by Louis Emery
Malcolm looked over the crowd. He wasn’t searching for just a guard’s outfit—he was searching for a face, for a pair of peculiar eyes. He twitched and shifted again. He decided to descend the nobles’ side where he stood guard most the day to the grounds closer to the arena entrance. From there he could have a fuller view of everyone.
He could feel the vibrations of the charging mounts, but his gaze did not leave the audience. Rounds passed, and Malcolm grew irritated. So much for prophetic girls. Malcolm folded his arms and leaned side to side, stretching his back. Just then, a face caught his eye. A hooded face at the rear of the commoner crowd. People were applauding, smiling, and talking, but this man wasn’t.
Malcolm stepped closer to the stands, not taking his eyes off him. More raucous applause from the audience, but the thin face and beady eyes remained stoic. Ascending the wooden planking, Malcolm made for the last rows at the top. He reached the row in which the man sat. With a fleeting glance, he saw Lord Staverly turning his horse for another strike. The hooded man now took a bow and bolt from under his cloak.
Drawing his sword, Malcolm went for the man. “Out of my way!” he barked, pushing past the seated crowd. People gasped, and their jaws dropped, shocked at seeing a Kingsguard on their side. Malcolm traipsed in between the seats, tripping over people’s feet, drinking mugs, and chewed-up beef ribs.
He could see the assassin nocking the arrow to his bow. Malcolm was almost to him, and as if sensing the commotion, the man looked his way and then turned and pulled back the string of his weapon. The man loosed the arrow awkwardly in a rush. Malcolm swung his sword, the man narrowly evading the blade, which cut into the wooden stands. Lord Staverly was hit and fell from his horse. The crowds inhaled as one.
With the speed of a cat, the assassin maneuvered nimbly past the last few rows and began climbing over the rear of the grandstand. Malcolm followed suit, attempting to grab him before he could descend. The man hung at the back of the wooden planks and jumped to the timber pilings that held the stands erect. Malcolm knew he couldn’t pursue this way. He lacked the man’s agility, and his armor hindered such movement.
In order to move faster, he sheathed his sword and descended the stairs in an attempt to cut him off before he reached the ground. As Malcolm rounded the side of the grandstand, he saw it was too late. The assassin had jumped down several feet and was sprinting away. Malcolm chased after him.
Pursued and pursuer ran through the carts and tables of the shoppers and merchants at the tournament’s bazaar. The assassin bumped into a table, flinging pots and pans and trinkets into the air as it tipped over. Malcolm ran into a baker making him drop his basket of pastries. The place was like a maze, and both men were forced to dodge their way out.
The assassin tripped over a bunch of empty chicken crates, allowing Malcolm to get closer. He got up and abruptly made a sharp turn past a merchant tent. Malcolm lost sight of him around the blind corner. As soon as he made the turn, he immediately ducked beneath the swipe of a blade that drew sparks at the topmost part of his helm. The assassin then lunged, and he dodged aside, drawing his own blade.
Steel rang against steel amidst the grass between the tents. The assassin slashed in adept skill. Malcolm blocked the attacks and countered, slicing the man’s thigh. He faltered a split second and assailed with renewed fury, swinging right and then left. Malcolm defended, but the man made contact with the armor, a clatter of metal resounding. Luckily, it was just a scratch against the plate.
The assassin lunged again, and Malcolm spun and slashed at the back of the man’s calf. He grunted in pain, falling on one knee. Once more, with boiling over anger, he rose and lunged. Clang after clang rang out and a quick thrust nicked Malcolm’s arm. Not too deep, but enough for him to feel the hot stream of blood dripping down.
As if spurred by this small victory, the man went on the offensive again. But Malcolm was angry too and slapped aside his sword making for a harsh blow. His opponent rebounded and blocked a counterattack with his blade. Malcolm swung with all his strength again, and the assassin’s blade flew out of his hands. Malcolm kicked the man to the ground, holding his sword inches from his face.
He then felt a blade against his throat.
“Drop your sword,” a voice said. Malcolm hesitated, looking down.
He saw the assassin look past him, a smile appearing and then disappearing. The blade threatening Malcolm was pushed back as Artemis threw down his would-be killer.
The accomplice regained his footing and having held onto his sword, hacked at the defending Artemis. Meanwhile, the assassin went for his own sword mere yards away. Malcolm ran at the man and tackled him. The man’s hand reached the blade and swung upwards. Malcolm used his left arm to pin the assassin’s wrist down. With the other, he pulled back his gauntleted fist and struck. Not once, but twice. The assassin went slack and fell into a daze, blood bubbling from his nose.
Behind him, Malcolm heard clashing swords and then quiet. He turned in time to see Artemis wiping the blood off his sword on the dead accomplice’s boot. The Kingsguard looked up and nodded, and Malcolm nodded back.
A shadow swayed on a rickety chair within the dank and dark castle dungeon. It smelled of rat pellets and fetid water that drained from the upper walls and gutters. Filth filtered down to imprisoned filth, Malcolm thought. He clenched his fist, wanting to punch the assassin sitting before him a third time. The man would tell him nothing.
“There must be a reason you targeted Lord Staverly,” Malcolm said.
Silence.
“If he’s truly dead, things are in a bad way for you. I can make a case for your life … perhaps argue to send you to the quarry. Chainmouth Hollow always needs workers, and though it’s not forgiving, it’s an alternative to execution.”
The prisoner shifted in his creaking chair and grimaced. He was in pain. By the looks of it, his nose was most definitely broken. He looked up, meeting Malcolm’s eyes. “We both know that won’t happen.”
“Tell me why you did it, and I’ll put in a good word with the king. He’s a merciful man. I’ve served under him many years, fought alongside him and sat at his table.”
Silence.
Malcolm knew a life sentence of hard labor was difficult to get. King Greenvale would likely exact a more final punishment. He also knew the king would want to know the reasons behind the assassin’s machinations, as would House Staverly. Torture was not in his repertoire. Moral obligation made him shy from its methods, but still, information needed to be acquired.
“You’re in the Gray Keep’s dungeons,” Malcolm continued. “I’m sure you’re aware that you’re not making things easier on yourself.”
Nothing.
Malcolm clenched his fist again and then relaxed. He turned and exited the cell followed by his two fellow guards. The dungeon master shut the barred door, and he heard the lock click behind him. As he climbed the final set of stairs out the hive of claustrophobia, he saw Mage-Council Orbist and a guard standing at the entrance.
“Ah, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Mage-Council,” Malcolm bowed his head.
“May I speak with you privately?”
“Certainly,” Malcolm looked to the three Kingsguards. “Report back to Ser Lambert.”
The trio of men left, and Malcolm and Orbist walked out of earshot of the two castle guards posted at the dungeon door.
“It appears this girl, Ethlin, was right,” Orbist said, eyebrows raised.
“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.”
“Few people have. A Seer is a rare, rare creature, indeed.”
“How fairs the king? Is Lord Staverly—”
“He’s alive. And the king is fine, no attempt being made on his life.”
“Alive?”
“Thanks to you.”
“But I saw the arrow hit, and he fell from his horse.”
“The assassin was either a bad aim, or you distracted him enough. The shot merel
y lodged in the lord’s arm, fortunately in the fatty part. I dressed the wound myself. Staverly is grateful to you, as is the king. A job well done,” Orbist cuffed him on the shoulder. “I take it there was a second man in league with the assassin. Your man Artemis killed him?”
Malcolm nodded. “Yes, he prevented the rogue who put his blade to my throat. I owe him a debt.”
“Well, it appears that’s what King Greenvale thinks of you two. As reward for your deeds, the king says he has a bag of gold, each with your names on it.”
“What of the tournament? Where is the king now?”
“The day’s events forced the king to postpone this afternoon’s activities. They recommence in two days, and there will be double the guards for the arena as well as House Staverly. A thorough search of attendees will be conducted before permission to enter the grounds. In the meantime, the king will have his other officers question the surviving assassin of his motives. Right now, he’s back in his council room, likely discussing this prisoner.”
“He doesn’t appear to be talking.”
“Don’t you worry about that. Collect your reward from the king and go about your duties. However, in a few days’ time, I will need you to return to Dragonmother temple.
6
Despite the fact it was the middle of the week’s tournament, the Invernessing Marketplace buzzed with customers, browsers, traders, bidders, hawkers, and shopkeepers. Today was the day Ethlin’s vision was to come to fruition. A part of her wanted to be there, to see what occurred, but Patrycias had said it was best to do the work of the temple.
“Keep up, Ethlin,” Patrycias called out. “My basket is almost full. I shall need yours.”
She hurried forward opening the basket flap as Patrycias stuffed in an unusual looking root. Hers was already filled with juniper berries, sage, ginger roots, and the cactus fruits of Sydonya. Ethlin kept eyeing a table across the way. It was Jasmeen’s clothing cart, which always drew her near.
“Go ahead,” Patrycias said. “But don’t be too long. We’re nearly done here.”
Ethlin smiled to the priestess and crossed the busy promenade to her favorite vendor.
“Hello there, lady Ethlin,” Jasmeen said. “Come to browse the habiliments?”
“Yes, I suppose. Of course, I’m not to take long. Priestess Patrycias thinks I already have enough dresses for the two days I don’t apprentice.”
“Well, there’s no harm in looking.” The clothes-maker pulled out an elegantly embroidered dress. “This is one of my newest. Just your size, I think.”
Ethlin was mesmerized. It was the dark green and gray colors of the Backlands. Embroidered in silver lace was a splendorous scene of the Gray Keep with its moat, portcullis, towers, and banners. Birds flew high above it—or were those dragons?
“Here,” Jasmeen steadied a mirror while Ethlin held up the dress.
She looked at the elegant image. If only I could afford such a masterpiece, she thought. Her attention then focused past the mirror, behind the clothes cart. A familiar face looked at her and then turned away. She blinked, thinking her mind was playing tricks on her. The figure glanced her way again, along with a companion at his side. The two men from the procession.
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” she said, leaving the dress.
Both men headed in her direction.
She turned and ran to Patrycias, who was ahead haggling with an herb peddler.
“Priestess, we must go!” Ethlin grabbed Patrycias’ arm.
“What, child? What’s the matter with—” Patrycias saw the figures weaving their way through the crowd. “Come, Ethlin.”
Ethlin looked back as they sped through the marketplace. The two men were bumping and pushing people, gaining on them. Patrycias led her down a blind alleyway amongst the artisan quarters. Here the apartments were packed tight, and the cobbled passageways narrowed to where the two could barely keep abreast.
Before they turned another corner, Ethlin saw their pursuers enter the alley and sprint toward them. Patrycias then led her through a narrow passage where the tall buildings pinched together so closely they appeared to be leaning against each other at their roofs. They made another abrupt turn passing a basement tavern closed for tournament day. Ethlin cursed the fact there weren’t any patrons to help them escape their pursuers.
After running for the better part of an hour, Patrycias and Ethlin slowed, catching their breaths lest they pass out from exhaustion. Their breathing echoed throughout the alleyway and amongst the cramped apartments.
“We can’t rest. We have to get back to the temple,” Patrycias said, while they continued gulping in air.
The two figures then came around the corner of an alleyway not twenty feet from them. Ethlin could see one brandished a club and the other a long dagger. She dropped her basket, noticing Patrycias doing the same, and they both ran.
They came to Barracks Street with the peak of the temple in view. As long as they got through the temple doors, they could lock out intruders, and use the priests’ stowed away weapons if need be. Ethlin knew that along with a few heavy-duty broom handles, there was a fire-axe in the storage closet, and she could have sworn Patrycias kept an old sword there.
Crossing the unpaved street, Ethlin fell having tripped over a clump of mud. She looked up and saw a horse cart trotting toward her. She raised herself but slipped in the wet muck. Patrycias grabbed her just in time, pulling her out of the way of the trampling hooves.
Continuing on, they ran down a side street leading to the temple. Glancing over her shoulder, Ethlin only saw one of her pursuers—the one with the club. At the end of the street, the second man came into view. He brandished the long, glimmering blade.
“All we want is the girl,” He said calmly, his face indifferent.
“What is this?” Patrycias moved closer to Ethlin, spreading her arms out in a shielding stance, “Attacking two helpless Dragonmother servants in the vicinity of the temple?”
“Just give me the girl, or you’ll be a dead priestess.”
Ethlin looked around. The street was deserted. It was partly cobbled, and she noticed a loose one a few feet away. She went for it as the men closed in. She pried the stone from the ground and hurled it at the man with the knife. It connected with a thud, hitting his defending arm, and he cried out.
She and Patrycias tried to run past the injured man, but a strong arm grabbed her. She squirmed in his grip. The man held his blade close. She kicked him in the shin, and he faltered. Meanwhile, Patrycias was fighting off the second man. He had reached her and was trying to beat her with his club. He made contact, but Patrycias still managed to grab his arm, holding it back to prevent another strike.
Escaping the grip of the knifeman, Ethlin ran to help Patrycias. She grabbed the clubman’s leg and bit down hard. The man grunted and smacked her head away. Ethlin felt dazed, and she staggered backward. She then heard a higher pitched cry from the clubman who dropped his weapon, blood gushing from his wrist. Patrycias had pulled a secret dagger from her robes. The priestess held it at the ready, painted crimson.
“Let us go, Ethlin. Now.”
The knifeman again darted for them. Ethlin grabbed the man’s leg with both hands, while Patrycias delivered a quick kick to the man’s private parts. The man dropped his knife and slumped to his knees.
Ethlin and Patrycias scrambled away from the scene. Ethlin looked back and saw neither of the injured men pursuing.
They made it to the temple, exhausted, yet filled with adrenaline. Tomsun was sweeping outside, and he ran down to help Ethlin walk, concern marking his face.
“What happened?”
“Members of the Sect attacked us,” Patrycias replied. “I saw the small flame tattoo on one’s arm. They were ready to kill me to get to Ethlin. They wanted to take her away.”
“Why would they do this?”
“I don’t know,” Patrycias opened the temple door, holding it open for Tomsun and Ethlin. “But I think I killed one of t
hem. I cut one’s artery at the wrist.”
Tomsun looked intently at the priestess as if seeing her in a new light.
Ethlin said, “You did what you had to, Priestess.”
Patrycias nodded somberly and said, “Tomsun, I want you to lock up tonight and stand guard with Decker and Meryle.”
“Yes, Priestess.”
“And don’t let anyone in, unless it’s the Mage-Council himself.”
7
Malcolm inhaled the crisp morning air while atop his steed. It smelled wonderfully of breakfasts from kitchens, bread from bakeries, and hot metal from the blacksmiths. He must admit, he felt great—and not because he sat in a saddle, though that was part of it. It was a rare thing these days where he wasn’t standing guard around the throne room and keep. Being mounted gave a welcome change of scenery.
To add to his current good mood, the king’s spirits also rose. Malcolm preferred seeing King Greenvale happy. So happy, in fact, he gave Malcolm quite a bit of gold. The tournament had recommenced and finished without a hitch. No more assassination attempts were made, and the festivities were topped off with a grand feast. The Gray Keep operated as usual, despite an assassin residing in its dungeon.
Malcolm was glad of this, as was he to get out into the city, escorting the Mage-Council to the temple. Riding next to him, Orbist looked natural though unusual in his robe. For an older man, he looked comfortable in his saddle, just as much as the other guards who accompanied them.
“Did you receive praise from Lord Staverly, yet?” Orbist said as they passed the last of the gargoyles and statues adorning the merchant guilds of Exchange Plaza.
“He did,” Malcolm replied. “He was glad to have his life.”
“As would I be. Staverly can be a stubborn man, but even he can see when thanks are due. Was there any gift given as a token of such a favor?”
“There was, though I’m not at liberty to discuss how much.”