by M. C. Elam
“Pig shit.” Chandler hissed spewing a stream of spittle that wet his chin whiskers. He wiped his mouth with the bar towel. “Be naught for it now, lad. Best you get gone.”
Eyes wild as a mountain cat, Klea shook his head. “Can't. They notice the crest, I got to take them down or die trying.”
“Minerva comes back, she can fetch Barclay,” said Chandler.
Klea shook his head again.
“What then, lad, what?”
Klea shrugged. “Best get you gone from me.”
“Aye,” Chandler nodded and busied himself at the other end of the bar, wiping up spills with his grimy towel.
Klea watched Minerva amble toward the Owlmen carrying the tray laden with a pitcher of ale, four full tankards and small stack of coppers. She balanced it against one hip, set the pitcher in the center of the table and delivered a tankard to each of the men. The big one pulled her onto his knee and clamped an arm around her waist while his free hand roamed over her thigh. She meant to put the tray on the table, push his hand away and escape, but the neatly stacked coppers tipped sideways. Minerva was quick to recognize coin. Had to be, else Chandler would have her head for costing the tavern profits. Tonight was no different. She glanced at the scattered coppers, and her eyes went wide. Roughly, half of them bore the Ascallan crest.
So that was why the handsome Owlman at the bar looked so worried. She knew he be one of Ed Barclay's crew. If Brenan's body men caught wind he carried coins like these, he'd be in for it−mayhap Chandler, too. She took a deep breath considering. Be in my hands now, she thought. She flashed a smile and brushed her fingers along the Owlman's cheek. She wiggled closer when he gave her a knowing squeeze and sent his free hand roaming once more. The other three laughed downing swigs of ale and encouraging him. Minerva forced her body to adopt an inviting pose. He slipped a dirk from the sheath on his leg and opened the ties that held her corset. His meaty paw pulled the front of her chemise down to her waist. She let her head tip sideways until her lips were close to his ear.
“Storeroom be a fine place for a wee romp.” She glanced at the closed door left of the bar.
“Aye, lass,” he growled. “I catch your meaning.” He pushed her off his lap, squeezed her ample fanny and nodded toward a side door. “Won't be long fellows. Mayhap be enough to go around when I be done. What say you, sweetheart?”
“Coppers go a far piece toward making that promise.” Her voice liquid soft and inviting fired the Owlman. She winked at him and nodded at the loose coins on the tray.
“What say you mates? Think she be worth that handful of coppers?” He twisted a hand in her hair and turned her to face them so they might take full advantage of her pale breasts.
“Aye, she be working it off this night.” One of them laughed. “Mayhap she be good for the four of us together. What say you?”
The big Owlman considered the request, his hot breath searing her neck. He sank his teeth into the tender flesh just below her ear. “I say that be a fine idea.” He freed her just long enough for her to scoop the coins from the tray and tuck them into the pocket of her apron, then grabbed her arm in a steely grip and shoved her toward the storeroom.
Ale forgotten, the others followed.
Minerva managed to reach behind her and untie the apron. It dropped to the floor. A second Owlman grabbed her other arm. They shoved her into the dark storeroom and slammed the door.
***
Overnight, wind blew the endless belching smoke westward away from the city leaving a few bright stars winking in and out with the coming of morning. Closer to earth, lacy clouds raced each other in an endless game of tag across an azure canvas. A flock of starlings roused from their overnight roosting place on the cobblestones below the tower and took wing. A wolf crept from beneath the executioner's dais, gave a mighty shake that began at his snout and traveled the length of his body. Rogue's warbling cry broke the silence sending shivers down the back of a street urchin crouched in a baker's doorway where he hoped to scavenge enough bread to ease the hunger that raged in his belly. Inside the tower, Chinera lifted her head scenting the air. Her soft whine roused Melendarius.
“Aye, girl. Best we go before she wakes.” The wolf thumped her tail but stayed beside Evan. “I know you want to be with her, but the Mother guides her path today.” Lunarey leaned against the wall in a far corner. He struggled to one knee and extended his arm. The polished oak skimmed across the floor and slapped against his waiting palm. Light traveled over his body, easing away the kinks from a night spent on a stone floor.
Evan stirred.
“Quickly Chinera, come.”
Reluctantly the wolf obeyed. With one hand buried in her ruff, he tapped the floor with the staff. A bright flash lit the cell. When it faded, they were gone. The guards in the lower chamber roused from sleep. Except for Brenan's Elite Guard they were the only other Owlmen ignorant of the takeover.
***
“Got a mind to kick that ass a yours clean betwixt your shoulder blades, pulling such trick the night before we got to take that dirty bugger down.”
Klea nodded. Be right if Marcus did him in proper. “Not blaming you if you did. Nearly cost us dear, but the girl, Marcus. How be that tavern girl?” He buried his face in his hand.
“Get on your feet and into those boots. You be driving the prison wagon same way we planned.” Marcus shook his head. “Can't believe you be doing such a fool thing.”
Klea pulled on his boots and stood. “I be wrong as anything, Marcus. But I got to know. How be the girl? Got to make it right for her if I can.”
“You be closest I got to a brother, Klea, but duty be duty.” He shoved Klea against one of the posts that supported the hayloft and nearly knocked the wind out of him. “Chandler figured as how you'd want to know. Come hotfooting it first light.”
“They kill her, Marcus. Be she dead?”
“Nay, not dead. No thanks to you on that account. She be bruised plenty but breathing.”
Klea groaned. “My fault, the whole of it. But she be alive.”
“Aye, alive.”
“Be more? Look on your face tells me there be more.”
“Chandler's scared she be addled; just stares speaking nary a word.”
A muscle along Klea's jaw turned rigid.
“Don't be giving me the long face. I'd whale you my own self, 'cept the brain beating you got going be worse than any punch I could lay on you.”
“Got to set it right, Marcus.”
“Aye lad, you got a fair heap to make good.”
***
Preston Fugate eyed the big Owlman who guarded Peter Brenan's private chamber. Duncan of Cameret, husband of the Rabbit Girl, nodded acknowledgement. Preston did not know his name, only that this one stood in place of the one called Klea. The man was a good choice, broad shouldered and muscular. Brenan never noticed the lesser guards. To him they were mere furniture. A satisfied smile curved the corners of Preston's thin lips. He cleared his throat and willed the smile away. That wouldn't do at all. He focused on the mosaic crown set into the tile floor. Instead of stepping around it, as he did each day, Preston purposely ground the rough heel of his shoe over the delicate stones. Today was his last chance to slit Brenan's throat. He'd have to let go of the idea even though his fingers itched for the satisfaction. He sighed audibly and felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. The guard, he thought, and looked into friendly eyes.
Inside the room, Peter Brenan mumbled a steady stream of expletives just shy of vile about what he planned to do with Preston Fugate if the man failed to appear by precisely 8:00 AM. He had ordered the procession into Tower Square just an hour and a half from now. A state execution, his beady eyes glittered. He'd abandon the litter at the edge of the square and enter on foot. Escorted by the Elite Guard, dressed in full regalia, they'd make a splendid appearance. Pity he used them so seldom. He vowed to keep them busier after today when he emerged as the rightful king of not one, but three realms, Lawrenzia, Ascalla, and Glynm
ora. In sight of a year, he planned to crush Andors. Eventually, Shadall would fall as well. Then, Father, he thought rubbing his cheeks where the midwife's forceps had crushed tender bones giving him a ghoulish look, then Father, will I be the favored one?
The door opened and Preston Fugate entered carrying a tray of shaving implements that glinted in the morning sunlight.
“About time, Fugate.”
“Aye, Majesty.”
***
All morning Evan watched them arrive. Plain folk, shopkeepers, farmers, tradesmen, in colorful dress and homespun, they crowded the square. So many faces, she thought, too many to tell one from another. The indistinct hum of soft chatter and the shuffling of feet were the only sounds that drifted into the tower cell. Even though standing so long on her toes had her calves screaming, she refused to abandon the vigil.
The city bells tolled nine. Just as they stopped, a man wearing a long robe paused at the mouth of the avenue. His stance reminded her of Horace Runderly. Wiry thin, Horace neared six feet, taller than most of the townspeople; his salt and pepper beard bore yellow streaks from the pipe he enjoyed most evenings. Though many acquainted his slightly bent shoulders with age, she knew the power of his strength when tested. He carried a walking stick almost as long as he was tall. The robe, though. That set him apart and made her doubt her first impression. Horace never wore garb like that. He might don a short cloak in winter. But a robe? It couldn't be Horace. She watched the man parade toward the dais swinging his walking stick in an arc that parted the crowd. Behind him came another man. This one wore a black mask that concealed his eyes but left his mouth and jaw exposed. What she noticed first about him was the bulging musculature of his arms. A boy followed, with a leather satchel slung over his shoulders. Evan gaze settled on his face. The executioner, she thought, her heart beginning to race, and that boy carries the tools of the trade.
A shift in the crowd's attention announced the arrival of a prison wagon. The horses balked and reared, uncomfortable with the proximity of the crowd, and the path widened. Inside, dressed in torn and filthy trail leathers, she recognized Hawk, Marcus, Father Wryth, and one of the men from her vision. The wagon stopped short of the block, and the driver, a single Owlman, leapt to the ground. A procession of Owlmen followed. They lined each side of the path and ringed the dais. A wall of men in black feathered mantles, they stood shoulder to shoulder barring interference from the spectators. The man who drove the wagon lifted the confining shackle bar that held the prisoners immobile. He ordered each to stand. Five Owlmen stepped from the line and forced them up the dais steps. Hands bound behind them, they stood arrow straight facing the block.
The door to her cell door slammed open against the wall. Evan jumped. She was concentrating so intently upon the scene playing out in the square that she had failed to hear the guard until he entered. He forced her to the center of the room and jerked her arms behind her. Rough bindings bit her wrists. He slipped a rope around her neck, tightened the noose and pushed her through the door. So, she thought, I am to stand with them. Raw stone bit the soles of her feet as the Owlman led her into the stairwell. The other waited at the bottom.
“Give you any trouble, did she?”
“Nay, docile as a lamb.”
I'll show them docile, Evan thought, turned her head and spat into the face of the man who had bound her. She saw him ball his big fist, and suffered the force of it slamming into her cheek.
“I had more time, you'd pay for that.”
“Stand easy,” the other warned. “She's not long for this world.” He unlocked the door into the square. “Slip that noose. Won't need it with her hands bound.”
Each of them took one of her arms.
“Entrails for brains, release me. I'll walk to my death without your aid.”
“Orders say you crawl.”
She turned toward him. Her pretty features masked with a fury frightening to behold.
“Walk then witch, and be damned to you.”
He shoved her so hard she fell. Both of her knees screamed in protest as they made contact with the cobblestones. Pain scalded her senses. Struggling to stand, she stumbled into one of the Owlmen at the side of the path. A surprisingly gentle hand helped her rise. The Owlmen closed ranks behind her swallowing the tower guards in a sea of black mantles.
At the foot of the dais steps, someone took her arm. She felt a blade slip between her wrists and cut the rope. She lifted her skirts to avoid tripping as she climbed to the top. That boy, she thought, he looks like Charley, the blacksmith's son. She remembered the last time she took Tommy for shoes. The boy had been half as tall, but his features were the same. Could there be two boys so similar.
All eyes turned from the dais toward the wide avenue where a procession had gathered. Trumpets sounded and drummers beat a marching cadence as they entered the square. Brenan's Elite Guard followed in twos, stepping precisely and flanking Peter Brenan. Not used to seeing the King on foot at any gathering, chatter rose through crowd. Upon reaching the dais, the lead Guardsman called a halt. Brenan continued forward, climbed the steps and turned to face the crowd.
“My people, you gather to witness the execution of those who would usurp my thrown. The first, the witch, Ceri, did infiltrate my very home; slay my son and attempt to pass off her own as rightful heir. Bring forth the witch.” He stood to the side waiting for the executioner to obey.
The muscular giant left his post to take her arm. The smoky pearl close to her heart thrummed. Every step heightened its intensity while overhead thunderclouds gathered above the tower. Flashes of lightning crackled, sparking small fires at measured intervals around the square. Twisting and swirling, rolling in raging fury, black clouds turned day to night. Evan stumbled. The executioner's strong arm encircled her waist. The pearl smoldered with heat searing the skin between her breasts. She reached for the chain and pulled it free. The chain snapped and the treasured Queen's Pearl fell to the ground.
“See, see my good people, what evil the witch brings forth. Know you now, your King speaks true.” Brenan turned his attention toward the block. His boney arms stretched skyward, as though he had called down the power of the heavens against his enemies. The black pearl rolled across the dais at the base of the block. Brenan saw it as the essence of her power. If I hold that pearl, he thought, none will stand against me.
The king’s attention diverted, twenty Owlmen stepped behind the Elite Guardsmen and, in one synchronized movement, drove a dirk into their hearts. Brenan’s body men sank like felled willows.
The executioner, mindful of the lady he escorted, brought Evan to stand in front of the block.
“It is you,” she whispered getting a closer look at him. “Aye, miss. I thought mayhap you might recall my wee Charley. Have you steady feet under you, miss?” He stood in front of her blocking the view of the fallen body men. “Be a bit of blood on the ground.”
“Steady and strong, Charley’s papa, steady and strong.”
Brenan, focused upon taking the pearl, had neither heard nor seen his body men die. Huge drops of rain fell from the cloud-laden sky when his fingers touched the smooth surface of the black pearl. He picked it up and cradled it in his open palm. He started to rise but found Evan, surrounded by a blue aura standing in front of him. Her very skin seemed to shimmer. Those eyes, black eyes, so deadly calm burned with fire where the pupils should have been.
“That, sir,” she hissed, “belongs to me.” She extended her hand, palm open.
“No,” he spat.
“Be wary, Peter Brenan. You shall not win the day.” She raised her fist to the angry sky. A jagged sword of fire ripped through the tower roof and crumbled the walls inward. “Give me what is mine.” Once more she extended her open palm.
“Take her down,” he screamed turning to where he had last seen his body men.
“They are dead,” she said. “To the man they are dead and their blood is on your hands.”
One fist high in the air, he meant
to strike the cunning from the woman he called witch, but before he could, Evan’s gaze settled upon his clenched fingers. Blood gushed from them. Incredulous, he watched until crimson strings of gore ringed his wrists.
“Give me what is mine,” Evan hissed.
Brenan eyed the Owlmen gathered below the dais. “Riches beyond your dreams to the man who cuts the beating heart from the witch.”
“I serve the Lady of Baline,” Devon Runderly stepped forward.
“As do I.” Billy stood beside his brother.
“I serve King Hawk and the Realm of Ascalla.” The executioner pulled the mask from his eyes.
“As do I,” Klea shouted. He took the dais steps two at a time, carrying capes bearing the Crest of Ascalla emblazoned in gold. One he draped across Hawk’s shoulders. The other two he passed to Marcus and Father Wryth.
“I come from Shadall land of the sea people.” A tiny man joined Klea. He plucked a jewel from the pouch at his waist and pressed it into Griffin's hand. A burst of light clothed the blond warrior in armor of gold.
“I come from Glynmora. Your subterfuge stole the light of happiness from the eyes of my bride and peace from the land I cherish.” Christopher Tyndall cast off the black mantle and offered a velvet cloak to Robert.
Fear washed Peter Brenan in waves of despair. His dream, all of his careful plans, shattered in seconds. He inched away from the dais. Perhaps if he could slip into the crowd, he might flee, but a wall of bodies blocked the way. Then he heard her, calling his name; the sound of her voice echoing inside his throbbing head.
“Peter Brenan, you stand accused of crimes too despicable to name. The people of Lawrenzia are yours no longer. The remains of the world you created lies in bloody disarray.”
No one noticed the immaculate gentleman working his way through the throng of onlookers. “Excuse me please, madam,” he whispered to an incredibly stout woman who blocked the path.
“So sorry, sir,” she answered and trod upon the foot of another who had the misfortune of standing beside her.
“Oh sir, do pardon me please,” he said and a woodsman, who never in his life had thought of himself as sir, made room.