The ghost shimmered at the edge of his vision, like a flickering play of light on water, yet floating in the air. He could not see her, not in any true sense, but her touch flowed up his arm, soaking into him, freezing his heart and the blood coursing in his veins.
"You must come!" a voice inside him seemed to say. "Now. For Dubric. Please!"
The coolness tugged within his chest and he lurched to the side, gasping through a tickle of perfume in the air. She appeared solid before him for a moment, her glowing eyes filled with urgency and pain, and she touched his cheek, mouthing words he could not understand. The chill in his blood faded with her image, then he felt the gentle tug on his hand again. "I think there's something wrong with Dubric. I can't explain it, but I have to go."
"What the peg?" Dien smacked a nobleman aside and started following Lars, but a group of milkmaids wrestling over a tapestry blocked his way.
"Lars, don't! It's too dangerous!"
"I have to," he yelled over the din as the ghost dragged him toward the stairs. "I'll be careful."
Dien's reply was lost to the chaos, but Lars paused on the stairs to see Otlee pulling a laborer off Dien's back and Bacstair shoving a cleaning maid aside. He started back down to help them, but the ghost pulled him up the stairs, refusing to release her grip upon his hand.
* * *
"Get behind me!" Dubric yelled, swinging his sword toward a recently fallen chair. Beckwith had disappeared into thin air as if he never existed, leaving no more than the stink of spilt blood to mark his passage.
Nella sidled toward him, clinging to the wall, but the bed heaved downward then sprung up again. She squealed, jumping away, then suddenly rose from the floor and slammed into the wall. She hung there, gasping for breath, her eyes wild and terrified. Blood smeared across her throat and she squeezed her eyes closed, turning her face away.
"Tsk, tsk, my Lord Castellan," he heard Beckwith say. "This morsel is mine. She stays with me."
Afraid to move for fear of harming Nella, Dubric watched, horrified, as the line of smeared blood moved downward, plucking a button from the front of her uniform. Nella gasped and her eyes opened. Without warning, her knee shot upward, then she fell suddenly to the floor.
"Don't you touch me," she screamed, clawing her way upright and scrambling for a wooden chair. "Kill me if you must, you bastard, but do not touch me!"
She swung downward and Beckwith howled. The chair, an antique that had belonged to Dubric's grandfather, shattered like old porcelain.
As Nella swung again with the chair's severed back, Dubric rushed forward to help her. With a cry of defiance, she scrambled away, toward the far corner, then skidded to a halt.
Dubric froze, hearing the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn.
The broken chair shifted and Beckwith laughed. "Looking for this, little girl?"
She turned, slowly, and backed away, shaking her head. "Please," she whispered. "Not Risley's sword, please don't kill me with his sword."
Where is he? Dubric thought. He moved forward, searching the room for the slightest hint of movement, of noise, of the scent of death.
"All right," Beckwith tittered as pain exploded in Dubric's sword arm and he slammed against the wall.
"Dubric!" Nella screamed, staggering toward him.
"Oh, peg! Goddess-damned son-of-a-whore," he yelped Risley's sword had skewered the muscle of his upper right arm, pinning him to the wall, but he could not reach the hilt with his left hand. Agony ripped from his shoulder to his wrist and his own sword clattered as it fell, skittering away from his feet. He smelled hot, rancid breath and laughter burned his ears.
"My dear Castellan," Beckwith chortled in his ear, "I am so glad that you've decided to remain as witness to my latest endeavors. Although I'm delighted to allow you the pleasure of watching, I have no intention of sharing her with you." Dubric heard a hard metallic click beside his ear. "She's all mine."
"Nella, run!" Dubric begged. He turned his face away from the razor against his cheek and found himself staring at his ghosts.
No longer causing trouble, they stood frightened, mouths agape, and stared at Beckwith. Fytte seemed to say something, and she backed away, pointing and shaking her head. What are they looking at? Why suddenly now?
Nella mewled Dubric's name and he rolled his eyes to look to her. By the King, she seemed miles away as she stumbled farther from Beckwith's dark laughter.
"No!" Nella squealed, falling to her backside as her feet shot out from under her. Dubric watched her try to scuttle away, but she flipped onto her back and her legs lurched apart.
"What happened to the quiet, compliant girl I used to know?" Beckwith muttered. "After all I've done, you dare to disappoint me? You owe me this; you owe me your love."
Wishing his ghosts would do something to help instead of remaining rooted near the door, Dubric tried to relax his muscle enough to move the sword, but the pain kept his bicep tense and howling in agony. And he could not reach the damned hilt!
Nella bucked and fought her attacker, one hand spurting blood from a crosswise gash. "I paid my debt and I'm free. I don't owe anyone anything." She clawed the air and turned, lurching to the side, and her knee shot up again.
Beckwith howled.
Nella scrambled away, climbing over the bed and leaving a trail of blood splatters and handprints on the blankets. Both hands and forearms sported defensive cuts, and the slash across her collarbone had drenched the bodice of her dress.
She had almost made it, nearly reached the relative safety of Dubric's side of the room, when she squealed and fell face first to the floor, pulled back by one foot across the bed.
"No!" she screamed, grabbing anything she could, reaching for Dubric, but moving backward despite everything she tried.
The blankets lumped up behind her knees, as Dubric continued to struggle against the sword. Desperate, Nella grabbed a bedpost and hung on, screaming as blood burst from the back of her leg in a spattering shower. "No! I won't go," she cried, kicking.
She lifted from the bed by her feet and she thrashed before she was flung away, against the wall, on the far side of the bed. She slumped to the floor, twitching and bleeding. Again Beckwith laughed. "Oh yes, you will, little girl. I didn't do all this for nothing."
"Help her!" Dubric yelled at his ghosts, the blade ripping a larger hole in his arm, then he smelled Brinna's perfume.
"Nella!" Lars hollered from the doorway.
Praise the King. "He is there!" Dubric said, pointing with his free hand. "The other side of the bed. Help her!"
Grunting, Lars pulled the sword from Dubric's arm. "Who?"
Dubric tried to take a step forward but fell back against the wall, grabbing his tortured bicep. "Beckwith!"
Lars settled Risley's sword in his hand. He nodded, taking a deep breath. "Then I'll aim high." His back straight and his head held high, Lars strode toward the blood-splattered corner, then fell backward as a shallow gash appeared on his belly.
Brinna had yanked him back, and she turned, yelling something at the ghosts.
Dubric stumbled forward, dizzy, and weakly fell to his knees.
Blood reddening his shirt, Lars rolled and heaved with his legs. Something heavy crashed against the bookshelves, knocking them over. Lars shoved himself upright, leaning sideways with his sword dragging on the floor while his free hand pressed against his belly. "Wanna try that again, little man?"
"No, Lars. No!" Dubric cried, scrambling toward him. He felt a rush of cold like a harsh winter breeze, which knocked him onto his face near the shifting pile of books.
The underside of blood-splattered boots materialized in front of his nose, peeking from beneath a tattered wool cloak. Dubric raised his eyes and looked into Beckwith's sneering face. Elli had snatched off his hood, but she cowered away, watching the black and bloody razor, as Beckwith struggled to find stable footing among the scattered books. Every ghost stared at Beckwith's blade, their eyes huge and terrified. By the King! The
ghosts do not fear him, they fear his razor. Not the man, but the thing that killed them!
Glancing at Lars's hesitant approach, Beckwith kicked Dubric in the face then rolled away, disappearing under the cloak again.
Dubric howled, the ache in his arm lost under the bright agony of a broken nose. Books skittered beside him and he tried to crawl away, but he felt a slash open his upper arm, his back, his side.
Lars leapt to stand over him, swinging his sword, and Beckwith yelped. Books scattered in all directions as he slipped away, some slamming into Dubric's face.
Lars panted, dripping blood on Dubric. "Can you stand, sir?"
"Go! Save Nella. Save yourself," Dubric said, crawling to his sword.
"I hit him, sir. It's not impossible."
Dubric grasped his sword and swung toward movement he felt more than saw. The sword shuddered in his hands, hitting bone, and Beckwith howled. "Get Nella!" Dubric ordered. "Get her and get out of here!"
He saw Lars stumble toward the far side of the bed, and a trail of blood splatters followed. Dubric lunged on his hands and knees, tackling the air above the dripping blood, and they tumbled across the room, hitting a bureau.
The razor skittered away, under the bed. Every ghost watched it go.
Cold air rushed past Dubric. Screaming, Beckwith kicked him again and again, knocking him aside, but the ghosts swarmed, ripping and tearing Beckwith with their teeth and nails.
"What the piss?" he cried, trying to get away, but the ghosts had him and would not let him go. "There's nothing there. Nothing!"
"There is more than you think," Dubric said, gathering his feet beneath him. An ear, a ripped off finger, and bits of clothing flew through the air. Staggering upright, Dubric left Beckwith to the wraiths he had created.
They lifted him, wrenching him around and tearing gashes in his clothes and flesh. Rianne, always the butt of jokes and torture, leered at him, snatching at his scalp and peeling strips of his face away.
"What magic is this?" Beckwith screamed. "What demons have you set upon me?" He crashed and stumbled, tossed around the room like a child's toy.
"You set them upon me," Dubric muttered. He staggered around the bed despite the pain from his injuries and the weakness threatening his legs. "But you are welcome to them."
Lars knelt with Nella and he looked up. "I think she'll be all right, sir," he said. "Her breathing's strong and I've got most of her wounds bound. Maybe she just hit her head."
"Let us hope so." Putting his sword away, Dubric knelt beside Lars. "Nella?" he said, patting her face. "Wake up. I need to get you out of here."
She batted him away, squealing. "No. No!"
"Shh," he said, trying to catch her hands. Behind him the chaos continued, punctuated by screams and crashes. "It is all right, Miss Nella. We need to get you to safety."
Panting, she braved a glance. "Dubric? Lars? Goddess, you're hurt!" Pushing his hands aside, she leaned forward to help. Just starting to examine Lars's belly, she glanced up and screamed.
Hot, wet fingers encircled Dubric's throat, pulling him backward. He struggled, his lungs starved for air, and tried to reach for his sword.
Lars stood, protecting Nella. "Let him go!"
"I'm taking one of you with me," Beckwith said, and Dubric felt hot breath and hot blood on his cheek. "I'll rip his throat out with my teeth, if I have to."
Dubric struggled to see Beckwith, but saw only raw meat and dripping skin. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white, then he and his captor tumbled backward, onto the bed. Beckwith's fingers clenched into his throat and Dubric's vision wavered, turning gray and black. He blinked, struggling for a breath. Lars stood above him, pulling his sword from the thrashing beast beneath.
"Die, you bastard," Lars said, slicing downward.
One last heave and clench, then the vise at Dubric's throat lessened and fell away. He slid down from the bed to his knees, gasping through his crushed throat while his head swam with sudden lightness. The pounding ache behind his eyes had disappeared.
Nella scrambled to him, calling his name and catching him as he fell into her arms. They are gone, he thought, slipping into the empty void. The ghosts found their justice. Praise the King.
* * *
"You're sure he's dead?" Nella asked.
"I'm sure," Lars replied, bandaging Dubric's injuries. "I cleaved his chest open. What was left of it, anyway."
Nella held Dubric in her arms and rocked him while tears rolled down her cheeks. "How can I ever repay you both? All you've given for me."
Lars cut off the ends of the makeshift bandage before tearing another strip off the bedsheet. He flexed his fingers, trying to shake away the tingle he had felt when holding Risley's sword. "Marry Risley and have half a dozen kids or so. Name one after Dubric. He'll be thrilled."
She smiled sadly and stroked Dubric's bald head. "I think I can do that." Still comforting the unconscious man in her arms, she asked, "What happened? How can I explain what I saw?"
Lars frowned, tossing answers through his mind. "I don't think you need to explain it, Miss Nella. Beckwith got what he deserved. We lived. He died. Justice is served."
"But something tore him apart, something angry and vicious. For Goddess's sake, his face has been ripped away, leaving only blood and mess and one eye! How can I be sure whatever did that is gone?"
Lars smiled. "Because justice has been served, Miss Nella, and she's a harsh mistress. Beckwith didn't realize it until it was too late, but her scales are balanced again. I promise."
A crash filled the air and Lars stood, drawing his sword, then sagged with relief as Risley burst through the door.
Bruises and welts marked his skin, his clothes hung in tatters, and he only wore one shoe, but he scrambled over broken furniture without heed to his injuries. "Oh, Goddess," he croaked, stumbling. "Nella!"
"She's right here, Ris," Lars said. "She'll be all right."
"Risley!"
"I'm here, love," he coughed out, rounding the foot of the bed. "Are you all right? What happened?" He winced as he spoke and his voice cracked.
Putting his sword away, Lars stepped aside to make room.
They embraced over Dubric and Risley looked at the man bleeding on her lap, then the man bleeding on the bed. "Who is he?" he coughed, kneeling beside Nella and holding her close as he checked her injuries.
"Beckwith," Lars sighed.
Risley cleared his throat, rubbing it, before speaking to Nella. "What happened to you?" He swallowed, wincing as he rubbed his throat again. "You're bleeding. Are you all right?" Shaking his head and struggling to breathe, he coughed then forced out, "And what in the seven hells happened to him? For Goddess's sake, he's shredded."
"Justice is a harsh mistress," Nella whispered, still stroking Dubric's brow. "And I'll be fine." Her fingers paused and she gasped. "What happened to your neck? Oh, Risley!"
He coughed, nearly choking. "They tried to hang me, but Bostra cut the rope, and Dien…" Risley swallowed, grimacing, then cleared his throat "… he opened a path through the mob. The archers and some other men there were trying to help. The crowd wanted to kill me! But all I could think about was getting back to you." He coughed again, his face reddening for a moment as he choked. His eyes watered as he sucked in a breath, then another, panting and leaning his forehead against Nella's shoulder. "Thank the Goddess you're all right."
While Nella worried over Risley, Dubric's eyes flickered and he shuddered awake, looking at his three companions as if he'd never seen such miracles before. "They're gone?"
Lars nodded and helped him stand. "Yes, sir, I do believe so." Once Dubric was on his feet, Lars smoothed his bloody shirt and bowed slightly. "The murderer is dead, sir. The lady is saved. What would you have me do?"
Dubric laughed. "Get me out of here and find someone to clean this mess up." He paused, looking Lars over. "And get that gash stitched. I do not need to purchase you yet another uniform."
"Of course, sir," he said
.
Supporting one another as best they could, the four stumbled from Dubric's suite, leaving death behind.
* * *
The moon had risen, shining its slender grin among the sparkling stars, as Dubric followed Risley and Nella from the castle. The wound through his bicep ached, but the shallow gash on his side itched. He struggled not to bump his broken nose when he covered a yawn with his hand.
Bostra stood beside a carriage, the bandage on his head gleaming in the moonlight. He bowed as they approached. "Your carriage awaits, milord, milady," he said, opening the door. "And we have a long ride ahead."
Nella looked from Risley to the grand horses to Risley again, then she turned to smile upon Dubric and his men coming down the steps behind him. For a brief moment she looked so beautiful, like his beloved Oriana had in moonlight, that his heart clenched.
"How can I ever repay you?" she asked. "You saved our lives."
"We have no life debt here, Miss Nella," Dubric said. "Surely you know that."
She smiled, nodding, her hand leaving Risley's. "I know." She hugged him, kissing his scarred cheek. "Thank you, Dubric. Thank you."
He blustered and Nella slipped away to hug Lars.
Dubric's heart had barely settled before Risley said his good-byes and helped Nella into the carriage. Bostra lingered a moment before following the couple and closing the door behind him. The driver clucked to the horses and the carriage rolled away, shimmering in the moonlight like reflections on water.
"And there they go," Dubric sighed. "May they have a happy life together."
Lars scratched his belly. "I think they will, sir."
"Sir?" Otlee asked. "Shall we start clearing the mess and begin preliminary paperwork?"
Dien laughed, turning and holding his lantern to illuminate the stairs. "It'll wait till morning, lad. Never you worry. We've finished what we need to and now it's time for an ale."
Dubric yawned. "Followed by a full night of sleep. Paperwork can wait until the morrow."
The others started up the stairs but Dubric paused, squinting at a patch of snow along the southern wall. A tiny crocus peeked through, its petals reaching upward. By morning it would be in full bloom. He knelt beside it, pushing snow away from the blossom.
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