by Jon Sprunk
Josey shivered.
Her feet felt like blocks of ice on the freezing cobblestones. The four watchmen stood tall around her. Their hobnailed boots rang loud upon the street, a comforting sound in the late hours of the night. She was protected. Safe. Her father's killer couldn't touch her now. By morning she would back at home, wrapped in familiar surroundings. A new sense of courage settled over her. She had survived kidnapping at the hands of a vicious lunatic, navigated the treacherous streets of Low Town, and found succor. After she settled her father's affairs, she was determined to put her life back in order. Perhaps she would obey his dying wish and leave Othir, go to Navarre or Highavon. Maybe even find a suitable husband. After this night's events, the idea of remaining in this city had lost its allure.
Ensconced in her thoughts, Josey didn't realize the direction they were taking until a muted roar caught her ears. It sounded like a forest of leaves rustling in a windstorm. The streets had become even more fog-clogged, the cobbles shrouded under a wispy mantle, but she could tell they were heading away from High Town, away from her home.
She spoke up. “Where are we going? I live on the Esquiline.”
The lead watchman removed his helmet. Tall and sturdy, he cut a fine figure in his uniform. He possessed a rugged face, but kind in its own way. His bright hazel eyes gleamed in the lantern light, and Josey found herself wishing he was noble born. With regret, she pushed her thoughts away from that direction. Any man she married would come from a proper family to suit her station.
“Orders, m'lady. We're required to report to our station commander.”
He said this with natural aplomb, but tossed a wink to one of his comrades. Josey's throat tightened painfully. Could it have been a twitch or a trick of the light? No, she had seen it. Something whispered in the back of her mind. Caim had said the soldiers at the manor had been after her, but she hadn't believed him. How could she? Who would believe the words of an admitted killer over the honor of the Church's duly appointed officers? Her father had been a great champion of the law. Yet as she walked among her guardians, she took notice of their silence. Shouldn't they be trying to reassure her? Why hadn't they asked for the identity of her kidnapper? They hadn't even made a cursory search for Caim. Her stomach flipped in sickening loops.
Shouts rose and fell in the distance as they passed down an avenue of boarded-up storefronts. Noisome odors mingled with the fog. A stream of brown water trickled across their path, dammed at the center by a large lump. Josey put a hand to her mouth and swallowed as she made out the body of a dead dog, its fur matted and crawling with maggots. Pottery crashed on the street behind them. Throaty laughter cackled in the dark. The watchmen brandished their weapons as they hurried her along.
She clutched the leader's arm. “I am not feeling well. Might we head to High Town at once?”
None of them answered. They turned onto a new street, and a gust of fresh salt air met Josey's nose. She drew in a deep breath to clear the miasma of the streets from her lungs as cobblestones gave way to coarse wooden slats. A boardwalk wended between a row of long whitewashed buildings to her right and the black void of the open sea. The briny air sang with the slap of waves against worn pilings and stone quays. Tall masts of ships secured in their moorings swayed to the roll of the breakers, empty as beggars’ bowls.
Josey slowed as the watchmen started down the boardwalk. Their leader tightened his grip on her arm.
“Sir, unhand me!” she shouted aloud in the hope that some sympathetic ear might overhear.
The watchmen laughed, all chivalry dropped from their demeanors. Josey bit down on her tongue as the leader leered at her. How could she have imagined kindness in his brutish eyes? He dragged her along with alarming ease.
At first glance, the harbor was empty of people. Then, a point of yellow light appeared over the spit of an ancient wharf. As she was drawn closer, Josey made out a gang of men gathered under the light. Their coarse laughter echoed through the night air. Josey's legs shook as she spied the symbol emblazoned on their tunic. She would have fallen if she wasn't held up.
Every man wore the golden sunburst of the Sacred Brotherhood.
The lead watchman thrust Josey into the circle of light. Tears ran freely down her face as cruel gazes raked her body. Why was this happening to her? Wasn't it enough that she had lost her father? Must she also be molested by these brigands? She knew what these men lusted after, and knew she was powerless to fight so many of them. She looked around, hoping to spot some passerby, someone who would hear her screams, but they were alone. Her stomach twisted into knots as she realized she should have listened to her father's killer.
A tall man shouldered his way through the crowd. Josey sobbed as a familiar face appeared.
“Markus!”
She tried to go to him, but rough hands threw her down on the pier's hard boards. Josey stared up at Markus, her lips parted in a silent appeal. Spots of blood showed on the bandage wrapped around his neck. One look into his eyes told her that she would find no succor with him. Suddenly, she was terrified for Anastasia.
Markus ignored her. “Where did you find her?” His voice was low and coarse, like grinding millstones.
“Three Corners.” The westerner grinned at Josey in a way that made her insides tremble. “She ran right into our arms.”
“Anyone follow you?”
“Nah. The streets were empty. What'll we do with her?”
Markus pulled a sloshing green bottle from inside his coat and thrust it at the watchman. “Go take a walk and forget you saw her.”
“Wait!” Josey wailed, but the watchmen marched off without giving her a second glance.
Once they were gone from sight, Markus signaled to the others. “Get rid of her. No mistakes.”
Josey bit her lip. A scream fluttered in her throat, but her mouth refused to work. Her fingernails scrabbled across the wooden spars.
A broad-chested Brother with a shaggy red beard stepped forward. “Hell, we can't waste a cunny like that! I'll have a crack at that before we finish her off.”
A raucous chorus of chuckles greeted the pronouncement. Josey backed away as Red Beard reached for the ties to his baggy breeches. A wall of sturdy legs halted her retreat. She shut her eyes and prayed harder than she'd ever prayed before, for deliverance from this horrible night, for the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, even for death before she must succumb to this nightmare.
Markus produced a coil of rope and tossed it on the ground. “No messing around. Just kill her and get it done with. She'll wash out with the tide.”
The men grumbled, especially Red Beard, but they grabbed Josey and set to binding her arms and legs. A rusty iron weight was produced and secured to her ankle. The men carried her down the short dock. One of her bearers took the opportunity to knead her buttocks. Josey's sobs had grown to near convulsions, but the waves crashing against the pilings drowned out her mews. She tried to kick and only succeeded in making them laugh.
“Be quick about it,” Markus rasped. “And slit her throat before you dump her off the end.”
“Let me do it,” a skinny Brother said. His ropy lips turned up in a grin as he pulled a long dirk from his belt.
They put her down on the weather-worn boards, and someone yanked back her head. Josey lifted her eyes. Stars sparkled overhead, blurred by her tears. She panted in terror. This can't be happening! But it was. She was going to die.
Josey braced herself for the touch of the steel. The waiting seemed to last for ages. Then, something warm spattered the side of her face. The hands holding her let go. Boots pounded on the pier. She lifted her bound hands to wipe away the wetness. Three Sacred Brothers sprawled on the slats, bleeding out their wretched lives. The rest watched the night with their swords out.
Caim!
She knew right away it was him. Her suspicion was proved correct when Red Beard fell at her feet with his throat sliced open. A sliver of bloody steel flashed in the dark and was gone, only to reappea
r on the other side of the melee to drink again.
Josey struggled with her bonds. If she could get free while they fought, she might be able to slip away in the confusion. Her gaze fell on the slim dagger sheathed on Red Beard's belt. She scooted over to his corpse. Suppressing her revulsion, she caught hold of the leather-wrapped hilt and tugged the knife free, then began sawing at the thick rope that bound her wrists. Strand by strand the rope parted. Though the blade was sharp, her range of movement was limited and she had to hold the knife at an awkward angle. Josey sobbed with relief when the last piece gave way; she went to work on the loops binding her ankles.
The fighting continued around her and more men died. Caim was out there, killing to save her. For the second time, if he'd told the truth. Josey's head spun. She ought to be terrified out of her mind as the man who had killed her father, or would have killed him, battled her present captors. And yet, she was calm. Something had changed within her. The darkness didn't frighten her as before. She brushed the thoughts away. Caim was an admitted killer. Why would he care to keep her alive? He must know she would go straight to the authorities, the proper authorities, as soon as she was free. He had to have an ulterior motive, some secret he was keeping from her.
She almost cut her leg as the dagger slipped and sliced her nightgown. She concentrated on severing the rope's last fibers. Once free, she scrambled to her feet. Her escape from the pier was blocked by the melee. From what she could see, only Markus and a handful of his men remained, but it would only take one to notice her and finish the job.
As Josey took tentative steps toward the edge of the combat, a shadow emerged from the dark. It swept past the swarm of men, evaded their attacks, and raced down the wharf on whisper-quiet steps. Hard gray eyes peered from the depths of a deep hood. Josey was relieved in a way she'd never thought she would be. Caim grabbed her around the waist as he ran by and snatched her off her feet.
“Wha—!”
He leapt.
For one marvelous moment they were airborne. The bay breeze swept up her hair in its cool fingers as she floated in the night sky. She clutched Caim about the shoulders, and let her fingers roam over the play of powerful muscles beneath his black shirt.
The steely twang of a bowstring broke the spell. Josey felt the impact as Caim jerked like a giant fist had punched him in the back. The force of the blow knocked their trajectory askew. Instead of a graceful landing, they hit the dark waters like two falling stones.
The impact knocked the breath from Josey's lungs. She gasped, and icy seawater flooded her lungs as their combined weight pulled them under the surface. She struggled against Caim's grip, but his arm remained locked around her waist.
Her limbs grew heavy; her thrashing slowed. She screamed out her last precious bubbles of air as the choking abyss closed around her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Caim collapsed at the water's edge, unable to crawl another foot. Every movement sent spasms of red-hot agony racing through him. The frigid bay waters had leeched away the last of his strength and left him a shivering mass of exhaustion.
Echoes of lapping water reverberated off stone walls, barely discernable in the darkness. After hitting the water, he had managed to find one of the submerged sewer pipes that carried effluvia into the bay. An iron grate had once barred the entry, but it'd rusted away long ago—a convenient access into the city he'd discovered a few years back while prepping for a job.
He took a deep breath and regretted it as a tremor of pain wracked his body. He hadn't heard the crossbow fire, but the bolt's impact had almost been enough to kill him outright. He managed to hold on to consciousness long enough to swim down deep into the inky waters, away from their enemies. No one had followed them. No surprise there. Whoever shot him must have thought it was a killing blow. Unfortunately, time might bear out that assumption. He'd lost a lot of blood. He could tell by the way his hands shook when he tried to pull himself out of the water that he wouldn't survive long without a chirurgeon, but he wasn't likely to find one down here. Even if he could walk, it wouldn't be safe. He knew a couple of cut-men who would treat an injury like this with no questions asked, but they might be compromised. Whoever was behind this fiasco had proven to be both intelligent and savvy.
A weak groan murmured behind him. Caim pulled himself over to the girl. She lay half in the water, facedown. He rolled her over despite the agony it caused him. Her nightgown was a tattered mess, stained with blood, mud, and worse. The wet silk clung to her body like a second skin. Yet she had the heart of a lion. She hadn't screamed while he fought her captors or cowered at the sight of blood. Instead, she'd gotten hold of a knife and cut herself free.
The girl's teeth chattered between blue lips. The pipe was freezing, but Caim didn't have anything to make a fire. This is where I'll die. He had been dealing in death for so long it held little mystery for him. He would close his eyes and drift away to the sound of the water. It was probably a better end than he deserved. With one hand on the girl's stomach, he listened to her breathe. She would live, at least. For some reason that made him feel better.
A voice intruded on his solace. He smiled as Kit descended through the ceiling. The violet glow of her tight smock illuminated the tunnel, showing ancient walls caked with mud and lichen. The grime of the sewer didn't touch her. Caim had often wished he could fly like her, just take off and leave the world behind. He could never understand why she hung around with him when she could be soaring among the clouds. Kit said it was because he needed her, that without her he would get into all sorts of trouble. It seemed she was right yet again.
“Caim, what have you done to yourself?” Kit asked in a choked voice as she alighted beside him. Strangely, she seemed more concerned about his foot, which throbbed on the periphery of his awareness.
Before he attacked the Sacred Brothers holding the girl, he had told Kit to keep an eye out for trouble, but she had flown off in a huff. That was Kit, always marching to the rhythm of her own song. She hadn't changed a dram in all the time he'd known her. His whole life. Now she would watch him die. The thought made him laugh, which turned into an excruciating grunt.
“I had a little help.” His throat was dry and cracked. That struck him as funny with all the water lying around him, but he refrained from laughing. He put on a brave face for her. “It's not that bad.”
“Yes, it is. We need to get you to a barber.”
He ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair. “You think I need a trim?”
“Don't play games, Caim. This is serious.”
“It'll all be over soon. We had a good run, Kit. No one can say we didn't.”
She tsked at him. “It's not over yet.”
“You going to carry me out of here, Kit? That would be something to see.”
She turned to the girl. “She's stirring.”
This time Caim couldn't hold back his laugh, but it came out in a hissing cough as coppery bile bubbled in the back of his throat. “You think she's going to help me, Kit? She couldn't weigh more than seven stone soaking wet. Even if she could, why would she? I'm the bad guy. Just let me be.”
With a sigh, Kit rested her head against his chest. Soft sounds echoed in his ears—either sobs or chuckles, he couldn't tell which. It was getting hard to keep his eyes open. He closed them knowing they would never open again. The sweet escape of oblivion beckoned.
“So long, darling,” he murmured as he drifted away.
Josey dreamed she was lounging up to her chin in a giant, warm raspberry pie floating in the midst of a gorgeous, starry sky. Surrounded by gelatinous filling, she watched the twinkling stars streak by. A feeling of utter tranquility filled her. All was well.
Opening her eyes was like a slap in the face. She lay on a slanted plane of cold, coarse stone. Her legs floated not in warm sugary goodness, but in foul, frigid water that lapped at her thighs like a gaggle of icy tongues. Wherever she was, it stank worse than anything she'd ever smelled before, a combination of
garbage and night soil and blood. Every breath made her want to throw up.
With shaking hands, Josey pulled herself out of the water. Her whole body felt like one massive bruise. The last thing she remembered was being knocked off the pier and the black water swirling over her head. She must have washed up here, wherever this was. No sky stretched over her head. There was a breeze of sorts, but it was fetid and moist. Perhaps she had floated into an old cistern. No, not a cistern. By the smell, she was in some section of the sewers. The urge to retch came over her again.
Josey clamped her lips tight against the nausea and tried to crawl farther, but froze as a groan echoed beside her. Wild fancies of trolds and hobgobs flashed through her mind. Was she still dreaming? Water dripped in the distance, making her want to use the privy. She almost laughed. She was in a gigantic water closet. A little more urine wouldn't hurt the smell, but a lady didn't answer the call of nature out in the open.
She crawled until she was out of the water entirely. The groan rose again before drifting away. It was nearby. Josey sat up on her knees, trying not to think of the damage to her nightgown. She had a dozen of them at home. She would burn this one as soon as she escaped from this horrid place. Whatever was making the noise, it didn't sound dangerous. It reminded her of a wounded animal, like a squirrel, but bigger. A big rat. She started to shy away until a raspy cough echoed around her.
It's him.
Josey had almost forgotten the reason she was still alive and breathing. Her father's killer was here with her, and by the sounds he'd suffered for his efforts to save her. He sounded sick.
“Hello?” she whispered.
Her only answer was another wet cough. Inhaling through her mouth, Josey crawled in the direction of the sound. She found him slumped against a damp wall. He, too, was drenched in foul water and chilled to the touch. She thought he was dead until he coughed again and his chest moved beneath her hands. She searched him with timid hands and found a patch of warm wetness on his right side, a gaping hole plugged with a wooden shaft as thick as her thumb, right beneath his ribs. He mumbled something, but she couldn't make it out. She leaned closer.