Broken Crossroads (Knights of the Shadows Book 1)

by LeClerc, Patrick

  He reached the foot of the stairs, then cut at the thing's exposed knee, purely out of reflex. This time, the burst of fire caught on his shield and stuck like pitch. It was too much to hope the wound would slow the beast much. The thing's scaly hide was like armor.

  He swore. How could he fight a thing like this? The blasted creature was leaving itself wide open with its great, hacking strokes. It would be so easy to nick and cut it until it tired, if it weren't for its skin, and even so, a good stout thrust should get through, but how could he drive steel into a creature and not get any blood on him?

  He backed up a few steps, slapping aside another blow with his shield. The leather-faced targe was smouldering and becoming uncomfortably hot. He couldn't hold onto it much longer, but he feared what would happen if he dropped it.

  He felt his anger and frustration rising as his left hand began to blister. He had fought armed warriors with a homemade spear when he was thirteen years old. Had spent four years on the run, hunted through field and forest and never been caught. Stood against impossible odds and never been beaten. He refused to admit that this thing, without grace or skill or finesse would be his undoing. But how was he supposed to fight something where shedding its blood could kill him?

  His first thought was that this thing was best fought with a bow. Or by somebody else. He regretted the loss of his spear. A blow with the butt end could be deadly, and wouldn't spill much blood. Even using the point would give him enough extra reach that he might be safe.

  Unable to bear the heat any longer, he flung the flaming shield at the head of his foe. The beast was surprised and only partly blocked it. The missile slammed into its helm and knocked its head back. Conn almost drove his point into the exposed throat, but stopped, fearing the torrent of fire that would spring from the severed vessels.

  A thought suddenly struck him. He leapt back two more steps and tore off the clasp of his cloak as the thing recovered. He took the garment in his left hand.

  The beast lumbered onward. Even if it had seen the tactic before, no flimsy cloth was going to put aside that axe. It struck viciously at the mercenary's left leg, exposed on a lower step.

  Conn snapped his knee up out of the path of the weapon, then hurled his cloak at the thing's head, thrusting his sword behind it. The creature looked up as the cloak descended, tried to deflect the garment with its own shield, but the cloth folded over him, blinding him to the mercenary's sword thrust.

  Conn drove his point through the cloak and felt his blade strike the tough scales, felt the moment of resistance, then a yielding as the strength of his thrust behind the sharp steel point parted the creature's hide.

  A gurgling cry escaped it, and he saw light flare through the thick wool. He danced back quickly as the cloak began to smoulder. The thing dropped its axe and clutched at the cloak, trying to drag it from its head as the garment burst into flames.

  * * *

  Trilisean worked at the lock with calm precision, trying to shut out the sound of combat growing nearer. She had every faith in her companion, and had seen him beat impossible odds before, but this foe was terrible.

  She pushed from her mind the image of how swiftly it moved, how uncannily it knew of her presence without even turning towards her as she finally felt the bolt slide free. She inspected the door for traps, then eased it open.

  As she pushed the door open, she heard a loud crash from the stairs behind. She spun around, a dagger appearing in her hand, poised to throw at the entrance to the stairs.

  She dropped the blade as Conn staggered into view, his sleeve charred, blood streaming down his forehead.

  “Did you beat it?” she sprang to her feet, embracing the mercenary as he stumble up to her.

  “Nah.” He hugged her with one arm. “The bloody thing killed me. Let's be getting out of here.”

  * * *

  Conn sank half his pint and exhaled reverently. He raised his tankard in salute to Trilisean across a table spread with food that was fresh, hot, and most importantly, devoid of jerky, hardtack or Stripy River Dweller.

  It was a humble enough spread, as they had only the silver coins taken from the bandits to spend. Trilisean sent a message to Fayl informing him that the contract was satisfied and she would be along the next day, so none of the treasures had been converted to ready cash, but sausages, potatoes and fresh baked bread with ample butter, washed down with good dark ale on Conn's part and a full bodied red wine on Trilisean's seemed a feast after so long on trail rations and water.

  “I'll go to my contact tomorrow,” she said, pausing for a sip of wine, “and see how much of the stuff he takes off our hands.”

  “What d'you mean?” asked Conn around a mouthful of sausage. “He contracted you, didn't he?”

  “For the sphere, yes,” she replied. “Oh, Kerra! Did you have some of this soup? Anyway, the sundries are probably worth more than he can pay at short notice.”

  “You want me to tag along? Look intimidating? Here, have some of this bread. It's still warm.”

  “Thanks,” she replied, seizing the fresh loaf and slathering it with butter. She took a bite, chewing to give herself time to think. Did she want to tip her hand by introducing an ally to Fayl?

  Her natural reticence struggled with the fact that she trusted Conn, so far as she trusted anyone. After all, what harm was there in his going? She wasn't going to cheat him out of his end of the price of the goods. Not much anyway.

  Very well, she decided.

  “I sent word to Fayl. I should hear back tomorrow about payment for the orb. I'm sure he needs time to get the payment from his client. In the mean time, I can cash in some of the odds and ends. When he schedules the meeting for payment, I'll let you know.”

  * * *

  Chojin Dra read the letter and smiled. It was a slow, long dormant smile, like spring on the steppes. His contact had the Eye of Hrisst. He scribbled a reply and sent the messenger away.

  He took a moment to savor his victory, thanking Mo Ris, the scholar aspect of the Great God, for allowing His humble servant this triumph.

  He had found the ancient map bundled with an even older scroll in the Great Library of Sammartan when the Jar Van legions took the city, in a portion of the great building spared from the fires and chaos of the sack. He shook his head, regretting the loss of treasured knowledge that the city's defenders had made necessary as a price for the furthering of the Glory of Mo Tzan. His scholar’s heart sickened at the memory of the fabled white walls stained with soot and blood, the sites of learning in rubble.

  He shook himself, asking forgiveness for his weakness. To be sure, the Aspect of Mo Ris would understand his momentary blindness to necessity.

  The weight of worry hung heavy on him these past months. The power of the Eye would be invaluable to the armies of the Jar Van, but the Temple where it lay was deep in the territory of the enemy. And the Mun, the priests of Mo Tzan, were difficult to convince that the vanished devotees of a false and barbaric god could possess so potent an item.

  Even when he had persuaded a powerful warlord of the advantage of obtaining the Eye, and of his plans to get it, the man saddled him with restrictions and a squad of soldiers too small to fight and too large to hide. But Mo Tzan now rewarded his efforts, and he had passed the test and overcome the obstacles set for him. He signaled to the officer commanding his guards, and handed him a heavy purse.

  “Take this to our contact,” he said. “Arm yourself, and I will work my magic to disguise you, so that you do not attract the attention of these barbarians.”

  The warrior smiled. “It will be good to leave this place. It galls me to hide among these vermin.”

  Chojin Dra studied the warrior. He was of the Su, taller and fairer than most of the Jar Van. Unlike most of the castes, the Su often took captive women for wives and accepted all the children into their caste. As such, they were more diverse in appearance and build, surely a part of Mo Su's plan to assimilate the strengths of his enemies. The Su served a
harsh but pragmatic aspect of the One God.

  “We endure what we must to serve the One,” he intoned.

  “Mo Su grant us the strength of His arm,” replied the warrior with a salute.

  * * *

  “So,” said the fence, rubbing his hands, “let's see it.”

  Trilisean produced the orb with a flourish.

  Years of training and practice allowed Fayl to keep his expression blank, but the thief noted the slight catch in his breathing. She understood. The jewel was outstanding, ignoring the significance of any religious value.

  Conn, standing back and trying to look menacing, watched with interest as the thief and the fence did the dance of negotiation. He was certain he missed a lot of what was going on. It was like watching two master swordsmen fence. So much happened as the eyes read clues from minuscule changes in stance, a catch in the breathing, a shift of weight, and the brain processed and adapted before any move large enough for the novice to detect.

  He hoped Trilsean was winning.

  “So,” Fayl opened, “we agreed on 500 crowns?”

  “You know what we agreed on, my corpulent colleague,” she smiled back. “Seven hundred.”

  “Well, you did take longer than my client wanted to wait for the piece. I had to cut him a deal to keep him from shopping elsewhere.”

  “Oh, I'm sure he could pick up a huge amethyst looted from a lost temple at any of a dozen shops,” she retorted. “Do I look like Vaigh? We agreed on a price.”

  “We did at that,” he eyed the gem covetously. “But I do have to placate my buyer due to the time it took.”

  “That comes out of your end. I didn't mess up the negotiation, and I'm not the one who lost time trying to cut corners by hiring a crowbar swinger to do a complex lift. You might as well shave with an axe as get someone like that to steal something like this. If it were a simple smash and grab job, do you think it would even be there after all these years?”

  “Fine,” he sighed. “Seven it is. Though you're taking food from my mouth.”

  “Don't give me obvious straight lines like that, Fayl. I don't want to say anything hurtful and strain our mutually rewarding friendship.”

  The fence took a key from his pocket and opened a strongbox beneath the counter. He took a hefty purse and set it on the wood.

  “You had it ready and still you haggle?”

  “Can't blame a man for trying, lass.”

  She took the purse, handed over the orb and then counted out Conn's share.

  “This is my associate, Conn,” she told Fayl. “He's trustworthy. You can deal with him if ever you need to get to me and can't find me.”

  The fence gave the warrior an appraising look and nodded.

  Conn tried to look simultaneously trustworthy, intimidating, and knowledgeable about the value of goods.

  While Trilisean and Fayl haggled over some of the treasure, he glanced around the shop. He noticed a strange charm hung above the door. It looked like a religious medal, but one that was unfamiliar to him. It was a lidless eye with the sun’s rays behind it, breaking through a cloud.

  Presently, the thief and the fence concluded business, both wearing careful expressions of having been robbed. Coins and goods changed hands, and Trilisean led Conn out of the shop.

  “How did we do?” he asked.

  Her expression transformed from artful disappointment to a devilish grin of pure mischievous joy.

  “Not bad, partner. Not bad at all.”

  She started to walk away. Conn began to follow when something caught his eye. As a man entered the shop, he wavered, and Conn saw a Jarving soldier.

  He ducked into an alleyway, pulling Trilisean in beside him.

  “What?” she asked.

  “That man who walked into Fayl's shop just…changed.”

  She shrugged. “He was probably disguised. Any good fence has a charm against illusion over the door. Keeps them from buying glamoured merchandise.”

  “How d'ye mean?”

  “Well,” she said, “some…unscrupulous types might get a sorcerer to cast a spell on some cheap jewelry or even pebbles to make them look like diamonds. The spells are cheap and easy if they aren't long lasting, and they only need to work until the seller gets out the door with his cut. Fayl occasionally does business with some unsavory characters.”

  “Aye, well, they can't all be paragons of virtue and honesty like you, lass.”

  “I know. Makes you weep for the state of things today.”

  “But that bugger who just walked in,” Conn went on. “He looked like a common merchant, but when he went in, he kinda wavered and turned into a Jarving. A soldier to be sure. Walked like an infantryman. Probably a sergeant.”

  “So maybe he deserted or mustered out and he's pawning his loot. Or his sword. Maybe he's had enough of war. The disguise makes sense if he's a deserter.”

  “That lot doesn't desert,” he growled. “Or ever have enough of war. The Jarvings are born to a caste. They live to fight. That bugger is on some mission.”

  “Well, good thing you're out of the army and free to help me spend our ill-gotten gains.” She took his arm and tried to lead him away. “No point in fighting him for free.”

  She walked purposefully away, her hand still on the warrior's arm. He followed, drawn by simple momentum, looking over his shoulder at the door of the shop.

  Suddenly, when she thought they were clear, he halted with a curse.

  “That bastard has our rock!” he roared.

  “Conn! Wait!” she said as he pulled away, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword. The mercenary was looking murderously at a fat merchant walking away from the pawnbroker's, a spherical bundle under his arm.

  “Look,” she hissed, clutching his elbow, “even if that is a Jarving warrior, he looks like a merchant. If you attack him on the street in broad daylight the Watch will be all over us! Think!”

  He stopped, glaring at the man as he vanished into the crowd.

  “So the Jarvings wanted that stone,” he muttered.

  “Apparently,” she replied. “Come on. Let's go blow some loot! I need new boots. And you,” she looked him up and down, “you could use some new…everything.”

  “What could that stone do?” he muttered, thinking.

  She blinked at him a few times in confusion. “Do? It could make us rich. Other than that, who cares?”

  “It could be a weapon!” he said. “We just stole a weapon for the enemy!”

  “Conn,” she took his head in her hands, turning him to face her. “Sweetie. You're not a soldier. You're a fencing instructor and apprentice burglar. We're thieves. That means we take things that don't belong to us, and sell them to other people. And people who want to pay for stolen goods aren't generally the nicest people in the world.”

  “But–”

  “But,” she continued, “they are our bread and butter. The alternative is honest work. And we both know what honest work does to a person. Remember why you left the Free Companies. You don't want to go back there, any more than I want to go back to where I escaped from. Think about it. Please.”

  He was silent for a moment. “You're right,” he took her hands from his face. “It's not your fight. It's still mine, though. It's not for Grian or for the honor of the regiment, but for what they did to Aeran. For the loss of all those I grew up with, and for the sack of my village. You don't know what they're like. We can't let them win the war. They'll be in Laimrig some day if we don't stop 'em.”

  He looked away, focused on something years and miles away, not in the alley.

  “Even for my old companions in the Company. I can't let them face some arcane weapon the next time they meet the enemy. I have to do something.”

  He looked back at Trilisean. “I don't ask you to help. Just to understand.”

  She pushed down feelings of hurt and rejection, seeing the determination in his eyes. Perhaps some things are too important, too personal to ignore.

  “Let me c
heck with some friends,” she said at length. “I'll see if I can find out what this thing does, and where your Jarvings might be.”

  “My thanks,” he said, softly. “It means more to me than you can know.”

  She nodded, lost in her own thoughts. Conn was being stupid, as far as she could tell, but maybe he did have a good reason.

  She had no memory of how she had come to be a slave, whether captured as an infant or born to one so taken. She had been responsible only for herself for as long as she could remember. But maybe, if she could avenge her slavery, or prevent it from happening to someone else, would that be enough to fight for?

  * * *

  Trilisean sat in a close, dusty room, surrounded by books, scrolls and tablets, lit by a single glass chimneyed oil lamp set on the desk before her. An open flame in such a place would be insanity. The desk itself barely jutted above the heaps of books stacked on the floor, like the deck of a ship foundering among swells of ancient lore. She assumed that the chamber was bound by walls, though she could see none behind the packed shelves. Behind the books, she could see a second layer of books, like the rings of a tree. She wondered how many layers one could peel away before reaching the end. Fading light from the setting sun broke through what she assumed must be a window, throwing stacks of books into silhouette, like the crazily leaning skyline of a ruined city.

  She stared in horror at the sage's wizened face as he smiled triumphantly up from the dusty volume open before him. His handling of the book was delicate, almost a lover's caress.

  “You're sure?”

  “No one is sure of such a thing, my child,” he replied, long fingers delicately turning pages brittle with age, “but that is the legend. The Eye of Hrisst enables the Chosen of Hrisst, His Earthly Arm, to see beyond the horizon whatsoever it is His will to see. Whatever this Eye is, its purpose seems clear. The author of this tome traveled extensively in the reign of Ulf the Red Hand, and claims to have witnessed the rituals of these strange creatures. Of course, he has been known to exaggerate. He also claims to have sailed over the edge of the sea and arrived on the far coast of the same continent on which he started. Clearly impossible, unless one accepts the hypothesis of the priests of Yrel– “