop.

  “Very goo–”

  There was a flicker of movement and a knife appeared in Trilisean's hand. Her arm snapped down and she rolled forward like an acrobat, coming up to her knees with another dagger reversed for a throw.

  There was no need. Conn heard the meaty thwack as her first throw hit home. The expensive boots toppled and the owner fell first to his knees, then flopped onto his side. At the edge of his vision, Conn could see the hilt of a dagger standing out of his throat, just above his breastbone. The slaver's expression was the same one he'd seen on the Jarving all those years ago.

  Never underestimate your opponent, he thought.

  “Conn! Conn!” She was on her knees beside him, cradling his head. “Are you alright?”

  He could feel control returning, first
to his face and spreading to his body. He nodded weakly.

  “Ahhmaahriigh',” he managed.

  “Oh, thank Kerra,” she hugged him to her chest. He wished for a moment he had just a little more command of his muscles, but it was nice just the same.

  Slowly he recovered enough to sit up.

  “Wha' happen'?”

  “That was Paisleigh,” she said. “He's the slaver whose house we just robbed. I didn't know he knew any magic. Never seen it really used like that, just herbal powders and such. He did something that took your will away, so you couldn't even move. I guess that's one way he controls his slaves. Oh,” she started. “Your shoulder's bleeding again.”

  Conn studied the dead slaver while Trilisean rummaged for another bandage. It was an impressive throw. Right in the throat at twenty paces. He supposed that with an opponent who could do what this one could, the first shot had best count.

  “Wonder what they were smuggling,” he said.

  “I looked,” she replied. “I don't know. Just bags of some black powder. Must be valuable. Probably a narcotic, or something for the apothecaries. There are some long heavy boxes in the boat. Must be full of something heavy and metal. You can smell packing grease.”

  “Odd,” he muttered. His legs seemed able to hold him now. “Wonder what he was up to. I guess we could use my late friend's axe and open the crates.”

  “Why bother?” she asked. “I'm usually curious, but the sooner we get out of here, the better. Besides, the best treasure comes in wee sparkly packages, not made of iron in packing grease. Whatever it is, it's too heavy to lug back to town. You need to see a flesh tailor.”